The Things We Do for a Flush
Life aboard a trawler tests one’s appreciation for modern plumbing. In this witty travel essay, Kirsten Kopp muses on lost luxuries, high-seas improvisation, and her husband’s uncanny gift for fixing the unfixable-even when it stinks.
Ahhhh! The life luxuries one takes for granted until they vanish-like wifi, tooth floss or a toilet that doesn't require an engineering degree. And as we make our way to the posh Eleuthera Sailing Club, I ponder lost luxuries and renewed appreciation for things I am already missing…
About a decade ago, I went on a horseback expedition safari through Kenya—three weeks and a hundred miles of Masai Mara wilderness. Each evening, our cheerful camp crew would dig me a fresh hole, erect a polite little tent around it, and present it as my “exclusive latrine.” At first, I was horrified. I was certain I’d need to be airlifted out due to what could only be described as life-threatening constipation. By the time I reached the final destination hotel in Namibia and sat upon an actual porcelain toilet, I nearly wept. The sheer decadence of the flush! Civilization at the touch of a lever!
Back to our journey....we chugged all the way from the top of the Eleuthras and Egg Island to Rock Sound, which is basically at the bottom of the chain of islands. We arrived at the Cape Eleuthra Sailing Club Resort, at Rock Sound, which is essentially "Lilly Pulitzer goes to the Bahamas": Perfect sunset cottages, a boutique selling things no one actually needs, pickle ball courts, and a dive shop for those types who want to walk around looking like America's next Jaque Cousteau. A opportunity to bask in luxury for a while, but I was blind to all of this boujiness, the best part for me? Docking at a marina where I could actually walk to land. No dinghy. No engineering. Just feet on solid ground.
You see I miss the days of just opening the back door to let the dog out. Now, potty time for Gypsy resembles a military operation involving a crane, the dinghy, a life jacket, the Bahamian coast guard, and a big stick (only one of these is not true).
Even when we do dock, the marinas are rarely level with our boat. This time was no exception and we had to manoever our 80lb child replacement up a 4 foot dock wall. Captain Silver Fox-ever the resourceful retired Navy Commander-has built a makeshift pulley system to hoist her up like a furry cargo crate. While the pickleball ladies look on in horror, Gypsy dangles in her harness and she catches my eye.... I know what she is thinking, “you two are insane. I could have stayed with Uncle Phil.”
We skipped most of Eleuthera's gems on this leg regretfully, but Captain SF is getting twitchy about being in Puerto Rico by December 12 to pick up our youngest from the airport. To him, one week early is two weeks late. What on earth does this guy see in me and my ADHD chaos energy? I guess I'm just the perpetual challenge he needs to keep things interesting.
So, at zero dark thirty the next morning we left the land of the bouji beach clubs and matching pickle ball outfits and chugged along through the Exuma Sound the 45 miles to Staniel Cay Yacht Club-a place where the stories of old are as wild as the rum is expensive. One of those tales, involving a few unnamed friends, a borrowed boat, and an alarming lack of clothing, will have to wait for another day....you know who you are...!
The journey ahead will be a long one-thankfully-because one of our fancy flushing toilets has begun emitting an odor of serious concern. Captain Silver Fox, who possesses an almost supernatural ability to fix absolutely anything-from engines to teetering relationships, is already muttering something about special gunk sealer and vent lines. I have no doubt he will sort it out.
Its comforting to know that while the seas may be unpredictable, my Husband's compulsion to fix malfunctioning plumbing and eternally distracted wives remains steadfast.
If you have a friend whom you think would enjoy our ramblings-or equally you have someone you deeply dislike enough to inflict me on them-please feel free to forward this newsletter to them. Who knows, this little journal of the voices inside my head may pay for a few Goombay Smashes along the way one day, or get me arrested. Either way, it will be reported colorfully in these tomes to you my dear reader.