Berry Islands Escape
WE WERE MOTORING gently through a creek-cut in the Berry Islands, in search of something. A salve for wounded pride, perhaps, or maybe just excuses. Permit had treated us quite rudely this morning—with dismissive looks and reckless indifference, the sort of abuses most painful to the self-esteem of men.
“The permit is an impossible fish,” John announced. “I don’t know why anybody wastes their time.”
While certainly not impossible, permit do seem to promote a selfish symbiosis here. Trailing stingrays that furrow through the turtle grass kicking out crabs and shrimp and whatever else swirls up into the turquoise water of these Bahamas outer islands, they appear to leave little for the rays, yet ignore our seemingly adequate imitations.
John and I had used the rays as markers, lobbing brown Kung Fu’s and Lexo Pop-ups at the dark backs
