“Blow it!” He demands in drunken enthusiasm.

I shake my head, faking a polite smile, but this merely encourages him. Spewing thick smoke from his soggy, hand-rolled cigarette, he demonstrates, again, how he likes his conch blown.

We are at Little Farmers Cay, a tiny settlement in the Exuma Chain of Islands in the Bahamas. By tiny, I mean less than 50 residents, all descendants of 3 original families. Extremely poor, it reminds me of the poverty-stricken areas of Appalachia I called on as a Social Worker many years ago. Right down to the local dogs-”potcakes”, tied to trees or the rusted fender of a long-abandoned automobile.

We have picked-up a mooring ball beside our new boat-buddies David and Mary. Dinghying in to the government dock, we pay the $20 fee to Little Jeff, one of the few successful entreprenors on the island. With the promise of fresh-caught lobster later, we head off on the dusty lane to Ty’s Sunset Bar. A very attractive building with a long white beach, wooden deck and big-screen TV.

Following a few rum punches, Jeff and I head back towards Kismet. A sign on the road invites us to “JR’s Wood Carvings”.

“Come. Come,” JR beckons us to a to share a sip of something on a brown bag from which he and his adult son share swigs. We decline. I am very squeamish about exchanging spit with strangers.

“Come look,” he leads us to his “shop” that contains a dozen or so wood carvings and conch shells of various sizes.

“Very nice work,” I compliment him. “We don’t have any room on our boat.”

This is when JR grabs a conch shell, purses his lips and gives it a blow. A low bellow similliar to a fog horn, emits from the shell. Lovely, really.

He hands, no, shoves the conch at me, demonstrating the lip vibration while showering me with alcoholic spit.

I wince.

He blows it again, once more telling me to try. Knowing I’ll not escape until I acquiesce, I take the shell, give it my best pfffftttt.

The shell emits a tiny fart.

Before he can demonstrate for the 200^th time, we quickly excuse ourselves.

Over sundowners on Apsara with David and Mary, I whine that “JR made me blow his conch,” to which we all share a belly-laugh.

At sunset, the soothing sound of conch horns from neighboring boats saturates the evening air. This is a ritual, I learn, of cruisers marking the end of the day.

Bedtime comes early at sea. 9 pm is “boaters midnight.” Drifting off, I vow that I will, indeed, and on my very own conch, learn to blow like a pro.