Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

‘Winds three to five out of the southeast.’ Stu was wrapping up. ‘And if you’re wondering about those smoke clouds over northern Abaco this morning, brush fires have been reported on the old Bahama Star farm, so let’s hope this change of direction doesn’t help them to spread. Dances with Waves out.’

I pressed the talk button. ‘Now that we are up to date on the Atlantic seas,’ I announced, ‘we need to check close to home on the sea state of the Sea of Abaco. For this report we always trust Troy Albury at Dive Guana. Troy?’

If Abaco had a Man for All Seasons, it would be Troy Albury. Dive-shop owner, island councilman, community activist, Troy was also chief of Guana Cay Fire and Rescue; his boat was first on the scene in any emergency. A native of Guana Cay, Troy’d been spearheading the effort to halt the Baker’s Bay project that threatened to overwhelm his tiny island, working his way tirelessly and painfully up through the Bahamian court system. I wondered if he’d turn up at the meeting in Hope Town the following week. Warden Henry Baker could certainly draw on Tony’s expertise for any action plan directed against Rudolph Mueller’s development on Hawksbill Cay.

That morning, though, Troy was wearing his dive-shop hat, reporting calm conditions on the Sea of Abaco, perfect for snorkeling and diving. After Troy signed off, I called on listeners all along the island chain, asking for sea conditions from Whale Cay in the north to Little Harbour in the south.

Calm conditions all the way.

‘Fabulous!’ I said. ‘Just what everyone dreams of when you think about boating. Look out fish!’

‘We have no emergency email today,’ I continued, consulting my notes. ‘But remember that Out Island Internet has provided a free emergency email service to listeners since 1997 – the address is cruisersatOIIdotnet.’

Gaining confidence with Pattie’s script in front of me, I moved rapidly through the community announcements to headline news. I’d tapped Paul for that. He’d spent the morning checking the New York Times and Washington Post online, taking notes, so that he could summarize what was happening in the world we’d left behind.

Paul wrapped up with the stock market report, then handed the microphone back to me. I took it and gave him a high-five with my free hand.

‘We pause here to let new listeners know what’s coming up next on the Net. First, we will have some invitations from some great places here with special activities you need to know about. Next, are mail call, then trivia, and our open mike session…’

‘Break, break!’

Someone was calling with a priority message. I immediately interrupted the script. ‘Caller, this is the Cruisers’ Net. Go ahead.’

‘Uh, this is the Raging Queen out of Key West, and I’m looking for cabin boys.’

Oh, great. I flipped through Pattie’s bible, but there wasn’t anything listed under ‘Assholes,’ so I’d just have to wing it. I pressed down on my talk button, stepping on his transmission, hard. ‘Well, somebody’s had his Wheaties for breakfast! Moving along now… after open mike, we have a very special section where new arrivals can announce and introduce themselves, after which we will cover departures. Finally, as close as we can make it to nine a.m. we will have a recap of today’s weather.’

‘Our invitations are coming up first so you can plan on not missing any fun while you are here. First on the list is Curly Tails Restaurant and Bar at the Conch Inn in Marsh Harbour. Come in, Harriet.’

After Harriet finished announcing her lunch specials, I called on the other restaurants in order – Wally’s, Snappas, Mangoes, and the Jib Room where Boo’s description of the baby-back ribs made my mouth water.

‘I don’t know how popular you are back at home,’ I concluded, ‘but here in the Abacos, everyone wants you!’

I breezed through mail call and spent about five minutes on open mike answering questions about where to get a haircut, find someone who could repair an alternator, and to celebrate the fortieth birthday of Mindy on LunaSea with Net listeners each singing a line of the song, round-robin style.

‘New arrivals are next. Do we have any new listeners this morning who are not afraid of the radio and who would like to take this time to introduce yourselves and tell us where you are from? Call signs twice, please.’

Not many sane folks invade the Abacos during hurricane season. FunRunner , a charter powerboat from the sound of it, had just cruised into Marsh Harbour and the all-male crew of recent graduates from West Point said they were in search of patriotic young women with no visible tan lines. Some bonehead from Key West blabbed on for so long about the ‘inedible’ meal he’d had at a restaurant in Treasure Cay that I wanted to break his transmitting thumb, but Mimi Rehor from Buck-a-Book did it for me.

‘Break, break!’

I recognized her voice at once. This could be serious. ‘Go ahead, Mimi.’

‘Avener just called from the preserve saying that the brush fire is out of control. It’s spreading rapidly toward the preserve, and could threaten the horses. We need help moving fences, cutting firebreaks, and beating back the fire.’

I started to hyperventilate just thinking about it. The fires in southern California had occupied the airwaves on CNN for weeks and weeks, and I pictured our precious herd of Abaco Barbs fleeing before the flames, wild eyed and panicked.

While Mimi described the desperate situation they seemed to be facing out on the preserve, I flipped frantically through Pattie Toler’s bible. There was information on the Buck-a-Book container and its opening hours, details on how to arrange a visit to the preserve, and how to contribute to the rescue effort at www.arkwild.org, but nothing about wild fires. What the heck was a Net anchor supposed to do? I’d have to wing it.

I pressed the talk button. ‘Mimi, this is Hannah at Windswept . I imagine you need to get on out to the preserve, so I wonder if there’s anyone in charge of organizing the volunteers.’

Windswept had a pretty good VHF antenna clamped to the roof, but I knew it wasn’t tall enough or powerful enough to reach to all the out islands, or even as far north as Treasure Cay where the preserve was located. If I was to coordinate, I’d need a relay, which would be cumbersome and result in the waste of valuable time. So, I was relieved when Mimi said, ‘Anyone who wants to volunteer should contact Susan Bliss at Outer Limits on seven-three starting now and anytime after the Net. In the meantime we have taxis lined up to pick up volunteers at both ferry landings – the nine forty-five out of Hope Town and the eleven thirty out of Man-O-War and Guana Cays. Just show up wearing long pants, long sleeves and sensible shoes and socks. Bring a machete if you’ve got one.’

While Mimi was talking, I checked my watch. Two and a half hours until the ferry from Man-O-War could stop by for us.

‘Can we take Pro Bono ?’ I called out to Paul who had suddenly disappeared. He was, as usual, on top of things. He emerged from the bedroom wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt, zipping up a pair of grease-stained chinos.

‘Sure.’ He threaded a belt through the loops on his pants, cinched it up tight and fastened the buckle. ‘Where are the bandannas, do you know? If there’s smoke…’

‘Top drawer of your dresser,’ I said. ‘Bring some spares.’

My hands were so sweaty by now I could barely hold on to the mike. While I recapped the weather for the listeners on the Net, Paul pawed through the utility drawer looking for batteries for the spare hand-held radio he’d laid out on the counter. That would be for me. He’d already strapped the one we used on Pro Bono to his belt. If we got separated at any time during the day, we could still communicate. Paul and I had cellphones, of course, but who knew if there’d be any cellphone signal from the interior of the island. For short distances, the radios were more reliable.