After Thanksgiving

Musings about wonderful Hopetown, Abaco, Bahamas, and the hypocrisy of those Americans who refuse to allow Syrian refugees to immigrate.

Low tide on the Atlantic, near Hopetown, Abaco, The Bahamas

Friday, November 27.

Day after Thanksgiving.  The holiday itself passed without fanfare, but the chicken I seasoned with Brady Turner’s smoked chipotle powder blew our mouths apart.  Grilled onions and sweet peppers cooled them down a tad, but Ryan had to wipe the seasoning off his meat so that he could eat it without tears.  Not my best meal, although I imagine Brady would have liked it. 

The restaurants around here sponsored Thanksgiving dinners, complete with football raging on television, the main reason we stayed away.  Also, we have loads of food on board.  We keep getting to know people who dump their food on us before leaving for the States.  This is a good gig, especially since food is so expensive here.  Thanks, Mary Fowler and Karen McCarty!  We now have enough hummus to feed an entire football team.

What’s on my mind here on this day after Thanksgiving?  hypocrisy.  The hypocrisy of the Americans who refuse to admit the thousands of suffering Syrians at this time of year when we celebrate ourselves as a nation of immigrants, and give thanks for the succor that the Natives, who, by the way, did not shut us out because we didn’t share their religious beliefs, and who sustained our mythical, starving forbears with food and friendship.  On hypocrisy, America as the mythical mother of exiles and denier of safe haven, see this essay.

Beach at low tide at Hopetown, November 26, 2015

Let’s see, the winds continue to blow us like a kite around the mooring field, as they have done for the past week and a half.  Man of War crossing remains uncrossable, a dangerous, boiling sea.  Small craft advisory still an “understatement” for boats going to or from Florida.  The same goes for passages south, so we’ll continue to cool our heels here. 

Sunset at Hopetown, November 26, 2015

We’re also sticking around just in case we can figure out what’s blowing up our SSB radio.  We’re pretty sure it’s something in the boat, the way it has been wired, or what the Radio is connected to, or a gremlin tin whisker that deviously burns paths across our circuit boards. (You see that?  The things you learn when you spend six months living aboard a yacht!  English lit professor/psychotherapist learns marine electronics.  Well, not exactly, but I can spin the lingo, at least, and that’s something.)

Folks here have been extremely helpful, especially Will and Muffin, who also do all kinds of other extremely nice things for the local community here, like volunteer their time to keep the rest of us informed about the weather and goings-on about town, and collecting garbage from the yachts and taking it to shore on trash pick-up days.

Hopetown is very seductive, indeed.  Not only because the town is narrow lanes winding through lime and lavender and apricot and pineapple painted cottages, tropical, flowering vines and coconut trees and white sand like velvet, or places called “Wine Down Sip Sip” or (my personal favorite) “Water’s Edge” or “On Da Beach,” where the food is fresh, delicious and the atmosphere relaxing, relaxing, relaxing.  No, Hopetown seduces with its people, the local islanders, who, Black and White, speak a lilting, singing dialect, and the regular Cruisers, who have been coming here every year for decades and yet welcome newcomers with friendly grace and enthusiasm.

Author: Kimberly Latta, Ph.D.

Psychotherapist, writer, artist, and independent feminist scholar.

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