If one is a beach-o-phile, the beaches of Cat Island would keep you occupied and happy for days. The number, variety and quality of the island's strands is amazing, and I'm certain that I would not have found all that perfection tedious or boring for weeks. Yet there is much more to Cat Island than what greets you at her shores. While we only scratched the surface, it is clear that the island has a certain mystique.
The island's iconic feature is The Hermitage. Architect-priest, Father Jerome, whose works can be found throughout the Bahamas, built a miniature monastery, modeled after one in Italy, atop Cat Island's Mt. Alvernia, the highest point in the Bahamas at 206 feet. Because of its perfect proportions, the Hermitage does not appear, from the bottom of Mt. Alvernia, to be anything less than normal sized. It is only when one when reaches the top of the hill that the diminutive size is revealed.
Starting from a rock-strewn dirt road, we began the climb. The point at which trees begin to arch over the trail is where the path grows steeper and narrower. A huge spider web, with an appropriately impressive spider (5 inches across), forms an archway over the rocky path. As we climbed, we found precarious steps (too small for my foot to rest securely) carved out of the rock, lined with chiseled depictions of the Stations of the Cross. At the top, we were treated to panoramic views of Cat Island, as well as the Atlantic Ocean to the east and Exuma Sound to the west.
The miniature scale of the Hermitage is demonstrated when Rick (who is just over 6') stands next to an archway, which he needs to duck under to pass. The stories as to the reason for the scale of the Hermitage vary. Some suggest that Father Jerome was merely a very short man, and that the scale suited his own diminutive size. Others suggest that being forced to bend, and crouch, and duck, was part of the penance Father Jerome was serving. The hard, crude wooden pallet in Father Jerome's sleeping quarters tends to favor the penance explanation.
In any event, the site more than adequately elicits the feeling of an Italian monastery, and has the appropriate aura of calm and meditation. At the same time, one cannot escape the fact that the Hermitage is as well suited to its location in the Bahamas as
Mediterranean. The rock from which the Hermitage is built is coral; the bougainvillea that trails over the structures is glowing pink; the remaining paint on the wooden doors and shutters is turquoise; and the bugs and snakes that are found atop Mt. Alvernia are decidedly tropical (thanks to Judy for recommending bug spray!).
After our climb up and down Mt. Alvernia, we used our rental car to drive around the southern part of Cat Island. On this sparsely populated island, every encounter with another person is an event, albeit a minor one. Every car or person we passed issued a greeting, if only a wave, but they all seemed heartfelt and not perfunctory. Everywhere we looked, the past mingled with the present. Ruins of old plantation houses are scattered around the island, as well as the more modest, tiny ruined homes of freed slaves. The old ruins are not always easy to distinguish from homes-in-progress, especially ones built of stone. Since islanders don't often borrow money, homes get built piecemeal, as money, materials and manpower become available. It's not uncommon to see foundations, or skeletal structures of homes, seemingly abandoned while they are merely waiting for the next infusion of capital or effort.
We paid a visit to the Hawk's Nest resort at the southern end of the island. It is located next to a private airstrip and has a marina as well. Notwithstanding the easy access, the resort was empty of guests when we arrived, as the two couples visiting that week were off exploring. As seems to be the style on Cat Island, the resort had a central clubhouse, with an honor bar as its centerpiece. The spaces are attractive, painted in saturated sunny colors like curry and terra cotta. We had a nice lunch, and an interesting chat with one of the resident managers.
Beyond our one day with a rental car -- a fairly costly undertaking, at $75 a day for an older car of unknown provenance and unfamiliar marque -- most of our activities were water based.
When Tom took us on a dinghy ride to visit the boat anchored in the bay, Geronimo, we got to watch high-school-aged kids living out the dream Rick and I are saving, perhaps, for retirement. Geronimo is a sail training vessel, a 70+ foot custom sloop designed by Ted Hood with elegant lines and a blue hull. It is owned by a prep school in New England, and is occupied by 9 students and a crew of 3 adults, who sailed from the U.S. to the Bahamas, and are now slowly plying Bahamian waters. As they learn to sail, they also observe the environment and pay special attention to such species as sea turtles. Rick and Tom got a tour of the boat, and came away duly impressed (and jealous); I stayed in our dinghy, as I didn't trust my tennis-elbow-impaired arm to pull me aboard, as the boat had no boarding ladder.
Geronimo, at anchor, as viewed from our patio. Few cruising boats make it to Cat Island, even though the cruiser's mecca of the Exumas is only 50 miles away.
Bonefish Creek provided especially rich waters for exploration, and we paddled by kayak several times. The water is remarkably clear, and has a sandy bottom, providing for a blue-green color. When we weren't on a mission to get somewhere, we slowly paddled among the mangroves, taking care to be quiet and not disturb the water. Although we didn't notice many birds (it was not the season for them), our efforts were rewarded by sightings of rays, sharks, and plenty of juvenile fish. A couple of FBV's other guests had had the extraordinary experience of having seen a whale shark in the creek during a spring visit some years ago.
As we paddled Bonefish Creek (shown directly above, as it exits to Fernandez Bay), we were surrounded by mangroves. Though the area the creek drains is small, the meandering channels made it feel endless.
We also kayaked to a couple of snorkeling spots in Fernandez Bay itself. About halfway out the bay, there is a large rock formation teeming with coral and sea life. Since we weren't able to secure our kayak especially well (the anchor line barely reached the sandy spots on the bottom, much less providing any scope), our visit there was fairly abbreviated. Outside the Bay, there is a small cay -- it turned out to be much further away than it looked! The snorkeling here was not as good as at the rock, and we soon discovered that once we were no longer in the lee of Fernandez Bay, there was also quite a bit of chop. Our return journey to the beach was a tough, wet slog against current and wind, with waves regularly breaking over us.
While we certainly engaged in plenty of physical activity, much of our time was spent relaxing. On our comfortable porch. In the beach chairs. And on a float, bobbing around in the stunning water. Days took on a comfortable rhythm of rising with the sun, coffee and breakfast, some morning activity, lunch, more activity, then winding down with cocktails on our patio and at the beach bar accented as it was most days with a lovely sunset, with dinner to cap things off. Sleep usually followed at a relatively early hour.
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
For each of life's sweet experiences, it's almost required that something put a little chink in it, so as to highlight the perfection of everything else. For us, who seem to court travel disasters at every turn, the small nature of my complaint is almost laughable. And it is small. Tiny even. Almost invisible. It's the dreaded no-see-ums.
When we stopped by to visit Mike Houghton of Sail Abaco at the Annapolis Boat Show, we told him we were headed for Cat Island. His advice: watch out for the bugs. (I found this particularly amusing, because the implication was that Abaco has no bugs; since I'm still bearing the scars of being eaten alive there, I know better).
Our arrival on Cat Island was on a breezy day, so the awful little critters were held at bay for a day or so. We got lazy and complacent, so the first evening after the wind died down, we sat on our porch, sipping rum drinks and watching the sunset, unwittingly feeding the ravenous hordes. It was not til it was too late that I thought to apply insect repellent, and by then, the damage was done. (Thereafter, between my conscientious applications of DEET and spraying at FBV, I probably didn't get many new bites). Just as I am a magnet for travel challenges, my flesh is ambrosia to biting insects -- within a few days, I was covered with madly itching bumps, with my ankles, shins and the backs of my legs being the most afflicted zones. Topical cortisone cream, Benadryl, and other remedies only worked a little. Liberal dousing with seawater provided the best relief (while using the beach like sandpaper was the most satisfying, if the worst for me).
Though lovely, this Fernandez Bay sunset was the equivalent of a dinner gong for ravenous no-see-ums.
We survived the attack of the no-see-ums fairly well, and the occasional manic scratching session barely disrupted one of our best vacation weeks ever.
The other experience which, by its sharp contrast, brought our Cat Island idyll into crisper focus, was the day we spent on New Providence (Nassau) en route home. Our visit there was not bad; it merely demonstrated what our travel style is not. We landed in Nassau before noon, and on a whim, decided to get a rental car -- a very efficient process with Avis. We quickly drove to Orange Hill, deposited our bags, and headed off for exploration. We had a terrific lunch of Bahamian food at the Poop Deck (the location just west of Cable Beach). Yet, even as we sat outside at water's edge, eating conch and grouper and
sipping Kalik, it felt like we were in Miami and not the Bahamas. The setting was near a shopping arcade and lots of stucco timeshare condos; powerboats buzzed by constantly; here and there, we saw paragliders and windsurfers; and in the distance, the huge structures of Paradise Island loomed.
We never did get to see Cable Beach at least not the beach itself. Condos and hotels line the shore, cheek by jowl, and are barricaded behind impressive stone walls and gates. A casual visitor can't get past that. All are attractively maintained and lushly landscaped, but it looks like some affluent suburb of an American city, and not another country.
Soon, we were in downtown Nassau. We got past the throngs of cruise ship passengers (3 mammoth ships were in port), turned of Bay Street, and found a parking spot on Parliament Street, across the street from -- appropriately enough -- the beautiful Parliament building. There seem to be many old, historically significant buildings in this old port city, but it would take some effort to get past the dross. And we, too, admittedly, were looking to shop. We were hoping to find some locally made gifts for the people who were taking care of things for us at home, but this turned out to be more difficult than expected. The famed "Straw Market," housed in temporary quarters, is a dark, claustrophobic, smoke-filled space filled with herds of tourists and merchants hawking cheap goods (4 for $10 tee-shirts, Bob Marley (uh, he's from Jamaica) memorabilia, and rayon batik from Indonesia) that have little to do with the Bahamas. At the other end of the spectrum, the high-end duty free shops peddle baubles from anyplace other than the Bahamas (admittedly, I picked up a trinket). At the end of our efforts, we finally found a single store selling Androsia batiks (made in Andros) where we bought a lovely set of napkins, and bought a bottle of Nassau Royale (a vanilla scented liqueur) at a liquor store.
[Just one thought for the cruise ship passengers: what on earth makes some of them think it's OK to walk down a city's streets in a swimsuit and flip flops?]
Having had our fill of shopping, we drove onto Paradise Island. The prominent feature here is the Atlantis complex. It's so huge and pink and overwrought as to look like a mirage. It didn't seem to invite exploration. As we drove around the manicured and developed island, we experienced the same feeling we got in Cable Beach: no way to find the water. We didn't feel like trying too hard, so we drove off the island and started heading back towards Orange Hill. Before returning to the inn, we continued on the road towards the west, but except for a glimpse or two of the ocean, a sighting of the colorful roofs of Compass Point (behind a fence), and more gated homes and communities, our impression of the New Providence coastline remained unchanged.
Our transition back to real life was completed not at the airport, but at our dinner destination, Café Johnny Canoe. Located at a big hotel on Cable Beach (that should have been our first clue), it felt like nothing so much as an American chain restaurant (think Bennigan's) with a few Bahamian items on the menu and otherwise unremarkable food. After a week of living on Island Time, the servers' speed at turning tables was dizzying. At least we had the homey touch of breakfast at Orange Hill, and the classically island experience of looking for gas for our rental car to find the chosen gas station closed on Sunday, before heading for the big, busy Nassau airport and our journey home.
Closing Thoughts
After years of island travel, we have found near perfection on Cat Island. The island itself is beautiful, rustic, and remote. Staying at Fernandez Bay Village felt like being a cherished houseguest at the home of good friends -- except that we should all be so lucky as to have friends with beautiful homes in such lovely surroundings. The beaches: perfection. And so much more to discover and explore. As long as we are not sailing, we are sure to return to Cat Island and Fernandez Bay Village. And if it requires a stay over in Nassau, I think somehow we'll survive it.
