I think Marsh Harbour is trying to kill me.
Once upon a time I came to a Bahamian archipelago called the Abacos, a collection of one main island, Great Abaco, surrounded by neighboring limestone cays outlining the Sea of Abaco like a dot-to-dot puzzle. The capital of this region, Marsh Harbour, sat upon the northeastern corner of Great Abaco. I came here in search of a new life, a new home, an island way of being.
I fell for this land, her waters, and her people the way a five-year-old falls hard at Disneyland, all sugared up in the middle of the most delicious illusion of perfection that promised adventure and excitement into perpetuity. Until your parents carried you to the car in the farthest reaches of the parking lot like a rag doll, spent and unable to grasp why your special world had to “close.”
Marsh Harbour and the Abacos were my Fantasyland, complete with dazzling underwater creatures, memorable boat cruises, a resort in which to lay my head (for a borrowed period of time), and enough positive electricity for our new-to-be life to power an Electric Light Parade.
First things first, survive
But Hurricane Dorian shut it all down. Blasted by what clocks in at a Category 6 tempest (were there such a classification), Marsh Harbour was decidedly closed. Though no longer five years old, the traumatized adult me limped onto a plane on September 6, 2019, as listlessly as if I’d been draped over my father’s shoulder. And honestly, at that moment, my injured psyche would have loved nothing more than to have my daddy carry me away from all that devastation and keep me safe.
I was safe, ultimately. I had a couple years’ worth of healing and resetting. I committed myself to returning one day to the island I was so close to calling “home” and making peace with having been kicked out too soon.
In June of 2022, Christopher and I set foot in Marsh Harbour once more to retrace our steps from years prior, comparing what had been, to what had become, to what was now. Bittersweet, yet imperative.
Returning to the scene of the crime
Due to circumstances beyond our control, our arrival had been delayed from our original plan, and we only had a few days to reacquaint ourselves with the area before heading back to the States.
Upon arriving, we barely got the anchor set and settled before Mother Nature unleashed a squall complete with torrential downpour and not one but two waterspouts. We held fast. The boat, that is, not my nerves. Bitchy way of welcoming us back, I’d say.
This year, 2023, we decided to spend our six-month cruising time exclusively in the Abacos rather than traipsing all over the Bahamas. We wanted to see how we’d feel/fare as temporary locals again.
We’ve bounced between Marsh Harbour and Hope Town on Elbow Cay since January, with a run further south toward Little Harbour for a more remote anchorage and some snorkeling. We have had a jolly good time.
Nearing the end of our stay, we chose to return from Hope Town to Marsh Harbour to weather an oncoming wind event. We held tight against a deluge at dark with 48 knot (55 mph) gusts, spinning us a complete 360 degrees around our anchor during the squall. Call it praying or repeating an affirmation or a mantra, I spent a tense hour or so in the cockpit murmuring, “Just stay. Don’t move. Just hold on,” to my boat and anchor. Thankfully they’re both good listeners. I figured this put us in clear waters for the remainder of our trip…no more rough weather expected.
Me: Whew! Another cruising season in the books – came through it unscathed.
Marsh Harbour: Hold my beer.
The land of milk and…existential threats?
The day after that last storm I awoke with a bump on the edge of my bottom lip. Looked like a sting. A giant pimple that wasn’t a pimple: first, because I don’t really get those (don’t get all jealous, I do have to deal with rosacea, not fun either) and second, it wasn’t red but was quite painful.
By the following morning, it had doubled in size, as had my entire lip. I had a sneaky suspicion I was looking at some kind of infection.
The doctor confirmed that I indeed had been stung. While inspecting the mystery blemish he had exorcised a black stinger. And indeed it was infected.
He prescribed a Z-pak antibiotic—a quick five-day course should take care of it. And no, none of us could figure out how I’d gotten stung ON MY FACE without knowing it. We have yet to find a dead bee onboard.
Two days later, my lip had swollen three more sizes and produced its own heartbeat. The pain was barely tolerable despite dosing regularly with dentist-prescription strength ibuprofen. Ice packs didn’t provide relief. The fever wasn’t breaking. I knew the antibiotics weren’t cutting it. The morning of the fifth day after the sting – two days after seeking medical care – I called the doctor again.
A quick visit confirmed this infection was no joke. Overnight, the abscess had ruptured, resulting in more pain (and lots of grossness) instead of relief. The swelling was African lip-plate level. After a superficial attempt at localized anesthesia, draining the abscess brought me to tears. I don’t recall even crying tears of pain during childbirth, so this was embarrassing. I also got a hypodermic full of hardcore MRSA-fighting antibiotics in my arse, along with a prescription for a full course of the same in pill form.
Facial cellulitis, thanks to whatever bacteria entered through that bee sting, is an infection of the deeper layers of the skin. Mine was on my lip. As I told the doctor, my worry was twofold:
A) if the infection spread into my bloodstream, I did not want to face sepsis in a foreign country (or ever, really), and
B) my brain is dangerously close to my mouth (some may argue far too close, but that’s another topic) and I have known at least one person who actually died of a brain infection caused by a tooth infection. This didn’t seem like an unrealistic fear.
I asked if the bacteria had to be tested to know which antibiotic to use. His response, “That would take six days. Why wait? You’re not well. Let’s just go with the big guns.”
I am so grateful to the doctor for skipping ahead. After three days on the drugs, the fever broke. After four days, I had my lip back to its normal size.
I haven’t kissed my husband in over a week. And he’s taken such good care of me, he deserves a giant smoocheroo!
The good news is, I’d always assumed I was allergic to bees ever since stepping on one at the age of five and got hives and a foot the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. I carry an Epi pen (the same doctor prescribed a refill for me the day before Dorian, as a precaution) as I’ve had allergic reactions to another stinging animal – jellyfish – though I’ve never been stung by another bee. Until now.
No hives. No anaphylaxis. Just a bacterial infection below-the-belt punch to the jaw that scared the begeebers out of me.
Why you got to hate on me, Marsh Harbour?
Whatever.
Mean girl me all you want. I’ll still keep coming back.
I’m a sucker for Fantasyland.
PS – The pandemic may be officially over, but the advice still holds: wash your hands, don’t touch your face
Ok, Wendy, first question: Which doctor cared for you? I want him or her in my Rolodex!
Second question: Have you ever been bitten by a spider? I discovered the minute little beasts like the warmth of Down South, are common on boats (!), and if ID’d as the tiny red type, will nail you three times in a row — that is fact! A perfectly straight line of circular welts, that get bigger and bigger. I do understand all the wild thoughts and fears which rushed through your brain following your sting from an unknown attacker. We are so glad you persevered in getting the right medicine to heal you! Just wish an ID for the darn thing was found.
It is quite disturbing not knowing who the culprit was and if it could possibly still be lurking. Dr. Charite insisted he removed a stinger. The only thing that leaves behind a stinger is a bee. And thankfully they die after stinging. I’m holding hope that the terminal sting ended the episode and that it won’t repeat. Good to know about the spider bites, though. We’ll keep that in mind as we — going forward — will regularly check beneath the mattress. Yikes!