Thursday, May 26th

I pulled anchor in Georgetown and eased Celtic Cross out through the cut at the northwest end of Elizabeth Harbor, turning her bow north toward Eleuthera. One hundred twenty-five miles in total, but I decided to break it into two legs.

Crossing Exuma Sound was everything you hope for on an open-water reach. The wind and seas were both out of the east, 15–20 knots steady. The swell was on the beam — spaced about four seconds apart.

At one point she stretched her legs to 7.5 knots. Great sailing.

As I made my way across the Sound, the seas gradually laid down to a gentler one to two feet. You could feel the system easing. I knew the forecast called for the wind to soften overnight, and I didn’t want to be ghosting along in the dark.

So instead of pressing on, as I tuned into Davis Channel at the end of Eluethera Cape, I peeled off towards shore just north of Chub Rock. Around 2:30 a.m., I dropped anchor in about 15 feet of water. Quiet. Slight roll.

I slept until 6 a.m.

At first light, coffee on, anchor up, and the final 36 miles unfolded easily toward Hatchet Bay. The wind had dropped to 5 knots. Not enough to sail, so I motored and charged my batteries from the alternator to 100 percent.

Two legs. Good breeze. Open water behind me. Hatchet Bay ahead.

Hatchet Bay sits on the northern end of Eleuthera, and the entrance looks like it was blown straight out of the rock.

A 20–25-foot rock cliff rises on either side, with maybe a 100-foot slit carved clean through it. From offshore, it doesn’t look like a harbor. It looks like a mistake in the stone. The first time you line up to take a sailboat through there, it gets your blood flowing.

But as a friend reminded me, the mail boat runs in and out of that cut all the time. Last night I saw a large car ferry from Nassau exit through the cut. So it just takes a steady hand on the wheel and some confidence.

Once you clear the rock walls, it opens suddenly up to harbor — about half a mile wide — with a sandy, muddy bottom and protection nearly all the way around. For swell to make its way inside, it would have to be blowing hard out in the Sound. It’s the complete opposite of Elizabeth Harbor when a southeast swell sneaks in and sets everything to rolling.

Here, it’s calm. Quiet. Contained.

There isn’t much in Hatchet Bay — a government dock and a small store/bar called Boater’s Haven. I pulled the dinghy up there yesterday afternoon to explore. As I was circling, looking for a place to tie off, a man walked down the dock and called out, asking where I thought I was going.

“I’m the dockmaster,” he said.

A few seconds later he started laughing. Just pulling my leg.

His name’s Etienne.

He helped me secure the dinghy, then gave me the unofficial walking tour. Turns out I’d landed near a neighborhood called The Bottom. He pointed out the small grocery store and walked with me over. I bought us each a Kalik (official beer of the Bahamas) to properly continue the tour.

He showed me a couple of restaurants within walking distance — Twin Brothers which, he said, had been featured on several network food shows. That’s where I ended up having dinner last night.

He also introduced me to his uncle Emmett, the owner/bartender at Boater’s Haven.

More on Uncle Emmett later.

For now, Hatchet Bay feels like the other end of the spectrum from Georgetown. Just still water inside a rock wall and the kind of place where you go to relax.

It’s a good landing after a 125-mile run.

Friday afternoon, after setting the hook in Hatchet Bay, I dropped the dinghy and ran over to Boaters Haven.

That’s where I had met Etienne.

And that’s where he introduced me to his uncle — Emmett Farrington— the owner of Boater’s Haven dock and bartender.

We connected almost immediately.

I think it started with the details. He noticed the tattoo on my arm and asked me about it— the musical notes worked into the design. Around his neck hung a small guitar pendant. Those small signals are usually enough to start a conversation.

He’s been playing guitar most of his life. Grew up here in Eleuthera. Picked it up around nine years old. His brothers, though, had other plans for him — they made him play bass in the family band. He didn’t want to play bass. He wanted to strum. Play chords. Hold down rhythm. It took a while before they finally let him take up the guitar.

His father, he told me, could play just about any wind instrument you handed him. That’s also who taught Emmett to understand music.

That part stopped me for a second.

My father was musical too. Different life. But the same thread. Music passed down through a house.

Emmett told me he likes to play down at the dock when boaters come in — sit on the edge, guitar in hand, letting the music drift out over the dinghies tied alongside. But right now, he’s sidelined. About a month ago, he was working on a fence with a grinder and injured one of the fingers on his fretting hand. The hand that makes the shapes. The hand that holds the bar chords.

He said it with a kind of reluctant patience — like someone temporarily benched from the thing that steadies them.

He misses it.

He’s optimistic it’ll heal in the next couple of weeks. And when it does, I have a feeling Hatchet Bay will sound a little different in the evenings.

Saturday afternoon I was took the dink back to the dock at Boaters Haven just as Emmett came out to open the bar.

We started talking again, and he mentioned that he had recorded a CD up in Nassau. He asked if I wanted to hear one of his original songs. Of course I said yes.

The song is called “Eleuthera.”

Since his hand is still healing and he can’t play guitar right now, he put the CD on and played the track through the bar speakers while we sat there on the porch. It was written about Eleuthera — his home — and you can hear how much the island means to him in the lyrics.

It was a simple moment. Just the two of us on the dock, listening to something he created.

Below is the recording I made of Emmett singing “Eleuthera.”

Tuesday night, around 8:30 p.m., just before turning in, I decided to run the generator.

It had been overcast most of the day and the solar wasn’t keeping the batteries where I like them. The onboard draw was a little lower than comfortable for an overnight stretch, so I figured I’d give the Onan some runtime and go to bed with everything topped off.

Two minutes in, it shut down.

The fault lamp blinked seven times.

Raw water issue.

Which, in plain English, means the generator wasn’t getting cooling water.

I headed below into the engine room. First check: hoses and intake lines. No leaks. No obvious blockage. That left the water pump — and I’ve had a bit of a history with impellers lately.

Pulled the cover.

Sure enough, the rubber impeller had chewed itself up.

Not catastrophic. Not dramatic. Just one of those quiet little failures that remind you how dependent everything is on maintenance. Fortunately, I had spares. Thirty minutes later, new impeller installed, cover back on, generator fired up and ran clean.

Problem solved.

I spent a few minutes logging the issue in my newly launched app that I finally published this week for beta testing.

About ten years ago, I had an idea for a maintenance-tracking application — something simple that would help equipment owners stay on top of preventative intervals and record corrective repairs. There are tools out there that do pieces of that. But living aboard has shown me what’s missing. Besides the scheduling of preventative maintenance, the app give me a place to track what’s broke, when I fixed it, and how.

I have a technical advisor — Bill — who knows these boats inside and out. Over the years, he’s published an enormous library of PDFs, bulletins, and how-to guides for owners. That expertise lives in documents.

And I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve called or emailed him asking, “Hey, how do I…?”, only to get a PDF a few minutes later with the knowledge I was seeking inside.

What if maintenance intervals and expert knowledge could live in the same place?

That’s what led me to build MaintHub (MaintHub.com). It’s a system where equipment owners can track preventative and corrective maintenance — and where experts like Bill can publish their documentation. Layer AI on top of that, and suddenly you can search across all that knowledge and find answers instantly instead of digging through folders or firing off emails.

It’s not just for boats. It works for anything with moving parts — home systems, machinery, industrial equipment.

Truthfully, it grew out of necessity aboard Celtic Cross.

If you’re the kind of person who maintains your own equipment — or you are the expert people call when something breaks — I’d love your feedback. It’s free to explore, and I’m actively shaping it based on real-world use.

This week I made it to Eleuthera — a place I’ve wanted to visit for a long time.

The passage over was strong and clean. And Hatchet Bay, in almost every way, is the opposite of Georgetown. No regatta energy. No 300-boat anchorage. No constant dinghy traffic. It’s quieter here. Calmer. The water barely moves inside the cut.

Less motion. Less noise. A different pace.

Today — Saturday — offered something I didn’t expect.

I went to lunch at a small local restaurant, and behind the bar they were broadcasting a funeral service from a church just a couple of blocks away. This weekend, the population of Hatchet Bay has nearly doubled because of it. People have come home. Family has gathered.

As I sat there eating, several people walked in mentioning they were in town for the funeral. There was a heaviness in the air — but not only sadness. There was also celebration. Storytelling. Connection.

By the time I finished lunch, the service itself had ended. But then I started hearing music — distant at first. Someone told me they were taking the procession down to the gravesite with a Junkanoo-style sendoff. Trombones. Cowbells. Bells and whistles. A full procession through town.

I wasn’t part of it, but I was close enough to feel it.

There’s something powerful about being a temporary witness to a community honoring one of its own. It reminded me that movement — whether sailing north across the Sound or marching down a road behind a brass section — is part of how we carry life forward.

This week has been a good one. A strong crossing. A calm harbor. New faces. Familiar music in unfamiliar places.

I’ll spend a few more days here in Eleuthera, then begin working my way toward Nassau.

For now, I’m grateful for the quieter water — and for being present in the moments that come with it.