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“Green Turtle Cay”

GREEN TURTLE CAY by Marian Youngblood

Green Turtle Cay, Abaco from the North --dead center of the Bimini-Puerto Rico-Bermuda Triangle

After twenty years as a journalist in mainland Florida, Annabelle returns to a Bahamas Out Island atoll to take up an offer by Tom, her gruff marine biologist uncle to help him run a new shark aquarium and breeding program, as part of a plan by a mysterious Consortium to repopulate world oceans’ declining species. Growing up in the islands, she readily throws herself into the project, only to discover that the group’s representative, the strangely attractive John, and his athletic Nordic female companion, have knowledge and technology which far outstrip normal ecological initiatives — or even orbiting spacecraft.

When she accidentally overruns her SCUBA capacity in a dive, she overhears in the recovery room a conversation which convinces her their sponsors have a secret agenda and there will be massive repercussions to earth’s ecosystems.

At supper in Tom’s island cottage, John’s slippery companion makes overt play for Tom, while Annabelle confronts the elusive John. He offers to take her to their subsea laboratory via a mechanism installed off the kitchen, known simply as the “Elevator” that connect the house with the sea-floor. It and the lab below, John explains, are powered by an electromagnetic drive conveniently provided by the anomalous Bermuda Triangle. It seems John and his companion also arrived by this route and the two scientists talk of a colony on a distant planetary body where the human race has already mastered the use of free electromagnetic energy which they want to share — in exchange for the repopulation of their own dwindling population of ocean animals.

To show her how it works, John takes her to a replica 18th Century pirate ship anchored in the Bay. On board she accidentally triggers an interactive hologram designed to let tourists experience the last years of Blackbeard and piracy in the Islands before British restricted trade in 1718.

But the new technology has not been perfected and something about the holographic characters and change-of-scene gives Annabelle the distinct feeling that they are real and she is being sucked into the hologram.

GREEN TURTLE CAY is Marian Youngblood’s entry into the 2011 ABNA contest, the Amazon Breakthru Novel Award, sponsored by and Penguin Group USA. The winner is offered a publication contract with Penguin — along with a $15,000 advance — and listed on Amazon.

Marian Youngblood’s ABNA entry ‘Green Turtle Cay’ is a deep dive into her past as a resident journalist with the Nassau Guardian when she was a frequent Out Island sailor and dive enthusiast. Maybe because this WIP was written in winter (part of 2010 NaNoWriMo) the balmy Bahamian waters were somehow brighter and more sparkling in her mind, and drove her need to relive that magic in the pages of her novel. As an historian, she brings to life the amazing history of the Islands, their colonial past as a pirate haven, with local names evocative of kings and queens of the high seas, and the slave trade which governments (until recently) sought to suppress.

Blackbeard, contrary to the myth surrounding him as a terrifying beard-smoldering pirate, was responsible for releasing thousands of captives from French Guineaman and British slave frigates. As well as liberating the gold and silver in their holds… His presence in the islands is still felt.

Anyone who has visited the Out Islands of the 700-island Bahamas archipelago knows they are jewels in the crown of the Ocean. Abaco’s Green Turtle Cay lies dead-center of the so-called Bermuda Triangle which runs between Bimini, San Juan Puerto Rico and Hamilton, Bermuda. The Triangle’s anomalous electromagnetic behavior is well-known to students of electrical phenomena, plasma science, time travel and UFOs. It is a minefield of possibilities which the author could not wait to explore.

Green Turtle Cay‘ brings the smell of the sea back into your nostrils and leaves you wishing for more…

There follows an excerpt from Chapter One of GREEN TURTLE CAY.

Green Turtle Cay, Abaco in the Bahamas: one of Blackbeard's hideouts for his slave-ship raids

Inspired by an episode in my former life, this is Chapter 1 of my current novel ‘Green Turtle Cay‘ written as part of the annual NaNoWriMo write-a-thon. NaNo suggests participants write every day for the 30 days of November and then stretch back langorously and take a long look at what the Muse has let them produce. That’s the theory, anyway.

In practice, it works out rather differently. Family, friends, eating, drinking, sustenance, nourishment and a few other of life’s ‘essentials’ go by the board. Friends have been known to fall out over NaNo. Families to starve. Or eat out. Only cats and keyboards remain constant companions. Anybody else with any sense has already taken charge of the situation and is ignoring the solitary writer/novelist-to-be.

words in pictures, courtesy of Wordie

Because at the end of 30 days, that’s what has developed. If not a fully-fledged, plot-intensive, character-filled bestseller which will wow the editors, agents and publishers for years to come, at least the bones of something like it.

Evangeline was her English Island name.

Back home in French Guinea she had had another name. She was forbidden by her own sacred tradition to speak it in this life, to reveal who she had been in that former time.

Daughter of the tribal chief, she had their trust, she would one day have ruled when Father was too old to lead. And she wondered if that day had come when Father welcomed the strangers to their shore, gave them food and wine, made them honored guests at his table and provided concubines for a night’s rest in their guest villa overlooking the shore.

Out in the Bay, these French mariners described such a ship. A barque made out of full-grown oak trees that they had in their homeland, not like the sappy fig they grew in Guinea. So large they said, one tree could create four walls of the villa alone and leave wood to spare for roofing. And Father was taken in. He saw something out in the Bay — two vessels, she learned later— that were so foreign to his vision, his mind would not allow him to see such alien craft. So he believed totally what the strangers said and believed them when they said they were bedecked with color streamers, paper lanterns. and that they had only come ashore to replenish their provisions of milk and honey and butter and ale. They even said, if the village were willing to trade with them for such a meager request, they would show them international trawling techniques, practise a little fishing in their offshore fishing grounds. Their barrels had run low, they needed to stock up before heading back into the fray. They would be on their way on the morrow, back on the high seas in pursuit of the foreign English who were attacking their borders.

And Father had believed every word. Father had offered them the prize guest seats next to him at the High Table for the feast which all villagers shared to celebrate such an unusual arrival in their rich fishing grounds. Father had given them the sleeping tent reserved only for honored guests, a canvas awning which few others deserved to use. And two concubines each for the foreign sea captain and his officers. The captain said the rest of his men would remain on board. It sounded reasonable. None of the villagers had any reason to suspect. Father usually did the best for the tribe and trade was always beneficial for everyone.

It would be a long night for Father, so Evangeline went to her own quarters earlier than usual, as she saw her presence was not needed, save to be introduced formally to the French captain. He looked and sounded polite. She had no suspicions on that score. Besides, back then, she had no knowledge of what was going on on the high seas except that two European nations were at war and that didn’t usually affect the dominions of the African continent. Their sea traffic came from neighboring tribes. The farthest travelers came was from shores of the southern desert.

So it was from a deep sleep and a vivid dream that she was awakened in the middle of the night — she remembered the moon had just reached its horizon point and was about to set — so a couple of hours before dawn light would flood the land and wake the tribe. In tribal medicine, it was known as an inauspicious time.

Bermuda sloop fitted out as a man-o'-war, 1831

It had been by stealth they came upon her, her family, her brother and of course Father, the Chief. They tied them together with their hands behind their backs and herded them like cattle down to the jetty where their simple outriggers were the only craft to be seen. Then a huge row boat, wider and longer and more massive than any she had ever seen, rounded the end of the pier and nudged in to shore, where the small harbor afforded shelter. Twenty-one of them were poked and pushed and hustled on board, made to sit in groups on heavy trusses that served for seats in the hull as the vessel was rowed silently out of the harbor. None of the tribal elders heard a sound. Her mother, nursing her youngest, only two seasons old, and with her younger sister in the same bed, had not awakened. Had she known she would never see them again, that vision would have given her pain. As it was, much worse had since happened, so remembering her parental home as it was before the disruption sometimes gave her a moment of joy in her grief.

They were taken as slaves. The European gentlemen with their northern manners and their white faces and blond beards and fancy uniforms were nothing more than thieves. She was rowed out into the bay with twenty other young people and Father. None of them knew why. Then, as they neared the enormous vessel, Father stood up to look.

Then and there they slit his throat and threw him to the waves. At the moment he stood up to look into the decks of a ship he had never seen in his entire existence before, not in reality and not in picture books left by other traders — as he rose to help his people out of the low craft and into this mystery ship — they took his life.

He’d been tethered like the rest, but their purpose was finally revealed. He had merely been taken from the village to ensure silence and cooperation. Out here in the bay, as they saw the vessel prepare for a long voyage into equatorial winds and currents, he was an old man, a nuisance, a hindrance.

Her mind reran the event a thousand times. She watched him rise from an unaccustomed positon in the bottom of the boat and stand proud as they neared the tall galleon. His chiefly stance was brave. He still believed he could rescue the situation. That’s what she meant about Father having outlived his time. His belief in the good of Man had been betrayed. It was perhaps the Great Spirit’s way of showing him his time on earth was over. Without a word, without salutation, greeting, or any show of respect, one of the crew stepped forward from his position at the oars. He had a cutlass in his hand. He didn’t even pretend to hide it. Even before he reached Father, Evangeline knew what was going to happen.

Guineaman, a frigate man-of-war capable of supporting 120 guns

She called out ‘Father’, but her voice was unheard. He still believed he was about to be raised with ceremony into this magnificent ship with rigging above reaching to the night skies, and ropes thrown below to raise them up. He believed he was going on board. That’s how he was deceived. The crewman took him from behind, held his chained arm in his left hand and slit his throat with the cutlass in his right. There was no sound. Father collapsed in the bow of the boat and the other young occupants knew there was now no hope for them.

They were taken then, one by one, shuffling past the silent body of the man who had been their Chief, up a shaking gangway over the side and on to the main deck of the Guineaman. Evangeline had a momentary impression of the French ship’s enormous size — it rose even more powerfully up towards the prow where wheelhouse, rigging and full sail added to its grandeur. This was indeed a trader for a long voyage. The rumors had truth. There were far off lands where young people and children were spirited away never to return to their homes or their culture or their families. Always fated to watch the sun rise on another continent, over a different sea or, for some, never to see the sea ever again.

Now, years later she knew this to be a familiar story. She’d heard of others taken like her friends, her cousins and brother from the sea, overland to foreign places where the earth was dry and crops starved from lack of water. They were made to work, to harvest food not for themselves, but for another man. The man who controlled them operated what was called a plantation, where many had been taken to live in vile quarters with none of the gentle trappings of noble life in a village a million miles away on the other side of the world.

Another life, another time, another earth, another past. A dream ago — when she was young.

Years on, in another future, Evangeline learned that her fate had been blessed compared with the stories she heard of those slaves who were sold to plantation owners in South Carolina, Georgia and Virginia.

The brigantine advanced on the French Guineaman with piracy in mind

Back then, twelve days out, twenty miles off the South Carolina coast, Evangeline’s ropes were untied. Captain’s orders. They were to come forward from where she and four friends were held in the mate’s cabin up to the foredeck where Cap’n stood at the prow: to negotiate, he said.

The hand that untied them and pushed them gently up the companionway to where the Captain stood under the forward mainsail, was the same young hand who had stolen meat to feed her when rations ran out after their first week aboard. They were made to stand beside the ship’s bell: La Concorde, she read on its heavy bronze lip. He whispered as he pointed to where the captain and navigator scanned the horizon with a hand telescope.

‘There is another ship. The captain thinks they mean to board us. You will have to stand forward on display, in case they mean us harm.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Evangeline would remember his answer to her dying day.

‘Captain says it is Teach. The pirate. You will be taken prisoner and we shall go free.‘

Of course the hand had not been correct. There was something about La Concorde that pleased Edward Teach. He needed a new flagship, or he was tired of his old brigantine. Or he had a new girlfriend who wanted a ship. It could have been any one of those reasons. Teach was indeed a brigand and a thief, plundered the rich to feather his own operation. But in the Islands he was known for picking on slave ships because in releasing them, in some way he felt he paid his debt to society for robbing those powerful Europeans who’d banished him from serving as a genuine officer in the British Navy. Queen Anne would suffer for ignoring him. He had become a presence to be reckoned with. He would soon have a fleet of ships which would rule the seas between Bermuda, the Bahamas and the South Carolina coast.

Evangeline stood tall. She felt no fear. She’d heard of the pirate and thought life as a free woman in the islands might not be as wonderful as life had been back home — long ago when Father was alive — but preferable to that working long hours in the dust for an alien white lord. At least they said in the Islands you could work your own property, find a new love, build a new life in a wooden shack and, if the fates favored her, she might even meet the great man Teach himself.

'Blackbeard', Captain Edward Teach of pirate fame

She too had heard the rumors. How he burned firecrackers in his beard and hair to terrorize the crews of the ships he boarded and plundered. But those were merchant ships, carrying gold and jewels and with possessions in the hold belonging to the rich, bound for a new life in Carolina, Virginia and even farther north on that great continent. That’s where the British were fighting for their colonies in America. It was a land for the white man. The black man must find his own future elsewhere. Some day they, too, would have their own empire and way of life — remember the beauty of the old country, the old life and old traditions.

For now she would remain calm. She would allow her fate to unfold before her. If this was indeed Blackbeard’s ship, she would go along with her fate and ask him for mercy.

Looking back on that night in the balmy waters off the Carolina shore, she had no way of knowing how her life would end up in the Bahama Islands, how gentle would be her fate. How kind would be the pirate captain, and how fortunate her life was to turn out.

Evangeline sighed and added another row of stitching to her sampler. She raised a glass of pomegranate juice and stretched her eyes to the horizon. Even Blackbeard was gone now. But those had been the days. She smiled, picked up her fan and cooled her aging brow.
©2010 Marian Youngblood

Marian Youngblood grew up in eastern Scotland, and had an early hankering to travel in the “west”. So by gradual degrees made her way from Scotland to New York, the Bahamas, Florida, Mexico and then California, where she lived for three years before retreating for two years in Massachusetts and eventually homing back to her roots. She spent that lifetime writing. She’s still doing it in this.

Now a grandmother, she revisits California, where her son has a home, creates ceramics and nurtures his “girls”, a wife and three little ones. She visits as often has she can, between writing projects — WIPs.

Marian Youngblood is currently preparing her spiritual-fantasy novel ‘SHASTA: Critical Mass’ for publication with an American publisher.

She is an avid NaNoWriMo fan and is intrigued and grateful to be a first-time ABNA entry.

Alternating between rural NE Scotland and the Pacific NW takes a toll on the psyche — and the bod, but provides massive fuel for novels. If only the skies were more (user)friendly – – old anecdote – –
She is earthrooted, likes to grow her garden organically and nurtures three cats, several hundred birds, a few hens, tame pheasants and, in summertime swallows and bats.

Between times she takes time to write, read, self-publish and make frequent visits to her grandbabes.

In addition to this writing blog, she writes as ‘Siderealview‘ and authors historical websites Derilea’s Dream: Memoirs of a Pictish Queen at and View from the Pictish Citadel at
as well as other historical social network sites. She is author of the historical novel “PHANTOM’S CHILD“, currently available on Amazon; and is co-founder of the Scots charity Friends of Grampian Stones which maintains the FOGSblog.

She has currently two more WiPs planned for publication.

1 Comment »

  1. Green Turtle Cay Bahamas…

    Right on man, who says the web is full of garbage?…

    Trackback by Green Turtle Cay Bahamas | June 5, 2012 | Reply

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