Tuesday morning I lifted anchor in Thompson Bay/Salt Pond, Long Island and pointed back toward Georgetown via Exuma Sound. There were a few things I wanted to take care of over there this week—laundry being one of them, but more immediately before I could do laundry, water. I was getting low, and the water in Thompson Bay had taken on a silty look that I didn’t love. Between the shallow bottom and the blow over the weekend, it had all been stirred up pretty good. You can definitely see the difference. Georgetown’s harbor water, by comparison, was clearer, clean enough to comfortably run the watermaker and top off the tanks.

Another reason for heading out into the sound instead of ducking back through the reefs was fishing. Deeper water meant a chance to put a line out, and I’d just shared the last of my wahoo Monday night at a post-storm survival party. The freezer was officially empty of fish again.

The forecast looked solid—about 15 to 20 knots, dead downwind—and this boat really shines in that condition. With both the headsail and the ballooner out (what we Amelian’s call our asymmetrical spinnaker), she’ll just lope along. But for a 20-mile run, rigging the ballooner solo didn’t make much sense. It’s a half-hour job on a good day, and I didn’t need the extra canvas.

So I ran wing-on-wing with the mainsail, traveler eased all the way over. Simple, effective, and steady. Seas were around three feet, spaced about eight seconds apart—comfortable. Downwind sailing always brings a bit of roll, but the wing-on-wing setup kept things settled and efficient, and the miles clicked off without drama.

By early Friday morning the winds picked up as another forecasted cold front moved through. I saw gusts touching 30 knots, but I was happy with where I was anchored. I’m sitting right on the edge of the channel, a little farther south than I’ve normally been here in Georgetown, but it’s a good spot. Plenty of room to swing, good holding, and no surprises. It blew steadily and with some authority for a while, but it’s expected to ease as the day goes on. For now, it’s just a matter of staying put and letting it pass.

📝Harbor Notes

Da Sand Bar on Stocking Island isn’t fancy. It’s barely even finished. The place looks like it was built out of spare lumber and good intentions, but that’s kind of the point. Its most prominent feature isn’t the bar at all—it’s the pool table sitting right out front, open to the breeze, sand underfoot, and whatever crowd happens to drift in that day.

Over the past month and a half, I’ve become something of a regular there, playing pool with whoever’s around. Local captains. Tour guides bring their charters there to experience it. Sailors fresh on anchor. Tourists who didn’t expect to end up in a beach shack competing for bragging rights. On Sundays, they run a pool tournament. I’ve won it once. I’ve lost it four times. One of these days, I’m hoping to tip that ratio back in my favor.

It’s been a great place to spend an afternoon and get to know people who actually work these waters—guys and gals who bring boats and people through here every day and know this place in a way you only do when it’s your backyard. Just a table, a cue, and whoever’s up next.

Pool is a funny game, though. In a lot of ways, I think it’s like golf. The more you play, the more you care, the more you start thinking about mechanics and angles and outcomes—and somehow, the worse you get. When I took about a week off while I was over on Long Island and came back this week, my game felt crisper. Sharper. Less forced. That gives me some optimism heading into Sunday.

The buy-in is twenty bucks, and the pot usually runs anywhere from $140 up to $200 or $220, depending on the crowd. Not a lot of money, but enough to keep things interesting. This weekend should be a good one too—it’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I hear they’re running a few specials. That usually brings out a mix of locals and visitors, which makes the whole thing even better.

At the end of the day, pool at Da Sand Bar is less about winning or losing and more about being there. I have to pinch myself occasionally when I look out past the table see the sun setting over Exuma Island. It can sure be surreal at times.

“Rake and Scrape” music is everywhere here, even when it’s not front and center. You’ll hear it drifting out of a bar, find it playing in a shop over the radio, or riding the breeze from somewhere you can’t quite see. The rhythm is unmistakable, but what really defines it is that scraping sound working underneath everything else—raw, percussive, and almost industrial in the best way.

Its roots can be traced back to the Turks and Caicos, where enslaved Africans blended West African rhythms with European instruments and whatever household or work tools were available. As people migrated, especially to Cat Island, the sound came with them and evolved into something distinctly Bahamian.

When contrasted with Junkanoo, which people often recognize first when they think of Bahamian music. Junkanoo is big, loud, and outward-facing—goatskin drums, cowbells, horns, whistles, elaborate costumes, and entire streets moving together at once. It’s performance, procession, and spectacle. It fills the space.

Rake and Scrape, by comparison, is more intimate. It’s dance music meant for close quarters—small rooms, packed bars, and backyards. Where Junkanoo announces itself, rake and scrape settles in and takes over from the inside. You don’t watch it so much as you find yourself moving to it before you realize what’s happening.

What has fascinated me is how physical the sound is. I’ve been lucky enough to record a few of the different ways bands here create that signature sound. One uses something that looks a lot like a carpenter’s saw, held upright and scraped with a screwdriver or metal rod. Another uses a round piece of metal—almost like a circular plate—with raised indentations, scraped rapidly with what looks like a pick. Same idea, different texture. And sometimes there’s no dedicated scraping instrument at all—just fast, relentless cymbal work driving the groove hard enough to fill that role.

It’s music built from whatever’s at hand. Practical. Rhythmic. Unpolished. A sound shaped by migration, necessity, and celebration—and one that fits surprisingly well with the creak of dock lines, the slap of halyards, and the steady rhythm of life afloat here in the Bahamas.