Tosh Brown reflects on quality time spent on runways, tarmacs, airports and taxis in the Bahamas. The journey to becoming “Bonefish Tosh,” and why it will take a very long while to dig your grave on Crooked Island.
Words: Tosh Brown
“Nassau, Bahamas is hot and crowded and only marginally appealing when I arrive there at 4:30 p.m. from Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. On my left, as the taxi noses along through traffic that reminds me of home, is a periodic view between buildings and down alleyways of the massive Atlantis Resort and Casino complex. It’s tall and shiny and garish and no doubt responsible for the ambitious room rates at even the seediest hotels on this island.
Out my right-side window is a stop-and-start, inch-along-block-by-block view of downtown Nassau. I’m sure it would look better at a faster rate of progress, but as we trundle I’m noticing most buildings need a fresh coat of paint to disguise their 30 years of deferred maintenance.
On this particular afternoon, I am a number of things: 43 years old, tired, and overdressed, because it was cold when I left home earlier this morning. So, now I’m hot, and therefore I smell, and I’m always a photographer, but tomorrow I’ll be a bonefisherman, too.”
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