We raised anchor at about 7 a.m. on Thursday morning and started to motor north along the west coast of St. Vincent. There was very little wind and sun was beaming from a cloudless sky. The water looked like mercury. We watched St. Vincent's spectacular profile slip by us, waved a distance farewell to Wallilabou, and came upon wind at the northern tip of the island.
It was a perfect wind for the beat up to St. Lucia, blowing 15 to 20 knots. We made 5 to 7 knots until about 15 miles from Soufriere, where the wind dropped. We slouched along, finally bringing in our sails and starting the engines. A pair of small whales spouted away from St. Lucia as we arrived.
The bay at Soufriere was very nice and we were greeted by the inevitable boatboy who squired us to a mooring on the northern edge, right under a mighty cliff. It was too late for customs and immigration, so we settled for RPs and dinner, and kept our Q flag flying.
(The Q flag is plain yellow. No stripes or spots or other colours. It is flown when entering a new country's waters until customs and immigration have been dealt with--the process known as clearing in. Q is for quarantine; the flag used to signal a ship carrying disease or plague. US regulations require that it be flown from 12 miles out. I have no idea whether other countries expect it in greater or lesser distances. I just go with 12 since it doesn't tax my brain to greatly to remember one number. In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm in charge of courtesy an Q flags.)
The night was peaceful except for a few mosquitoes, a very loud wind generator, and the occasional whiff of fire and brimstone.
In the morning, WW went ashore (only the captain is allowed ashore to clear in; crew must remain aboard until the formalities are complete) to clear us in. He returned to say he had booked a water taxi and a taxi for 10:30. There were a couple of things at Soufriere I was quite interested in seeing.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Onward to St. Lucia
After the EC had been delivered ashore, WW began a series of runs in to the marina for fuel and water. Django had got a bump on her stern during one of our dockside experiences and the Captain was not keen on taking her in unnecessarily. He therefore loaded Boffo with jerry cans and proceeded to deliver a quarter of a ton of fuel and water to Django's tanks. He did this alone since we'd finally worked out that my pulled muscle was, in fact, a cracked or broken rib. I was not (nor had I been) much use in the heavy lifting department.
On his last run, he delivered a massive bag of laundry to the Lagoon Marina. It would be ready after lunch. Then he collected his third mate and we caught a bus in to Kingstown. This was a provisioning run. We laid in what we would need for the next few days. Essentials such as flour, sugar, limes and, of course, rum. We also completed our formal clearing out. Once done, we had 24 hours to get ourselves out of St. Vincent.
Laden with our purchases, we decided to return to Boffo in a taxi, overshooting to pick up our laundry first. We found a taxi stand with half a dozen drivers standing about hoping for fares. One offered to take us for $50 EC. WW looked appalled and marched into the cluster of drivers asking the price. Another driver said 50. The first driver said 40. WW said it was still too much. A third driver scored: 30, he said. He led us down the rank of cabs to where his small white tired Nissan was awaiting. We loaded ourselves in the back. The interior had been stripped from both doors and the rear window on my side was replaced with plastic bag. I opened my window. WW went to open his and followed a bit of wire to where it finally ended in a switch. The switch worked, the window opened. WW and the driver spent much of the drive discussing the wonderfulness of used cars.
The laundry was ready except for the whites which weren't quite dry. So they went out on the lifelines when we got back to Django. Provisions were stored. RPs and dinner were prepared.
We had two new crew members arriving on Saturday in St. Lucia. We consulted our charts and reference books and decided that, wind permitting, Soufriere would be the place to go to await their arrival. It would be a longish run--about 45 miles. It was early to bed in preparation for an early start in the morning.
On his last run, he delivered a massive bag of laundry to the Lagoon Marina. It would be ready after lunch. Then he collected his third mate and we caught a bus in to Kingstown. This was a provisioning run. We laid in what we would need for the next few days. Essentials such as flour, sugar, limes and, of course, rum. We also completed our formal clearing out. Once done, we had 24 hours to get ourselves out of St. Vincent.
Laden with our purchases, we decided to return to Boffo in a taxi, overshooting to pick up our laundry first. We found a taxi stand with half a dozen drivers standing about hoping for fares. One offered to take us for $50 EC. WW looked appalled and marched into the cluster of drivers asking the price. Another driver said 50. The first driver said 40. WW said it was still too much. A third driver scored: 30, he said. He led us down the rank of cabs to where his small white tired Nissan was awaiting. We loaded ourselves in the back. The interior had been stripped from both doors and the rear window on my side was replaced with plastic bag. I opened my window. WW went to open his and followed a bit of wire to where it finally ended in a switch. The switch worked, the window opened. WW and the driver spent much of the drive discussing the wonderfulness of used cars.
The laundry was ready except for the whites which weren't quite dry. So they went out on the lifelines when we got back to Django. Provisions were stored. RPs and dinner were prepared.
We had two new crew members arriving on Saturday in St. Lucia. We consulted our charts and reference books and decided that, wind permitting, Soufriere would be the place to go to await their arrival. It would be a longish run--about 45 miles. It was early to bed in preparation for an early start in the morning.
From the Estonian EC Member: Enn
A voyage on the good ship Django is not just a pleasure outing; it’s equally a learning experience in sea craft and ethnography. Should any reader be lucky enough to have the opportunity to sail with Captain Willie, here are a few, possibly useful, odds and ends of information--things we all could have learned long ago if our mothers had worn navy boots or consorted with sailor. But, as Jimmy Cagney used to say, “it’s never too late to be wised up.” Unlike some of us, who learned the hard way, with a little perseverance you can actually master these skills before you embark on your adventure…
Practise making salubrious rum punches. On second thought, don’t bother, since Kathleen’s rum punch is impossible to improve on. (We know whereof we speak, having done arduous research checking rum punchs in numerous bars from St. Vincent to Union Island. It was no contest; hers is non pareil.) So go immediately to the fallback position. Practise drinking rum punches…and beer…and wine…and…
Leave your watch at home. Shipboard time is told according to a variety of naval traditions–-such as the ringing of bells (eg. three bells, six bells, etc.). The Django has its own new, improved and simplified time units—-just two of them, in fact--to mark the important periods of the day: “beer o’clock,” close to noon and “rum punch o’clock,” approximately at sunset. Both periods mark the beginning of a prolonged period of rest and relaxation after strenuous maritime activities…
Dust off your Pete Seeger, Everley Brothers, Kingston Trio and Bob Dylan LPs and try to memorize as many words to their songs as you can. You will need this to keep up with the singalongs that take place in the cockpit under a starry sky nearly every night. (Yes, it is like summer camp, without nerdy video games, so you have to make your own entertainment; but instead of a fire, you gather around Willie’s guitar.) If you want to be a real hit, memorize the words to several esoteric and largely forgotten British music hall songs of a comedic nature. But be forewarned and pick carefully, Kathleen knows almost all of them and, like the Energizer bunny, will outlast you for sure. Non-singers may be comforted by the fact that the fallback position allows you to actually talk to each other.
Empty your fridge of beans, asparagus and broccoli, and visit your local Caribbean grocery to stock up on yams, papaya, plantain, cristofine, etc. Look for Caribbean recipes on the internet and experiment. Use spices you have never heard of with lots of chili peppers. Stock up on Pepto-Bismal. The fallback position is to accept that Kathleen is a better cook than you will ever be and that you can probably only rise to the occasion by treating her to dinner on shore.
Mate and Skipper work on a bit of
Django haute cuisine: a fresh and juicy pineapple
Learn to tie seaworthy knots, real ones, not the kind your “granny” would be proud of. Practise them, especially the “bowl-in”, until you can do them blindfolded, with one-hand, in three seconds flat. It could save your life, “they” say.
Make an appointment to visit a dominatrix, or better still invite your mother-in-law for a brief visit prior to the voyage. Be sure to ask her to wear her leathers and stiletto heels, and to bring her riding crop. This will help prepare you for the time when the Mate “whips” the eager crew into seagoing shape.
With your partner, take turns waking each other up every two hours. This will prepare you for the longer overnight passages, when everyone stands dog watches. Even if you are lucky enough to hug the coast, you’ll still need to do this to cope with overnight rainstorms during which you will have to wake up to close the overhead hatches. The fallback position is to revert to childhood and learn to sleep in a wet bed.
Start talking to strangers on the streets of Westmount, especially ones who mumble or slur their speech. It’s good practice in fine-tuning your ear to “hear” a variety of accents. This will help you to interact with interesting people on the islands you visit. Islanders are eager to chat with visitors and often have surprisingly interesting tales to tell. The fallback position is to never go ashore.
Above all, practise humility. No way you will ever know as much about sailing as Captain Willie and you will need all the equanimity you can muster to withstand the withering scorn of the Mate when you mess up…which you will! The good thing is that she doesn’t really mean it and will not deprive you of your daily rum ration.
So that’s how it lies…the sum total of our post-voyage wisdom. We hope it helps.
Bon Voyage…
(All photos kindness of Dana and Enn)
The Captain at the wheel
So, about two weeks prior to the voyage, start sleeping on a water bed, the bigger, the better. This will help you get used to the gentle rocking motion of the boat at anchor and the roller coaster ride of the ocean swells. When you actually get on board, you’ll thank your lucky stars that Django is a catamaran and not a mono-hull. The alternative or back-up position is to stock up on Graval pills…Practise making salubrious rum punches. On second thought, don’t bother, since Kathleen’s rum punch is impossible to improve on. (We know whereof we speak, having done arduous research checking rum punchs in numerous bars from St. Vincent to Union Island. It was no contest; hers is non pareil.) So go immediately to the fallback position. Practise drinking rum punches…and beer…and wine…and…
Leave your watch at home. Shipboard time is told according to a variety of naval traditions–-such as the ringing of bells (eg. three bells, six bells, etc.). The Django has its own new, improved and simplified time units—-just two of them, in fact--to mark the important periods of the day: “beer o’clock,” close to noon and “rum punch o’clock,” approximately at sunset. Both periods mark the beginning of a prolonged period of rest and relaxation after strenuous maritime activities…
KMH indulging in 'strenuous maritime activities'
Dust off your Pete Seeger, Everley Brothers, Kingston Trio and Bob Dylan LPs and try to memorize as many words to their songs as you can. You will need this to keep up with the singalongs that take place in the cockpit under a starry sky nearly every night. (Yes, it is like summer camp, without nerdy video games, so you have to make your own entertainment; but instead of a fire, you gather around Willie’s guitar.) If you want to be a real hit, memorize the words to several esoteric and largely forgotten British music hall songs of a comedic nature. But be forewarned and pick carefully, Kathleen knows almost all of them and, like the Energizer bunny, will outlast you for sure. Non-singers may be comforted by the fact that the fallback position allows you to actually talk to each other.
Empty your fridge of beans, asparagus and broccoli, and visit your local Caribbean grocery to stock up on yams, papaya, plantain, cristofine, etc. Look for Caribbean recipes on the internet and experiment. Use spices you have never heard of with lots of chili peppers. Stock up on Pepto-Bismal. The fallback position is to accept that Kathleen is a better cook than you will ever be and that you can probably only rise to the occasion by treating her to dinner on shore.
Mate and Skipper work on a bit of
Django haute cuisine: a fresh and juicy pineapple
Learn to tie seaworthy knots, real ones, not the kind your “granny” would be proud of. Practise them, especially the “bowl-in”, until you can do them blindfolded, with one-hand, in three seconds flat. It could save your life, “they” say.
Make an appointment to visit a dominatrix, or better still invite your mother-in-law for a brief visit prior to the voyage. Be sure to ask her to wear her leathers and stiletto heels, and to bring her riding crop. This will help prepare you for the time when the Mate “whips” the eager crew into seagoing shape.
With your partner, take turns waking each other up every two hours. This will prepare you for the longer overnight passages, when everyone stands dog watches. Even if you are lucky enough to hug the coast, you’ll still need to do this to cope with overnight rainstorms during which you will have to wake up to close the overhead hatches. The fallback position is to revert to childhood and learn to sleep in a wet bed.
Start talking to strangers on the streets of Westmount, especially ones who mumble or slur their speech. It’s good practice in fine-tuning your ear to “hear” a variety of accents. This will help you to interact with interesting people on the islands you visit. Islanders are eager to chat with visitors and often have surprisingly interesting tales to tell. The fallback position is to never go ashore.
Above all, practise humility. No way you will ever know as much about sailing as Captain Willie and you will need all the equanimity you can muster to withstand the withering scorn of the Mate when you mess up…which you will! The good thing is that she doesn’t really mean it and will not deprive you of your daily rum ration.
So that’s how it lies…the sum total of our post-voyage wisdom. We hope it helps.
Bon Voyage…
(All photos kindness of Dana and Enn)
From the Irish EC Member: Dana
Thank you for an absolutely wonderful two weeks sailing. It couldn’t have been better.
While storm warnings abounded we seem to have escaped all of them except for a few rough patches here and there which left me feeling a bit queasy. When we got home the alignment of Jupiter and Venus, which we were privileged to see on many successive nights, was the talk of astronomers. From start to finish the trip was a great adventure for us.
Not only is Willie a great sailor, he is also a terrific guitar player. Not only is Kathleen a great cook (and maker of the best rum punch), she is also a terrific singer. What a great combination of talents: great sailing, great food, great punch and evening sing-a-longs under the stars in the Caribbean Sea.
WW at work
Apart from all these highlights, every island we stopped at (Bequia, Mustique, Canouan, Mayreau and Union Island) had something special to offer—great walks, a turtle museum, a whale museum, great restaurants, Basil’s Bar, food markets, the Botanical Gardens (in St. Vincent), lurking pirates and a thundering shower in the rocks (Wallilabou), and Robert Righteous (Mayreau
We’ll send you some of our favourite pictures shortly. Robert Righteous standing beside the Estonian flag in his striking restaurant and bar on Mayreau is one of our favourites. Sitting in that bar and listening to Robert’s story was another highlight. A man of 53, born in Mayreau, who was left to fend for himself from the age of 14 and who make a success of his life.
Robert Righteous with the Estonian flag (blue, black and white) in his bar
Another wonderful day was November 29th—Willie’s birthday—which we started celebrating at 7:30 a.m. and carried on celebrating all day on the boat and on the island of Bequia.
WW, KMH, Dana and Enn
celebrating WW's 60th at Gingerbread in Port Elizabeth
As for the sailing itself? It’s hard to beat the beauty of cruising through the Caribbean Sea in a wide range of weather, from clear blue skies to skies looming on the horizon, filled with ominous dark clouds portending rainy squalls that soon have you running for shelter. Luckily there weren’t too many of those. For me being “under way” was always a highlight (except when it was really rough).
All-in-all we had great fun with two great hosts and although I brought with me the music and words to quite a few songs, I realize I will have to raise my game if I am to be a serious contributor to the music-making on board this ship. However, I did contribute to Kathleen mastering Dona Nobis Pacem and, even as I write, I can imagine Kathleen and Fricia (Frisha, Patricia?) and Whit (are you a singer too?) singing this song and many more and filling the starry moonlit evenings with their beautiful soaring voices backed by the dulcet tones of Willie’s guitar.
Thank you for a wonderful trip. We look forward to seeing you during the Christmas holidays.
EC Farewell
The EC loaded themselves and their belongings into Boffo and were taken ashore by the Skipper. We were very sad to see them go. They had fit into ship life just perfectly and we'd had a wonderful time with them.
They have sent along a number of photos, but this Internet connection is not letting me add them to the blog. I will do that as soon as I get a decent connection. (I really can't complain; this is just a connection I happened upon while bobbing in the bay at Castries, St. Lucia).
The EC have also sent along a blog post each. Because the regular crew of Django like nothing better than to be told what fabulous people they are, these blogs follow, complete and unexpurgated (even though Enn can't spell christophene).
We look forward to cruising with this grand Irish/Estonian team again.
They have sent along a number of photos, but this Internet connection is not letting me add them to the blog. I will do that as soon as I get a decent connection. (I really can't complain; this is just a connection I happened upon while bobbing in the bay at Castries, St. Lucia).
The EC have also sent along a blog post each. Because the regular crew of Django like nothing better than to be told what fabulous people they are, these blogs follow, complete and unexpurgated (even though Enn can't spell christophene).
We look forward to cruising with this grand Irish/Estonian team again.
Vans and Verdure
On our EC's penultimate day, we ventured into Kingstown using the local transport...minivans.
The minivans of St. Vincent (and other Caribbean islands) are privately owned but the government assigns routes, creates stops, and maintains termini. The result is that a certain number of competing vans charge along the roads, honk madly for fares, and cram in more humanity than can possibly be believed.
There are a few basic rules:
There is always room for one more.
Use all your skill and speed to get ahead of the competition so as to grab more fares.
Pour soca at a painful number of decibels from speakers in every part of the van.
It makes for exciting, deafening rides.
Don't bother being fastidious and persnickety. You won't necessarily sit with your friends. You'll be rammed into whatever space is available and will be expected to shrink as more passengers embark. The driver will have a couple of people up front with him. The "conductor" occupies the seat by the door and leaps out at stops to collect fares. If enough people are on board, he (I have never seen a woman as either driver or conductor) will cram himself into the space between the seat and the door, hunched over and hanging on for dear life as the van gallops ahead.
It was one such we took into Kingstown and then caught another out along the Leeward Highway to the splendid 20-acre Botanical Gardens.
Ian John was our guide. He said he had been working at the gardens for 30 years. He was definitely very knowledgeable. It was a grand tour. He would pick fruit, flowers or leaves, as needed, to illustrate the features of the plants he introduced us to.
Founded in 1765, these are purported to be the oldest botanical gardens in the western hemisphere. Mr. John followed this statement with the information that the oldest botanical gardens in the world are at Oxford, England. Last time I looked, England was in the western hemisphere, so I'm not clear on the exact ins and outs of this. However, nonetheless, regardless...these are old botanical gardens.
We saw banyan, baobab, ackee, gwi gwi palm, traveller palm, calabash, and a breadfruit tree descended directly from one brought by Captain Bligh in 1793.
We saw trees from China, Japan, Indonesia, and a number of South American and Caribbean countries. We filed our nails with a leaf like an emery board (only lasts one day) and craned our necks to see the wonders of the screwpine. We tasted, touched and smelled leaves, fruits and flowers. It was a terrific tour.
WW and KMH in front of the hibiscus-lined bridal path
at the St. Vincent Botanical Gardens
Photo by Enn
Then it was back to the minivan and off to the terminal in Kingstown. We did a bit of shopping, then found the terminal that would take us back to Young Island. Another wild ride, particularly laden with people since it was about 3:30, when the schools get out.
That evening, we made our way ashore and dined at a very pleasant restaurant Xcape overlooking Young Island. The only blot on the excellent meal was the increase in price for a bottle of wine between selection and delivery.
That night it rained...sad, I'm sure, that the EC would be leaving next day.
The minivans of St. Vincent (and other Caribbean islands) are privately owned but the government assigns routes, creates stops, and maintains termini. The result is that a certain number of competing vans charge along the roads, honk madly for fares, and cram in more humanity than can possibly be believed.
There are a few basic rules:
There is always room for one more.
Use all your skill and speed to get ahead of the competition so as to grab more fares.
Pour soca at a painful number of decibels from speakers in every part of the van.
It makes for exciting, deafening rides.
Don't bother being fastidious and persnickety. You won't necessarily sit with your friends. You'll be rammed into whatever space is available and will be expected to shrink as more passengers embark. The driver will have a couple of people up front with him. The "conductor" occupies the seat by the door and leaps out at stops to collect fares. If enough people are on board, he (I have never seen a woman as either driver or conductor) will cram himself into the space between the seat and the door, hunched over and hanging on for dear life as the van gallops ahead.
It was one such we took into Kingstown and then caught another out along the Leeward Highway to the splendid 20-acre Botanical Gardens.
Ian John was our guide. He said he had been working at the gardens for 30 years. He was definitely very knowledgeable. It was a grand tour. He would pick fruit, flowers or leaves, as needed, to illustrate the features of the plants he introduced us to.
Founded in 1765, these are purported to be the oldest botanical gardens in the western hemisphere. Mr. John followed this statement with the information that the oldest botanical gardens in the world are at Oxford, England. Last time I looked, England was in the western hemisphere, so I'm not clear on the exact ins and outs of this. However, nonetheless, regardless...these are old botanical gardens.
We saw banyan, baobab, ackee, gwi gwi palm, traveller palm, calabash, and a breadfruit tree descended directly from one brought by Captain Bligh in 1793.
St. Vincent Botanical Gardens guide Ian John telling
Dana, KMH and WW about the calabash tree
Photo by Enn
Dana, KMH and WW about the calabash tree
Photo by Enn
We saw trees from China, Japan, Indonesia, and a number of South American and Caribbean countries. We filed our nails with a leaf like an emery board (only lasts one day) and craned our necks to see the wonders of the screwpine. We tasted, touched and smelled leaves, fruits and flowers. It was a terrific tour.
WW and KMH in front of the hibiscus-lined bridal path
at the St. Vincent Botanical Gardens
Photo by Enn
Then it was back to the minivan and off to the terminal in Kingstown. We did a bit of shopping, then found the terminal that would take us back to Young Island. Another wild ride, particularly laden with people since it was about 3:30, when the schools get out.
That evening, we made our way ashore and dined at a very pleasant restaurant Xcape overlooking Young Island. The only blot on the excellent meal was the increase in price for a bottle of wine between selection and delivery.
That night it rained...sad, I'm sure, that the EC would be leaving next day.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
To Jack Sparrow's Drinking Hole
Our time with our Eager Crew was rapidly drawing to a close. Here it was Sunday and they would be leaving on Wednesday morning. Clearly, we needed to cram in a few more memories. So we took them to Wallilabou.
We left Bequia in the rain and pointed up to St. Vincent, sailing/motoring up the island's west coast. It was a good long run and the Captain shared the sailing with EC member Dana.
Dana takes the con
About halfway up the coast is Wallilabou (pronounced Wally-a-boo, they lose an 'l' somehow) Bay. At the head of the bay, a rusting structure rises from the waters and, behind it, stands what remains of Jack Sparrow's tavern. This is one of several spots in the Caribbean where Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed. The rusting mess in the bay is what remains of the jetty.
Jack Sparrow's pub, Wallilabou, St. Vincent
Almost as soon as we entered the bay, we were accosted by boat boys. The first boat guided us to a mooring and helped us moor. This boat was soon joined by others with a variety of knicknacks and gewgaws for sale. One fellow said he'd been an extra in the film and had been paid 120 EC per day for a couple of days. A king's ransom in this area.
During the afternoon, Enn and WW went for a walk with a local chap acting as their guide. Dana and I remained on board since the unremitting rain was unappealing and, anyway, we had books to read. The men returned with tales of a wonderful waterfall and with armloads of food: nutmeg, callaloo, passion fruit, avocado.
The next morning, WW and the EC took a long walk to Barrouallie (pronounced Barrelly), the town on the bay south of Wallilabou. They were very excited having found sardines for sale in a round tin!
We then set off on an expedition to the fabled waterfall of yesterday. It wasn't far to walk. A large part of the walk took us through a substantial estate that had been owned by an Englishman who had died a year or so ago. Bananas, breadfruit, papaya, avocados, citrus, sorrel, pigeon peas...all manner of growing things.
The waterfall was as wonderful as advertised. It was small, perhaps 12 or 15 feet high, and only a couple of feet wide. But it fell with considerable force into a sandy basin surrounded by rocks. A clamber over the rocks and a wade in lovely cool water brings you to a spot where you can turn, dig your heels in and lean back into the fall. The all-natural St. Vincent massage. Spas should be so good.
We walked back in the rain. It was so warm and gentle, it was really not a bother. On the way, WW saved an errant donkey whose tether was not so much a tether as a trailing bit of rope. He led her back and tied her near another donkey we had seen and heard earlier, heehawing in protest over his friend's wandering ways.
A beer on the beach and it was time to batten down the hatches and sail south to our Young Island mooring.
We left Bequia in the rain and pointed up to St. Vincent, sailing/motoring up the island's west coast. It was a good long run and the Captain shared the sailing with EC member Dana.
Dana takes the con
Jack Sparrow's pub, Wallilabou, St. Vincent
Almost as soon as we entered the bay, we were accosted by boat boys. The first boat guided us to a mooring and helped us moor. This boat was soon joined by others with a variety of knicknacks and gewgaws for sale. One fellow said he'd been an extra in the film and had been paid 120 EC per day for a couple of days. A king's ransom in this area.
During the afternoon, Enn and WW went for a walk with a local chap acting as their guide. Dana and I remained on board since the unremitting rain was unappealing and, anyway, we had books to read. The men returned with tales of a wonderful waterfall and with armloads of food: nutmeg, callaloo, passion fruit, avocado.
The next morning, WW and the EC took a long walk to Barrouallie (pronounced Barrelly), the town on the bay south of Wallilabou. They were very excited having found sardines for sale in a round tin!
We then set off on an expedition to the fabled waterfall of yesterday. It wasn't far to walk. A large part of the walk took us through a substantial estate that had been owned by an Englishman who had died a year or so ago. Bananas, breadfruit, papaya, avocados, citrus, sorrel, pigeon peas...all manner of growing things.
The waterfall was as wonderful as advertised. It was small, perhaps 12 or 15 feet high, and only a couple of feet wide. But it fell with considerable force into a sandy basin surrounded by rocks. A clamber over the rocks and a wade in lovely cool water brings you to a spot where you can turn, dig your heels in and lean back into the fall. The all-natural St. Vincent massage. Spas should be so good.
We walked back in the rain. It was so warm and gentle, it was really not a bother. On the way, WW saved an errant donkey whose tether was not so much a tether as a trailing bit of rope. He led her back and tied her near another donkey we had seen and heard earlier, heehawing in protest over his friend's wandering ways.
A beer on the beach and it was time to batten down the hatches and sail south to our Young Island mooring.
Turtles and a Celebration
On Saturday, November 29, our Captain turned 60.
We celebrated by going in to Port Elizabeth to the very good bookstore there and shopping. Then we girded our loins and set off for the Old Hegg Turtle Sanctuary on the far side of the island. It was a lovely walk of about three or four miles. We stopped for a beer at the Firefly resort, then pressed on, arriving at about noon. Mr. Hegg was not home, but we were able to peek through cracks and crevices to see the beneficiaries of his good works: the endangered hawksbill turtles.
This is the time of year when the youngsters are gathered on the beaches as they hatch. They are kept for five years before being released back into the wild. Normally, baby turtles would head to the open sea where they'd take their chances. Instead, they are put into a miniature sea until they are old enough to come ashore.
It's hard to believe these turtlettes will one day become...
...old enough to take care of themselves
We started back along the road to Port Elizabeth hoping to find a bite to eat. At a place called (I think) Half Moon, we found cold beer and sandwiches. I asked what went in to a lobster sandwich. Lobster, mayonnaise, sliced peppers, lettuce...sounded great. White bread? "Oh no! I bake wholewheat bread fresh every morning." Mmmm hmmmm. I'll have one of those. It was fabulous.
We were all a bit weary from the sun and the walk, so we picked up a taxi back to town. We grabbed a few provisions, returned to Boffo and took ourselves back out to Django. It was definitely snooze o'clock.
At precisely RP o'clock, I sent our aging Captain to get me ice. Buried in the ice chest was a bottle of bubbly, kindness of Enn and Dana. We had our RPs, had our bubbly, gave gifts to the birthday boy (books, not surprisingly), and prepared for dinner ashore. We ate at Gingerbread, a very nice place on the Port Elizabeth waterfront.
We celebrated by going in to Port Elizabeth to the very good bookstore there and shopping. Then we girded our loins and set off for the Old Hegg Turtle Sanctuary on the far side of the island. It was a lovely walk of about three or four miles. We stopped for a beer at the Firefly resort, then pressed on, arriving at about noon. Mr. Hegg was not home, but we were able to peek through cracks and crevices to see the beneficiaries of his good works: the endangered hawksbill turtles.
This is the time of year when the youngsters are gathered on the beaches as they hatch. They are kept for five years before being released back into the wild. Normally, baby turtles would head to the open sea where they'd take their chances. Instead, they are put into a miniature sea until they are old enough to come ashore.
It's hard to believe these turtlettes will one day become...
...old enough to take care of themselves
We started back along the road to Port Elizabeth hoping to find a bite to eat. At a place called (I think) Half Moon, we found cold beer and sandwiches. I asked what went in to a lobster sandwich. Lobster, mayonnaise, sliced peppers, lettuce...sounded great. White bread? "Oh no! I bake wholewheat bread fresh every morning." Mmmm hmmmm. I'll have one of those. It was fabulous.
We were all a bit weary from the sun and the walk, so we picked up a taxi back to town. We grabbed a few provisions, returned to Boffo and took ourselves back out to Django. It was definitely snooze o'clock.
At precisely RP o'clock, I sent our aging Captain to get me ice. Buried in the ice chest was a bottle of bubbly, kindness of Enn and Dana. We had our RPs, had our bubbly, gave gifts to the birthday boy (books, not surprisingly), and prepared for dinner ashore. We ate at Gingerbread, a very nice place on the Port Elizabeth waterfront.
Union to Mayreau to Bequia
On Thursday morning, WW and I donned our snorkelling gear and swam to the overgrown causeway that connects Frigate Island to Union Island. The water was lovely and clear with clouds of reef fishes on the leeward side...also armies of very spiny black sea urchins which we circumnavigated with great care. Arrived at the causeway, Enn delivered our sandals from his seat in one of the kayaks. We crossed to the windward side where there was a definite swell. This made the sea urchins that much more of a challenge. Nonetheless, we managed to get into the water beyond them and out to Lagoon Reef. We'd heard the snorkelling there was good. We found, however, that the surge was making the water murky and there were far fewer fish than on the leeward side.
On the other hand, there were lobsters. Dozens of lobsters. Lobsters lurking under every coral head and snuggled up to every bit of rock. WW poked them and they tucked themselves in more tightly. At one point, we found a pair trundling between shelters. At WW's urging, they demonstrated proper lobster propulsion and zoomed quickly back whence they had come. Alas, we had neither gloves nor bag. Spiny lobsters are...spiny. Painfully spiny. You don't go grabbing them without gloves. And once you've grabbed one, you want a nice sturdy bag to hold the little fellow, or fellowette. So we did not bring home dinner.
Instead, one of the local boatmen came by with four lobsters, each about a pound, which we purchased and put on ice for our dinner.
We raised our anchor and set off for Mayreau, another of the Grenadines, about five miles north of Union. We sailed west then north, so we could see the far side of Union, then set a course for Salt Whistle Bay on Mayreau's northwestern tip.
It was a beautiful bay with the usual surge. We dined on barbecued lobster with a rum-lime-butter sauce sweetened slightly with guava jelly. It may sound bizarre, but it was yummy.
The entrance to Steam Whistle Bay, Mayreau
Sunset in Steam Whistle Bay, Mayreau
In the morning, the Captain and the EC went exploring while the galley slave stayed to oversee the bread. I've been making bread and yoghurt. Mostly the bread is Irish wholemeal soda bread, but on this occasion I was making actual yeast bread which required my love and attention.
The explorers returned with tales of a lovely walk over the tiny island, up into the hills where they'd found a pub. Robert Righteous runs the place and is grateful to cruisers who have brought increased prosperity to the area. Passengers from the cruise ships don't penetrate as far as the intrepid cruisers, who enjoy a tramp and, more to the point, a cold beer on a hot day.
Once we were all on board once more, we made everything secure and set off for the long run up to Port Elizabeth.
It was a squally, rainy run. We managed to rase the sails about 6 miles from Bequia, but then the wind shifted and down they came again, so most of the run was motoring into the weather. Then the sun came out and we sailed into the end of a rainbow.
Rainbow's end: Port Elizabeth, Bequia
On the other hand, there were lobsters. Dozens of lobsters. Lobsters lurking under every coral head and snuggled up to every bit of rock. WW poked them and they tucked themselves in more tightly. At one point, we found a pair trundling between shelters. At WW's urging, they demonstrated proper lobster propulsion and zoomed quickly back whence they had come. Alas, we had neither gloves nor bag. Spiny lobsters are...spiny. Painfully spiny. You don't go grabbing them without gloves. And once you've grabbed one, you want a nice sturdy bag to hold the little fellow, or fellowette. So we did not bring home dinner.
Instead, one of the local boatmen came by with four lobsters, each about a pound, which we purchased and put on ice for our dinner.
We raised our anchor and set off for Mayreau, another of the Grenadines, about five miles north of Union. We sailed west then north, so we could see the far side of Union, then set a course for Salt Whistle Bay on Mayreau's northwestern tip.
The other side of Union Island
It was a beautiful bay with the usual surge. We dined on barbecued lobster with a rum-lime-butter sauce sweetened slightly with guava jelly. It may sound bizarre, but it was yummy.
The entrance to Steam Whistle Bay, Mayreau
Sunset in Steam Whistle Bay, Mayreau
The explorers returned with tales of a lovely walk over the tiny island, up into the hills where they'd found a pub. Robert Righteous runs the place and is grateful to cruisers who have brought increased prosperity to the area. Passengers from the cruise ships don't penetrate as far as the intrepid cruisers, who enjoy a tramp and, more to the point, a cold beer on a hot day.
Once we were all on board once more, we made everything secure and set off for the long run up to Port Elizabeth.
It was a squally, rainy run. We managed to rase the sails about 6 miles from Bequia, but then the wind shifted and down they came again, so most of the run was motoring into the weather. Then the sun came out and we sailed into the end of a rainbow.
Rainbow's end: Port Elizabeth, Bequia
Andy
We arrived at Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, yesterday and I was finally able to get an Internet connection, the first since Frisha and Whit joined us a week ago.
Alas, most of my emails let Frisha and me know that our Uncle Andy had passed away just over two weeks after his wife, our Aunt Jane. We toasted his memory and remembered him--a great outdoorsman, sailor, hiker, skier, fisherman, dad and uncle.
Alas, most of my emails let Frisha and me know that our Uncle Andy had passed away just over two weeks after his wife, our Aunt Jane. We toasted his memory and remembered him--a great outdoorsman, sailor, hiker, skier, fisherman, dad and uncle.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Frigate Island and a Walk
We moved Django from Clifton Harbour a mile or two along the coast to a bay behind Frigate Island on Ashton Bay. It's really a presqu'ile, being connected to Union by a long isthmus.
Django anchored off Frigate Island
We went ashore after lunch, planning to walk from Ashton to the far side of Union Island. The Eager Crew had brought fabulous weather with them. Gone were the horrid squalls, pelting rain, howling winds. We revelled in unremitting sunshine, sea breezes, and the joys of the Caribbean.
Brown booby flanked by brown pelicans in Ashton Harbour
The walk was lovely and easygoing, up into the hills. We observed birds, flowers, houses, trees, fruits, goats...whatever was nearby to be observed. Finally we arrived at a shaded crossroad at the crest of the hill. Below us lay the northern shore of the island. A woman was sitting by the side of the road with a baby. She had walked up from Chatham Bay, way down below. A good uphill struggle with a sizeable boy of 11 months. WW argues he is a toddler since he can walk, sort of.
We chatted with her for a time. We knew there was a way to get back to Ashton without taking the road by which we had come. She told us how to do that. So off we set, wishing her luck.
Walking downhill through the sunny day, not too hot, was delightful. We saw a man at the side of the road smashing big stones with a maul. WW and/or Enn hailed him: "Hard work!"
"Oh," said the fellow, "it keeps you fit. Look at me, I'm 61."
He sure didn't look it. He then explained that he was breaking stones to make the foundation for a house. He starts with big stones and breaks them with a huge maul, then takes a smaller hammer to break the smaller stones. Beneath a shelter were all the stones he had broken in two months; a serious heap.
Just then, the woman (we were to learn she is Sheridan) carrying the baby/toddler (we were to learn he is Devancy) passed by. She said something to "Pops" and kept going.
Pops talking to WW and Enn. In the foreground are the big stones and the big maul.
He is holding the hammer he uses on the smaller stones.
The pile under the shelter is his finished work.
After our chat with Pops, we too moved on. Dana was looking at Sheridan and Devancy ahead of us. She said to Enn, "Couldn't you take him from her?" We were watching the exhausted Sheridan try to find an easy way to carry Devancy. Just then she put him down to let him walk for a bit. Trouble was, he didn't want to go that way. He toddled straight into Enn's arms. He was swept up and, to the amazement of those who knew him and his mother, a slender Santa Claus carried him into Ashton.
In Ashton, we parted. She was headed to Clifton and we were headed to a cold beer. It took a little finding, but soon enough we were sitting on the steps outside a tiny bar, sipping a cold one, watching men repair boats, chickens scratch up treasures, and dogs lie in the shade.
Tired yet refreshed by our walk, we rode Boffo back to Django.
Frigate Island ahead as we leave Ashton
Django tucked up tight under Frigate Island
Django anchored off Frigate Island
Brown booby flanked by brown pelicans in Ashton Harbour
The walk was lovely and easygoing, up into the hills. We observed birds, flowers, houses, trees, fruits, goats...whatever was nearby to be observed. Finally we arrived at a shaded crossroad at the crest of the hill. Below us lay the northern shore of the island. A woman was sitting by the side of the road with a baby. She had walked up from Chatham Bay, way down below. A good uphill struggle with a sizeable boy of 11 months. WW argues he is a toddler since he can walk, sort of.
We chatted with her for a time. We knew there was a way to get back to Ashton without taking the road by which we had come. She told us how to do that. So off we set, wishing her luck.
Walking downhill through the sunny day, not too hot, was delightful. We saw a man at the side of the road smashing big stones with a maul. WW and/or Enn hailed him: "Hard work!"
"Oh," said the fellow, "it keeps you fit. Look at me, I'm 61."
He sure didn't look it. He then explained that he was breaking stones to make the foundation for a house. He starts with big stones and breaks them with a huge maul, then takes a smaller hammer to break the smaller stones. Beneath a shelter were all the stones he had broken in two months; a serious heap.
Just then, the woman (we were to learn she is Sheridan) carrying the baby/toddler (we were to learn he is Devancy) passed by. She said something to "Pops" and kept going.
Pops talking to WW and Enn. In the foreground are the big stones and the big maul.
He is holding the hammer he uses on the smaller stones.
The pile under the shelter is his finished work.
After our chat with Pops, we too moved on. Dana was looking at Sheridan and Devancy ahead of us. She said to Enn, "Couldn't you take him from her?" We were watching the exhausted Sheridan try to find an easy way to carry Devancy. Just then she put him down to let him walk for a bit. Trouble was, he didn't want to go that way. He toddled straight into Enn's arms. He was swept up and, to the amazement of those who knew him and his mother, a slender Santa Claus carried him into Ashton.
In Ashton, we parted. She was headed to Clifton and we were headed to a cold beer. It took a little finding, but soon enough we were sitting on the steps outside a tiny bar, sipping a cold one, watching men repair boats, chickens scratch up treasures, and dogs lie in the shade.
Tired yet refreshed by our walk, we rode Boffo back to Django.
Frigate Island ahead as we leave Ashton
Django tucked up tight under Frigate Island
Chiselling Goes Wrong
Don't worry, this is not about WW repairing something with a chisel and piercing the hull.
WW and I were up first in the morning as usual. This year, our pattern has made a change. I am usually up first, at about 6:30 a.m. He follows at close to 7 a.m., when Chris Parker comes on the SSB radio. WW had had his breakfast and was slurping his coffee out in the glories of the harbour morning. Then along came our original boat boy to deliver our laundry. Two bags full. WW took the resulting bundles aboard and asked, "How much?"
"Two hundred and thirty EC," said John (for that was his name). He has a very bad stammer and had a great deal of difficulty voicing this outrageous sum. He wanted $92 US for two or three loads of laundry.
"No," said WW. He can be straightforward at times. "That's ridiculous."
John tried, we'll give him that. "The machine broke. It had to be done by hand."
Finally, WW said he'd go ashore and deal with the laundry people himself. John saluted WW. Respect, WW thought.
The laundry, when we opened it, was still damp, unfolded, nasty. We slung all the damp stuff along the lifelines, folded what was dry, and prepared to go ashore.
We went into the Admiralty Yacht Club and walked to town. First, however, WW went to find out about the laundry. The woman who did it was around, but couldn't be located. Someone said something like $25 EC per load. We discussed at length whether we'd had two loads or three. Still, there was no way the math came to $230 EC.
Memorial to slaves in the town square of Clifton, Union Island
In Clifton, we shopped at the vegetable market, a series of brightly painted stalls by the town square. We bought some lovely fruits and vegetables, and one stall keeper gave us nutmeg and a huge grapefruit, just because.
Clifton market
We shopped, very successfully, at a charming gift place run by a French immigrant woman. We also found a place that offered a laundry service: $35 EC/load.
We found a cruiser's provisioner, run by more French immigrants, where we bought our nonperishables...and a loaf of delicious sunflower seed bread. WW asked if there was another grocery store in town and was told no.
Enn and I sat with our bags and bags of purchases while WW and Dana went in search of a bank. They returned rather crabby. Not only had they found a bank but also a grocery store where the rum had been $10 EC less per bottle compared with the provisioner's.
Back at the yacht club, the laundry woman had appeared, although the wrong one. Ours was on her day off. This one told WW she charges $35 EC per load. So WW was poised to give her $75 to give to the absent laundress when John's sidekick appeared and claimed responsibility for the laundry. But WW had him. "Here's $75 EC, then," WW said. John's sidekick looked glum, but accepted.
Moral of the story: If you're in a place with sand, don't be afraid to draw a line in it.
WW and I were up first in the morning as usual. This year, our pattern has made a change. I am usually up first, at about 6:30 a.m. He follows at close to 7 a.m., when Chris Parker comes on the SSB radio. WW had had his breakfast and was slurping his coffee out in the glories of the harbour morning. Then along came our original boat boy to deliver our laundry. Two bags full. WW took the resulting bundles aboard and asked, "How much?"
"Two hundred and thirty EC," said John (for that was his name). He has a very bad stammer and had a great deal of difficulty voicing this outrageous sum. He wanted $92 US for two or three loads of laundry.
"No," said WW. He can be straightforward at times. "That's ridiculous."
John tried, we'll give him that. "The machine broke. It had to be done by hand."
Finally, WW said he'd go ashore and deal with the laundry people himself. John saluted WW. Respect, WW thought.
The laundry, when we opened it, was still damp, unfolded, nasty. We slung all the damp stuff along the lifelines, folded what was dry, and prepared to go ashore.
We went into the Admiralty Yacht Club and walked to town. First, however, WW went to find out about the laundry. The woman who did it was around, but couldn't be located. Someone said something like $25 EC per load. We discussed at length whether we'd had two loads or three. Still, there was no way the math came to $230 EC.
Memorial to slaves in the town square of Clifton, Union Island
In Clifton, we shopped at the vegetable market, a series of brightly painted stalls by the town square. We bought some lovely fruits and vegetables, and one stall keeper gave us nutmeg and a huge grapefruit, just because.
Clifton market
We shopped, very successfully, at a charming gift place run by a French immigrant woman. We also found a place that offered a laundry service: $35 EC/load.
We found a cruiser's provisioner, run by more French immigrants, where we bought our nonperishables...and a loaf of delicious sunflower seed bread. WW asked if there was another grocery store in town and was told no.
Enn and I sat with our bags and bags of purchases while WW and Dana went in search of a bank. They returned rather crabby. Not only had they found a bank but also a grocery store where the rum had been $10 EC less per bottle compared with the provisioner's.
Back at the yacht club, the laundry woman had appeared, although the wrong one. Ours was on her day off. This one told WW she charges $35 EC per load. So WW was poised to give her $75 to give to the absent laundress when John's sidekick appeared and claimed responsibility for the laundry. But WW had him. "Here's $75 EC, then," WW said. John's sidekick looked glum, but accepted.
Moral of the story: If you're in a place with sand, don't be afraid to draw a line in it.
Soca and a French Connection
Just at RP o’clock, another boat boy came by to ask if we’d like a ride to a restaurant. Which restaurant? we asked. The West Indies. Silly not to. We asked him to come back at 6. We asked him his name: Never Give Up, the name of his old boat. Or Shane, the name of his current boat. Sometimes Bootie...because he has a bit of a rep as a snappy dresser. Then he headed off to a small island at one end of Thompson Reef...a bar, we learned later.
Right on time, Never Say Die was back. He helped us aboard his boat and delivered us to a dock in town. He said he’d wait for us.
Clifton, we learned, is an interesting mixture of the very local and delightful, and the cruiser-targeting set. These folks aim to separate cruisers from as much cash as possible.
Well, Never Say Die was one of the delightful locals, in my opinion. He picked us up and then waited to be called to take us back.
The West Indies Restaurant is run by a French chap who was standing at the bar when we arrived. Did we want anything to drink? He was slightly stunned when we wanted dinner. It was 6 p.m. He recovered reasonably rapidly and obligingly sent us up to a pleasant dining room. A DJ at the far end of the room started spinning discs (that's coolspeak for "played music"). After a few old standards, along came Willie Nelson singing "You Were Always on My Mind". I snapped. Our waiter came to take our order and, when she was done, I told her to tell the DJ to play his music...music he liked. That we could survive reggae, soca, calypso.
Suddenly, all the waiters were bobbing and dancing, the DJ was dancing, one waiter was swinging her hips and singing along. I asked her what the song was. She told me. I asked what group it was. She told me. I was trying to commit all this to memory when she grabbed me by the hand and danced me over to meet Steve, the DJ. He sold me a disc of soca. Home-burned, of course. Fabulous stuff.
The food was very good. WW and Enn had conch...and I can't actually remember what fish Dana and I had, but I do remember a general aura of deliciousness.
After dinner, we started back to the dock where Never Give Up had left his boat. But there was no sign of him. The French chap, a rather lugubrious fellow, invited us to wait at the bar and poured us some fabulous aged Martinique rum. It was more a brandy than a liquor. Then we all bonded. We learned he was Jean-Charles and his baby sister, 14 years younger than he, was visiting. So we met Nathalie. She hadn't seen her big brother in 15 years. Then in came Vincent, Jean-Charles's son, but he was instantly dispatched to find Never Give Up. A second round of the delicious rum, we were almost family by now. Then Vincent appeared with Never Give Up and we were whisked away and duly delivered back to our onboard accommodations.
Right on time, Never Say Die was back. He helped us aboard his boat and delivered us to a dock in town. He said he’d wait for us.
Clifton, we learned, is an interesting mixture of the very local and delightful, and the cruiser-targeting set. These folks aim to separate cruisers from as much cash as possible.
Well, Never Say Die was one of the delightful locals, in my opinion. He picked us up and then waited to be called to take us back.
The West Indies Restaurant is run by a French chap who was standing at the bar when we arrived. Did we want anything to drink? He was slightly stunned when we wanted dinner. It was 6 p.m. He recovered reasonably rapidly and obligingly sent us up to a pleasant dining room. A DJ at the far end of the room started spinning discs (that's coolspeak for "played music"). After a few old standards, along came Willie Nelson singing "You Were Always on My Mind". I snapped. Our waiter came to take our order and, when she was done, I told her to tell the DJ to play his music...music he liked. That we could survive reggae, soca, calypso.
Suddenly, all the waiters were bobbing and dancing, the DJ was dancing, one waiter was swinging her hips and singing along. I asked her what the song was. She told me. I asked what group it was. She told me. I was trying to commit all this to memory when she grabbed me by the hand and danced me over to meet Steve, the DJ. He sold me a disc of soca. Home-burned, of course. Fabulous stuff.
The food was very good. WW and Enn had conch...and I can't actually remember what fish Dana and I had, but I do remember a general aura of deliciousness.
After dinner, we started back to the dock where Never Give Up had left his boat. But there was no sign of him. The French chap, a rather lugubrious fellow, invited us to wait at the bar and poured us some fabulous aged Martinique rum. It was more a brandy than a liquor. Then we all bonded. We learned he was Jean-Charles and his baby sister, 14 years younger than he, was visiting. So we met Nathalie. She hadn't seen her big brother in 15 years. Then in came Vincent, Jean-Charles's son, but he was instantly dispatched to find Never Give Up. A second round of the delicious rum, we were almost family by now. Then Vincent appeared with Never Give Up and we were whisked away and duly delivered back to our onboard accommodations.
Union Island
It being Monday, the shops were finally open. We took Boffo back through the surge to the Basil’s Bar beach, where we rode the surf in and hauled her well up the beach so she couldn’t make a getaway. Then we wandered through the nearby shops...all very exclusive and expensive. We found a well-stocked grocery and picked up the provisions we lacked, then returned to Django.
We dropped our mooring and made for Canouan, the next Grenadine lying southwest of Mustique. It was a run of about three hours down through Grand Bay to our mooring in Charles Bay. The Moorings charter fleet is centred here and we were surrounded by an navy of eerily empty monohulls and cats awaiting there temporary occupants. In fact, we were asked to move since we had picked up a Moorings mooring.
The boat boy who came to assist us brought us ice and said he could get us water when the water truck came from St. Vincent. In many places, both diesel fuel and water are delivered by a tender--a boat that carries huge barrels of each. There was a ferry due shortly and, if the truck wasn’t on it, it should arrive on one of the morning ferries. The truck would fill the tender, which would then bring the water to us. We were getting very near the end of our water supply.
The swell in the bay was the worst we’d experienced so far. I was in the throes of calalloo soup preparation, so stayed to wait for the ice while the captain and EC made an expedition ashore. They reported that the exercise of getting from Boffo to wharf had challenged all their not-inconsiderable agility and athleticism. I had watched Boffo leaping and cavorting at her mooring as the surge raced beneath her to break violently on the shore. When the boat boy came by with the ice, he asked for a third line and ran it to the mooring as a backup...just in case. Very kind and thoughtful.
The adventurers returned after a couple of hours having found a bank, a shop, a restaurant and a bar. We thought we might stay another day and dine at the restaurant the following evening. The galley slave thought that would be a grand idea. The explorers had been informed that Canouan is known as the "Gem of the Caribbean.”
By the next morning, however, we were fed up with the pounding wave action from the surge. WW saw the water truck come off one of the ferries, but it seemed the surge was so strong that they couldn’t get the tender to it. Finally, we had had enough, we upped anchor and fled the Gem of the Caribbean to seek quieter waters in the south.
It was a short run down through the Tobago Cays, past Mayreau, to the southernmost Grenadine, Union Island. Following markers around the curving Thompson Reef, we entered Clifton Harbour. In the middle of the harbour is another reef, the Roundabout, so mooring and anchorages lie in a circle. Immediately a boat boy appeared. WW asked about water, the boat boy asked about fuel. WW said water, the boat boy said fuel. Finally, WW made it clear that we did not need fuel, only water; the boat boy looked frankly cranky. Clearly he gets a bigger cut when there’s fuel involved.
We docked at the Anchorage Yacht Club Wharf, took on water and ice, dropped off laundry, then were led to a nearby mooring. About 10 minutes later, the boat boy was back, saying we couldn’t use that mooring after all. He led us well out to the edge of the harbour by Thompson Reef. It was a lovely spot with a cooling breeze and the reef acting as a buffer between us and the swell. However, it was one of the most expensive moorings thus far at $60 EC for the night. We would not be staying a second day.
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