A Squatchmoire.
The flutter of a lone bat’s wings echoes as I enter the tank. It’s tremendous, these echoes and this tank. Once a life-sustaining necessity, the behemoth now keeps company with decrepit barracks and overgrown roadways. After the harsh Mayaguana sun, the tank’s dark interior is like a planetarium. Perpetual twilight inside with a myriad of rust holes overhead, like constellations – nature’s embroidery. Someone has cut a primitive access hole.
“Mah-see! Mah-see! Where are you?” it’s Huel’s voice, somewhere behind.
Picking my way to the tank, I could see nature had been at work, taking back her island. Trees tower 15 feet and higher, letting the sun filter through the green. I’m first into the rusty relic-turned-observatory. Huel, John & Gabe are somewhere behind, entangled.
A simple, empty water tank that once sustained the small military base, has become a marvel. Funny, when a simple thing becomes something else entirely.
At Grand Bahama Island – way out east of Freeport – yet another rusting relic looms. An abandoned missile tracking dish. Inside is a ladder, going up up up up. But what am I for, if not for climbing it? So I made the heart-pounding climb.
It’s far from civilization, yet it glows at night.
We encounter Headlight Beetles. My first – and only- encounter. So far.
We meet up with some expats at a bar. They tell us an owl is rumored to reside in the abandoned tracking antena. Like pirates, pouring over a map, they plot our next move.
Harbored in islands like the Bahamas, stories seem anchored to the landscape. Leon had his top-hatted apparition. Easlie spoke of the abandoned settlement of Horse Pond. Like pirate explorers with Marissa in the lead, we found the large cave. The one in Uncle Bill’s photos. Later to learn, it had a resident – a large, white owl. “I’ve never seen it, but some people say they have.” Marissa said.
On San Salvador, Angela had spoken of her grandfather’s boat being accosted by a giant denizen of the deep. I learn – on our final day- that there are caves on San Salvador as well. One called Owl’s Hole.
Everyone had something.
Between my island adventures, I’d met a palm reader in a bar. She said I have a water hand – the ebb and flow – heavy and light emotion. She points out a specific line on my palm, “You have two young people in your life that mean a whole helluvalot to you.”
I stare at my palm. I’m suddenly wondering who the hell those two people are. Uncle Bill’s kids?
I’ve brought with me an assortment of irrefutable truthtellers. DNA kits. What secrets will those universal tattlers reveal?
During a layover in Nassau, I caught a ride to the south side of the island. I met up with Wolf Albury, a kayak guide. Coinsidently, he has ties to San Salvador, having spent time there growing up. He has family in Cockburn Town. We talk about old people and my intentions with their stories.
“It’s so important! Their stories!”, he says as he points out a juvenile Spotted Eagle Ray. We’re kayaking Bonefish Pond National Park.
I tell him Leon’s story about surviving the hurricane. “He went to his closet and brought out the jacket.” I imitate Leon, ” ‘This is the jacket I was wearing!’ “.
Wolf slaps his kayak and laughs out loud.
“Does the Bahamas have cryptids? You know… like a Bahamian Sasquatch, or something?”
“You mean, like the Chickcharney?” Wolf replies.
“The what?”
I flew out that evening, crypids on my brain.
Chickcharnies are said to be mischievous feathered creatures with red eyes, three toes on each foot, and long grasping tails. Their heads are said to be able to turn all the way around. They will either curse or bless travelers depending on how they are treated. They are described either as large owls or as feathered humanoid creatures that merely resemble owls.
A creature that curses travelers who mistreat the forest and blesses the ones who don’t.
In other words: a Bahamian owl that holds grudges.
I message Marissa. “What do you know about Chickcharnies? I want to find one.”
“You mean, like, witch babies?” she answers.
“Yeah, witch babies.”
We set a plan in the motion for my next visit, as I continue my Chickcharney research.
THIS JUST IN! – from one hundred and thirty five years ago:
In 1891 Joseph Chamberlain bought the island of Mayaguana. He planned to start a sisal plantation. He put his son, Neville, in charge of it. Evidently, Neville cut down a tree and was cursed by the Chickcharney. The sisal plantation failed. Later, Neville Chamberlain went on to do something … less interesting.
I search for more Bahamian cryptids.
About Mayaguana some Ai generated website titled “Carribean Tales” wrote, “Fish frequently surface and peer out of the water causing a distinctly eerie sensation of being watched and taunted.”
Someone felt they were being watched by … fish?? Fishsquatch! (Again, I am reminded of Angela’s grandfather’s sea monster.)
Because I’m lookimg for bird-like squatches, I stumble upon Batsquatch.
Cryptid Wiki says there are no actual sightings that can provide physical evidence of Batsquatch, however, this quote caught my eye: “Batsquatch is said to be 9 feet tall and has the ability to affect car engines. Books and websites sometimes describe Batsquatch as being 22 ft (7 m) tall, but this is probably a mistranslation as no Batsquatch of this size has ever been sighted.”
This leads me to believe that 9 feet tall Batsquatches HAVE been sighted?
All these monsters have glowing red eyes. To. A. Squatch.
So… maybe my uncle was taken by some sort of cryptid? The Chickcharney appears to have a pretty nasty temper. Who knows?
Back inside the tank, the rust holes overhead looked like stars again. A thousand tiny apertures where light leaks through old metal. Maybe that’s what these islands are like – punctured with openings where stories slip out. A white owl in a cave. Another living inside a radar dish. A forest creature with red eyes and a monkey’s tail that curses those who treat the land poorly. Everywhere I went, someone had something. Maybe the Chickcharney isn’t just a creature in the pine forest. Maybe it’s the islands themselves – watching, remembering, deciding who gets blessed with a story and who gets sent away empty-handed.
Maybe that’s all a cryptid really is.
A hole in the sky where a story shines through.
Do you believe?
Outermost Uncle 
Please ask questions and leave a comment. (Some folks are unable to comment – I think it’s a Wordpress thing and I’m really steamed about it.) You can also email me.