be around sixty and he held a stub of a cigar in the corner of his mouth as if it were a permanent part of his face. When he spoke the only thing that moved was the cigar.
'What you smoking?' Any man worth his salt would talk about cigars.
'What?' He seemed to have forgotten the protrusion sticking out from his lips.
'Cigar…' I pointed to his face. 'What kind of cigar?'
'Oh, Cuban. Ain't no good since Castro took over the country. Used to be the best in the world. You drinking, or want to talk about cigars all night?'
'Gin and tonic. Tanqueray if you have it?'
'We got it.'
'How long you been on the island?'
'You writing a book, Mon?'
'Used to come over a lot, back when things were quieter. Everything's changed.'
'Yeah.'
'Ran into a big black dude wearing a red cap down at the Customs shack. Accidentally bumped into him and he raised all manner of hell. He's an angry man. You know him?'
'That's old Mako. He wear that red cap all the time, won't take it off. Somebody split his scalp with a tuna gaff, left some terrible scars. They say he flopped around on the end of that gaff like a big old fish until he finally got loose. Then he killed the man who hooked him with his bare hands. Just broke his neck. Left the man's head flopping around on his shoulders like a queer's wrist. He's a mean one, mister. I'd stay away from him if I was you.'
'Thanks for the advice.'
Slowly sipping on the gin, I thought that old Mako and I needed to get to know one another. Figuring out how was the problem.
The view out the door of the bar lead into a large foyer with a big fireplace. It was a shrine to Ernest Hemingway, the writer, who put Bimini on the map with articles on big game fishing in Esquire magazine, and with his famous boxing matches with the natives. One celebrated fight involved the noted publisher, Joseph Knapp. The natives wrote a song about that fight. 'Big fat man in de harbor. Tonight's the night we got fun…' The words are framed and hang on the wall of the foyer, along with hundreds of photos of Hemingway and his boat, Pilar.
Hemingway might have put Bimini on the map, but it was Michael Lerner, of the women's store chain, who did the most for the island. Pumping millions into the economy, he funded the marine laboratory that thrives there today.
Finishing the drink, I tipped the bartender a five spot and headed to the north end of the island where a large chunk of land has been bought by a Texas firm and turned into a private resort for the wealthy. It is simply known as the 'Compound' by the locals. There is a huge house on the point surrounded by smaller cabanas all protected by a ten-foot high chain link fence and a massive gate at the entrance. A private boat channel is used by the sportfishing boats belonging to the Compound and by the ferry launches used to pick up passengers who fly to the island in private aircraft. The airport is located on South Bimini and the only way to get to North Bimini is by ferryboat.
The big house on the Compound is built like the conning tower of a ship and sits on the highest point on the island. Adam Clayton Powell once owned the house. I was afforded the opportunity to stay in the Compound for two weeks back during my flying days. Occupying a guesthouse on the west side of the island, the door opened up onto the water and the Gulf Stream ran within fifty feet of the beach. Waking in the morning with the smell of the Stream so strong your nose and mouth felt caked with salt, a smell so wonderful it is forever imbedded in my memory.
It's a two-mile walk to the Compound gate. Leaving the noise and traffic at the south end of the narrow island, things quieted down. On the right were the houses of the charter boat captains and local commercial fishermen. Their back yards are the saltwater flats. All built the same, the homes are of concrete block, painted white, and trimmed with yellow or green or sometimes both. Each front yard has a four-foot high fence with corner posts topped with casts of pelicans, porpoise, or the fish the men chased in the Stream or out on the flats.
On the west side, set high up on the dunes that run down to the water's edge, are the houses of the rich. Once past these, you enter Alicetown. This is where the true native Bahamians live as they have lived for the last three hundred years. They are poor, hard-working men and women of the sea. A few of them befriended me years ago.
The marine laboratory is on the east side next to the flats. From the road you can see the holding pens for the sharks used for research.
The narrow road winds its way through thin, scrawny scrub pine, continuing past the baseball field to the Compound gate. As I approached the gate, the sun was low on the horizon, the wind calm. The temperature was warm and I worked up a sweat during the walk. The gate was open, which surprised me. Walking on through, I started up the narrow lane leading to the beach. A hundred yards into the scrub pine thicket I heard a bolt slide back and forth on a rifle. It's a sound unmistakable to any other.
'Where you think you going, Mon?' a threatening voice growled off to my left.
Raising my hands, I turned slowly, looking for the voice. 'Out to the beach to watch the sun set.'
'Lot's beach on dis island. Why here?'
The voice was familiar. 'Joseph, that you?'
'Well, bless my soul, it's Cop'um Leicester.' He lowered the rifle that had been aimed at my head. 'What you doing on the island? Ain't seen no co'prite planes land today?'
We shook hands.
'Good to see you, Joseph. Still tending to the rich, I see.'
'Yep. How you get on de island, Cop'um?'
'Came over on Chalk. Some business here.'
Joseph nodded. He would not pry. No one knew how old he was or where he came from. Twenty years ago he ran his own charter boat out of the public dock across from the Complet Angler. That's when we met, and he was old then. He lost his boat, along with a deckhand and two customers fifteen years ago in a freak weather phenomenon called a White Squall, a rare and violent storm that will capsize any unsuspecting vessel. I have witnessed this storm at sea; it is terrifying. Joseph survived for two days clinging to a bait box before being rescued by another fisherman. He lost everything and was forced to take the job as overseer at the Compound.
Joseph was not a big man, but among the Bahamians he was respected as one of the toughest, a man not to be trifled with or taken lightly. Dark-skinned with a head of silver, wiry hair and thick lips, he has a smile that could make the saddest man feel better. Then there were the eyes, black, bottomless, and could back down the biggest of men. He was a good man, and I was proud to call him a friend.
'How is the wife and all those kids we played baseball with? Let's see, you had them from age ten back down to two, enough to field your own team.'
'Wife died, Cop'um, along with two of the kids. They all had the fever.'
'I'm sorry, Joseph.'
'It's okay. I done remarried and had more kids, enough now for a football team. You know, like the one over on the mainland, named after the porpoise.'
'The Miami Dolphins?'
'Yes, Cop'um, dat's the one. I heard the old Shoe retired.'
'The Shoe? Ah, Don Shula. Yeah, he had a good run, though.'
'You gonna be on the island long, Cop'um?'
'Couple of days.'
'You welcome to stay at the Compound. Ain't nobody here but me.'
'Already settled in at the Angler.'
'Lot of good memories there for you, Cop'um.'
'It was a long time ago.'
'You need anything, call old Joseph. You a good man. Took me flying for the first time. Changed my whole outlook on life. Sho did 'preciate that.'
'It was my pleasure.'
'Sorry about the rifle. Thought you might be one of those dopers snooping around. They would like to get their hands on this Compound.'
