Day 22, Bahamas

This is the end.

I have an hour to shop. I go to the Straw Market and buy a hand-made basket with Elmo's likeness stitched into it, for my daughter. Before I can walk away, the woman selling it adds Lucy's name with some bright red thread.

I buy some place mats with maps of the Bahamas on them. You can't go wrong with place mats.

Day 21, Bahamas

Last day on Bimini.

We spend the morning with Ansil Saunders, a boat builder. He takes us to the spot in the ocean that he brought Dr. Martin Luther King to a few days before he was shot.

Once there, Mr. Saunders stops the boat and recites a psalm that he wrote. It's the same one he read to Dr. King, on the same piece of ocean.

We fly into Nassau on our last Bahamian charter flight. Upon landing, the pilot turns to us and says: "We are lucky to be alive."

For dinner in Nassau, we attend a People To People event, hosted by a local couple. At last count, nine pieces of jerk chicken disappear from my plate.

Dessert at the fanciest hotel in the Bahamas. Fruit martinis and movie stars.

Day 20, Bahamas

Today I ride in a golf cart to the other end of the island. A long ride through ragged neighborhoods.

On the far side of the island I come upon an old hotel. An American guy with beer belly under dirty t-shirt comes out the front door. He starts talking about a football game he's watching on T.V. Says he's tearing down the failed building to make way for luxury suites.

Back on the cart, I pass a haggard man and woman with drinks emerging from the woods. The man looks up and says, "Excuse me sir. Could you give this lady a lift?"

For the next 10 minutes I drive through Bimini with a strange woman who waves to everyone. The kids laugh out loud and shout things when they see her riding on my cart.

Day 19, Bahamas

We reach Bimini, 50 miles off the coast of Florida.

I spend the afternoon walking around, winding down the main road to the southern tip of the island. Climbing through the brush, I find an abandoned swimming pool. Bone dry and sprouting trees, it bears mosaics of flying fish, octopus, and barracuda.

I walk through what's left of a decaying seaside hotel. Tiles and fixtures shine from bathrooms. Doorways open to rooms with no ceilings. There's no graffiti or litter anywhere.

From the back patio, a rusting ship crumbles into the surf.

Day 18, Bahamas

I get up early and drive a couple hours north to photograph some people in Red Bays. Red Bays is a settlement of Black Seminoles who came from Florida way back.

On the side of the road, I meet a man weaving straw. He is barefoot, old, and very tall. He has two chairs: a broken one for his reeds, and another for sitting on while he works.

He shows me the weaving that he is most proud of. A short distance off the road, in it’s own little hut, is an enormous basket. It's over six feet tall, and about ten feet wide.

That afternoon I return to the hotel and photograph some local kids fishing with their bare hands: no pole, just a string and some bait. While I'm shooting, one of them catches a shark.

He runs up and down the rocks, barefoot, to bring the shark in. When it gets closer, he steps into the water and reaches for it.

It is a good-sized lemon shark, about 100 pounds.

He grabs it by the tail and drags it across the rocks, throwing it into a wide but shallow tide pool. Looking down at the shark, he taunts it, asking "Why must you take what isn't yours?"

Day 17, Bahamas

Last morning on Staniel Cay. Wake up and eat breakfast. Straighten out my bill. Pay the washerwoman for doing my laundry and walk a mile to the airstrip. This is why I have wheels on my bag.

A little excitement to see if we are going to make it off this island as easily as we got on. Plane takes off. No problem.

Long flight to Andros. Amazing what you can see from the plane window. The sandy bottom of the ocean. I keep my eyes peeled for shipwrecks.

At Andros it’s a gray day. Gray is a hard color to photograph.

Our hotel has a Hawaiian flavor. I rent a car and drive into town. There’s a ship, not very old, parked awkwardly at the mouth of the river. Upon closer inspection I see that it is abandoned. I'm told that a local captain crashed it here and promised to move it. Everyone is waiting.

Stopped into the only restaurant I could find to see if I could grab a cup of coffee. They don't have any.

I drive south looking for the next town. No coffee. And the next. No coffee. No restaurants either. No relief from a gray day.

At the end of the road I reach Behring point. End of the island. There’s a little park that appears to host an annual festival. The buildings are slanting. Everything has been polka-dotted with red spray paint. Even the tree trunks have polka dots.

Not far from there I come across an ancient church, hidden in the tall grass. The windows are boarded, and painted blue. Its edges are soft, like adobe covered with whitewash. There is no path. No signs. I wonder who comes here.

Across the street I hear a gunshot. Smoke rises from a clearing in the woods.

Day 16, Bahamas

At Staniel Cay Yacht Club we each get a little Victorian cottage on the water, complete with dock and lawn furniture. In the center of the compound sits a screened-in bar and restaurant serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I meet my guide for the day. He doesn't talk much. He takes me out on his boat to an island with wild pigs and cats on it. I photograph while he feeds them restaurant-quality slop.

We spend the rest of the morning cruising between various islands. At one point we stop at a store on a dock. They let you pet the wild nurse sharks while you drink your pop.

For the afternoon we have a golf cart. First stop is the school. My guide walks right in. I introduce myself. The kids don't care but the teacher looks visibly annoyed.

Next stop is the phone company. I'm starting to wonder about my guide. These places aren't exactly on my list. But they are interesting.

We head up a hill and get an incredible view of the Atlantic Ocean. Farther up, we stop at a house that shares the same view. The Americans who live there have their own plane and fly to Florida for half the year. They also have a yacht and a submarine.

While I'm shooting inside their house, I feel somewhat envious. Until the man tells me he rarely leaves the house anymore because of his degenerative disease.

Our next destination is a boutique that sells local straw baskets and clothing. My guide's aunt owns the store. Her hair's in curlers, and she doesn't want to be photographed. Her daughter takes me out back to see the grandma.

Behind the house I find a sturdy, barefoot woman, well over six feet tall. She's in her 90s and weaves straw all day. She looks a lot stronger than me.

We head over to the Pink Store, owned by my guide's grandfather. The man himself sits on the front porch of his house, also pink, weaving straw. Down an alley between the pink house and a blue one, we come to the Blue Store, owned by the brother of the Pink Store.

Day 15.2, Bahamas

Two years ago, the R&B singer Aaliyah crashed and died in the Bahamas when her plane was overloaded. It barely left the ground before crashing, nose down, into a swamp.

That's why we travel with a separate plane for the equipment.

But the next island, Staniel Cay, is really small. It has a tiny landing strip.

Everyone's a little jumpy.

Day 15, Bahamas

Great Exuma! It feels good to be back in the land of restaurants and taxicabs.

I rent a scooter and head north to see what's going on. All I find is rain.

I change my clothes back at the hotel and head south, crossing the Tropic of Cancer. Officially in the tropics, I keep going until I run out of road. I turn off the bike and walk around. I'm quite happy until the roar of mosquitoes fills my head. They chase me to my bike and I fly out of there.

A few miles north I come across a Roman Column on a hillside overlooking the water. There's no sign explaining how old it is or what it signifies. Down below I spy the rusting hulk of an old freighter half-buried in the sand.

Day 14, Bahamas

We always fly with two small planes: one for luggage, the other for ten passengers. But today we are having trouble getting off Crooked Island. One of the planes isn't covered by our insurance, and the pilot has an attitude.

Plan B. The agency people will wait here and fly to Great Exuma on the next plane. The rest of us will leave now for Mayaguana, the most remote island on our trip.

The first thing we see upon arriving in Mayaguana is the old planes junked along the runway. Not unlike the van we are riding in, which looks good, but sounds awful. The driver says there are no mechanics on the island.

While the rest of the crew photographs a resort, I head down a winding road that goes nowhere.

Day 13, Bahamas

Fly to Crooked Island. My book tells me there's not much to see. I mill around the resort for a while, then try to rent a car. The owner offers to have one of his employees show me around in his truck.

The first thing he does is introduce me to Henrietta, a 14-year-old chicken.

We drive to the harbor. I photograph an old wooden boat coming in. On board is a grandfather, father, and son with coolers full of every color fish you can imagine. And a giant sea turtle.



A funny thing that Bahamians do: they pull up to people's houses and honk their horns. The burden is placed upon the people in the house to come out and see what they want.

He pulls his truck to the side of a house and honks. An elderly woman emerges from the brush. It's his mother. She says I can take her picture next time I come around. But not today.

We drive up to another house and honk. This time his cousin comes out, holding a framed picture of his fishing boat in the ocean. The very same boat is parked on blocks in his front yard.

I look over and see his wife sitting comfortably on deck, talking on their cordless phone. She smiles.

Day 12, Bahamas

Bonefishing is like flyfishing, but done in the ocean. I spend the morning barefoot, shooting a local bonefisherman in the mangroves. Afterward, I check my email for the first time in two weeks at an internet cafe.

After lunch I drive a few hours south to Deans Blue Hole to meet the rest of the crew. A blue hole is an inland lake with a subterranean link to the ocean. As I get closer, I have to call and get specific directions because the route is unmarked.

Suddenly I'm driving my crappy little car on a road worse than the night before. It has the same giant rocks, but goes up and down serious hills, causing the brakes to make some serious sounds. I pass through a puddle so deep that my feet get wet.

As I pull up to the location, the first person I see is the man who rented me the car. He's gives me a dirty look. I'm not getting a good feeling here. I grab a few shots and split.

Day 11.2, Bahamas

I land on Long Island in time to rent a car and head north. There's not much daylight left, but I'd like to get a shot. I take the car down a road that travels out on a spit of land. According to the map, there's a monument to Columbus out here.

My little rental car barely clears the road, which is unpaved. The rocks are HUGE, and all over the place, like giant marbles.

It's getting dark. The road keeps going. Not only am I worried about the car, but this place gives me the willies. There's no one out here and I can't turn around. The road is too skinny.

When I get to the end of the road, I hear this clacking sound. I'm walking uphill to the monument, and the clacking gets louder. More insistent. Maybe it's crabs, I think, scurrying over the paper-like foliage.

I'm allergic to crabs. It's getting dark.

I'm in a hurry because I want to get out of here. But when I reach the top of the hill, there is an amazing view of the sun setting into the ocean.

Waves crash 200 feet below. The clacking things are going crazy and coming at me. The wind begins to howl.

Day 11, Bahamas

Wake up on San Salvador. This island claims the first landfall of Christopher Columbus. I have three hours to shoot the entire island.

I rent a scooter. There appears to be only one road, and it's a circle. It will take me a couple hours to drive it, which leaves no time for messing around.

I come across a lighthouse that doesn't get many visitors. Daytime television pours from the keeper's window.

Halfway around the island, and it's completely deserted. Near the spot where they claim Columbus first landed, I find nothing but ghost towns and swamps. The famous beach is abandoned, the trash of cruise ships and fishing boats desecrating the grass.

Day Ten, Bahamas

I get up early and drive two hours south before the sun comes up. I'm looking for Mt. Alvernia, the tallest point in the Bahamas. At 206 feet, it's not exactly a mountain, but it might as well be. From up there you can see everything.

There's a hermitage up top, built by the hands of a Catholic priest turned hermit. A miniature castle. Upon arrival, we breakfast on quiche and instant coffee. I get some shots as the sun comes up.

Many of the original inhabitants of Cat Island were never slaves, but were dropped off by slave ships on their way to the U.S. when emancipation was proclaimed. You can still find traditional African ovens in the front yards of houses.

My book tells me that quite a few islanders still practice witchcraft.

On the road, searching for the gates to an old plantation, I come across an abandoned church. It's empty, windows and doors long gone. But it's spotless inside, the altar still intact. A gigantic spider hangs from the confessional.

I drive south another hour or two. At the southern coast, I gaze out at the spot Columbus anchored on the night of October 12, 1492. Spanish colonists established their first permanent settlement here, in 1495.

It was abandoned a few years later.

Day Nine, Bahamas

Arrive on Cat Island in the rain. It's muggy and humid. Swampy.

The colorful little houses are mostly falling down, but extra beautiful with the fresh coat of water drawing out the contrast. It's different here. Cat Island is considered one of the Out Islands, or Family Islands, depending who you talk to.

I rent a car and drive north from our hotel. The buildings look like the paint was splashed over them, including the abandoned ones. I pass through what's left of Sidney Portier's hometown.

I walk into an empty house. The roof is caved in and the furniture is still there. It hasn't been touched. Everything sits exactly as they left it 50 years ago.

Day Eight, Bahamas

Today I have a mini, mini van to drive around. It's about the size of a golf cart. I've never seen a car so small, yet totally proportional to a full-size van. I feel like a clown on his day off.

Not that I mind. I welcome the roof because it's raining. But I can't find anything to photograph. Nothing that is releasable anyway. I could shoot all day long, but if I can't get model or property releases, I might as well be sleeping.

I look for a restaurant. This is not easy. Everything is closed for the season. Finally I am told where to go. When I get there, the sign says closed. I'm walking back to the miniature van, in the rain, suffering a mild hypoglycemic meltdown, when someone shouts "Open!" I walk back and go inside.

The place is empty, except for the kitchen. To place an order, I'm told to write on a scrap of paper and slip it through the hole in the protective glass. Much like a bank. I do this, and go sit at a table to wait patiently.

I'm the only customer. About 20 minutes later, a woman comes out with what was supposed to be my grilled ham and cheese sandwich and coffee. But instead I got a cold hamburger bun, seared shut by a slice of coagulated cheese. No ham. And a cup of instant coffee.

That afternoon I shoot a couple of local guys who give horse rides on the beach to tourists. The first guy I approach talks my ear off but lets me take as many photographs as I want. When I ask about photographing him on his horse, he says, "Talk to that other guy. He's more into that kind of thing."

The other guy has been racing his horse up and down the beach all morning. I go looking for him. When I find him I try to break the ice: "Your friend down there told me you might let me photograph you and your horse."

"He's not my friend," he says. "I can't stand that guy."

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That night, nodding off as I download images onto my computer, the phone rings. It's my wife:

"Wake Up. We're having another baby!"

Day Seven, Bahamas

Return scooter to Mr. Sketchy.

Busride to beach.

Swim. Shoot. Eat. Shoot. Swim. Shoot. Drink.

Busride to airport.

Fly into North Eleuthera Island.

The sun is sinking. Everything turns pink and bright. I can't stop shooting, from the airport-to the ferry-across the bay-onto Harbour Island.

Day Six, Bahamas

Waiting for a plane to Abaco Island. There is a mechanical problem. People look scared, which I find oddly comforting. If they are going to worry about crashing, I don't have to.

I rent a scooter from the sketchiest person I met so far in the Bahamas.

I take the afternoon ferry to Hopetown, a little island off Abaco. The sun is warm, the waves are high. I have the island to myself. I spend a few hours walking along the narrow lanes, investigating a loyalist village.

The houses are 18th century wooden cottages. I feel like I'm walking through a town full of people who hunt for whales.

At 4:00 PM I grab another ferry to meet the crew at the lighthouse. There's not much to shoot here, all the people are in my way. Or the other way around.

That night, after the sun sets, we head back to Abaco on the ferry. In the back of the boat, moonlit sky above, the beam from the lighthouse gets smaller and smaller.

Day Five, Bahamas

Rainy Day. I leave the scooter behind and ride with the video crew across Grand Bahama Island to Lucayan National Park.

The QTVR crew is shooting panoramas down a cave. I go with the video crew to Gold Rock Beach. We walk a mile through the mangrove swamps on little wooden bridges. Once we reach the ocean, the tide is out, and the beach goes on forever.

I've just been told about a wedding that I can shoot for the Ministry of Tourism that starts at 5:00 PM. I arrive there on my scooter at 4:59. It's behind a ritzy hotel, in a gazebo on the beach. I find the groom and ask him for permission; and if he will sign a model release.

He's walking down the aisle. Turning to me, visibly nervous, he says, "O.K. But can I sign it after the ceremony?"

That night we head out to the only bar in the Bahamas that serves Guinness on tap. Things get weird but I go home early. I have to do my laundry. I only brought 5 pairs of socks.

Day Four, Bahamas

Woke up late on Grand Bahama Island. I walk around looking for a scooter to rent. End up at Dunkin Donuts with a gigantic coffee, listening to a couple Bahamian women talk about Jesus and chocolate.

Scoot to a golf course for the late morning. I photograph our sound man, Albee, on the driving range. It turns out that we both graduated from college in Madison. He thinks his elbow sticks out on his swing.

For the afternoon I photograph people swimming with dolphins. The hardest part is keeping my cameras dry. And getting 20 model releases before it's done. I only brought one pen.

I hate anything buffet-style. But tonight for dinner we eat at the fanciest hotel on the island, with the most amazing spread I have ever seen. I take a picture, then a bite, of everything they got.

Day Three, Bahamas

Wake up and fly a little airplane to Chub Cay, part of the Berry Islands.

The island is small and quiet. It is the off-season. I rent a golf cart and spend the afternoon exploring. Although there are some private residences here, the island is mostly owned by Chub Cay Club.

We head back to the airport in the late afternoon. It's a long bumpy road through the swamp. These islands don't have lighted runways, so you have to fly out before dark. Otherwise, you'll be spending the night.

The runway looks abandoned; an asphalt strip, dashed with skids, disappearing into the ocean. Standing in the center, camera on the horizon, I notice something through my lens.

It's a plane, diving straight at me.

Day Two, Bahamas

Today I rent a scooter.

Rental helmets in the Bahamas are a sweaty things. I try not to think about the last head that was in it.

The guys at the scooter place treat me like a 10 year old.

All my camera gear is on my back. Every time the scooter stops, I get all sweaty. But when I accelerate, it evaporates. I have a funny looking helmet on, and a camera around my neck.

Near sunset, I keep my eyes open for a good spot to shoot along the coast. I end up riding on the sidewalk because the traffic is bad. From there I walk down to the water, about 50 feet out with the tide.

It gets dark fast. Glancing back at the scooter, I see someone walking past. He stops. He's messing with it. I yell HEY! and he looks at me.

I grab my gear, half packed, and walk over. He’s mumbling something about his ex-wife. I get on the bike. He lays down in front, holding my leg. Says he knows some people who don't like Americans.

Traffic whizzes past, three feet away. I reach in my pocket for change. As I hand it over, some coins spill onto the sidewalk. He rolls over to get them and I drive away.