I gazed out at the almost unfathomable brilliance of the sea off the “out island” of San Salvador, Bahamas. The water was a surreal shade of turquoise, stretching over white sands, until just below the visible horizon it suddenly dropped off a sheer coral cliff. There the color transformed from dreamlike cerulean to janitor-pants blue.
The island had me under its spell. In my state of enchantment, I envisioned all it had to offer: warm seas, warm breeze, white sands, a private sultry cottage. Fresh seafood!
I took mental stock of the vast possibilities. Instead, before me sat … a box of cheap cookies and some Jamaican rum.
“This is sad.”
– the words somehow just tumbled out of my mouth. My brain hadn’t formed them. The fact that I’d said it out loud in an empty room made me burst out laughing. Again, my audience was no one.
On this, my return trip to San Salvador, I arrived on a Sunday. Knowing ahead of time that everything would be closed, I’d grabbed some snacks back in Nassau to tide me over. In a rush and not very hungry when I shopped, I just went for whatever. I now regretted it. It was a sad dinner to be sure, but the rum helped.
I’d returned to San Salvador Island on a mission: to meet Denise, who I really only knew through messages, and to fill in the gaps I’d missed on my last visit. Armed with a stack of DNA test kits, I’d come to explore the island’s genepool. I’d also planned to extend this journey to Mayaguana Island, where Uncle Bill had been stationed before his transfer to San Salvador. In the Bahamas, connections seem inevitable. It’s not just about who you meet, but how their stories intertwine with your own.
The night before my “sad” dinner, I arrived at the Nassau airport – as travel logistics require on overnight stay there between islands. That’s just how the flight schedules work. It was Saturday evening. The customs and immigration areas were pretty desolate. The agents in their cubicles, talked among themselves or scrolled their phones, not making eye contact with me as I rolled my suitcase along the hard linoleum.
I turned left into a random aisle.
Without looking up, except to match my face to my passport, the agent asked, “Where will you be staying?”
“San Salvador Island.” I replied.
Her eyes flicked up for the first time. “Where on San Salvador?” she asked, suddenly interested.
“Victoria Hill,” I said.
Obviously surprised, she said: “I’m from there.”
“Do you know Shaggy? I’m visiting her.” I asked. [Shaggy is Denise’s nickname.]
“That’s my aunt.” said the agent. We talked about how Shaggy’s half sister had just visited the island.
The next morning, squinting in the blinding Nassau sun, I caught a taxi to the airport. Upon hearing my destination, the cab driver said, “I’m from San Salvador.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Sugarloaf.”
“Oh. You must know Nat Walker?”
He nodded. “That’s my cousin.”
I’m getting used to this interwoven existence stuff. Just ask anyone.
Now, back to San Salvador and my little piece of heaven on Victoria Hill. I ate my “sad” meal and drank my not-so-sad rum.
The next day dawned. It was a stellar November day on San Salvador. I parked my rental car and climbed the hill to Juanita’s house, which sits high up at the north end of the island. Denise and I shared a warm greeting on the front porch. “We call this her lookout tower.” Denise joked. We entered the living room. She and her sister, Garnell, are now a tag team, helping their mother. Juanita has taken a turn for the worse since I last saw her, staying in bed, in her room off the main part of the home. In caring for their mother, Denise takes the day shift and Garnell takes the night shift.
Denise and I retreat to the bedroom where her mother, Juanita, rests.
Denise was born in the Victoria Hill Settlement where Juanita’s house stands. After a few pleasantries, she began to relate the story she’d been told of her birth. From the bed, Juanita listened.
It was night time on May 15, 1960. Juanita was in heavy labor, almost ready to give birth.
Women were at the house. Aunts, cousins, sisters … a nurse. The baby’s father (Mr. X) was there, nervous, worried about Juanita’s labor. Denise was Juanita’s first child. At one point, late in the night, the father had to report back to the base where he worked. When he returned to Juanita’s home the next morning, Denise had been born.
He took pictures.
“It was a Saturday!” Juanita states loudly from her bed, nodding. She repeats, more quietly, sitting back. “It was a Saturday.”
“He put my picture in a locket. He put his picture in the other side of the locket.” Denise continued.
Then he left.
The locket, they told me, was lost in a hurricane. And the pictures? Somewhere out there, waiting to be found.
Through the events surrounding the discovery of Denise’s father (see Installment #13 ), Denise found she has a half sister living in the states. That half sister (if I’m calling her father “Mr. X”, I guess I can call the sister, “Sister D”), recently came to the island to meet Denise. Neither had known of other’s existence until recently. They spent over two weeks, getting to know each other and loving every minute of it.
Denise and Juanita told Sister D the story of the night of Denise’s birth … the story that had just been told to me.
“[Sister D] sat right there.” Denise motioned toward Juanita’s bedside. “She kept saying, ‘I never knew. I never knew.’ Tears were streaming down her face as the story unfolded. She held mommy’s hand.” After 62 years as her father’s only child, Sister D was discovering she never truly was.
Back in the living room, with the sea shimmering outside in the distance, I muse out loud … “How many children were left behind during the military base era? Has anyone ever counted?” I write and make tick marks in my notebook as Denise lifts her gaze upward, deep in thought, as if seeing a vision of these children …
38 children off the top of her head.
As she spoke, I thought about the thin blue line at the horizon – a boundary between the known and the unknown. In the Bahamas, that line isn’t just ocean; it’s in the stories, the connections, and the discoveries waiting to surface.
You can keep track of updates and photos, beyond what I post on my site, on my Whatsapp channel “Outermost Uncle“. Also, I started an Instagram, @outermostuncle . I also have a brand, spankin’ new website at www.outermostuncle.com where I’m slowly updating, polishing, and migrating this blog.
If you’d like to email me my address is junkstorecameras@gmail.com