Sunday, April 20, 2014

Log Book: March 21st-22nd

Conditions: 5-10 knots
Location: Guana Cay

We finally made it out of Man-O-War. We hauled the boat and had the bearing replaced within the hour. The boat launch was not your typical crane but a marina railway instead. Dad told me to 'take a picture, you may never see this again.' The Tartan was pulled next to the dock while a sliding wooden frame sank into the water beneath it. Blocks built into the frame were then slid under the boat hull to support it. Then slowly a cable pulled the frame, boat included, up the railway that rose out of the water. It was a relief to finally have confidence in the engine again, we wouldn't need to worry that we would get stuck in the Bahamas. However, when we got the engine running again there was still a slight rumble around the idle. Dad and I didn't talk about it, hoping that all our pain would go away by itself but one must always be skeptical when boat problems fix themselves. That same day we left the mooring field and made it to... just outside of the harbor where eight other boats were anchored. It still felt good though to finally leave. The next morning we set sail for Guana Cay. The cruisers net, the radio show that tells all the events of the Abacos, had advertised a concert at a bar called Nippers at Guana. The band The Barefoot Man would be playing. After living the quiet life on Man-O-War for over a week Dad and I decided a concert was exactly what we needed but boy we had no idea what we were in for. We got to Guana at around one in the afternoon. There was no need to ask when or where the party started. We could her the roar of people from the boat and when we pulled the dingy up onto the beach we simply followed the sound of the music. Nippers was unlike any bar I have ever been to. They had two swimming pools, multiple decks where you could perch and people watch, an outdoor bar, and a steep staircase that led down the dunes and onto the beach. The place was crowded and would remind you of an MTV spring break party, except with senior citizens. There were Lily Pulitzer clad grandmas on the dance floor. Soccer moms were on the decks doing outrageous things to get Mardi Gras beads thrown at them. The Guinness world record holder woman with the smallest waist was wearing a leopard print one piece jump suit and flitting around the bar. There was an excessive amount of plastic parts walking about in teeny weeny bikinis, while some were the usual most consisted of hip and knee replacements. I felt like the most conservative, sheltered, New Englander ever but that didn't stop me from having a good time. Dad and I met half the bar and even found the minority of younger people, although they were still closer to thirty than to twenty. Before we knew it Dad and I were watching the sunset. We had enough fun to last us a week. The band played great music, we danced, and met some really wonderful people. We only came to Guana to have a good time, mission accomplished, so tomorrow we plan on sailing to Fowl Cay to go snorkeling and relaxing then sailing to Marsh Harbour to spend the night.


Log Book: March 11th-20th

Conditions: 75 & sunny
Location: Man-O-War part 2

Jack and Stephanie flew back to Connecticut this morning while Dad and I sailed back to Man-O-War to get the boat hauled naked the bearing fixed. Since losing our friends Dad and I already feel isolated. The Bahamas are great but as Dad says "you have to bring your own party," because there is no one else here. I can't say I was pleased to return to Man-O-War. The island is very nice but very quiet and right now I've had enough of the quiet life. When we arrived Dad was distraught to see that two boats occupied the only dry docks in the marina. Apparently when we didn't arrive at the marina yesterday (when Dad told them that we would show up) they gave our spot to someone else. It's pretty disappointing because the sailboat that scooted into the dry dock ahead of us is being painted top to bottom. The entire process will take at least a week. I know Dad doesn't want to push or even test the engine until we get it fixed aka we are stuck on a dry island for a week. Luckily Jack and Stephanie gave us their leftover rum.
It has been really hard to find stuff to do on the island but Dad and I have finally made some friends. It's a very tight knit society, everyone seems to know each other and when outsiders visit for an extended period of time, like Dad and I, they notice. Our best friend is Waskin, who works at the boat yard. He is originally from Haiti and speaks a mix of Creole and English. He likes Dad's jokes and Dad likes his unique perspective on Bahamian and Haitian culture. Many of the people living on the Bahamas are actually Haitians and the human trafficking of Haitians to the U.S. has become big problem here. Some natives say that fisherman or charter boats will quite often traffic illegal immigrants and drop them off on a beach in Florida for around 3,000 dollars. It seems that they are the more fortunate immigrants. Other Haitians get smuggled in by a family who then takes advantage of their illegal status in a sort of indentured servitude situation. While the Haitians on Man-O-War seem to be a respected and accepted part of the community on other islands they are highly discriminated against. They are often described as causing some of the lawlessness throughout the islands. Unfortunately these sentiments are widely promulgated by the Americans who make the Bahamas their winter home. As you can imagine the job market in the Bahamas limited, and Haitians also get blamed for encroaching on the low paying jobs as cheap labor. We were unable to discover the minimum wage and if it was enforced but to give you a general idea the boat that was being painted head-to-toe in the yard was being hand sanded before every coat of paint was applied. That takes a long time and presumably it was hand sanded and painted because the price of appliances and electrical cost of operation was more expensive than the manual labor.
Dad and I have made it our personal secret mission to prove that the assumptions and accusations about the Haitian population are false. It is easy to do in a place like Man-O-War because, like I said, from and outsiders perspective there seems to be little discrimination here. Waskin loves to plant in his spare time, he learned from his Dad who grows sweet potatoes and more back in Haiti. Waskin took us to his nursery where he was growing peppers, grapes, avocado, watermelon, corn, limes, peas, Palm trees, and of course bananas. Many of these plants he was growing for friends or harvesting with the intent to trade for other fruit. He gave me a lime tree and showed me how to plant and fertilize it with seaweed. Waskin dug his hands into the ground as if the dirt was merely water, clearing stones away from the earthy patches like he knew exactly where they would be. He is so familiar with the land that he knows when to move a plant, harvest a fruit, prune the foliage, or plant new seeds. I've never met someone so tuned in to nature but Waskin is frequently on one of his two cell phones, his computer, or his tablet - he's not your stereotyped treehugger.
For the natives of Man-O-War this is what the island life is all about. An old couple zooms around on their golf cart on Saturdays selling fresh loaves of bread and cinnamon rolls, something they have been doing for more than twenty years. The streets are empty and silent on Sunday except for the occasional hymn heard from the packed churches. No cat, dog, or other pet has a collar but they all belong to someone and they are known by name throughout the island. It seems like the good life, the simple life. But while growing up here, in the Bahamas, is something many might envy you only have to watch the neighborhood children playing baseball to wonder how disadvantaged they are living in such an isolated place. While breeding athletes may not be a priority I'm sure that other disadvantages translate as well. The children here run wild without shoes, supervision, or a care in the world. They have the freedom to live in a place relatively untainted by the outside world, but what opportunities are withheld from them living in such a paradise? How can they strive to be doctors, lawyers, archeologists, biologists, CEOs, even police officers when they have no representations of those actors? Which begs the question is the world, is their world a better place without these actors? Is ignorance really bliss?
For Dad and I, it's been torture. I really don't want to exaggerate but it is so so quiet here, too quiet. We did all we could to keep busy. We spent one great day snorkeling off the beach. It was awesome. The water was full of huge purple sea fans swaying in the waves. I saw a giant Caribbean lobster hiding under the rocks but also an array of fish and tons of sea urchins. Brain coral and fire coral littered the floor and most notably we saw NO sharks. The second best thing Dad and I did was go to the symphony. Waskin loves music so he came with us. The Bahamian national symphony was playing in Hopetown at the Abaco Inn. The three of us took the ferry over and met a ton of people who already knew us, like I said before the locals know the outsiders. They were all really nice but most of them were not natives but Americans who moved to the Bahamas upon retirement. Together they made a cute little clique of grandparents, calling to each other from opposite ends of the ferry, whispering, and giggling. The Abaco Inn was right on the beach and the symphony played outside. It was great to be doing something social again, but it did underscore the notion that we needed to get off Man-O-War to have a really good time.



Log Book: March 9th-10th

Conditions: March 9th-10th
Location: Hopetown

The basin in Hopetown was crowded. There were boats from all over the U.S. floating on moorings around us. Two from Connecticut, one from Texas, two from the Great Lakes, etc. but my favorite boat there was an all teak ship that was made in China. It was gorgeous, and the kind of boat you imagine Captain Hook to live aboard. Instead a family with a bunch of kids made up the captain and crew. They would take out island kids for 'adventure' lessons consisting of snorkeling, sailing, and general exploring. Exploring is the reason most of these boaters are here. For some it is just a stop along the way further south, but for most it is one of the last stops until home. For many the wanderlust is near over as they head back to the states from the Exumas, Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, or the Dominican. The more people we meet the more I feel like we didn't travel far enough. The Bahamas seem tame now, the Virgin Islands would be an adventure, the Panama Canal would be an exploration, the journey could be endless.

Ashore on Hopetown we found another quiet, cozy island like Man-O-War except with fun. We got drinks at the local dive bar, key lime pie, and sweet potato french fries. Stephanie and I checked out an artist's gallery where we each bought postcards. Dad found some realtor brochures. We were all interested to see the prices that the houses went for, like everywhere in the world it depended on the house. Undeveloped land ran pretty cheap but only because it's ridiculously expensive to build out here with limited access to supplies, machinery, and labor. All I'd need is a cottage to put my stuff in and a boat. Jack found the local yacht club. Most of the members seemed to live the low key island life. Although one woman clearly thought she ran the New York Yacht Club of the Bahamas. Their club houses was as basic as they come, one small room draped in flags from all over the world. No one inside was under sixty, but they all acted as if this was their tree house where they could escape the outside world. Who can blame them? Dad and I went to the beach on Monday and did some snorkeling. We didn't see too many fish, one pod of bright blue surgeon, a few yellow black and gray striped fish, some navy and turquoise colored fish, and a fat brownish fish that I think was a grouper. The reef was mostly rock encased in coral creating many deep crevasses and caverns for fish to hide in. I expected to see morays when I dove down to get a closer look but for the most part they were vacant. The real star of the reef was a single elk coral standing sentinel at the edge of the ocean. It was a bright orange and stood like a tree on the far edge of a cliff. The dark blue of the depths presses in upon you as you stare out into the abyss. The waves that roll over the reef gently pull you, making you feel as if some mythical force is slowly enticing you further out into the sea. Dad loves reef watching. The marine biologist in him is fascinated with the ecosystem that supports such a variety of life. Many of the Bahamians not only owe their commercial fishing to the reefs but also their protection. Most of the islands are flanked by reefs on their ocean coasts, dulling the forces of hurricane waves. I know Dad is just itching to visit one of these offshore reefs but we really have to fix our shaft problem before we can accomplish such a trip.


Log Book: March 7th-8th

Conditions: 15 knot W
Location: Man-O-War

We arrived in Man-O-War just an hour before sunset. Dad fooled with the radio all day and we were able to hear Stephanie and Jack at least some of the time. At the harbor entrance you could go to the north mooring field or the south mooring field. The recorded depths inside are few and far between, even on the paper charts, so we really just had to wing it and hope for the best. Dad and I went north while Stephanie and Jack went south. The north end of the harbor turned out to be right along Main Street, with innumerable dingy docks to tie up to. This made it a very popular spot. The boats were so close together here that you could practically jump from bow to stern up the harbor. Dad and I picked up an empty mooring and Dad, still testing his radio, called Jack and Stephanie to tell them that there were extra moorings up our way. We didn't hear a response so Dad tried a few more time, or around ten more times. I knew if I heard the click of the radio mic turn on one more time I was going to blow so I suggested that we check out the town before dark. We had just gotten our stuff together when we finally heard the radio respond. Jack and Stephanie had been on a mooring but left it to join us in the north end of the harbor when they hit a sandbar. They were stuck and needed our help. Through our travels Dad and I have become pros at this. We got out our towing gear; extra long lines, Danforth anchor, and our anchor float. I sang the Indiana Jones theme song aloud as we hummed in the dingy toward our friends in distress, but really there wasn't much that we could do. Jack's rental boat has a wingtip keel, forcing it through the sand usually just buries the keel in deeper. We put our anchor out and waited for high tide. The experience was very tame compared to mine and Dad's stressful encounters. The four of us listened to music, ate snacks, talked, and relaxed. Detrimental to Jack's running aground was the fact that the rental boat's depth sounder was off by at least a foot, which is huge in the Bahamas. This also made it hard to know if and when we were free floating again or still resting on the bottom. When we finally started to swing around 9pm the crew went to their battle stations while Jack steered us off the bar and safely to a mooring. With boating and with life you sometimes have to pay your dues, bad things will inevitably happen and it's just about how you handle them, we were all thankful because this could have been much worse.
Friday morning we strolled around Man-O-War. They have three stores on the island, making it basically a mall. No joke people come here from other islands to go shopping. First we went into the trinket/clothing store, next the fabric/clothing store, and finally the canvas shop. In the canvas store we met some native Bahamians. The two women gave us a brief history of Man-O-War, most Bahamians are of British decent, their predecessors were loyalists who fled the Americas after the Revolution. The island of Man-O-War is seemingly run by one family, the Albury's. The original Albury was shipwrecked on this island where he met a family who used to land to farm, but lived on another island. Albury married the farmer's daughter and the two of them single-handedly populated the land. If you meet someone here you have a fifty precent shot at guessing that their last name is Albury. I didn't learn the religious affiliation of the original Albury's but Man-O-War is very faith orientated in fact the island is dry, not a drop of alcohol is sold here. The two women at the shop were exceedingly proud of that fact. They believed that it spoke a great deal about their high morals, to me it just spoke for the lack of young adults here or for sure a revolution would have swept through already. We also talked about the U.S. immigration policies, which they clearly disliked. One of their daughters went to college in the States, married an American but is unable to use her degree and work in America because she an immigrant. I knew that the system was broken but I guess we don't feel how much the nation has to loose.
After our stroll through town Jack, Stephanie, Dad, and I went up to the beach, the museum, and the residential part of the island. The houses grew further apart as we walked away from the town. Many were much more modern than we had seen so far. It was clear that being a dry island has kept the resorts, big marinas, yacht clubs, and most notably noisy tourists away making it much less segregated or built up than any other island we have visited. Man-O-War was cozy, quiet, and serene.


Log Book: March 5th-6th

Conditions: 10-15 E wind
Location: Treasure Cay

This morning Dad and I took off for Treasure Cay. We were unable to hail Jack and Stephanie on the radio all day. Dad was stressing out. He was definitely worried about them. I told him that they probably just decided to stay a day longer in Guana Cay, forgot to turn their radio on because they were having such a good time, or were out of range.
The harbor into Treasure Cay was very easy to enter. They had channel markers, a sure sign that there is money here. Treasure Cay is actually not an island onto itself as the name implies, it is on Great Abaco Island. It seems that the name "treasure cay" is the local resorts clever attempt to try to make this hamlet of Great Abaco appear to be more exclusive and remote than it actually is. The mooring field was really very nice, but not exclusive. The moorings were first come first serve, no reservations. Dad and I got out the windsurfer first thing. Usually we attract a lot of attention and advice zooming about the harbors that we visit, but not today. Either we have gotten too good for advice, unlikely, or the boaters here really do wish ?to be on a deserted island. It wasn't long after we put the board away that Jack and Stephanie sailed into the harbor and up to dock at the marina. They told us that they could hear us calling on the radio all day and that they called back, but we never heard a response. This is not good. Usually we use the radio to communicate with other boats or bridges in an perfunctory, preventative sort of way to avoid getting in the way of others on the water but if something happened, if there was an emergency we need to be prepared. The situation would be akin to having a medical emergency at home without a phone or neighbors nearby and being forced to walk to the hospital with little hope of anyone picking you up along the way. Needless to say Dad is not happy about it and has been twiddling with the radios non-stop.
Around sunset Dad and I took the dingy in to have dinner with Jack and Stephanie and checks out their living arrangements for the week. The Moorings 37 they have rented has a huge cockpit, with seating for at least eight. The berths below could probably sleep eight too if you were all really, really good friends. Luckily I already have a few candidates in mind and I've been dreaming about sailing with a younger crowd ever since. However Dad, Jack, and Stephanie were definitely the nests best tng.
Dad and I brought the main course over, a red snapper that I had caught on the way into the harbor. I'm not going to lie I was pretty excited. I didn't clean the fish, but I helped and learned how to do it I think. Dad did all the dirty work, it wasn't complicated but it was hard. The fish was very slippery. I held it down while Dad gutted him and cut off two filets. Jack did the cooking and the fish melted in your mouth like butter, it was really great. The marina here has an outdoor bar. We checked it out but there wasn't a soul there. I am having a good time but it would be nice to make some friends and hang out with people my own age again, I won't find those friends at this bar. Stephanie and Jack said it really livened up after dark, bringing in karaoke singers and pizza eaters all above the early retirement age. On Thursday we all went into "town" in the morning and then to the beach. The town wasn't anything like the cute tiny town in Green Turtle. In Treasure Key the stores were all in a single strip mall style space. The variety of stores included a bank, grocer, mini mart, bakery, and a golf cart rental shop. Instead of the cute small houses of native Bahamians, condos, resorts, and upscale rental houses engulfed the town of Treasure Cay. But oh was the beach nice. The sand was milky white and as smooth as butter. Barely any shells or rocks made it to this beach without being pulverized to dust on the reef offshore. There was a little beach bar on the sand where we got piƱa colada's and banana daiquiri's. I forced Dad into a game of beach volleyball which I won but we spent most of the day relaxing under our beach umbrella. Tomorrow we plan to leave for Man-O-War island. So far Green Turtle has definitely been my favorite but I'm keeping an open mind. 


Saturday, April 19, 2014

Log Book: March 1st-3rd

Conditions: sunny & 80
Location: Green Turtle Cay

The ride from Spanish Cay to Green Turtle was a short one, a mere twelve miles. We sailed the majority of the way, without the engine we were going six knots. It was the first time Dad and I had just sailed in a month. It was extremely relaxing. Before this trip started the idea of sailing with the engine on was torture. The noise and the fumes ruin the experience. I had forgotten how enjoyable it could be. Having a third personality on the boat helped Dad and I remember that the journey is the best part of the experience.
When we were just a few miles from Green Turtle I remembered that when we cleared customs we received a fishing license. I have been dying to catch a fish that we can cook and eat. I love the idea of being completely self sufficient, even if I have to lie to myself a little in order to believe it. Fifteen minutes after we dropped in the hook the line began to sing. That zing is one of the best sounds in the world. Jack reeled in a barracuda. It was pretty cool, but not exactly what I was hoping for since it wasn't edible.
As we started to come up on Green Turtle Dad, Jack, and I all kept our eyes peeled for Black Sound harbor. It wasn't easy. The water throughout the Bahamas is so shallow that big ships can't travel to the majority of the islands. This means that there is no money flowing in from the waterways, so there is no financial incentive to mark or chart them. Our electronic charts are fine tools while we are traveling the longer distances between each island but trying to zoom in to see the finer details of obstacles in a harbor is impossible. We have been using paper charts quiet frequently since entering the Bahamas. They're not hard to use, it's just a little less certain where exactly on the map you think you are. After wandering around the island edge we started to make our way in. Because of the tall eel grass the depth sounder was useless, it read 0 the entire way in even though we were not on the bottom. Standing on the bow and looking for darker blue water is really the only way to do it. The harbor was perfect, picturesque, and quiet. We brought out the windsurfer first thing and all had a go on it. When we finally made it onto the island the three of us walked into town. Every house was a bright green, pink, or yellow. They all seemed like doll houses, shipped in pieces and then put together on the island. In no time at all Jack found the local dive bar, right on the water. There were a ton of people out for happy hour and to watch the sunset so we joined them. Dad and Jack made friends, I guess I did too but I was the youngest one there by at least twenty years. Jack and Dad found a sailor who had his boat in Black Sound harbor with us. He had auto pilot problems. The engineers that Dad and Jack are couldn't help but try to dissect this guy's issue, presumably to solve it but they are the variety of D-A-D that enjoy learning even after school. The two of them were like kids in a candy store, listening to symptoms and suggesting the best remedy. I finally got them out of there. The next day we hit the beach. We had originally planned to go through Whale Passage, out past the reefs, and on to Treasure Key. Unfortunately the weather predicted large swells out on the Atlantic and Out into the Atlantic is the only way to get there. The waves were too big to swim really so Dad and I just tanned and read our books. We were the only ones on the beach. Jack went into town to figure out how he could get to Marsh Harbor, where his wife Stephanie will be flying in to meet him and where they will be chartering a Moorings 37 for the week. It turns out the Abacos, the chain of Bahamian islands we are visiting, has a pretty good ferry system at least then run fairly often. The ferries are about twenty feet long and about twenty people pile on them, mostly to get to school or work. It's not exactly a tourist/party boat.
On Sunday we wandered back into town. The place was deserted, most everywhere was closed. The sole person I spotted was a little girl with dark chocolate skin. She was running down the street in a blue dress with pink flowers, her purse slung over her shoulder running toward the singing inside the church. Later that day Dad, Jack, and I heard a pastor on a loud speaker, preaching to an empty lot. For the most part the culture here is undistinguishable from quiet western living, except for the fervent religious nature of island life. The people that live here are so dependent on outside forces and always have been; praying that their food sources arrive on time, praying that the hurricanes will miss them this season, praying for rain. It must be a tremendous comfort for them to believe that a higher power is looking out for them. On the mainland we believe that, for the most part, we can look after ourselves. We only seek divine intervention when things seem to really turn against us.
On Monday Jack left us with the promise that we would meet up in Treasure Cay on Wednesday. In the meantime Dad has been looking into marinas on the island that will haul the boat out for us. When we were in West Palm we caught a dock line on the prop. It wasn't a big deal at all and within ten minutes she was free but it seems to have done some damage to a bearing holding the prop shaft. Now there is a certain speed on the throttle that the shaft doesn't agree with. It vibrates violently, making us both a little wary of traveling the long distance back without fixing her, not that we have plans to turn back anytime soon. We did take some time to visit a second beach on the island, Gilbert's Bay. We brought all our snorkeling gear because we had heard from the locals that you could swim out to a few smaller islands that were surrounded by reefs. This was not the case. We walked on a sand bar for maybe two miles, unable to swim in the shallows. We called it quits promising ourselves that upon our return to Green Turtle we will try this again at high tide.



Friday, April 18, 2014

Log Book: Feb 27th-28th

Conditions: SW 15 knots
Location: Spanish Cay

When Jack, Dad, and I awoke this morning a booming voice greeted us on the radio, "hello, Great Sail sailors," it called out of the receiver. It turned out that the mysterious voice was the little light that I had seen on shore in the night. His anchor had drug in the night, taking him so close into shore that he could have thrown a baseball up into the trees, or so he said.
We had planned on clearing customs in Green Turtle Cay, but upon the anonymous voice's advice we went to Spanish Cay instead. We got there too late in the day to clear customs but the people at the marina were very accommodating. Technically only the captain of the ship can get off the boat until she clears customs. The people at Spanish Cay said "we didn't see nothing." So Jack and I got to stretch our legs. The next morning a woman from customs came to clear us, the process was quick and easy but when it was all over Dad convinced her to tell Jack and I that something was wrong with our papers and we would have to spend the week in the boat. She was a great actress, but you only needed to look into Dad's twinkling eyes, overflowing with pent up laughter to find the lie. We used the day to relax, explore, and use the internet to let the world know that we had arrived (none of us purchased international phone plans). Just before sunset Dad, Jack, and I went out to explore the local beaches. The first beach we came to was a conch shell cemetery. They were everywhere. Either a fisherman cleans the conch out in the bay and the tide carries all the shells here or the locals clean them out right on the beach. Each shell is bleached white by the sun. I picked out a few favorites but both Dad and Jack said that once I find a new pink one the white ones that I found here will get thrown overboard. We'll see about that. The second beach we went to was more of a traditional beach with little protection, it stretched out into the ocean. You could see the waves breaking on the reef less than a mile out. All in all they weren't the best beaches. They were all white sand and palm trees but they weren't beaches that sloped down to the ocean and the whole coastline of Spanish Cay had a fair amount of trash swept in with the tides strewn on its shores. It was sad that this oasis, while mostly untouched directly by the outside world could still be so scarred by it. I only saw one car on the island while we were there. There was only one road running north and south. In some places the road crumbled into sand or was overrun by grass. When the road ended it just slowly ceased to exist. There was no cul-du-sac, no speed limit signs, and no lines of any kind on the road. Every house had their driveway built off of that one road. The majority of the houses were medium sized and fairly good looking but there were only about twenty of them on the island. Around a third of the houses were currently unoccupied, awaiting a tourist trade that apparently picks up in March/April. There seemed to be two businesses on the island, the marina and the power plant. The marina housed the only supply store, bar, bait shop, and restaurant on the island. The owners could catch a ferry to Coopers Town, on Powell Cay, for immediate supplies but if they ran out of milk it might take ten days to get a delivery from their regular supply boat "if they were lucky." The second commercial building was the power plant located in a teensy tiny red house. You knew it was the power plant because of the roar that emanated from under the roof. The building was occupied only by machinery, you could stroll right in.


Spotted: land crab & baby shark