Baha Mar Resort Casino: Largest Upscale Casino in Bahamas

Continuing
We can get a number of test shots per hole if I start out light and build until I collapse things. I decide that since we’re trying to acquire data below 30,000 feet, we’ll begin with 2 joints of Seismogel and work out way up.
The tests in the 10-30 meter holes resulted in fairly good, though shallow, data. After plotting the responses, it gave me a good idea what was going to be needed for the deeper holes.
In the first 40 meter test hole, I went with 15 joints of Seismogel.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the geophysicists said after collating the data.
I ramped it to 40, then 50, finally 60 kilos. Each time, the data looked more promising, but I had destroyed that test hole in the process.
For the 50 meter test, I said “Screw this” and went with 100 kilos of primary.
We had data coming out of our ears. Added into the vibrator data, run through the processing steps, we were actually getting useable data to around 37,000 feet in depth.
So, a program of 50-meter deep, 100-kilo charged, shot holes was devised.
It took a week to drill all the holes, and I was able to dispatch them in groups of five. I could have done more, but there was just such a mountain of data being returned, we were overloading the computer’s ability to record, much less process, the stuff.
I returned to Houston later that week and was so pleased to be back home again. I got a bone-cracking hug and heartfelt kiss from Esme, a sloppy slurp on the nose from Lady, and was totally ignored by the cat.
Back at the office, Harry waylaid me on my way to the lab.
“Rock, congratulations”, he offered. “I heard of your solution to the Belt data problem. So did the higher-ups. Guess what? You and Esme going to the Bahamas and staying at our company retreat for a week as a bonus. How about that?”
“How about that? Great. A place where my Hawaiian shirts will be really appreciated.” I smiled.
A scant two weeks later, we’re in Business Class winging our way to Nassau. Once there, overland to Cockburn Town and the company retreat.
It was the Oilman’s Club writ large, with a tropical flair. There was gambling on the island, fishing offshore for me, restaurants, tours, horseback riding for Esme, shops, cigars, unusual drinks; the whole megillah. It was a great, relaxing time; especially since it was all on someone else’s nickel.
We returned to Houston refreshed and ready to attack work once again.
About a month later, I return home one Friday, toting a Papasino’s Extra Large Gut-Bomb pizza and a new bottle of Russian-import vodka. It was movie night, and I decided we’re going to try some international Film-Noir over pizza and drinks.
Esme greets me, Lady almost gets a whole pizza to herself after she steamrolls me at the door. The cat ignores everyone.
I see Esme smiling. “Well, that’s good, I’m glad she likes pizza.” I think to myself.
“Rock, sit down. I have some news.” Esme says.
“Yes, dear?”, as I open the pizza box and look longingly at the sausage and peppers and onions and mushrooms. Hey, it’s been a long time since lunch
“Rock? You listening?” Esme asks, slightly louder.
Total attention on her now. “Yes?”
“Rock, we’re pregnant.” Esme smiles.
I knew that tropical weather was invigorating.
Next week, in Dr. Kuracisto’s office, we lay out a detailed game plan. We are going to try everything to avoid a repeat of the last time.
We decide it’s OK for Esme to work, but I’m hiring a driver for her. I don’t want to have her worry over the gonzo Houston traffic nor equally wacky weather. She will continue to work until she feels it necessary to take her maternity sabbatical. Her work readily agrees and that is one less problem with which we have to grapple.
The doctor puts her on a strict diet and prescribes her a special selection of neo-natal vitamins. He also outlines a program of exercise, so later that day, we go to Orshman’s and purchase a treadmill. She doesn’t need to be bucking the Houston humidity at this point in time.
I hire a housekeeper to show up twice weekly. Esme’s is on light duty.
No worries, once our child is born, she’ll be back to putting in the long hours.
Time progresses like it’s walking on eggshells. We are being so ridiculously overcautious, anything to avoid the situation like last time.
I even check if we should find alternate homes for our pets, as I have read that cat boxes and doggy leavings can complicate pregnancies.
Our Doctor says that won’t be necessary. Just make certain that I’m the one dealing with those fun chores.
He sets up an accelerated series of appointments for Esme. Every two weeks, just to be on the safe side.
Two months in and everything’s going as per plan. We’re eating right, I’m smoking less, only outside, and even giving over to soda water in lieu of my usual long hard day at the office drink. It’s to show solidarity.
We still have our Friday movie nights. Except its ever-so-tasty salads, yeesh, instead of delicious gut-bomb pizzas.
I don’t tell anyone at work, I wouldn’t want anything to jinx this. Life proceeds as per plan.
Until the 16th week.
Our second pregnancy spontaneously terminates.
I can’t say if it was harder or easier to accept this cruel turn of affairs.
We have to go through the same procedures as last time.
The heartfelt “I’m sorry’s”.
The stiff upper lips.
The recriminations, the angst, the hatred at whatever was allowing this to transpire.
It took more months and more being there for each other. I won’t lie and say any of this was easy. It was perhaps the worst part of my life so far.
Esme decided to return to work. I retained the driver for another couple of months; I still didn’t want her to have to deal with tailgaters, lane-sliders, and all the other genera of idiot Houston drivers.
Dr. Kuracisto called us in for a consultation three months later. He had the results of the genetic testing. There was nothing that could be found that was causative to these situations. He offered us nothing but general solace that there was nothing that could be found that said either Esme or I were genetically culpable.
I was relieved, but only in the tiniest fraction. The family history of miscarriages was not evidently passed down along with mitochondrial DNA.
Back to square one, we both threw ourselves into our work. It was a grim time, as it was proving difficult to paste a smile on every day when you were carrying this load of unresolved grief.
Even travel seemed to pale, as it was always our answer to get out and get a fresh perspective. San Antonio and Austin just faded. We stayed home more and engrossed ourselves in our respective time-consuming hobbies.
I had built a fair carpentry shop out in the garage, and Esme knitted like she had a $100/day habit.
I could sense our slow, inexorable drifting apart.
The next week, I booked a trip to Greece. It was time for me to pull out all the stops and do something I had always promised. I contacted Esme’s works and unbeknownst to her, sorted out all the time off and arranged for the trip.
I came home on Friday and had arranged for the pets to be picked up by the local critter jail. I had the tickets in my pocket when I walked into Esme’s knitting room.
“OK”, I said, “Time for you to get packed.” As I handed her the tickets.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“We’re going to Greece. Just like I always promised. Now, hurry up. The car will be here shortly.” I told her.
“Oh, Rock”, she protested, “We can’t go. What about Lady and Nietzsche? What about the house? What about…?”
“What about us?” I sternly replied. “We, you and me, are the most important items in this old house. We are battered and bruised, but not broken. We need a tune-up. So, get packed. Everything’s arranged.”
It finally dawned that this was perhaps what was necessary at this point in time. Eight hours later, we’re on our way to Greece. Three weeks in Athens, Crete, and Santorini.
We’re also going over to Cyprus, where I have ulterior motives. It's home to the Troodos Ophiolite. It represents a Late Cretaceous spreading axis (mid-ocean ridge) that has since been uplifted due to its positioning on the overriding Anatolian plate at the Cyprus arc and subduction to the south of the Eratosthenes Seamount. It’s one of the many things on my geological bucket list.
I had arranged for a two-week stay in Greece along with a week-long cruise. I was trying to be certain I could reset our lives back to what passed for normality.
We had a great time. Esme was particularly enchanted with the ruins and the history just dripping off of everything in the area. I even got to trek a couple of historical volcanoes in the region. But most time was spent together, trying to repair what no one really knew was slightly tattered.
Upon return to Houston, times resumed back to what passed for normal. Esme returned once again to work, I dismissed our driver but kept the housemaid. Lady was miffed at us for a week for having incarcerated her. The cat just ignored me.
Dr. Kuracisto called us in for a consultation two months later. He hadn’t found any sort of evidence of what was causing the pregnancy problems. He wanted to know our intentions and he had some advice to offer.
We still wanted our own family, but it was still a very sore subject. I reminded Esme that if we wanted to continue, we’d best hear what the doctor had to say.
After a lot of talks that I must admit went in one ear and out the other, he suggested we visit his colleague, an endocrinologist, and reproductive therapist.
He said there was no hurry. Take our time, discuss the matter, and then let him know of our answer.
The next few days were bleak, to say the least. It dredged up painful memories we’d tried our damnedest to bury. However, it was Esme in the end, with her risk-benefit analysis that ruled the day.
Two weeks later, we met with Dr. Gormon, Esme’s gynecologist’s endocrinologist colleague.
There was an extensive, exhaustive medical history taken of us both. We had to see if we could source any of our medical records from back home in Baja Canada. That accomplished, we underwent a battery of tests the likes of which I haven’t seen this side of cosmonaut evaluations.
MRIs, CAT-scans, blood work, stress tests, other generally nasty, uncomfortable, and invasive testing procedures, some of which I could do without, quite frankly. Over the span of two months, we were periodically poked, prodded, and probed. No stone, so to speak, was left unturned.
Everything came back right down the line. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of medical testing to determine that I could stand to lose a few pounds.
We were nowhere nearer an explanation that when we started all this.
Esme grew more and more inconsolable.
But one little niggling blip finally showed up on the radar. There was this seemingly insignificant hormone deficiency noted in Esme. If one wasn’t specifically looking for it, it would have never been noticed.
Dr. Gorman felt that this could be the smoking gun.
He felt, after long consultation with his colleagues, that her slight departure from the norm with this hormone could be either the catalyst or contributory cause to our spontaneous pregnancy terminations.
This was both news we wanted to hear but not news Esme wanted.
Now she felt totally and singularly responsible for our quandary.
I told Dr. Gorman to say what was necessary to shift this absurd notion from Es’s mind.
It was not, in fact, Esme’s fault. It was no ones. He explained it could just as well be an internal reaction to my genetic contribution. They had done heroic amounts of genetic testing and found no incompatibility, but one never quite knows for absolute certain in such cases.
“Doctor”, I said, “With this revelation, what is your prognosis for our future viable term-pregnancy?”
Bull by the balls time. If there was the ultimate bad news, better now than later.
“With the new hormone therapy” he continued, “We can augment Esme’s minor deficiency. Now it’s a new treatment, just past experimental. There so far have been no untoward side effects or complications and the results have been very, very promising. It’s quite expensive, though, and I must be frank with you. It’s not a panacea that will be guaranteed to generate positive results.”
Esme and I look at each other.
“Doctor”, I say for the both of us, “Thank you for being clinical. We understand. When can we start?”
“Splendid. Immediately” he notes, “There is a supply of the drug here in the Houston Medical Center. I will arrange for your prescription and dosage if you so desire”
I give Esme a sort of half-smile.
“What do you say, dear? Third times a charm?” I try a little levity.
Esme actually chuckles a bit.
“Like my husband always says: ‘Let’s get after its wild ass.’” She replies, filled with new resolve.
The drug is monstrously expensive, even though Esme is only taking milligrams of the stuff per dosage. She must continue with the program for three months prior to our trying again. There will be weekly visits with Dr. Gorman and more testing to monitor the situation to a gnat’s ass.
It’s going to be a pure bitch, schedule-wise, time-wise, driving-wise. Dr. Gorman is located over on one side of town, we’re on another, and the Medical Center is in another altogether.
But, if it were easy, everybody’d be doing it. We re-arrange our schedules as the Doctor recommends.
The hormone therapy has no internal nor outward effect on Esme. It’s as if she’s not taking a drug that costs in excess of $800 per dose. The drug has to be stored in the fridge, below a certain temperature. If that is exceeded, the drug becomes worthless. But keeping things cool in the car is old hat for this ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeform. I purchase a plug-in in-car refrigerator for our weekly jaunts to the Med Center.
Finally, three months have elapsed. We’re given the endocrinological green-light. All systems go and all that. I’ve even dropped a couple of stone to see if that would help.
Weeks segues into months, but no results. I need to go to New Orleans, Denver, and Casper over the next few months. More time away, more time slipping, slipping, slipping away into the future.
We take several short trips around Texas and even over to New Mexico over the next months.
We’re near Hobbs, New Mexico on the western Texas/eastern New Mexico state line. Cuba is practically clear over on the other side of the state. We both look at each other and gun the 4-Runner west.
Over Diablo Sandwiches at the Cuba Café, I ask if anyone has seen Sani.
“Sorry, Rock, Esme. Not for the last couple of months. But that’s his way. He could show up tomorrow.” Laqanda the waitress tells us.
We wheel into the Lago de Estrella pump station, quite unannounced. Long John sees us and comes running.
“Rock! Esme! How the hell are you all?” he laughs.
“We’re OK, John. How are you doing?” I ask.
After handshakes and hellos, Esme excuses herself and goes over to visit with Jerry and Betsy.
“So, John, what’s up?” I ask.
“Not much, Rock.” He replies. “You?”
I fill him in on my new title and position.
“Oh, well. Fuck me very much. Doctor Rock? VP? Oh, very nice.” John laughs, rubbing it in.
“Yeah, just don’t tell anyone else. It’s a secret.” I chuckle.
John looks over to our new ride, gives a low whistle, and helps himself to a cigar and cold beer.
“Sorry, Doctor, old habits die hard.” He laughs.
John tells me Ace has been promoted to Diesel Mechanic First Class. He’s running all now 12 huge diesel compressors.
Danny and Beth have departed the company and the state. John has no idea where they landed. They just took off one day, poof, and were gone.
“Not a great loss”, John chuckles.
We sit around and shoot the shit for an hour or so. Just catching up and telling new lies to each other.
I ask him about Sani. He says he hasn’t seen the old coot in months.
“But, with you and Esme here, I’m sure he’ll show,” John says, pointing to the side of his nose and then the sky.
We spend the night at the pump station at Jerry and Betsy’s behest. He whips up a wonderful dinner of fry bread, grilled fish, grilled meat, and his signature incendiary salsa. It was another meal for the books.
I ask if Fred’s still out at the Scavada Trading Post.
“Oh, yeah”, Jerry laughs, “He’s still there, giving everyone fits.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Everyone wants that pitiful little piece of property. It may not look it, but it’s a bloody gold mine. Location. Location. Location. But he won’t sell unless someone ponies up his ridiculous asking price.” Jerry continues.
“We’re going to stop on our way out tomorrow. Es and I want to drop by Javen Spanner’s place as well. How are things with the Spanners?” I ask.
“Not so good. Javen’s gone rather infirm. Eunice is having a devil of a time looking after him.” Bets replies.
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t drop by…” Es says.
“No, I think it’d do the old boy some good. I’ll ring them tomorrow morning and let them know you’re coming” Jerry says.
“That'd be great”, I say.
“That’s OK. Anything for Doctor Rocknocker.” He laughs.
I’ll never live this down.
We visit the Spanner Ranch. Javen is indeed rather unwell, but glad to see us; as is Eunice.
We don’t overstay our welcome and an hour later, we’re headed out to see Fred.
We wheel into the exact same, totally unchanged, Scavada Trading Post parking lot and hit the horn; just to annoy Fred.
“God damn it, now what…” Fred gripes as he walks out of the trading post.
He sees the black truck, he sees me wave, and then he sees Es.
He launches himself across the hood of our truck, slides to a dusty stop, and says:
“Hi, there!” Welcome back!”
Fred never has nor ever will change.
Over beers and cigars in the trading post, Fred brings us up to speed with all the reservation news and goings-on.
We tell him of our adventures and he has to give me the rub over the Doctor thing. We leave out the bits about trying to become parents.
Esme is poring over the dead pawn collection and Fred and I are swapping lies, as usual.
The door chimes and Sani walks in.
“Sani! Yáʼátʼééh. Haʼátʼíísh baa naniná?” I ask him as we shake hands in the Indian manner.
“I am well ‘Kǫʼ dził-hastiin.” He turns to address Esme, “Yáʼátʼééh Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin. I hope you are well.”
Esme greets him with a womanly hug, sniffs a bit, but says nothing.
“Sani was told you are here and seek him. I am here” he says.
“I see you, Sani. Yep, can’t deny the reservation grapevine.” I chuckle.
“This I was told by the old ones. You are both troubled. Sit. We must talk.” Sani seriously says.
Fred excuses himself and busies himself elsewhere out of earshot.
“Yes, Sani. We seek guidance.” I say. Esme agrees.
“This I know, have been told. You have been through much. Much pain, much loss. I grieve for thee.” Sani says.
“Ahéheeʼ” I thank him, as I remember, “You have our gratitude.”
“There have been many changes. It is there for all to see.” Sani says.
“Yes. Many. Esme and I have married. I’ve received my Doctorate, I taught at university of a while. We have moved to Houston after many long trips. We are trying for a family.” I say. Esme stiffens.
“In many things, you have happiness. In others, much pain. Your pain is greater.” Sani says.
“Yes, we have to agree.” Es and I concur. Esme wells up.
“You will remain. I will return.” Sani says, and with that, saddles up and departs.
Fred walks in with a cold beer for me and an orange Fanta for Esme.
“Don’t try and figure it out. It’s just his way.” Fred says.
We spend the next couple of hours chatting about things past and present. We scrupulously avoid the future.
Sani walks in and we all greet each other.
Fred disappears into the woodwork again. For a big guy, he can sure be stealthy.
“I will speak with you as the old ones have spoken with me,” Sani says.
“Your pain will fade. This will take time. Do not blame each other. There is no blame.” Sani tells us.
Esme is a bit contrary, “Thanks for the platitudes. But I still don’t see how this helps.”
“Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin.” Sani says, “This has been so much pain for you. More than many could bear. You can. You will. You are strong. You have Kǫʼ dził-hastiin. Together all will be as it was foretold. All as it was foreseen.”
We think back to the Squaw Dance. Is Sani referring to that?
“Thank you, Sani” I say. Esme is deep in thought. I do not disturb her.
“Now is not time for grief. Not time for pain. Time for friendship. This you have, here now. You will have what you desire in time. Do not despair. So it has been told, so it will be.” Sani says.
End of discussion.
I buy Sani and Fred a few beers and we chat for an hour’s discussion. After relieving me of a couple of my cigars, Sani rises to excuse himself.
“Hágoónee', Sani. I hope we meet again. Thank you for your words.” I say. Esme agrees.
“Hágoónee', Kǫʼdził-hastiin. Hágoónee' Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin. I will leave you now. Remember.” Sani says.
Esme hugs him and I shake his hand.
“Will we meet again?” I ask.
“If it is deemed needed.” Sani says and departs.
Esme and I bid Fred a fond farewell. We need to get back to Houston and real-life once again.
We return to Houston and retrieve the animals. Lady goes nuts for the rawhide toys we found out west. The cat still ignores me.
We continue with Esme’s drug therapy and keep hoping for the best.
Time passes. Nothing of note happens. It’s hard to concentrate on some things when you’re consumed with others.
One Monday, I get a call.
“Rock here,” I say.
“Daddy Rock?” Esme asks.
I leave work and slowly drive home; unwilling to tempt fate. I pick up a bouquet of yellow roses on the way.
They’re Esme’s favorites. They represent hope.
We have a small, subdued celebration. We are cautious as field mice in a roomful of alley cats.
We want nothing to plague this pregnancy like the last two.
Now, we have doctor visits bi-weekly. With Dr. Kuracisto to monitor Esme’s progression, and Dr. Gorman to make sure her chemicals stay balanced.
It’s walking on eggshells time again. But every day, every week, every month, we grow slightly more enthusiastic that this will be the one. After all, third time’s a charm. Right?
We mark each passing milestone with subdued excitement. Five weeks, ten weeks, twenty weeks pass without incident. We feel like this is the one.
Esme feels great, her chemicals are doing what they should be doing, and as far as Dr. Kuracisto can tell, the pregnancy is progressing along with textbook normality.
Tuesday of week twenty one greets us with a disaster. We awake to find the bed swamped with blood.
The third pregnancy, after all our hopes, dreams, preparations, desires and medical science; has just been dashed to oblivion.
No, it doesn’t get any easier.
We both spiral into a deep depression.
Esme wants to give up. I don’t know if I have the words to change her mind, nor if I really want to.
After a few weeks of moping around the house, going through the motions at work, and generally not giving a damn about anything, I decide that enough is enough.
On Friday, I bring dinner and a bottle of Esme’s favorite wine.
“Es, I will speak with you.” I say.
“Yeah. What?” she replies.
“Risk-benefits analysis,” I say. “We have our health, we both have good jobs…”I spin off into the pros and cons of the last year or so.
Esme is sniffling now. Lady comes up and sets her huge head in Es’s lap, staring at her with those big, brown eyes. That dog is positively psychic. The cat still ignores us.
“OK” I say, “We cannot and will not continue like this. Let me ask you a direct question: do you still want a family?”
“Of course.” She sniffs.
“OK”, I reply, “I do as well. So we set a time. We give up all the magical lotions, notions, and potions. We let nature take its course. If by the end of said time, we’ve not had success, we abandon that route and go to Option B, adoption. What I do know is that we stop, right now, this self-destructive behavior. We get on with our lives. We do not despair. So it has been told, so it will be.”
Esme looks at me, looks at Lady, and sniffs a bit.
“OK, Rock, you’re right. We choose life. Let’s give it a year.” Es says.
Life returned to some semblance of normality. Esme excelled at work and I returned with renewed vigor to the Lab. We both remembered how to laugh, and how to take a slightly skewed view of life.
It was like a re-birth if I can employ the painful metaphor.
We visited Canada later that year, as I had to go do some investigations into the Athabascan Oil sands. We made it to Alaska, as I went to the North Slope and Es went shopping in Anchorage. We went to Galveston and Corpus Christi several times for weekenders.
Time marched on and we both forgot about our year contract. We were living again, it was like we were courting again.
I had been offered a new position in exploration. I was now Senior Manager of the company’s International Exploration endeavors. Esme was doing well at work, too. She was progressing up the domestic ladder.
We were more active and swam almost daily. Lady liked to help out on our laps sometimes, but typically stayed out of the pool and ran alongside barking as we did our laps. I foolishly dallied with golf. Esme took up squash and played against others in the neighborhood.
I spent a lot of money on clubs and balls. With some guys from work, I went out on weekends and gave golf balls their high-velocity freedom.
After returning from another round of losing balls, I drop my clubs in the garage and grumble my way into the house.
“Bloody stupid game.” I groused.
I see Esme sitting at the table, she had just made a fresh pot of coffee. She bade me to sit.
“Hi, hon”, She asks, “How’d it go this time?”
“I’m getting better.” I replied, “I only lost eight balls this time. Better than the twelve the time before.”
“That’s good.” She smiles, inscrutably.
“What?” I ask.
“Remember our agreement?” Es smiles.
“Yes…?” I cautiously reply.
“Well, forget it. I’m pregnant.” She smiles.
I hug the stuffing out of her, but only figuratively.
“Now, Rock. I’m no China doll.” She reminds me, “We’re going to be as careful as we can, but no chemistry, no endocrinology, no voodoo. Just Dr. Kuracisto’s normal prenatal visits and let nature take its course.”
I hug her harder.
“So it has been told, so it will be.” I remind her.
The weeks turned into months. Time trickled, sped, and tootled along of its own volition.
Esme took her maternity leave early. No need to force the issue.
I traveled to Denver, New Orleans, and Casper several times. Life proceeded to get on with getting on.
Upon returning from Corpus or Dallas, I forget which, I come home, dropped into my leather chair, and give a huge sigh. Home again, naturally.
As far as things were proceeding. So far, so good. Esme was indisposed in the euphemism at the time, so I switched on the ball game.
A few minutes later, Esme walks in and asks me if the car’s gassed up.
Thick as two short planks, I reply, “Yes, Why?”
“Rock, it’s time.” She ridiculously calmly says.
Instant panic.
We were on the road to the hospital scant minutes later. I forced myself to drive carefully, no matter how much I wanted to impersonate Big Daddy Don Garlits.
Besides, isn’t that the way? Get pulled over by a cop on the way to the hospital? Then you can chew his ass and get a free police escort?
We arrive at the hospital maternity ward and I run in to grab a nurse, doctor, orderly, janitor, anyone.
“My wife’s ready to give birth!” I yell, “We need a gurney, STAT!”
It was all for naught.
A full 36 hours and one Cesarean Section later, our daughter, Ms. Christine Steindóttir Rocknocker made her debut.
9 pounds, 14 ounces, and entirely perfect. Highest Apgar scoring marks. She actually turned herself over on the scale once I trotted her to neo-natal. Not bad for a 2-minute old.
The end of one chapter and the beginning of another. I hope the next few have slightly less drama.

Hi all,
First time posting. I was waiting in line for a restaurant in a casino where I had a glass of beer that I had obtained (complimentary while gambling) shatter in my non-dominant hand cuttting both said hand and my other dominant hand. 100% sure that I had not touched the glass with my other hand.
Staff quickly came by, saw I was bleeding from both my hands, and asked me to go to the bathroom to wash off since I still had glass shards on my hands and on my feet. Subsequently washed off, went to security as well where they commented that I had glass shards/speckles apparent on my t-shirt as well. They asked if I wanted to go to a hospital, and I said no since I didnt’t think there were any more shards imbedded in me or elserwhere. EMTs bandaged me up and took a statement from my girlfriend who wrote down what happened exactly as above.
Wondering if there is any legal recourse. Location: Bahamas, Nassau. Profession: Physician-in-training where my field of choice relies heavily on use of my hands. Originally from US

Soon I will be traveling to the Bahamas. First flying into Nassau and then taking a 30 minutes flight to Eleuthera. I will have to collect my baggage in Nassau and recheck for the second flight. My friend suggested we each bring two bottles of alcohol(max permitted) with us because it will be too expensive there. I have several concerns and am hoping some experienced whiskey connoisseurs can provide good advice.
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Is anyone familiar with Eleuthera or the Bahamas and the available bourbons or scotch?
If I place whiskey in my checked luggage will contact with the cork ruin it? I read on this forum (or in the FAQ) that the high alcohol content will quickly breakdown the cork and absorb nasty flavors, so bottles should always be stored upright.
Should I wait to purchase in the duty free store of Philadelphia or Nassau? I feel like it would be a gamble fore selection and the price may not be worth it, but at that point ill be stuck.
Thanks in advance for any advice.
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