Baja Florida by Bob Morris

run, a gracious, low-key hideout for those who could afford it. Then came 2004 and the double whammy of hurricanes Frances and Jeanne. Walker’s Cay never recovered. The island was up for sale. Reported asking price—$20 million.
    In pre-Barbara days, I tallied my share of good times at Walker’s Cay. I’d caught bonefish in the flats, lost marlin in the deep water, and bunked down with more than one temporary sweetheart in a cottage overlooking the green-and-turquoise waters.
    Broke my heart to see the place now.
    Docks where sleek boats once lined up gunwale to gunwale during big money fishing tournaments had long since surrendered to the sea. Weeds and creeping vines had taken over paths that once wound through well-manicured grounds. A big portion of the roof on the resort’s main house had collapsed. And none of the cottages were without broken windows or crumbling porches.
    But the runway was clear, the asphalt in fairly good repair. And the blue, yellow, and black Bahamian flag fluttered above the glorified shack that passed for the customs house.
    Charlie apologized for the slightly bumpy landing.
    â€œStill getting used to the way this baby handles,” he said.
    Our greeting party consisted of a half-dozen or so land crabs. The black variety, not the white. They observed us defiantly from the edge of the runway, their crimson claws raised, ready to repel any attack.
    Land crabs are a delicacy in the Bahamas. Andros Island, to the south, has vast crab colonies in its piney wood interior, and Androsian bush cowboys round them up by the thousands each May for the annual Crab Fest. I attended it one year with Barbara, who was a judge in the culinary competition. Crab ’n’ rice. Stuffed crab backs. Crab dumplings. Spicy crab soup with whole scotch bonnets floating in the bowl.
    The crabs must have noticed the gustatory gleam in my eyes. They skittered into the high grass as we walked from the plane.
    A short, stocky fiftyish man appeared in the doorway of the customs office. He had the fair features and sun-blotched skin common among many white Bahamians. They trace their lineage to British Loyalists who fled the colonies during the American Revolution.
    The man was smoothing back his reddish hair and tucking the tail of his white shirt into his black pants, doing his best to look official. He put on a pair of glasses and peered out at us.
    â€œCatch you napping, Mr. Bethel?” Charlie said.
    â€œYou supposed to radio, say you coming in.”
    â€œTried that. Didn’t get an answer.”
    â€œShoulda kept trying,” Mr. Bethel said.
    He turned away from the door. By the time we stepped inside he was sitting behind a gray metal desk. A boxy old computer occupied one end of the desk. Next to it a worn, black ledger book. And next to it, an assortment of rubber stamps and ink pads.
    On the wall behind him was a framed photograph of the prime minister of the Bahamas, a nautical chart of the Abacos, and a framed print of Queen Elizabeth that might have been hanging there since shortly after her coronation. Poor gal looked old even back then.
    â€œHow’s your family, Mr. Bethel?” Charlie asked. “They doing alright?”
    â€œThey doing.”
    A real bundle of good cheer and hospitality, Mr. Bethel.
    He stuck out a hand. Charlie gave him our passports and papers. For the next several minutes no one said anything as Mr. Bethel dutifully eyed everything there was to eye and then eyed it again. Occasionally, he would reach for a rubber stamp, ink it up, and give one of the documents an authoritative pounding.
    On the immigration papers, the line where it asks the purpose of your visit, Boggy and I had each checked the box for business rather than vacation. Mr. Bethel looked at me over the top of his glasses.
    â€œYou Mr. Chasteen?”
    I nodded.
    He looked at Boggy’s passport, then at Boggy.
    â€œAnd you’re Mr. Boggatonna…”
    He gave