Preface: Kelly and I approached the shallows of Hog Cay as typical: cautious, watchful of electronic and visual cues of both bottom indicators and of nearby boats. Wind usually blows from the east, and so boats tend to cluster in more protected anchorages on the western side of Caribbean islands.

We had been in The Raggeds a remote Bahamian archipelago for close to three weeks at this point in mid February. Not so un-crowded and infrequently visited as in years past. While we usually look for anchorages less-traveled, we also truly enjoy social mixing with cruisers and locals alike. So, it we decided that we’d take a break from skinny-dipped sunsets, pull up the hook once again from our little piece of paradise and push a few miles south to where we know a popular anchorage is, and look for familiar faces and likely meet new ones too.

Sidebar blurbs in the Bahamas Explorer Charts, an undisputed reference indicates (however in an out-of-date manner) that the Raggeds as being relatively untraveled, except infrequently by boats traversing toward Cuba or points further south. The text warns that cruisers must be self-sufficient, as provisions (and help) are unavailable. 

While we’d be through here a few years before, we’d heard recently from others that Hog Island is more crowded now and has a certain clique this year. Purportedly it seemed a bit less than friendly to unacquainted transient vessels. I summarily dismissed this as biased opinion; being a very unusual occurrence in cruising circles, especially in remote areas.

So, as we turned back to the east, rounding the shallows, I watched more boats pop up on our AIS transponder, and more masts became apparent. Another five nautical miles to get into the anchorage. No obvious openings close-in to the beach, and certainly not near the “Yacht Club” a well-known rickety cruiser-built hut with benches and shelter from the Caribbean sun. Not a problem at all. No need to be close anyway – we’re just here for a visit and don’t need close proximity.

We slowly crept past between dozens of anchored vessels, mostly unfamiliar, looking for any shallower sandy spot beyond.

Especially in remote areas I often switch between three electronic chart sources: Garmin, Aquamaps and Navionics. All three, especially in the Bahamas, can be radically different. So, keen eyeballs, a depth gage and common sense always overrule. I’ll give Navionics the highest marks for accuracy in this part of the Bahamas. 

A beautiful opening appeared beyond the other cruising boats, yet not too far out. Looking nice and sandy at about ten feet, all checked out. (Why was nobody here?) We trolled circularly for a bit to check the depth vs chain radius, and as I came to a slow stop and was about to signal Kelly to let chain fly… a call came on the VHF:

“Fayaway, Fayaway, this is SomeBoat”, came over the VHF. [Not the real name; I’d probably find the name in our log, but didn’t bother to commit to memory]

Now with all senses occupied in the throes of anchoring, I perceived some repetition of urgency from the caller. I paused momentarily with Kelly, circling and answered the call. A male voice indicated some (perhaps mildly frantic and incomprehensible) concerns over “shallow” conditions at my location. I abruptly responded, briefly citing that we observed no issues at our location and gave Kelly the go-ahead. I replaced the microphone and shifted into reverse as the chain dropped freely.

Perhaps it bears repeating here: we’re always extremely vigilant and risk-averse about anchoring our home. While we’ve been doing this for years, mistakes can always happen. I’m constantly checking conditions, before, during and after anchoring. Sometimes we’ll pull up and re-set, if bothered by anything, and I mean anything. So, with that being said… 

We got the hook down and set well into the sand. While getting lines coiled and as Kelly added the snubber, I thought back to the radio caller, looking astern wondering which boat back there called us. Their attitude seemed either hinting of inexperience, or possibly something we had overlooked. Just to be sure, and settle my mind I decided to call back to at least thank them again for the call.

“SomeBoat, SomeBoat, Fayaway”, I called back on channel 16.

Again after a 30-second or so pause I repeated the call.

Shortly thereafter a woman replied, sounding notably annoyed. Realizing it was a different person I initially thanked her for the earlier warning call, and stated that we seem ok here. I said that we saw (only on the Navionics chart) a nearby sand mount, but we should be well clear with regard to swing room.

“Well then, I guess you found yourself a nice spot there”, she said in her curt and not-so-friendly manner.

Hmmm, I thought, maybe she’s having a bad day, or we interrupted an argument between her partner? Again, I thanked for the initial radio call and signed off, not feeling the love.

At this point Kelly was returning from the bow and I was continuing our normal post-anchoring routine of vigilance, adding our location, depth, etc to the log. We chatted about my conversation, and putting it behind us.

Now having settled in, lunchtime approached, and we discussed our process of launching Korykory, dropping the outboard and visiting the beach for a walk and meeting up later for some sundowners.

But, as we consumed our tuna and pickle sandwiches, we listened to local radio cruiser conversations and watched the local dinghy traffic. The reported clique-iness became more apparent. Maybe it was more from having been forewarned and preconceived notions, but a chilliness seemed to prevail. No friendly waves as dinghies zipped past, no general announcements of casual meetups “open to all”, we didn’t recognize anyone, and our initial arrival felt generally unwelcome. We just didn’t have a good feeling from the place. And this is unusual.

Suffice to say that we decided to stay aboard this day, ever-watching for familiar (or at least more friendly) boats and simply enjoyed another incredible sunset. We pulled up anchor, returning back to find and anchor near friends that evening at Johnson Cay a few miles north.

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Go Pats!

We didn’t fool you into thinking that this experience is from this winter, right? I’m confirming now that it happened about eleven months ago. (writing was extracted from my earlier drafts). Our status now? Our new boat has been ordered, and due for pick-up in the Eastern Mediterranean later this year. That’ll start another new chapter! 

In the meantime we’re saving boat bucks while sheltering from the snow at our cozy little apartment in Barrie Ontario, overlooking a now-frozen Kempenfelt Bay. Most importantly, people here are nice and… always welcoming 🙂 So, please keep this story in mind and always be friendly to newcomers, as they’re probably just looking for some acceptance in return.