Pippa's Maiden Voyage (and a birfday party)

Nikki May's photo.

It was a very special week last week.  For one, there was a birfday in the offing, and, for two, Pippa's maiden voyage began the day after the big partay. 

I'm not always one for going "all out" for birthdays, however, that said, I was inspired while perusing this month's Southern Living by this make ahead Tex-Mex menu and recipes.  I made everything listed except the Hibiscus Tea (who the hell needs tea when you have tequila?) and, yes, I'm saying I went ahead on like a nutball and invited five people to eat dishes prepared from heretofore untried recipes.  I would trust no one but Southern Living to such a culinary extent, and once again, I'm happy to say my confidence was not misplaced. (But, let's be honest, my fallback position would have been to step up the tequila service enough so no one would notice had there been a last minute food mishap.)



Another Nikki May original.

With a Tex-Mex menu set, a natural Mexican theme emerged. And you know how I am about a "theme".  The whole thing suddenly screamed: GET A DAMN PINATA THIS INSTANT! MAKE EVERYONE (including yourself) WEAR SOMETHING STUPID ON THEIR HEADS!

Artiliciousness ensued. 

We're not fancy around here, so my tequila shakers were mason jars and they worked quite nicely for this purpose. The original idea was to enjoy the Mexican Chocolate Ice Cream Pie dessert in the hot tub, but this plan was quickly nixed by the weather who heard I was having a party and quickly whipped up a driving rain (haha!) coupled with 54-mile-per hour winds (wee!) on the heels of the biggest drought in years, just for laughs. 

Not that anybody cared by that time. The pie ate quite fine at the table, thankyouverymuch. That's a cinnamon graham cracker crust, by the way, spiked with red pepper flakes, making for a combination of hot/sweet that is quite uniquely delightful, I must say [insert Ed Grimley hop].


TenaciousF, the killer frog who took up residence in the Casbah and environs this spring and has been known to stalk the hot tub and enjoy chillin' in the grill.  We found him indignantly clinging to the glass storm door after the party clearly annoyed that his invitation was lost in the mail. Guess who snapped this uber cool photo?  Where, I ask you, would this blog post be with her? That's right, nowhere. 

Eventually, after all that food, booze, and frog terror, we went unconscious. This meant, of course, that Pippa's maiden camping voyage, set for the next day, would happen none too early.  The important thing is it did still happen. And it wasn't just us this time, we decided we'd try out, not only the pop-up, but the dogs as well. 

HA, yes!  Dogs!  Because we don't already haul enough shit to the campsite. We need more crap, cosmetics, cooking gadgets, complications and supplies.  We need to add a layer of fur, hysteria,  unpredictability and slobber to the mix. Damn it, we need more stuff to worry about! That's Vance Shepherd (a suspicious Katrina rescue) on the left, and Tallulah (a spoiled purebred) on the right. 

See that look on Vance's face?  The look says, 

Clearly, they've brought me to the campsite TO KILL ME and they think I don't know it.

But I digress.  Here is a shot of Vance enjoying the unbearable lightness of interstate wind in his face on ride to the campsite, before he realized we were taking him there to die. Unfortunately, before we could set about brutally murdering the dog, we had to do something much, much worse. 

We had to back the freaking camper into place.

Friends?  If you've never backed a trailer into place, I envy you.  Because something happens when you hitch a trailer (camping or otherwise) to a vehicle.  And I'm too stupid to know what that something is.  But whatever it is, it means that turning the steering wheel (when in reverse gear) has an effect on where the trailer goes that is completely random and unpredictable. 
 

It has the effect of causing people to invent completely new cuss words. I'm not the least bit happy to say our camper backing (we took turns being completely ineffective) skills, or lack thereof, provided the entire campground (apparently full of people who have mastered the art of trailer backing) with a good half hour of fun and entertainment. People were standing and pointing. Telling their friends, even!

Good times!

Of course, we'd rather die choking in a pool of our own blood than ask for help.  And so we didn't.  And we eventually backed that bitch in place.  All by our own selfs. That accomplished, we set about our next fun and exciting task.  Unfurling the pop-up.  

Ever cranked a thousand year old pop-up?

It's like a team of snickering invisible body builders oppose every click and turn of the rusty, wobbly ab-busting handle.  Again, this is a task that requires inventive tag-team cursing. And beer. And hiking boot stomping.  BITCH!

DAMN IT, is camping is fun or what?!  LOVE IT!

And so, not a minute too soon, just as our supply of super offensive cuss words was exhausted, the very first Camp Pippa was established. In the late afternoon of a breezy August day, on the banks of Lake Barkley, amidst the swaying trees, and apparently not too far from a tribe of screaming monkeys in residence deep in the woods just to our north.

I have, unfortunately, been dismissed from my original post of Fire Keeper, prohibited from touching the fire biscuits, and I'm told accelerant is no longer among our camping supply inventory. 

[Note: lie]

I'm at a loss to understand how keeping a raging fire going even in the drippiest of weather is an actual MINUS in a camper, but there it is.  I really shouldn't think a few singed eyelashes is that big of a deal in light of our constant need for comforting warmth and protection from flesh hungry coyotes and rabid monkeys after sundown.

I'm going to have to go ahead and say our campfire on this trip was what I'd consider paltry.   

I do continue to be in charge of chow and so, before nightfall our first day, I made the long (five minute) trek to the grocery where the Jeff and Emily IGA gave it to us up the butt for some bacon, biscuits and sundries, as is their tradition. By the time I returned, Pippa was glowing with reassuring electric light and the air conditioner [insert chorus of heavenly angels] was humming along most efficiently.  We enjoyed the world's most delicious ham sandwiches at our picnic table as the monkeys screamed in the distance and the dogs cautiously sniffed out the limits of their new territory. We quietly cussed a man we watched expertly back a boat trailer into the campsite next to ours (first try! motherfucking show-off!).

Nightfall at illustrious Campsite #6.  Always reserved and never camped in.  Our campsite is the one immediately to the left (#8).  On the water, but not nearly as fabulous a vista as this. Apparently, we shall never camp here despite our repeated requests.  Nor, apparently, will anyone else. We visit often and perch atop the table and watch the turtles sunbathe and blue herons sweep across, just skimming the water, and of course sunrise/sunset. 

Our first night in Pippa was noteworthy (other than being cool and delightfully tick-free) only because poor Vance Shepherd decided that his murder was clearly going to take place in there.  At bedtime, Tallulah hopped in eagerly enough, but suspicious Shepherd was having none of it. He planted his front feet wide apart and dug in at the door.  No way. No how. Was he going willingly to his demise in the camper-o-death. Coaching, encouragement, commanding, ordering, and threatening all failed to budge the dog.  Even lifting his back end only caused his front end to become more fixed and stationary.  Finally, we would resort to (you guessed it) more cussing, and brute force. 

Helpfully, the monkeys lent their screams in the distance.

After a mighty effort, Shepherd landed in the camper where he immediately noticed, to his great surprise, rather than a giant doggie meat sausage grinder, his own soft bed from home.  He hopped in and gave us a look. 

Yah, whatever.  I still don't trust you people. Go away.      

I was initially concerned that Tallulah would launch into her glass-shattering bark alerts at every twig crunch and falling acorn while in the camper, but the constant drone of the air conditioner had the unexpected effect of drowning out, for the most part, all outside noise, thus allowing both dogs to sleep without hearing much of anything.  I woke the next day to a misty cool morning,  and found Mr. Expert Backer next door had gone off to fish with neither dog the wiser. I initially thought the noise of him leaving early would send them into a bark alert frenzy; but for the a/c noise, the entirety of LBL would almost certainly have been made aware of The Situation.

Sunrise at Camp #6.

As it was, I had to actually wake the dogs for their sunrise potty.  Tallulah deemed the entire camp her toileting area.  She located the the epicenter of the site and then, after a leisurely stretch, promptly deposited a moist shit half the size of herself in the gravel. 

There is a drop-off just beyond the table that is, essentially, the shore of Lake Barkley.

I wish I'd gotten a good photo of the camp cook stove on which you see me here frying up the bacon!  It is a three-burner gas cook top that runs on propane and is every bit as convenient as any such indoor device. It came with Pippa and, despite its age, was obviously rarely used.  As delicious as waking indoors to the smell of frying bacon is, I put it at twice as delicious a scent experienced at camp. This is doubly true for the cook.  I love to whip up a camp breakfast for some reason (who am I?). I no longer fry real bacon at home. Turkey bacon is as good as it gets around here--fat! cholesterol!--but camp calls for the real thing. 

Shepherd observes some morning fishermen as we took in some fresh air on a bench just outside the OK Corral.

With our arteries properly clogged, it was time to try to counteract that with a multi-mile morning walk. We set out with the dogs to explore the rest of the campsite that, despite us having camped there twice before, we'd never gotten around to walking in its entirety.

Just beyond the drop-off of our campsite. The edge of Lake Barkley.

The area we camp in is considered "primitive" despite each woodsy, shaded camp having running water and electricity as well as bathroom and hot shower facilities within easy walking distance. We walked some of the areas that aren't considered primitive, basically, that amounts in some cases, to monstrous RV's circled in a parking lot in the piteous sun on the waterfront.  I came to think of, and refer to it as, "The O.K. Corral" because it was absolutely a modern-day circling of the wagons.  That is, if your wagon costs $100K and has satellite TV. The people here aren't as interested in "getting away from it all" or "getting back to nature" as they are in meeting other campers and drinking a beer or fifty with them. Or at least that's my perception.  We were hailed and stopped many times as we strolled through by campers here who wanted to admire and pet the dogs and talk to us out of sheer friendly curiosity.

Not surprisingly, Shepherd is walked on a leash as he is likely to try to escape from his death sentence at any moment, but Tallulah is trustworthy (and mommy spoiled) enough on such a walk to be largely off leash.  She generally sticks close to the pack, but is also, in the end, a smaller dog with short legs.  While us big people and Shepherd can cover long distances, this is harder for Tallulah, especially given her tendency to walk not only forward, but also to dart nervously back and forth, thus adding half as much again to any distance we cover. 

Do you sense I'm getting at something?

How about I just cut to the chase:    
            
We found this at a really crappy flea market in Eddyville (sorry, Eddyville, but it really IS crappy).  It's a fairly high quality stroller, but was for some reason stripped of its baby seat cushion making it perfect for a fur friend ($8!).  Tallulah prefers to stand, obviously.  Chariot-style.

So, yah. 

I'm THAT person.  

My dog has a stroller.     
      

Paradise Found

I was awake in the wee hours last night and found myself flipping through the queued programs on my DVR.  "Oprah's Next Chapter" held an episode featuring David Copperfield.  This is something I'd normally never watch.  I have an aversion for "magicians".  And I put that word in quotes because pulling, say, a rabbit out of one's ass is not actually "magic" but, rather, a trick.  At best the word is "illusion".


The thing is, I do believe in magic.  Real magic. Magic as in love, giant snowflakes, inspiration, synchronicity and whiskers on kittens. And, of course, as I said on Crackbook the other day, Folgers in your cup. None of the magic I believe in, however, includes an overly bronzed bug-eyed wildly dramatic cocksman from Jersey.  

Regardless, there I was at wee-thirty in the morning with nothing better to do.  While it was at least mildly interesting to learn of Copperfield's triumph over the adversity of a difficult childhood (his mother beat him); meet his thirtysomething fiance (he's fifty-five, and previously married to Claudia Schiffer); the big takeaway is David's digs.  

Y'all?  Bronzy Copperfield doesn't just own an island in paradise.  No. He owns a string of islands in paradise. 

Eleven to be exact. 

And when Magie McMagicson decides to take a break from performing six hundred (?!) shows per year in his personalized theater at the MGM Grand in Vegas and needs a place to throw off his mighty codpiece and sit a spell, he heads south to "Copperfield Bay" in (guess where?) the Bahamas.

I guess the fact that I was just there (generally speaking) only fueled my awe at the thought and images of this heavenly place.  I mean, I know that it really, really is THAT beautiful. Even better? David would like to share paradise with you.  That's right. You, too, can experience the magic of Copperfield Bay.  All you need is a passport, a change of underpanties, and $37,500 per night.   

Get a preview right here.

(But forget about the bed on the beach.  That spot's mine.)

Sailing the Abacos

A starfish!  Much petted but still alive in the water off Tilloo Beach. Click on any photo to see a larger version.

So, yes!  I went sailing in the Abacos.  

Insert your favorite seafaring song [here].

I  feel a lot of pressure to write about the experience.  Especially since I blew in my last post about THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE (which, yes, the Abacos are located in the BT) as well as my legendary and life-long motion sickness problem. The thing is, I have about one million photos to edit and I do not know when, if ever, I am going to get that task accomplished and my photos arranged into some kind of semblance of a storytelling order.

Le Boat.  Called Le Bel-Air. Because it sailed over from Le France. 

So, I don't know what else to do but just plunge ahead and post a few photos (in no particular order) and update you on perhaps the two most important facts:

Smart-assing around at Nippers.

1) I SURVIVED THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE.  Barely (but we'll get to that).

We called the thing I'm collapsed on here, strung and bouncy in the front of the boat "the trampoline".  Once settled upon  (if you don't manage to bounce out and into the sea), it is the world's best sunbathing spot.  Sailing rocks you to sleep while the water rushing by only a few feet beneath you prevents overheating.  Good-bye cruel world...   

2) Oh my God, y'all.  I. HAD. NO. MOTION. SICKNESS.  Whatsoever.  This is nothing short of miraculous.  If you aren't a sufferer, you just won't understand, but cripes, for me to be able to stand in the TINY sleeping cabin of a small ship whist the vessel is being tossed about on the waves and NOT lose my lunch or even have a SHRED of nausea is just...something I would not have believed had I not experienced it myself.  This was accomplished through months of taking ginger (2 capsules at night after dinner) as well as through the constant wearing of the Meclizine patch beginning an hour before we sailed.  I knew the ginger was effective when I experienced no nausea during take off or landing during the flights to the islands (we flew Nashville-Ft. Lauderdale/Ft. Lauderdale-Marsh Harbour).  Once on the boat, however, I was never without the Meclizine and continued to take ginger every day, so it's impossible for me to sort out what parts each treatment played in the suspension of my nausea on the water.  Suffice it to say:  Meclizine.  Ginger.  THEY WORK.

The lot of us.

Motion-wise, though, I should probably add that I did experience the phenom wherein when off the boat, I had the erroneous sensation that I was still "floating".  Small spaces on land would sometimes seem to pitch back and forth a little as if they were suspended in water.  I've read of people developing this condition chronically (sometimes after weeks long cruises), but my experience with it was short lived--it went away after a few hours on land--and was even a little pleasant.


What to say otherwise?

Guana Cay

How about the Abacos are a paradise? Crazy, stupid, sob-inducingly beautiful 

Tilloo Beach.  Yes, we had to take The Dingy and a box of white wine there.  You can see Le Bel Air  (not my favorite boat name) anchored out to to see on the right.

It never rained a drop.  The sky was an azure blue filled with fluffy white clouds suspended above an undulating sea that was at turns emerald, royal blue, turquoise, black, smooth as glass, choppy, rolling, most always calm.  The islands are a landscape of white sand beaches dotted with coconut-laden palm trees but often developed with the cottages of the English fisherman that settled the place giving the whole thing a vibe I would call "beachy colonial".

Native cab drivers ferry entitled tourists to and from the airport in ramshackle cabs driven the English way in the left lane.  I was told a permit to drive a cab is among the most coveted of all possessions there and the these are often passed down for generations Grandparent to parent to son/daughter and so on. The fare is best settled on before committing to the ride, lest your bourgeois ass be taken advantage of (and, lets face it, you deserve it). 




Your own. Personal. Island.

The culture is unhurried, soaked in rum and fresh fruit juice, and the food conch-heavy and salty. Seafood most often "cracked" (fried). I never waited less than an hour for meal service. Fortunately one is easily lulled into slack-jawed complacency about this with a strong rum drink. 

That is, if you can even manage to retain any residual angst that hasn't already been lulled away by the rocking of the boat or gently puffed into [at least] next week by an island breeze or chased away by the relentlessly cheerful sun. I never journeyed far enough from the edges of that world to experience many of the native people, but instead existed (inappropriately) among the floating elite.

I'm congenitally unable to pass up a dog photo.  This guy swam over from the buildings you see in the distance with his master.  He's a paradise dog. 

And, people?  I do mean elite.

Sunset at Guana Cay

I didn't make it a habit to take photos of the more elaborate boats (in fact now, looking back through my photos I photographed none of them really--you see a fairly large one to the left in the photo above) I saw anchored in the ports of the Abacos, but many were floating yachts with many televisions, kitchens, everyimaginableconvenience boasting deep cushy furniture to flop down in after a hard day of planting your amazing self on the bow of your yacht, arms crossed, and surveying the seascape of paradise like the conquering hero that obviously you are. These boats were everywhere and often featured a twenty (or MAYBE) thirtysomething near naked trophy wife stained mahogany from the sun.  These well maintained women were escorted by their wealthy sagging seagoing husbands from port to port. 

After a while, I began to recognize people I'd seen before. ("Say, didn't I see you looking fabulous at Elbow Cay yesterday?")  

The view from Nippers.  Pictured here is the rock we stood on to take group photo posted earlier. This is a pretty immense vista--see two tiny sunbathers to the right.

It is a circuit, really, like a roving seagoing camping trip. Elbow Cay, Guana Cay, Boat Harbor, Hopetown, Treasure. 

Landing at Lighthouse Marina

By day boats glide from one island paradise to another, anchoring up in the afternoon for dinner ashore and a night spent at a new floating camp site, plugging in to electricity, taking on water and supplies, running up unimaginable tabs at the "gas station" in order to do it all again tomorrow.  And the next day.  

This girl was shy and retiring. And shopping.  In that. 

And the next. 

Your Bahama beer choices: Kalik or Kalik?  Fortunately, it's yummy.

Get browner. Increasingly rum-soaked. More relaxed (if that's possible).  

Man o War Cay

Jimmy Buffet does not exaggerate the laid-back, easygoing culture that surrounds the lifestyle. Pretty sure he never found that lost shaker of salt.  

Man O War again.

It all seemed to me rather lawless (I don't think "police" as such really exist in the Abacos, nor do doctors, or the innernets) and drunken and lax and happy-go-lucky.  To wear a sun dress to dinner is to dress up.  Bathing suits with casual cotton cover up thrown on and flip flops are the norm. No cover-up?  Fine.  Drink?  Yes. 

At "Nippers" on Guana Cay

Ah, yes.  The Drink. 

There is something about boaters and sailors that makes them think their insides need to be as awash in liquid as their boats, I've decided. Albeit in fermented liquid.  I've never met a sailor that didn't enjoy a drink or twenty-seven, thankyouverymuch.  

And the answer is: I demand this be more idyllic and relaxing!  Category: Shit We Never Said Except for that One Time

(Okay, okay, so you've a sailing tee totaling Uncle Bob, whatever, but I'll still wager he is the exception to the rule). 

A panoramic of the view at Elbow Cay from the candy striped lighthouse. You can see our  boat in the center of the photo.  It's the one docked on the right.

      
I suppose it was about day two that we decided to go snorkeling. Our fairly disinterested often uncommunicative captain (not that I cared!) offered to take the four of us excited to snorkel to some picturesque locale supposedly perfect for the activity.  

That's El Capitan managing the rope.

We had to use a smaller boat to get there, and this is the best picture I have of it (taken later in the day on the way to dinner):

I don't suppose you can tell much about it from that angle, but suffice it to say it's a smaller fishing boat, a skiff is what I would think of it as, and it looked much like this:

Except not inflatable.  Anyway, that isn't the point (But I love this photo, right? Another at Tilloo.  Blue! Turquoise! *sob!*).  The point is to snorkel, an activity I'd participated in exactly once before in the glassy smooth waters off Key West. The four of us set off that day excited about the prospect.  When El Capitan stopped the skiff in choppy water not too many clicks from a fairly jagged looking rock formation, I won't lie, I was a little confused.  Choppy water?  Snorkeling?

Really?

"Well, hello gorgeous!"  A seafaring lady. I. We. Didn't. Know what to make of this. So, like everybody else, we just stared.  Well, except I, of course, took photos.  Because I'm always thinking of you.  YOU and only you.

El Capitan gestured to the entrance to a natural bay half a mile or so in the distance.  THAT BAY was the snorkeling locale.  EC told us the current would "carry us down there" if only we'd jump in and, oh, don't crash in to the rock formation.

An eventful trip in the the Danger Dingy

The first two of us donned snorkel gear and went off the back of the boat.  Leaving the second two of us (including me) to suit up. Normally, this wouldn't take long (a mask, a tube, flippers), but my flippers were mismatched and didn't fit, meaning I had to use another set--a set too big--and ratchet them tightly on my feet. My apprehension was growing by the time I jumped in, but hell, I'm the woman who'd conquered a life-long case of motion sickness only just one day prior, remember? I logged six miles on the treadmill before I left!  I can SWIM!

Snapped with iPhona on a stroll around Hopetown. One of my favorites

Yah, right.

View from Hopetown Harbor Lodge

I plunged into the ocean.  

View from the room at Abaco Beach Resort

Let's just say what looked like choppy water from the boat was something of a bigger problem upon immersion. 

Sunrise at Boat Harbor, our beginning and ending point.

I managed to tread water, right my mask, and get the breathing tube into my mouth.  Then I kicked my feet back, put my face in the water, kicked, took a breath...and breathed sea water.  The choppy water proved to much for the length of my tube.  What's more, I was being swept toward the jagged rocks.

  

We had this entire beach to ourselves (complete with ocean kayaks) for one whole day. [Insert Lou Reed's "It's Such a Perfect Day" here.] 

I decided to try again. Quickly.

Dinner at "Mango", Marsh Harbor

Tread water-right my mask-get the breathing tube...waitaminute.  One of my kicking feet found purchase...

More of the view at Hopetown Harbor Lodge

SHAAAAAAAAAAAARK!

Hopetown

Not really.

Not a shark but I was close enough to the rocks that my foot had found their underwater edge.  I could actually stand on it as I readied my mask for another try.  Mask, tube, kick back...

Sea water. 

A very lucky somebody's backyard in Hopetown.

Good times! 

We ended up back in the boat.  And fairly waterlogged.  Then, good ol' El Capitan blithely drove the effing boat on over to the "snorkeling bay". I'd randomly assumed this impossible in the first place due to shallowness. He picked up the other two snorkelers who remarked about the "strong undertow" when they climbed back in the boat looking none too relaxed.

So, yes, El Capitan tried to kill us. 
UNSUCCESSFULLY, I might add. 

Happily, that dicey ten minutes was the exception to the rule.

Dinner on our last night at Abaco Inn.

Mostly, it was lazy, sunny, rum soaked, salty, turquoise, sloe.

Mostly, it was heaven.