A return to Man-O-War Cay stirred more than memories—it brought back the voices, the smells, the kindness, and the love that shaped my life. In this deeply personal reflection, I revisit the moments that made this island feel like home, the people who never let me go, and the powerful reminder that what unites us is always stronger than what divides us.
I hope you’ll indulge me today, because this blog is pure nostalgia. Coming back to Man-O-War Cay has stirred up a flood of memories—some sweet, some funny, some tender—and I need to get them out before they drift away like footprints in the sand.
The first time I set foot on this island, I was a kid from Wisconsin with a sunburned nose and wide eyes. Uncle Cell didn’t think it was safe for us to drink the cistern water, so he did what any protective uncle would do—he brought us cases of Canada Dry ginger ale. That might not sound like a big deal now, but to us kids? It was revolutionary. We were allowed to have soda at every single meal—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Unheard of at home, where soda was a rare treat reserved for parties or special occasions. We sipped ginger ale with eggs in the morning, sandwiches at noon, and cookies at night—and we thought we were the luckiest kids alive.
I can still smell Miss Florrie’s bread baking in the mornings. That warm, yeasty scent would drift through the salty air and find me before I even rolled out of bed. I’d go looking for Agnes, knowing full well she’d be able to talk her way into getting us a fresh bun straight from the oven. We’d sit on the porch or maybe even down by the wall, still barefoot from the night before, tearing off chunks and slathering them with butter until our hands were greasy and our mouths were full. It wasn’t just bread—it was comfort, it was tradition, it was love baked into every bite.
Now, being back on this island after so long, I feel the spirits of those I loved most still walking beside me. Marcell stands in my memory like a lighthouse—tall and proud on the porch of Abaco’s Ferry, greeting every boatload of passengers like royalty arriving at court. To me, as a child, he wasn’t just a man. He was the man. Confident, grounded, bigger than life.
And then there’s Tenie—my godmother. A force of nature. She believed fiercely in her duty to guide me toward the Lord and wasn’t afraid to remind me when she thought I was drifting off course. But even when we didn’t see eye to eye, her love never wavered. She remembered every birthday I ever had, sending a card and a generous check without fail, and at Christmas, another check would arrive. There were years when that check made all the difference. During the leanest of times, it kept Christmas alive for my boys. Thanks to Tenie, Santa never missed a year.
As a matter of fact, the very first gift I remember receiving in my life was from Uncle Cell and Aunt Tenie—a shiny red tricycle that gleamed like a firetruck in the sun. I can still see myself pedaling furiously down the sidewalk, my little legs pumping with joy. When my world crumbled in 1984—when I left my first marriage it was Tenie and Cell who opened their arms. They didn’t ask questions. They just showed up. So did Agnes, whose friendship never wavered.
That Mother’s Day, I went with Agnes to church. I felt raw, fragile, unsure if I even belonged in a place meant to honor mothers. But as we stepped inside and they handed out flowers, I hesitated. I didn’t feel worthy. Agnes reached for my hand and whispered, “You’re a mother too.” She said it like it was the most obvious truth in the world. I took that flower, tears in my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I started to believe I was going to be okay.
Afternoons around 4 o’clock were reserved for swimming with “the sisters”—a group of strong, kind women who welcomed me into their circle like I was one of their own. The sea felt like a second home. The saltwater always seemed to know what I needed—it healed my skin, my nerves, my heart. I still laugh when I think of the day Agnes looked at little Andy, who was digging happily in the warm white sand, and asked him if playing in the sand was the same as playing in the snow. He looked up, totally puzzled, and said, “No way.” His tone made it sound like she’d just asked if up was down.
I loved every part of life on the island—the daily rituals, the quiet simplicity. I remember Tenie standing on her porch every morning, calling out for Lola. It was a ritual I could set my watch by. Within minutes, I’d hear Miss Lola’s voice echoing back like a song only they could sing.
Those were the days before cell phones, and everyone here used CB radios. I couldn’t understand a word of it—it all sounded like static and code—but somehow Tenie could be in the back bedroom and hear when someone was calling her. The thing terrified me, and I wouldn’t go near it, but she treated it like an extension of herself.
Saturdays were for boat rides and “cut ups” and homemade coconut ice cream. And I loved Sunday evenings after church at Agnes’s mommy’s house, swapping stories and catching up. I fell head over heels for crawfish and grouper fingers, and no visit was ever complete without one of Ena’s legendary coconut pies. I miss Neil—his smile, his wit, and the wonderful meals we shared at the Hibiscus Café. That place fed my body and filled my heart.
Leaving the island was always heartbreaking. I remember riding the ferry away, crying softly as the dock faded from view. I never knew when we’d be back, and that kind of goodbye felt like losing a piece of myself. As I got older, I stopped crying—but I made a quiet vow never to say goodbye again. I only say, see you soon.
And yesterday, sitting in church, a realization came over me. Two women—my mother and Tenie—met over 75 years ago. They came from two different countries, two different cultures, two very different traditions. But they found friendship anyway. And through them, Agnes and I did too. We never judged one another. We simply loved and accepted each other exactly as we are.
The world would be a much better place if more people lived that way—if instead of drawing lines and building walls, we looked for the things we have in common. If we celebrated each other’s uniqueness without fear or judgment. If we cared less about being right, and more about being kind. If we reached out, instead of pulling away. That’s what this island taught me—not just once, but over a lifetime.
Man-O-War may be a small rock in the sea, but to me, it’s a place where love lives, where hearts meet, and where healing begins. And I will never stop saying, see you soon..
