I’m writing this from Elizabeth Harbor, just off Georgetown, Exuma Island on Christmas Day. It’s been windy the last few days—but comfortable. The kind of steady breeze that keeps the boat cool this time of year and reminds you why this harbor has drawn sailors here for generations.

That calm came after the work.

Last Monday, Antony and I were underway, crossing west to east from the Exuma Bank through Galliot Cut and out into the Exuma Sound. The weather was not good. Not ambiguous. Not improving. It was very clear that the sail to Georgetown was going to be rough.

A strong high-pressure system off the Carolinas was pushing stiff wind south, and the Sound had plenty of room to build on it. I connected with Jeff, a friend who’s been sailing these waters for years—someone whose judgment I trust. We walked through the forecast, the timing, the tide, and the cut. His assessment was straightforward: uncomfortable, but not dangerous—spoken from experience, not optimism.

Uncomfortable, but not dangerous.

There were reasons to move. Antony was flying out Tuesday. My friend Scott was arriving the same day. Schedules should never dictate whether you sail, but they do exist, and in this case the decision came after careful consideration and consultation—not hope.

We went through Galliot Cut at high tide. The wave action was challenging and focused, the kind that demands attention. Once clear and turned south, the Exuma Sound delivered exactly what was expected—and maybe a little more.

They were calling for six foot waves and 30 knot gusts. It felt bigger and faster. Steeper. Tighter. Right on our beam. It was a five-hour passage where nothing overly dramatic occurred, save a couple waves breaking into the cockpit.

We were sailing with just a little genoa out, and I wanted to start the engine to make sure we had it if needed. That’s when the engine cooling issue surfaced again. I went below, broke the seal on the raw water pump, and manually primed the line. That confirmed it: the debris I had cleared wasn't the only issue. There’s something else going on. A problem for later, but not forgotten.

We made it into Georgetown tired, salt-stiff, and settled. The decision held. The boat did her job. We did ours. Sometimes the sea state isn’t a forecast—it’s simply the conditions you agree to meet.

📝Harbor Notes

It’s hard to describe this place without feeling like you’re leaving something out.

Elizabeth Harbour isn’t just an anchorage—it’s a cruising community. Right now, there are probably a hundred boats here: sailboats and catamarans, monohulls and trawlers, powerboats mixed in among them all. Boats at anchor, boats arriving, boats preparing to leave. Dinghies moving constantly between shore and boat. It feels lived-in and connected.

Every morning at 8:00 a.m., the harbor comes alive on VHF Channel 72 with the Cruiser’s Net. It’s part weather report, part tide and sunrise briefing, part community bulletin board. Arrivals and departures are announced. Swap-and-sell items get airtime. And every day, there’s something happening—water aerobics, beach yoga, dinghy meetups, happy hours—shared openly with anyone listening.

On Christmas Day, that broadcast included an invitation for a harbor-wide potluck. No reservations, no sign-ups—just cruisers bringing a dish, a plate and cutlery, and themselves. It felt like a natural extension of the place: strangers by name, familiar by voice, gathering because someone simply said, “This is happening—come if you want.”

Across the harbor, Georgetown feels like the other half of the rhythm. A Bahamian town with the essentials—grocery store, bank, pharmacy, restaurants—but more importantly, people who carry real warmth. Conversations come easily.

I’ve been here since Monday afternoon, and it’s already clear why so many cruisers make Elizabeth Harbour a seasonal home. It’s social without being loud, organized without being rigid, and welcoming without effort.

Listen to the Cruiser’s Net broadcast from Christmas Day below. It captures this place better than I can—voices on the air, plans being made, and a community forming in real time.

So far, I’m really enjoying Georgetown. And I’m looking forward to staying a little longer.

Last year, while I was in the Bahamas, I wandered into a restaurant one night where a local band was playing rake and scrape—a distinctly Bahamian style built on rhythm, movement, and participation. It’s not background music. It’s the kind of sound that pulls you in whether you plan on dancing or not.

One of the songs they played that night stayed with me. It was called I’m a Boatman.

Boatman is rooted in the daily life of Bahamian fishermen—the boatmen who head out every morning, working the banks and the sound, providing food for their families and income for their communities. It’s a working song at heart. Plainspoken. Proud. Closely tied to the sea.

The fisheries here are remarkable—lobster, conch, reef fish, mahi—and Boatman fits naturally into that world. It’s a song that belongs to the islands as much as the water does.

On Christmas Eve, my friend Scott and I were at the Exuma Yacht Club, listening to a local group called True Love Band. After their first set, they asked if anyone had a request. I walked up, dropped a few bills in the tip jar, and asked if they could play I’m a Boatman.

They didn’t hesitate.

Hearing that song again—played by Bahamian musicians, in the Bahamas, on Christmas Eve—felt exactly right. I love the rhythm. I love the lyrics.

Take a listen to I'm a Boatman. Some songs don’t just tell a story—they carry a place with them.