Nearly all our adventures off Contigo began from the same place: the transom. The variable was us. From May 2024.
It had been a long, but beautiful sail. We departed Cat Island at first light and set our sails for Hog Cay, an anchorage we particularly loved in the Exumas. The trip was uneventful in the best possible way; we rarely touched our sail configuration, we made great time, the skies were clear and sunny. These were the sails that made boat living feel easy. We read, chatted, snacked, even checked a few things off our respective to-do lists (internet that extends to the waters surrounding the Bahamian islands is a blessing and a curse).
As we approached the anchorage, Karl took the helm. The entrance was a skinny, shallow cut characteristic of the Exumas; careless piloting would not grant you admission here. The water opened up into a wider though still narrow expanse with beaches on both the west and east side. The east side faced the Atlantic and was mostly coral, a latticed barrier through which the cooler, deeper ocean waters mixed with those of the shallow Exuma Bank. Part of what drew us back here was the swimming. On a previous visit, we had swum from the beach to the open ocean through a naturally-made tunnel in the coral. Another time I had dived into the water seeking a wayward fork that had been thrown out with dinner scraps. It was an easily found treasure, its silver gleaming in the sunlight even through 30 feet of water.
So, we knew these waters. Most importantly, in the Bahamas, we had learned to plan around slack tide, that bardo time between ebb and flow, when the typically rushing current takes a break. We had arranged dock arrivals and long swims around this period.
Once we were securely moored, Karl and I quickly pulled on our bathing suits for a celebratory swim, just a quick dip before showers and settling in for the evening with big bowls of popcorn. I was on the transom before Karl, my excitement perhaps overriding any common sense. I hopped in.
The current immediately gathered me in its path, indifferent as to whether I was a grain of sand or a human being. I told myself I could handle this. I had been swimming almost daily, encountering unexpected strong currents, and had always made my way back to Contigo. But my strokes were no match for what felt like a treadmill gone rogue. I quickly peered behind me. Though still hundreds of feet away, the skinny channel leading to the open sea was getting uncomfortably closer.
I yelled for Karl, who immediately ran on deck (raised voices on Contigo were reserved for very specific moments). Before doing anything, he repeated the number one rule of currents: never fight them.
I gave up.
Like a passenger in a train, I gazed to the side, watching as my slack body cruised by the beautiful, empty beach. Had I not been in a state of panic, wondering if instead I would be popcorn for an opportunistic shark, the free ride would have been enjoyable. Karl and I had played in a strong current before, swimming against it to the bow, then allowing it to “elevator” us back to the transom.
Karl threw me a (literal) lifeline – one of those expandable hoses that just that morning we had used to wash Contigo, and had been conveniently hanging on the davits to dry. I grabbed on, and he slowly reeled me back in.
I scrambled up the transom as Karl silently went back in the cabin, the evening pre-dinner swim soured by my escapade.
Had this happened earlier in our time on Contigo, I could have shaken it off to naivete. But this was our eighth year on the boat, I knew better. I could have swum to the beach on either side, perpendicular to the current. Then Karl could have hopped in Booey and picked me up from the shore. This solution now felt unfairly obvious from the safety of Contigo’s deck.
Boat living was a long course in how to slow down. Despite years of instruction, I was still learning. Had I paused before diving into the water, I would have noticed the pristine beaches around us, the fact that we had the anchorage all to ourselves. I could have waited five minutes for Karl. There was already so much treasure around me, patiently waiting to be noticed.
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