Shiver No More

Wish you were here?: New flights from Continental Airlines make it easier than ever to visit Cat Island.

Get away from winter and check out the real pirates of the Caribbean.

by Toby Zinman

With the temperatures dipping and visions of Johnny Depp dancing like sugarplums in my head, I flew off to Cat Island, one of the most remote of the Bahamian islands where Christopher Columbus made his first footprint in the New World (the Spanish name for the island was Columba). There are two theories as to how Cat Island got its name; some people say that in the early 17th century, the island was so infested with rats that the Spanish conquistadors introduced cats to control the vermin population, and it became known as the Island of Cats. Another is the discredited but still popular story that Captain Catt, a real pirate of the Caribbean, made the island his headquarters.

There are lots of pirate stories (a Haitian called Agostino Blanco was, legend has it, the most ferocious), and lots of wrecked ships scuba divers can explore, and lots of people who still hope to find treasure washed up on shore. Cat Island is where Sidney Poitier spent his childhood and where his daughter, Pamela, has returned to live, building her home and finding her roots on what is called "generational land."

This is a place for swimming in that calm, dazzlingly turquoise water only the Caribbean can provide, and, of course, snorkeling, fishing, diving, kayaking and shelling. It's also an ideal spot for serious hanging out, doing nothing, making no effort whatsoever except to apply sunscreen and insect repellent, finally rousing your tanned self to go eat some cracked conch or some wahoo (a delicious steak fish) grilled on an open fire. If you feel really ambitious, watch the sun set. There are deserted miles of fine-as-flour sand beaches edged with palm trees, and bonfires to sit around at night with a spectacular star show above you. This is not a party place -- people go to bed early and sleep soundly.

If you actually want to move your bod and do something, there are birds to watch and bat caves to explore deep in the mangrove forest, as well as blue holes (don't go swimming in the Bad Blue Hole, we're told by the 98-year-old church elder: "Bad things will happen, mon." They used to throw dead horses in there, we're told, and there are reputed sightings of a creature of the Loch Ness Monster variety). There are old ladies up at Orange Creek who still practice obeah (the outlawed Caribbean voodoo) and most Bahamians still use bush medicine -- there's a leaf or a berry to cure nearly anything that ails you. Turning up here and there beside the one main road are the ruins of the houses that were built in the late 18th century by the Loyalists, the British who were loyal to the English crown and who cleared out of North America when they saw the Revolution coming.

Although all this suggests spookiness, Cat Island is a sunlit place with friendly people (not many of them -- a population of about 1,800, with 43 churches and no movie theater). The indigenous music is called rake 'n' scrape, and during the first week in June every year there is a festival and competition showcasing local bands, each composed of a concertina, a goombay drum and a carpenter's saw.

On the highest point in all of the Bahamas -- which isn't saying much at 206 feet -- you can climb the crude limestone steps, a miniature Via Dolorosa, following the carved monuments commemorating the Stations of the Cross to the Hermitage, the small chapel and dwelling Father Jerome, an architect/priest, built in the mid-20th century. Villagers used to climb the hill twice on Sunday to attend mass. The view is 360 degrees.

People come to Cat Island by private plane and private boat, but for those of us who might not even own a bicycle, much less any snazzier form of transportation, Continental Airlines has just added a flight in a twin-engine Gulfstream out of Ft. Lauderdale, which takes just under three hours. The resorts each seem to have different personalities but all have villas -- beautifully appointed stone houses -- to rent, and all are right on the beach, with tiki huts and dive masters, honor-system bars, friendly hosts and several greeter dogs. Not a cat -- or a rat -- in sight. The places we saw were Fernandez Bay Village, Pigeon Cay, Sammy T's (the only one native-owned), Greenwood Beach and, down on the southern tip of the island, Hawk's Nest with a marina and an air strip.

At each place there are characters of the kind you only find on islands -- a woman with a gin-and-cigarettes voice who lived on a sailboat for 15 years until finally coming to rest on Cat Island, a guy with a long gray ponytail who fishes for all the neighbors, a couple who built a house there after island-hopping for years, a smiling 70-year-old who sings Johnny Cash songs, accompanying himself on the guitar. This is real lotus land: no shoes, much less cell phones, no televisions, no newspapers, no locked doors, no stress. Cat Island really means what the mon famously said: "Don't worry, be happy."