If humans just disappeared from the world, and you could come back to Earth … one year later,
the first thing you’d notice wouldn’t be with your eyes.
It would be with your ears.
The world would be quiet.
—Carlton Basmajian, Ph.D., Iowa State University

The Unrealized Resort

The Ginn Sur Mer development on the southwestern coast of Grand Bahama Island is not a ghost town. Despite its roads, stop signs, electrical lines and dredged waterways, it was never a town at all. No one ever lived here and only one house was ever built. The developers envisioned golf courses, luxury homes, hotels, restaurants and room for mega yachts.

After the Ginn company defaulted on a $650 million loan, Credit-Suisse foreclosed on the property in 2010. Although the government was eager to find new investors, work stopped on the luxury property. The original developers left wide canals with stone sea walls and a 14-foot deep anchorage with room for 9 or 10 boats. 

When we arrived there were three other boats in the anchorage but by the time evening came around, there were nine boats in the basin and one catamaran in the canal to the east. A stiff wind was predicted for the following night so anyone in the area looking for a safe refuge didn’t have many choices. It is really the only protected anchorage in this end of Grand Bahama Island, which is a very long island.

We were anxious to explore all the little canals, and after a brief friendly visit from one of our Canadian neighbors, we climbed into our dinghy to take a look around. “Deserted” doesn’t begin to describe the eeriness of this area. The sandy roads have stop signs at intersections, and a completed bridge crosses over the canal. The vegetation consists of low shrubs and trees that crowd in on the few cleared lots.

We wandered around in the canals using our quiet Electric Paddle® electric motor, coming to a couple of small lakes where the canals ended (see the chart above). Because the waterways are lined with stone seawalls, there was no way to beach the dinghy and explore on land. The wildlife was silent; we didn’t even hear birds singing. We saw one turtle on the way into the basin, but no fish, turtles, dolphins or land animals after that.

We wanted to see the one house that was built, and found it on the canal closest to the beach. It stands on the beachfront, about three stories high, with a large garage and a finished roof. It looks ready for occupation, but no one lives there. Of course there are no nearby services except for the few amenities offered by the settlement of West End, four miles away over half-finished roadways. Our Canadian neighbors told us they had entered the house and looked around, but we were not about to trespass, no matter who owns the property.

The Big Blow

Phil keeps a close eye on wind predictions, so we knew a big wind was about to blow. The harbor was crowded because of the wind forecast, and the crowded anchorage made high wind much more dangerous. For inexperienced boaters who don’t exactly know how much chain to put out with the anchor, there is a danger of dragging and hitting other boats. But even for seasoned sailors, high winds can dislodge a well-placed anchor, and most cruisers have dragged their anchors at one time or another.

We were nervous about the 25-knot wind predictions. It doesn’t sound like a lot until it is howling above you and rattling your boat’s rigging. This wind began to whirr at sunset, and by ten o’clock, we were seeing 20-knots on the wind instrument. The wind howled above us. The shallow anchorage was whipped up to a froth and the waves rocked the boat. The sustained winds reached 25 knots with 27-knot gusts.

I tried to sleep, but Phil stayed outside and monitored the anchor watch. It was pitch dark, except for ten anchor lights and the cockpit lights of a few other boats with skippers staying at their helms, also on anchor watch. The concrete seawall on one side and coral ledge on the other side of the narrow channel were invisible except on the chart plotter.

At 11 pm, Phil saw on the chart plotter that our anchor had been briefly dislodged and had dragged about 25 feet before catching again. For the anxiety that caused, he stayed at the helm all night, finally coming to bed at 4:30 am. I offered to finish out the night, but he said the wind would die down soon. It was 7:30 am before we heard the wind settle down, just as the sun rose.

We stayed at Ginn Sur Mer for one more night and on Saturday morning we tried to raise the anchor. Phil pulled up as much chain as he could with the anchor windlass, but it wouldn’t budge from the bottom. He directed me to motor forward slowly, first to the right and then left, as he moved the chain in different directions. The anchor was wedged down tightly, and due to the high winds, it had been pulled with a lot of force, possibly under rocks.

After 20 minutes of maneuvering back and forth, Phil told me to motor forward and finally got the anchor off the bottom. If we hadn’t been able to free it, the alternatives were limited: let the anchor go with 150 feet of attached chain, or dive into murky water to attach another line to help pull it up. Luckily, we didn’t have to make that decision.

We love the peace of a deserted anchorage, being off the grid with no motors running.  It is so often ruined by inconsiderate people in their loud boats and even louder music. And nature itself sometimes gets loud: howling winds, waves crashing, laughing gulls, ospreys, and (sometimes) ocelots. But after the boats leave and the winds die down, there’s just the musical lapping of ripples against the hull. Phil calls it happy boat sounds. My word for it is quiet.