On almost any other resort island, Chris and Peggy Thompson would be hailed as real-estate visionaries. Here, they may be hung in effigy. Their crimes: Thompson planted a sign by the side of the road that said “Large Beach Lots For Sale.” That was along with posting ads for rental homes on the World Wide Web.
Such hucksterism is regarded as something akin to treason in Abaco, a small cluster of islands on the northern tip of the Bahamas. These islands have thrived for decades as an unspoiled, inexpensive retreat for the wealthy of North America. But now, as pressure for development is mounting, Abaconians fret that mismanaged growth will make these islands no different from the rest of the Bahamas — that is, in their view, a tacky playground for the proletariat.
Let the riff-raff go to Nassau, says Tito Baldwin, manager of the Abaco Inn, one of the few hotels on the island. “We don’t want flip-flops,” he adds. “We want boat shoes.”
Abaconians go to great lengths to keep the sweaty hordes at bay. Commercial and residential development is hobbled by numerous restrictions. Cruise ships are discouraged from docking. The sale of alcohol on one island is illegal.
“There’s no golf. No tennis. No entertainment. It’s everything you want in a vacation,” says Canadian visitor Sam Blyth, smiling over lobster and a glass of 1993 Calera Chardonnay as he watches his two young daughters play on a hotel deck. Blyth, a tour operator by profession, usually takes people to far-flung places like Antarctica and the Arctic. But “I’d never bring a tour here,” he says. “This place is far too nice.”
Abaconians frown upon advertising by resorts or realtors, although they will tolerate discreet ads in tony publications such as Town & Country. Most visitors discover the islands through word-of-mouth. Abaco is an insider’s tip passed with greatest discretion over cigars at the Harvard Club or over a bottle of champagne on the Concorde. Part of the appeal: hotels and rental homes are cheap. Suites at the Abaco Inn go for just $195 a night, though visitors get what they pay for. “It’s like camp,” says a tanned Donna Ingram, a West Palm Beach, Fla., props and set designer, about her recent week there. “You show up and it’s this tiny room. The fans have two speeds — real fast and slow. The rungs in the deck chair are missing.” A spokeswoman for the inn says the rooms are air conditioned, and the inn is “elegant but casual.”
Elbow Cay’s tourist information center reflects the keep-out attitude. Housed in one room of a dilapidated building, the unstaffed office doubles as a jail for the drunk and disorderly when necessary. What information this office dispenses is of dubious reliability: The most recent navigational chart of local waters is five years old.
Only a fraction of the 3.4 million tourists who visited the Bahamas last year found their way to Abaco. Andy Crawford says that suits him. The construction contractor from Jacksonville, Fla. is relaxing poolside at a villa he rented on Elbow Cay, nursing a vodka martini with his wife and his banker, both in bikinis. He has just spent the day sport fishing on a 55-foot yacht, Miss Heaven. “We don’t want to ruin our secret,” he says.
The secret is a lush and quiet paradise in a sapphire sea. Abaconian harbors are studded with yachts. Tucked high in its hills are million-dollar mansions. Cars are a rarity on the winding roads. Most people get around by foot, bicycle or electric golf cart, and traffic can be brought to a standstill by a hermit crab inching across the road.
A list of the islands’ winter residents includes prominent executives, entrepreneurs, and other big fish. William B. Johnson, chief executive of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Co., owns a 14-acre estate that is on the market for $7.9 million. Erich Kunzel, renowned conductor for the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra, discovered the islands while tooling around in his boat. And John Koerner III, the New Orleans soft-drink magnate who sold his Barq’s root-beer business for an estimated $50 million to Coca-Cola Co., has been coming here for more than two decades.
Occasionally, the wrong sort of social flotsam washes ashore. Abaconians don’t do much to make them feel welcome. “Where are we?” Mike Barker says helplessly, as he wades ashore on a deserted beach on Elbow Cay. A salesman from Womelsdorf, Pa., he rented a small motorboat on another island and promptly got lost. He is trailing a wife, a mother, two teenagers and an elderly aunt who is wearing a sun visor that says Bahama Mama.
“This is paradise,” he sighs, as his weary wife flops down to sunbathe at water’s edge. “But I sure wish there were a few signs around.”
Paradise is under seige by ambitious developers. “Watch out, Donald Trump,” shouts Chris Thompson, over the roar of his boat’s engine. On board are a middle-aged gynecologist and his bejeweled wife from Palm Beach. Thompson is about to take them on a boat tour of waterfront lots. Undeveloped waterfront property is selling briskly these days. Land with extraordinary views or deep-water moorings typically commands even higher prices than the current $1,000-a-foot on the water. Elbow Cay is sprouting a little skyline, much to his delight.
Meanwhile, Koerner, the onetime root-beer king, glumly surveys his neighborhood on the other side of the island. A few years ago, there were only five houses tucked into these hills. Now there are 18, all of them lavishly appointed and exquisitely landscaped. “It’s a slum,” Koerner says, disgusted. “A slum.”
