As beach bars go, itâ€™s pretty tough to top Nippers, and getting there is half the fun.Â After the ferry (about 30 minutes), one follows the signs on a Candyland-like adventure — turn left at the fence, right at the graveyard (complete with picture of the grim reaper on the gate), left at the rainbow-colored bulldozer, steer clear of the poisonwood tree, up and over the hill and you are there (we managed to avoid Molasses Swamp).Â
Nippers itself is a multicolored, multi-tiered, cacophony of wood planking and American tourist jackassery.Â It appeared to be South Carolina day at Nippers, as evidenced by the number of sun-burned necks protruding from Clemson and University of South Carolina tanktops.Â
The pig roast was pretty good (alas, the pork was already carved and in trays, so there were no porcine rotisserie displays), the â€œNipperâ€ (a frozen rum punch concoction) proved excellent, the weather was perfect, and a good time was had by all.Â We took a long walk along the beautiful beach, returned for a final round, and got ready to head home.
Just as we were closing out, Erik attracted â€¦ well, letâ€™s just call it what was â€¦ a gay stalker.Â This guy tried everything â€“ herd separation tactics, inviting the three of us to dinner, etc.Â He even invited us to stay at his apartment.Â This dude was PERSISTENT.Â He was accompanied by one of his co-workers (reasonably intoxicated, not particularly annoying) and a fall-down, Stacey Toran-drunk Australian (thereâ€™s always at least one wherever you go) who was some sort of boat captain/crewman.
The six of us sauntered back to the ferry dock (past the graveyard, the rainbow bulldozerâ€¦) to await the last ferry of the day.Â Shortly thereafter, a very distraught woman holding a very small plastic bag arrived at the dock.Â As we came to learn, she was holding her friendâ€™s fingers.Â We were told that the friend was building her own house on Great Guana and was the victim of a table-saw accident. Apparently, the owner of the fingers had already been transported to Marsh Harbour, en route to Nassau, inexplicably sans digits.Â
Fall-down drunk Australian sprang into action.Â Apparently, heâ€™d come over to Great Guana in some sort of small powerboat that was affiliated with the bigger boat of which he was captain/crewman.Â He dashed (ok, staggered) off to retrieve his powerboat so that the fingers could be sped to Marsh Harbour. Gay Stalker, apparently in a hurry to get home, suggested that we all hop on the boat.Â Needless to say, we declined â€“ weâ€™re not getting on a speedboat, at night, in a very tricky harbor, with a fall-down drunk Aussie driver and the gay stalker co-pilot.Â Equally needless to say, the gay stalker then changed his mind and decided to wait with us, and off roared the speedboat at triple the recommended speed. Yikes.Â All I could think is that it takes a true friend to hop on drunken Aussieâ€™s speedboat to make a nighttime delivery of your severed fingers.Â More PicturesÂ