Abaco Ain't For Sissies . . . But We Went Anyway (Part 1)

Abaco. The very name strikes fear into the hearts of sissies everywhere. Abaco, with its snakes and its spiders and its sneaky shallow waters. Abaco, where the men are men and the women are doomed to a lifetime of bad hair days.

Abaco. A beautiful but terrifying place where water is scarce, electricity is iffy, and ironing boards are nonexistent.

Indeed, longtime visitors to Abaco are fond of reciting the motto, "Abaco Ain't For Sissies," which is the understatement of the year. (Other lesser-known Abaconian mottos include, “Don’t Worry, That Probably Isn’t Poisonous,” and “You Know How to Tie a Tourniquet, Right?”)

In the end, our visit read like the clichéd plot of one of those fish-out-of-water movies: A couple of hard-charging, Type-A city dwellers are dropped into a completely unfamiliar environment -- a dude ranch, an Amish village, the Abaco Islands of the Bahamas -- and hilarity ensues. Laugh as the couple attempts to shower using half a tablespoon of water! Giggle as they chase a spider the size of a dinner plate around with a flimsy flyswatter! Snicker as they wrap their boat’s anchor line around the propeller!

That's right, we rented a boat. No, we don't know how to operate one. No, it didn't have a GPS or a depth finder or even a fuel gauge. And no, it wasn't a good idea. But we did it anyway, because we don't surf or skydive or rock climb, and death by capsize is much more glamorous anyway.

We'd gotten this cockamamie idea into our skulls after deciding that our usual haunt, Anguilla, had become too crowded for us. See?

And when honorary Abaconian Vicki H let slip that the Abacos made Anguilla look like Daytona Beach at spring break, we knew what we had to do. After careful research, we decided to stay on Great Guana Cay, an island of less than 200 souls with no hospital, no police station, and no ATMs; where emergencies are called in on a VHF radio and the guy from the dive shop shows up to help . . . or not, if he happens to be out on the reef.

Given all this, you'd think there'd at least be more than one liquor store, no?

I'd been reading up on the Abacos on an online forum before we visited, and one sentiment in particular stuck out. The poster wrote: "Abaco really teaches you to make the best of things; I think that's why I love the place so much."

Oh, dear.

Have I mentioned that we're from New York? "Making the best of things" isn't in our vocabulary. We want what we want, exactly when and where and how we want it, and, most importantly, we want someone else to do it for us. (My apartment building employs someone just to open doors for us, for Pete's sake.) What few do-it-yourself skills we do possess are uniquely honed for the urban jungle: We can stare down a would-be taxicab usurper with one steely glance; casually descend into a narrow, crowded tube three stories underground without a second thought; and run the equivalent of an 8-minute mile for the right food truck or sample sale. So we're not complete sissies. . . unless you take away our cell phones, our internet connections, our unlimited supply of hot water, and our gourmet restaurants.

Oh, dear.

Our introduction to what I will henceforth call Operation Outward Bound began in Marsh Harbour, where we arrived for a seven day visit with a mere five pieces of luggage, which is at least 3 fewer than I would pack for a weekend trip to the Hamptons.

This feat is all the more impressive when you consider that one of those bags contained an iron, a portable ironing board, 8 pairs of sandals, and almost a dozen hair products.

You thought I was kidding, didn't you?

We headed over to Curly Tails, a breezy spot on the water adjacent to the ferry dock, to grab some lunch and settle into island time. We had about two hours to kill, and Curly Tails took about two hours to prepare our food, so everybody was happy.

After lunch we checked out the area surrounding the ferry dock, which included a few species with which we were largely unfamiliar, such as octopi, and children.

As we looked around, we noticed that most people simply left their luggage in a neat pile and went about their business, seemingly unconcerned that someone might try to walk off with it.

As for our luggage, I made Angel sit on the largest bag, sprawl his arms and legs over the smaller ones, and put on his gangsta face to deter would-be thieves while I took a photo two feet away . . . just in case.

Soon it was time for the ferry to depart. We clambered aboard, slid into puddles of our own sweat, and we were off. Forty minutes later, we arrived on Guana and were greeted by a fleet of golf carts, one of which contained the caretaker for the house we'd rented.

We had decided to stay on the deserted, hard-to-reach southern end of the island on the theory that if you're going to go all Robinson Crusoe on your vacation, you might as well go all the way. Our first stop, then, was to pick up our big-wheeled golf cart, which we were told would be necessary since the road to the house was a bit rocky. As it turns out, though, that was a little white lie . . . since I'm not sure this qualifies as a road.

Still, that big-wheeled golf cart was my very favorite part of the trip. I loved bouncing around the "road" in it, hanging on for dear life. I loved gunning it on the paved areas in town. (Sure, its top speed is about 25 miles per hour, but still.) I loved not having to check my rear-view mirror, since it doesn't have one.

Most of all, I loved that there was no annoying seat belt to wrinkle my dress. Not for nothing did I haul an ironing board all the way to Abaco, people.

For all its charms, however, we quickly learned that a golf cart is less than ideal for transporting water and groceries.

The house we rented was situated on a small promontory and positioned to take advantage of the cross-breezes. An enormous wraparound deck encircled the entire house, which was open on the ocean side; on the Sea of Abaco side, a screened-in porch afforded a perfect view of Foots Cay. Dining tables, cushy chaise lounges, a BBQ grill, and an outdoor shower completed the spacious outdoor living area.

The house had received rave reviews online for its interiors, too, with many folks comparing it to a luxury yacht thanks to all of the fine woodwork inside. And it was, if the things you like about yachts are hitting your head on a bulkhead every 30 seconds and a shower that’s only slightly better than having an uncoordinated child chase you around with a squirt gun.

Oh, how I hated that shower. I hated it more than when you open a pizza box and all the cheese and pepperoni sticks to the lid. I hated it more than when you squirt some ketchup onto your plate and a bunch of that clear liquid oozes out first.

The shower consisted of a fixed shower head conveniently aimed directly at the face of anyone who tried to enter. It also had the unique distinction of emitting a mist of water droplets so fine that you might as well try to wash your face using only the power of humidity. And yet, once you stepped into the shower, you couldn't get away from that mist. It hit you while you tried to shave your armpits. It hit you while you tried to lather your hair. But try to rinse out that lather, and 20 minutes later you're standing there with a head still full of lather and a pair of razor-burned armpits. (Eventually we discovered that we'd been at the bottom of the cistern and no one had switched us over to the full water tank. After four days of showering using bottles of Poland Spring and our own spit, that full tank was the best thing to happen to me since McDonald's brought back the original Shamrock Shake. But I digress.)

One of the reasons we chose this particular house was because it had a generator and, more importantly, a caretaker to show us how to use it. At home, of course, the city's power lines are buried underground and our high-rise building has an automatic generator and two superintendents, so operating anything more complicated than a hand-held can opener is really outside our comfort zone. Plus, even for the experienced do-it-yourselfer, a generator is a terrifying contraption. What else at your house comes with a 3-page User's Manual and a 100-page "Don't Do This or You Will Set Yourself and Everyone In Your Town On Fire" Manual?

Of course, what we didn't know at the time is that this improvised explosive device/generator actually only conjures up enough juice to power exactly one lamp or one hair dryer, but not both at the same time. (Tip: Pick the hair dryer. All the lamp can do is show you exactly how bad you look without the hair dryer.)

And then there were the house's doors.

A few months ago, the husband of a friend was interviewing for a job in Alabama. They flew down for the interviews and checked out some houses there, many of them quadruple the size of their Manhattan studio. My friend, however, was less than thrilled about the possibility of a move, but not for the reasons you’d think. “I just don’t think I can live in a house,” she began. “There’s just so many . . . ” She trailed off, searching for the right words. But I knew immediately. “Points of entry?” I finished for her. “EXACTLY!” she smiled. “Points of entry! Front doors, back doors, garage doors, basement doors . . .I just can’t do it,” she admitted. I knew exactly what she meant.

You see, although “Law and Order” might have you believe that breaking into a city apartment is as easy as climbing up a fire escape and crawling in through an open window, most city apartments are virtually intruder-proof. First of all, city apartments only have one door, and that door is typically made of steel and outfitted with a Medeco lock or three. And gaining access to that single apartment door requires some Ocean's Eleven-style plotting. At our high-rise, for example, the front door to the building remains open during the day but is locked after midnight. Inside that door is a small vestibule leading to another door, which remains locked at all times, unless the doorman is there. Visitors must be announced by the doorman and approved by the resident before being allowed to enter the elevators, which are outfitted with security cameras. Only then does the would-be burglar have access to the aforementioned triple-locked steel apartment door, and one floor might have dozens of them for him to choose from.

But a house is different. A house is so . . . vulnerable. And a house like the one we’d rented, in the middle of nowhere . . . accessible by a dirt path and surrounded by jungle, in which lurked god only knows who or what . . .

Our first night in the house, I woke up around 4:30 a.m. and had to pee. But I couldn’t just feel my way around the darkened room or dash across the hallway. Oh, no. On the good old SS Minnow, the bathroom is downstairs. And I really, really didn’t want to go down there alone in the pitch dark. I first tried to wake Angel, but over the years he has learned to differentiate between “Wake up and have some fun with me” and “Wake up and kill this ant for me.” Finally, unable to hold out any longer, I screwed up my courage and amassed some weapons. Armed with a bottle of hairspray and a pair of tweezers, I felt my way down the dark, slippery stairs and even managed to evade all 14 bulkheads. I made it all the way to the ground floor in one piece, only to be confronted with this:

That’s a lot of points of entry.

Earlier that night we’d set booby traps in front of each of the doors and headed off to dinner at Orchid Bay.

We settled in at table near the window, and our waitress soon delivered two brightly colored tropical drinks. “Oh, they’re so pretty!” I exclaimed. But before I could even take a sip, she’d snatched them back and returned them to the bar. Thinking she’d brought us the wrong ones, we were delighted when she returned with the same drinks, this time festooned with little matching umbrellas. “Now they’re pretty!” she grinned. I like the way you think, lady.

The next day was Sunday, and that could only mean one thing: Nippers Pig Roast.

I'd worn a bikini top and hip-slung beach skirt . . .

and realized too late that I was way underdressed. Or is it overdressed?

I hadn't seen that many muscle shirts and lower-back butterfly tattoos since the series finale of Jersey Shore. I knew it was just a matter of time before the Frozen Nippers took hold and people started fist-pumping and stranger-humping, so we made a beeline for the buffet in order to beat a hasty retreat before things got too out of hand.

Happily, the food at Nippers was fantastic.

For the first go-round, I loaded my plate with everything on offer.

For the second go-round, however, I dispensed with the formalities and made up a plate that more accurately reflected the four food groups: Pasta, potatoes, cheese, and mayonnaise.

Of course, the Bahamian mac & cheese was the best part. Unlike regular mac & cheese that's loose and creamy and held together with béchamel sauce, Bahamian M&C is shaped like a brick and held together with nothing more than melted Cheddar cheese. That might not sound as appetizing as regular M&C, but consider the advantages: You can eat it without silverware. You can stack it to make room for other stuff on your plate. You can put some in your pocket or beach bag for later. I spent the whole rest of the week with a block of mac & cheese bulging out of the pocket of whatever outfit I happened to be wearing.

The Frozen Nippers, unfortunately, were not our cup of tea. Way too sweet and so brightly colored that I could already picture how my skirt was going to look with a big, red Rorschach stain on it, we quickly switched to Kalik and left the Nippers for those who didn't have to worry about stains, since they weren't wearing any clothes.

Speaking of being nekkid, our visit to Nippers would mark the first of many times during this trip that someone would ask us if we were on our honeymoon and insist upon taking our picture. (We tried to put on a good show, though admittedly this is about as G-rated as it gets on a Sunday at Nippers.)

We later noticed that most Abaco visitors travel in large family groups and, as a couple traveling alone, we stuck out like a sore thumb, though you might be forgiven for thinking it was because we looked romantic and lovey-dovey. But trust me: After we got that boat, otherwise known as The Divorcinator, the only romantic notions we were entertaining involved throwing the other one overboard and watching them slowly drift out to sea. Ta-ta!

Later that day we decided to check out the Orchid Bay area and find the "Secret Beach" located near the house.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the house exploring the small garden surrounding the property.

We admired the vibrant tropical flowers. We spied little hermit crabs lounging in the shade. We were fascinated by tiny crab spiders and their delicate, dew-dotted webs.

Then one of us walked face-first into a gigantic spider web and our attempts at becoming one with nature came to an abrupt and sticky end.

The next day we awoke bright and early for what in hindsight is referred to as Day 1 of Hell Week. We packed our boat bag/survival kit (sunscreen, water, and a jar of peanut butter), and although I am not usually itching to have my photo taken in a bikini, I had Angel snap a quick photo of me so the Bahamian Coast Guard would know what to look for in the water, should it come to that.

Jay Sands of Water Ways boat rentals on Man-O-War Cay picked us up at the Guana Hideaways dock and we headed over to Man-O-War to fill out the paperwork. Although we'd planned to play it cool regarding our lack of boating experience, we soon confessed that we’d never really operated a boat before, unless you count one of our friends saying, “Here, hold the wheel for a sec while I pop open this beer.” But Jay wasn't fazed. “Oh, you’ll be fine,” he replied nonchalantly. A beat, and then he spoke again. “You should be fine.” Another beat. “Yeah, fine. Probably.”

Well, between that ringing endorsement and the books I found lying around the house, our confidence was growing by the minute.

Plus, the boat was called Soleado, which you might think is Spanish, but is actually an old Indian name meaning, "He who is flung from bucking bronco."

We decided to buy some time and gird our loins check out Man-O-War and get some lunch before making our way back to Guana.

The Albury family has been building boats on Man-O-War since the 1800s, and it was a real treat to see some of their brightly colored beauties.

The rest of the settlement was adorable, which is what people always say when they come to New York for the first time, too.

Oh, and there was cotton! Growing on the side of the road, in the wild!

Soon it was time for lunch. I was excited to visit the Dock & Dine because I had seen photos of their cheeseburgers online.

Everyone loves cheeseburgers, of course, but I am somewhat obsessed. Even as a kid, I had cheeseburgers on the brain. Like most kids, I couldn't wait to grow up so I could do whatever I wanted. Despite a world full of possibilities, however, my plans were modest: I was going to run away with Van Halen (the group, not just Eddie); I was going to sleep until noon every day without interruption; I was never, ever going to mow a lawn again; and, most importantly, I was going to eat cheeseburgers every. single. day. of my life.

That's right: I wanted to grow up to be your teenage son.

Unfortunately, however, these goals (save for the lawn-mowing) have thusfar managed to elude me.

Until Abaco. Dear, sweet, cheeseburger-loving Abaco.

Damn but that burger was good. But eventually, the eyes that had rolled back in my head with pleasure had returned to their normal position and lunch was over. We had finally run out of delay tactics. It was time to get back on the boat.

Our apprehension stemmed in large part from the fact that we had pictured the Sea of Abaco as a sort of tranquil bay, ringed by islands that were tiny, close together, and easily identifiable.

But what we got was a roiling ocean with just enough shallows to make things interesting; islands so large and yet so far apart that they appeared like shimmering heat mirages on the horizon; and navigation tools consisting of a wet map, a compass, and two landlubbers with bad eyesight.

Still, part of the reason that I'd rented the boat on Man-O-War was to force us to take the boat out at least once -- back to Guana, where our rental house was. If we chickened out and never took the boat out again after that, fine. But we were going to accomplish as least one solo voyage on this trip, and the hour of reckoning was finally upon us.

I am happy to report that we boarded the boat without falling into the water. We un-docked the boat without killing anyone. We even exited out of the Man-O-War harbor in the opposite direction from how we'd come in (at Jay's suggestion) without getting lost.

Our confidence was building, so we decided to make a stop at Baker's Bay before docking the boat back at Guana for the evening.

Or, rather, we tried to make a stop at Baker's Bay.

Probably the most challenging aspect of boating in the Abacos for the first time is that every island, every beach, every cove looks exactly the same from the water. We'd picked out a red market umbrella on someone's patio as our marker to the entrance to Guana's harbor, but for Baker's Bay, we had no such markers. So we motored along until we saw a rocky outcropping of land that we surmised must be the northernmost tip of Guana. Terrified of accidentally drifting into the ocean -- we were convinced that allowing the boat's bow to even glance in the direction of the ocean would suddenly short out the motor and pull us into a swirling Vortex of Doom -- we figured that the beach right before the outcropping had to be Baker's Bay . . . didn't it?

It did not.

Still, it was a pretty enough beach, and the water wasn't too deep, so we dropped the anchor and decided to stay awhile.

Or a long, long, long while, which is how long you will stay when you accidentally ground your boat. I wanted to wait until the tide came in or until Water Ways noticed that we never returned with the boat at the end of the week and came to get us, but Angel decided that he'd just lift us off the sand. We hoisted the anchor (luckily we'd already raised the propeller) and I moved to the front of the boat to lessen the weight on the grounded stern. Angel heaved. He ho'd. (Neither of those is as bad as it sounds.) He was sweating like a stuck pig and grunting like one, too, but inch by inch, the boat began to get some water under it, and finally, eventually, we were free.

The only downside was that Angel set for himself a new level of expectation: If I ever get trapped under our SUV (not as unlikely as you might think given my propensity for freak accidents), I will fully expect him to lift it off of me, quickly, and perhaps even using just one arm.

Wearily we made our way back to the settlement to dock the boat for the night. This would be our first attempt at docking, but how hard could it be? Sure, it was pretty windy, but it's just like parking a car in a parking spot, isn't it?

It is not.

I steered the boat while Angel shouted out commands. I gripped the wheel like it was the last of my size at a shoe sale and shifted the gears. I am not going to go into the gory details here, but suffice it to say that after a lot of screaming and yelling and shifting and steering, everything went sideways.

Literally.

I'd managed to wedge the boat in parallel to the dock, not perpendicular to it, straddling both the slip we were trying to dock in and the adjacent slip. Luckily someone heard our panicked cries, and that someone happened to be Dervin, Jay of Water Ways' brother-in-law. Which was lucky for us, he explained, because otherwise he'd have left us there. At least while he went home to get his camera.

The next day we decided to try again to find Baker's Bay. No, we weren't trying to prove a point. We were just hungry.

Baker's Bay is a spectacular stretch of white sand framed by crystal-clear water and mangroves. Sadly, however, this area of the island has been taken over by a developer called the Disgraceful Despicable Discovery Land Group, an organization whose mission is to ensure that every last pristine place in the world is razed to make way for one of its hideously outsized luxury communities, which will then be charmingly named after whatever was decimated in order to make room for it.

However . . . when faced with the Sophie's Choice of contributing in some small way to the Destructive Land Group or stuffing down one more fried grouper/fried chicken/fried conch/fried anything sandwich, well . . . I am ashamed to admit that the Detestable Land Group and its fancy-by-Guana-standards restaurant won out.

We made our way into the marina at the Baker's Bay resort and found a place to dock. Angel slid the boat in perfectly parallel. That was easy, we thought delightedly. That is, until one of the Baker's Bay employees kindly explained that we'd have to dock over there and use one of the mooring balls instead. We had never used a mooring ball. We had an audience. And I had become so fearful of the reverse gear after our sideways docking experience that I had taken to shifting into neutral and frantically paddling with my hands to move in reverse. And so, like the sissies that we are, we threw up our hands and allowed another BB employee -- this one a teenage girl, from the looks of her -- to board the boat and put us into position.

That's two boardings in two days for those of you keeping track. Sure, a few skills are nice when you go boating, but a complete lack of dignity is absolutely essential.

It pains me to admit that the Baker's Bay property is gorgeous. And if I didn't know what they had done to the environment to get it that way, I am sure this would be a place that we'd return to again and again.

For now, though, I just wanted some unfried food and a frozen drink that didn't contain an entire bag of sugar, and the Conch Shack at Baker's Bay delivered on both counts.

After a frozen banana colada and a delicious cranberry/banana concoction, we moved on to chips and fresh tomato salsa, a BBQ chicken pizza, and the best tacos this side of Mexico.

After lunch we decided to check out the property and admire their freakishly green lawn before setting off for the beach.

After a short shade break and a little jewelry shopping at the Market, we boarded the boat and set off again for the northern tip of Guana, to the beach that Vicki H had told us so much about.

On the way, we decided make a stop at Spoil Bank Cay, which was easily recognizable thanks to the island pines that dot its landscape. It looked lovely from the water, so we made our approach, dropped the anchor, and headed for the shore.

Apparently the side of the island where we anchored, however, is also the side that gives Spoil Bank its nickname, Shell Island. Which is really being kind, since Spoil Bank Cay is more appropriately nicknamed I Just Got Jabbed in the Foot By Another @#$%& Rock Island. Still, we didn’t really notice the rocks until we were halfway between the boat and the shore, and being the stubborn mule that I am, I refused to head back to the boat until I either made it to the shore or bled to death from the puncture wounds to my feet, whichever came first.

Finally, after an hour or so of using the soles of our feet as pin cushions, we decided to make one more attempt at finding Baker’s Bay. We brought the boat around toward the ocean side and steeled ourselves for the Vortex. When it didn't materialize, we continued to inch our way around the tip until suddenly, the spectacular beach came into view.

We were right in the middle of patting ourselves on the back for a job well done when this Jet-Ski went by. With a toddler at the wheel.

We dropped the anchor, lowered the swim ladder, and enjoyed three blissful hours floating in the clear water and soaking up the brilliant sunshine.

We splashed in the shallow pools carved out by the rock formations. We delighted in the tiny fish. We cursed that little kid on the Jet-Ski.

That evening we headed over to Grabbers for a much-deserved sunset dinner.

The sunset was perfect, the shrimp was fantastic, the pizza was frozen, but so were the drinks, so we'll go ahead and call that a win.

The next day we decided to visit Elbow Cay. We loaded the boat and checked our fuel gauge: a notched wooden dipstick.

We figured Elbow Cay would be easy to find due to the lighthouse.

Oh, you don't see it there on the horizon? You don't even see land? Welcome to our world.

We actually found Elbow without any trouble, and once we got close enough, the lighthouse guided us into the charming harbor.

We entered the harbor and looked for the public dock. Soon we spotted a sign for it, which also contained an ominous warning:

We would have to use the stern anchor. For the uninitiated, this means that while one person moves the boat forward towards a head-on collision with the dock, the other person waits until the boat is approximately two boat lengths away from said collision and then drops the anchor. The forward motion sets the anchor; then, a quick shift into reverse prevents the impending crash. Supposedly.

But already it did not look promising: Half a dozen boats of varying sizes were tied to the dock at various angles, their stern anchor lines just daring us to get tangled up in them.

Plus, as I mentioned above, this was a two-man operation, and only one of us (I will leave you to your own assumptions here) has any common sense and upper body strength and knows right from left. Angel let me pick: I could steer the boat and shift into the dreaded reverse gear as we neared the dock, or I could heave the anchor off the stern once we were the appropriate distance from the dock. I chose the anchor, and at Angel's command I flung it off the stern of the boat with all my might.

And then the engine died.

Angel checked the ignition. He shifted into forward, then reverse. The boat didn't move.

The engine was dead.

Which is how we came to be boarded for the third time in three days, as a kind bystander diagnosed the problems as follows: (1) This boat is being operated by idiots, and (2) One of those idiots has managed to wrap the anchor line around the propeller about a dozen times.

Obviously it was time for lunch by now and, more importantly, it was time for cocktails. We walked the short distance to the Hope Town Harbour Lodge in search of both.

We cooled off with a round of frozen drinks while enjoying the view.

Eventually our food arrived, and along with it a swarm of flies that reminded me of that time that, unbeknownst to us, a raccoon had died in the soffit of our summer cottage, and we didn't find out until about a week later. But the waiter kindly brought us this neat Bunsen burner? Butane lighter? Heated fly remover? and we were able to finish our meal in peace.

After lunch we had planned to rent a golf cart to explore the island. Our waiter made some calls for us, but when he informed us that there weren't any carts available, we walked around a bit instead, then waited for the local bike shop to open so we could rent a couple of bikes.

I could already tell from our short walk that it was way too hot to be biking around with the sun burning a hole into my scalp, but I played along for the time being. As it was, the hot sun was already starting to take its toll on me, so Angel found me a shady spot outside the liquor store where I could sit down. It was in uncomfortably close proximity to a large bag full of trash, but those on the verge of heatstroke cannot be choosers.

While we waited for the bike shop to open, we got to chatting with a woman whose husband was inside the liquor store shooting the breeze with some buddies. We told her that we'd tried to rent a cart but had to settle for bikes instead, and she in turn made an extraordinarily generous offer that would have delighted normal people. But to suspicious, cynical people from New York City, it sounded like an elaborate plan to kidnap us and hold us as sex slaves (as opposed to holding us for ransom, which would be stupid because nobody we know would pay good money to have to see us again): She and her husband were headed home to the south end of the island, and they would be happy to give us a ride and drop us off at one of the beaches. Afterwards, we could just take their cart back to the dock and they'd pick it up later.

Oh, sure. Just take our cart. What did these two really want, we wondered? Money? Jewelry? Our kidneys? We had no idea, but in New York City, if anyone without a taxi medallion offers to give you a ride, you would do well to smile and then beat feet the hell out of there.

But those suffering from heatstroke cannot be choosers. We could bike around in the broiling sun, or we could hitch a ride with a couple of suspected organ harvesters/sex traffickers and see where the day took us.

We went with the sex traffickers.

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