rebuilding

On the Southeast edge of Crooked Island, past the Bay resorts and beach umbrellas, there’s Acklins. It rests on a small lagoon that blends into the ocean. Their waters mesh together into a warm bubble bath of blue. There are boats scattered across the shore, and there’s a tan bed of footprints and hermit crabs in the sand. 

About 500 people currently live on Acklins. On my mother’s side, my grandpa was born there. He used to tell me stories about waking up as the sun rose with his brothers and sisters, and running across the island to the water. His family was big, with 5 siblings, brothers, cousins, uncles, and aunts. Everyone would go fishing during the day, probably some through the night. When they were done, they would wash and bring home their nets of snapper, snook, bonefish, and tarpon. 

“You look out onto the water, and see the dolphin fins riding past the boats,” My grandpa said. “You’ll have to come out there with me. You would love it.” 

I smiled to myself. At that age, I didn’t like the beach that much, but I did like the idea of water and marine animals and fish. I imagined him and his life back in the Bahamas. I thought of his brothers sounding and looking just like him, with raspy Caribbean accents and smooth calloused hands. 

The Acklins were settled by British Loyalists in the late 1780s. After the American Revolution, those that were still loyal to Britain were encouraged by the Crown to leave and emigrate to the Bahamas. The loyalists who came to the islands brought their slaves with them and started cotton plantations. After a few years, the soil was ruined by the constant farming, and a lot of the native species of insects and pests had died out. Around the same time, the British Empire abolished slavery. The loyalists were compensated by the Crown and left the islands. After that, the people left on the island depended on fishing for a livelihood. We would go to my grandpa’s house on Sunday afternoons. It would be my immediate family: my older sister, younger brother, and my parents. My grandpa had gotten remarried before I was born to a lady named Nancy. She was Puerto Rican and English was her second language. Instead of grandma, we called her Abuela. When I was little, I thought that was her first name, and I had no clue that it meant grandma. When we came over, we would mainly listen to my grandpa’s stories, and play board games. Abuela would play with us, adding in her tidbits on his stories, and make conversation with my parents. My grandpa was a master at Uno and kept the score of every game in a thick paper booklet. It was filled with his winning games, but he would level the playing field and let us win pretty often. 

“Did I ever tell you the story about my foot?” My grandpa asked me. He ran a hand over his head of trimmed gray hair. I was sitting on his counter, eating a bowl of mac and cheese. My legs dangled over the counter, I think I was about 8 at the time. I looked down at his feet. It didn’t look like there was anything to tell about them. 

I shook my head no, raising my eyebrows. 

“One day, when I was about your age, we went out on the boat to fish. We did spearfishing, have you ever seen that on TV? When they take the big stick, with the sharp pointy end, and throw it at the fish?” He paused. 

“I think so,” I said back. I had put down my mac and cheese already because the story was too important to eat while he told it. 

“The spearheads looked like this,” He grabbed a napkin off the counter and folded it into a triangle. I nodded in understanding. “I had the spear in my hand, and we were close to the shore, where the ocean met the land. I jumped in the water and went under, looking for fish. When I went to move, I was stuck. My foot was trapped under a big, big, big gray rock. I was splashin’ around, I couldn’t put my head above the water.” 

My brother, Parker was listening at this point. He was trying to climb up onto the counter next to me. “Did you die?” He asked, his mouth gaping open. 

My grandpa laughed. “I’m standing right in front of you now, Parkuh!” When he said his name, he left off the “er”. We were all laughing. 

“How did you get out, Papa?” I asked him, on the edge of my seat to know the ending. His smile glowed with his skin. 

“I struggled with the rock for a while, trying to pull it out. I dropped my spear to the bottom and was kicking to get out. Praise God, my brothers got me out! I had a big cut on my foot, from my toe to my heel. Let me tell you both, you never want to get cut in the water.” He traced along the top of his sock to show where the cut was. “It burns. Worse than a fire or a mosquito bite.” 

In recent years, the Bahamas has been hit with hard hurricanes every year. They’ve always happened, but they used to be more sporadic and less severe. With climate change, everything got worse. But before that, the Acklins saw one of their worst hurricanes in 1960. Hurricane Donna hit the shores with 120 mph winds on September 8th. It hovered over Acklins for 13 hours before moving North. It destroyed the entire island, from villages to libraries and boathouses. 90% of homes suffered extreme damage. The winds got up to 173 mph, before the anemometer blew away. The number of casualties is unknown. 

After Donna, they had another major hurricane in 1963, hurricane Flora. Winds up to 85 mph caused heavy damage across the island again, as they were just starting to rebuild. Around this time, my grandpa decided to leave. He was in his early 20s and wanted to permanently live in the US. He never talked about the details of how he came to America. But, I can imagine him packing up his clothes, saying goodbye to all of his family. He came alone. I can see him looking out at the sea on the boat ride, the reflection of the water beaming off of his smooth skin. 

When my grandpa arrived in the US, he started working as a sharecropper in the Everglades. That’s another thing I can’t remember him talking about with me. There was tobacco and cotton sharecropping in Florida during that time. Working conditions were tough and money was scarce. Intense, dangerous pesticides were used on all of the plants. 

I wonder how he dealt with the harsh heat, and the grueling hours. I wonder if he thought back to the beautiful Acklins beaches on water breaks, and played the sounds of waves in his head as he went to bed. 

As the years went on, my grandpa went on to work in landscaping and worked his way up the coast of Florida to Palm Beach County. He worked into his 70s, even up to a few years before he died, despite having cancer. 

Today, I ask myself what he’d say to me now if he was still alive. I’m no longer the girl eating mac and cheese and playing Uno on Sunday afternoons, but the young adult driving and getting ready to graduate high school. 

Thinking about his death chops my brain up into a bunch of little pieces. I regret never going fishing with him or spending a summer with him in Acklins. But, another part of me clings onto and focuses on the memories I do have, like him pedaling my sister and me in the basket of the big tricycle he had or the airplanes that flew over his house that we’d watch. 

I miss him. But I know that, like the people that live on Acklins, I can rebuild and move forward with the memories of the past as a foundation.