Normans Cay

August 1825

The trip from London had been refreshing. The worst part had been the first twelve hours in the English Channel but as “jolly old” dipped below the horizon the seas settled into a comfortable roll. The hundred and fifty foot brig carved its way south, past Spain to the Canary Islands off Morocco.

There it stopped briefly and took on water, fresh fruit and salt fish before beginning its journey across the Atlantic. The next port of call was Nassau, the largest port in the Bahamas.

Rebecca Outerbridge was the only woman aboard the vessel. She was thirty-five years old and still slim. She had never been a raving beauty. Nor was she unattractive. Perhaps it was her manner, too severe, too determined, which gave off an aura that many shied away from. The Captain however had found her to his liking. She had never complained even once about the food, the accommodation, or even the intense sun. On a few occasions he had warned her about being out too long but she had merely replied that she intended to live in the Bahamas and the sun would have to get used to her presence. Her choice of words amused the older gentleman and he had invited Mrs. Outerbridge to dine with him, in his cabin, in the evening.

That evening had begun a solid friendship between the middle aged woman, of her era, and the elderly captain who was approaching sixty and who had crossed the Atlantic as many times. Over the next two weeks they had shared supper every night but one, when the Captain had been busy taking a shot with his sextant and doing the tedious calculations to determine his position.

So when the heavy weather hit, only a hundred miles from their destination, the Captain took extra care of his sole female passenger. He tried to keep her in her cabin but she insisted on appearing on deck every few hours to view the water. The seas were making the final leg of her journey a nightmare, instead of the pleasant dream she had associated with sailing up to now.

Her cabin was atrociously small. It contained enough room for her trunk beneath a berth barely two feet wide and six feet long. Its only redeeming feature was a small porthole that let in a bit of daylight. There was a small stool where she could sit to take her meals and a chamber pot. It was small wonder that even such a determined woman had graciously accepted the Captain’s offer to sit at a table, to dine.

After her second trip topsides the Captain had sent a seaman’s hat and an oilskin coat, the smallest he could procure, to Rebecca’s cabin.

Rebecca appeared on deck an hour later wearing the oilskin and hat. She also wore a self-conscious grimace that may have covered a smile.

“The sea’s best left alone when she’s in this kind of a mood”, the Captain stated, “but if you insist on watching her, you might as well dress for it.”

Despite her trepidation, as the powerful walls of water glided toward the ship, she preferred the openness of the bridge to the confines of her cabin.

It was daylight when they first sighted Highbourne Cay. Indeed, there was not a living soul on the small island and the Cay would have been almost invisible after dark. Had they suspected approaching land at night, the Captain would have turned back seaward, to avoid the shallow water.

The Captain was familiar with the cut, and with plenty of daylight, and the storm appearing to ease, he forged ahead. Standing directly beside his two helmsmen who controlled the wheel, with Rebecca braced in the corner of the bridge, he skillfully direct