We returned to the hotel and asked the security guard whether he had any advice. He suggested we go to the post office and inquire about the mail boats that ferried goods from Nassau to the other islands; they were willing to take passengers, space permitting. We also asked him why the police didn’t do anything about all the people trying to sell coke on every corner. “The police are often in on it,” he told us. “We have a lot of wealthy cops in the Bahamas.”

The guidebook that we had purchased in the States listed all the official mail boats. With guidebook in hand, we arrived at the post office and were told there was only one boat, the Spanish Rose, leaving during the next two weeks, and it was departing the next morning at seven. I immediately looked it up in my guidebook. It wasn’t listed.

“It’s not on the official list,” I informed François. “It’s probably a drug boat. I’m not going.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” François asked.

“We’ll be next week’s headlines. ‘Dismembered Bodies Discovered. Camera Equipment Missing.’ I am not going,” I repeated.

We stood arguing on the street corner for a while; then François approached a policeman and asked him whether he had ever heard of a mail boat called the Spanish Rose. “Of course,” the policeman said enthusiastically.

“See,” François said. “Are you convinced it’s legitimate?”

I was shocked at the naïveté of this Frenchman. “The cop is in on it,” I whispered. “He probably lives in a big house on a hill with an ocean view.”

“That’s it,” François said. “I am going to come here tomorrow morning at six. You do what you want. I, however, will be boarding the boat.”

“Fine,” I said.

The next morning we showed up early and found a group of Bahamian families ready to board the Spanish Rose. It looked perfectly safe. François asked whether I was embarrassed by the previous day’s display of paranoia. “I don’t recall,” I said, doing my best imitation of a politician on trial. We boarded and found a spot among the crates of tomatoes, potatoes, and eggs and several cages of live chickens.

The boat ride was straight out of a Jacques Cousteau special. We passed by small islands with white beaches and swaying palm trees. The water, which was teeming with fish, changed colors from turquoise to jade to cobalt. Overhead, the cloudless sky presented us with yet another magnificent shade of blue. This was the Bahamas we had dreamed about.

Four hours later, we arrived at the island of Spanish Wells. Our guidebook mentioned only that this small island, inhabited by lobster fishermen, was named after the Spanish sailors who used to come ashore for fresh water.