We made it to the Bahamas!

As I write this, I’m fairly certain a nap—possibly of the drooling, open-mouth variety favored by Gypsy—is in my near future. We’re chugging along toward Great Sale Cay, our next floating address for the night. Yesterday we made landfall at West End in the Bahamas and tied up at Old Bahama Bay, the perfect place to check in with customs and start our Caribbean pig out with a conch salad and a Goombay Smash.

If you’ve never had a Goombay Smash, imagine a fruit punch that’s been weaponized. It goes down like tropical punch, but a few hours later you find yourself struggling to put on flip flops, laughing like a drain at the dog's jokes, and suggesting shark wrestling as a sensible after dinner activity.

The marina, normally buzzing with boats and bad decisions, was eerily quiet. Possibly because of Hurricane Melissa, but more likely because the Bahamas now charge an entry fee of $1,600. Nothing says “Welcome to Paradise” quite like a cover charge that could buy enough Botox to give a shark a facelift and still leave change for lip filler.

The few other boats there belonged to those hyper-competitive fishing types—the ones who invest a million dollars to catch something you can pick up at Publix for $19.99. But who am I to judge? We’re not exactly poster children for austerity either.

By nightfall, everyone was ready for bed, apart from one particular fishing crew decided to DJ for the entire marina. I silently saluted the hero who motored past them at dawn and laid on his horn for a full ten seconds. Justice, served at sunrise.

This morning I managed a bit of work while we motored on, feeling rather smug about running a real-estate business from a turquoise-blue office with my stud of a Husband helming naked (he will kill me for writing that). It’s not exactly the Zoom background most people expect—but it’ll certainly make real estate meetings more interesting and might bring a few more deals.