SIGHTS OF DUNMORE TOWN

Spanish Wells, Bahamas 25º32.565N | 76º44.715W

I could have taken pictures of this little beauty all day -- and she would have obliged!

Before white picket fences became trite...

Yes, that's a dog with dreads.

INSIDE THE SIDETRIP

Spanish Wells, Bahamas 25º32.565N | 76º44.715W

The pink sand beach of Harbour Island. I would call it pinkISH.

To reach the charming village of Dunmore Town on Harbour Island by boat, you either have to go way around outside and still have to tiptoe through shallow waters with your keel tucked up under your skirt -- or blast through the even more unpleasant gauntlet of reefs north of Eleuthera Island, eerily yet aptly named "Devil's Backbone."

We opted to take the ferry.

What a luxury to go on a daytrip by boat with none of the accompanying responsibilities. No routing, no sail handling, no tide tables, no navigation or piloting, no moorings, no docking, no anchoring. Just sit in a big comfortable seat for the ride and walk haughtily down the gangplank on arrival. Lovely.

Dunmore Town, the 300-year-old, former capitol of the Bahamas, is beautiful, charming, idyllic. I know. Yawn. Can't I think of something else to say about these towns?

Well, this one did have a little different flavor. It tasted a lot like money. The first shop I went into had designer shirts for $350++. Okay, now that's not typical of other little villages we've visited. Apparently Dunmore Town is a playground for the rich and famous. I guess so. Who else could afford this stuff? We fondled it anyway.

The ingredients that make up Dunmore Town are a strange recipe. Charming, restored Loyalist cottages from the 1700 and 1800s stand a few blocks away from roughshod, ramshackle houses with a week's clothing hanging on the line, some boarded up altogether.

The next block might have a five-star hotel, a pricey restaurant, a Rolex dealer, a sad little produce stand or a conch shack, all with hens and roosters running about.

For me, it was the happy children playing in the streets that gave this town some down home spice.

Some more than happy to be photographed.

Bahamian charmers.

While searching for the BBQ/fundraiser at "the fig tree," we followed our map to a villa that, peering in from a distant locked gate, looked lovely but empty. A man across the street asked us in his unique and very thick Harbour Island brogue if he could help us.

"Ah, this is the Fig Tree house you can rent. The barbecue is under the fig tree down by the Bo Hengy you come in on," he said referring to the ferry.

He obviously had us pegged. I don't know if he laughed at our miscue, but we sure did.

An interesting sidetrip, but I have to say, I was happy to return to sleepy little Spanish Wells where you can buy a shirt for $12.

SIGHTS OF SPANISH WELLS

Spanish Wells, Bahamas 25º32.565N | 76º44.715W

Even their cemetery is colorful.

Spanish Wells supplies all the lobster for Red Lobster in the U.S.

The long-awaited Eleuthera pineapple.

Spanish eyes. (Same fish.)

A FISH TALE

Spanish Wells, Bahamas 25º32.565N | 76º44.715W

My fishless days seem to have ended -- for now. On the brisk sail to Alabaster Bay, in 16-20 knots gusting to 24, my fishing line suddenly screamed, catapulting me several inches off the cockpit seat at this still-new sound.

I grabbed the pole and could feel right away that this was a fish of a different stripe. I said something like, "Yikes."

It was a beast. I tussled with it, the rod bent almost in half while Chip ran for the alcohol (for the fish).

I wrangled and wrangled. We could see whatever was on my hook jump out of the water occasionally only enough for us to see, to my great relief, that it wasn't a shark.

Cranking it all the way up next to the boat, we peered over rail into the face of a 3-foot, pissed-off barracuda.

I reeled him slightly out of the water, and Chip poked at him with the fishnet until he broke free. We happily went our separate ways. I stowed the feathery lure that in my mind will always be coated in barracuda spit.

There are never pictures of the good stuff.

We quietly anchored in Alabaster Bay for the night and raised anchor at 7:15 a.m. to make the sketchy Current Cut with a favorable tide. We sailed through generous 15 knots of wind gusting to 20, and I hopefully dropped a lure in the water, one that by my judgment would be very unattractive to barracudas.

Just as we got the sails trimmed and were flying along at full speed, my line zipped once again. Now somewhat familiar with the sound, I jumped and grabbed the rod.

It was no barracuda, thank goodness, but there was surely something on there. Now the veterans of two fish, we more professionally tackled this one. I brought it up to the boat. Chip scooped it up in the net and poured vodka on its Spanish Mackerel gills.

Twenty inches of fresh yumminess.

And on we sailed, transiting the Current Cut without incident.

I keep thinking these little towns have achieved the pinnacle of picture perfection, and then we sail into a new one. 

A picturesque harbor.

And fairy tale houses.

Immaculate fishing boats.

Pristine beaches.

And a fresh fish dinner for four! Spanish Mackerel in Spanish Wells.