Stopover on the Way Home

We caught a flight out from the Point Salines Airport at some ungodly hour. It took us to Trinidad where we had a six-hour stopover. We went to the bag storage area and prepared to check our bags while we went exploring. However, there was a taxi driver there who offered to take us, bag and baggage, for a mini-tour and to have us back in plenty of time for our flight. We accepted and so we met the estimable Ashton, who provided a superb if brief glimpse of things Trinidadian...and of Venezuela over the way.

Ashton and WW above Port of Spain

View over Port of Spain

WW and KMH

Cannon at the fort above Port of Spain

The fort...yes, it's not what we tend to think of as a fort,
but it seems to have worked fine.

The brig (or whatever the landlubber's word is) at the fort...

...where the window grills are made of rifle barrels.

A true calypso is an extemporaneous song about the people being sung to.This guy is a master of the art.
WW is eating hot (in the hot-pepper sense of the word) spiced pineapple. Two nearby pavilions sheltered vendors selling all manner of sweets and treats.

This view is why there are vendors in the area at all.

And I will close with some Trinidadian bougainvillea that just happened to be there:

Here endeth our Winter/Spring 2008 cruising.

Farewell, My Lovely

We did a million and one last-minute things. We went in to find a room for the night and hit upon some great little apartments that are rented out to university students. This being after school had ended for the year, there were rooms available...and laundry! We booked a room and arranged for a drive to the airport early the next day.

Then we waited for 2 p.m. We knew the boat that was being hauled out ahead of us and saw her moving down the channel right on schedule. Then we dropped our mooring and took her carefully down to the lift dock. The rest is as follows:

Waiting for the lift to arrive

Lift off!

One of Django's bellies and props

Off to her summer berth

WW spent a great deal of time with the boatyard worthy who would take charge of the many repairs Django required. Sails would go to the sail loft. Paint would be applied. A variety of problems, small and not-so-small, would be dealt with. The chap wrote a long list. (In the event, it wasn't much use. WW called in August and learned the list had been lost.)

While all this went on, Django was installed in her ashore berth, propped on special boat-proppers and strapped firmly to the ground. The boatyard had suffered badly during Ivan, with monohulls toppling over and smashing multihulls. Apparently it looked like a bad game of pickup sticks after Ivan was done. They now take no chances and all boats are strapped down hard.

We removed her bimini and anything else loose on deck. Down came her Canadian flag. We prepared here as well as we could for five or so months without us. Then we said goodbye and wished her well.

Prickly Bay

We left The Lagoon after a quiet morning of blogging and guitar practice. Our destination was the Prickly Bay on the south coast of Grenada. It was a nice cruise down the coast, out around Point Salines and a short run along to Prickly Bay. There were sought the Prickly Bay Marina and Boatyard, which was patently not where it appeared on either the chart or the plotter. WW used his unerring (it's really rather irritating, this ability of his) sense of direction to find the place tucked up at the northerwesternmost tip of the bay.

It was Wednesday, May 21 (happy birthday, Frisha), and we were to be pulled out on Friday at 2 p.m. We tried to find an anchorage off the channel to the boatyard, but ran aground on soft mud in about 0.5 meters of water. It looked like all the viable anchorages had been taken. We were able to back off and grabbed a mooring a little distance from the channel. That evening, we dined at Da Big Fish in the marina.

We had planned to spend the day cleaning and doing laundry. I took a vast load of dirty stuff, including all the pillow covers from the saloon, into the marina, which has two washers and a dryer that live in an open shed just inside the gates of the boatyard. Ominously, a sign at Da Big Fish informed us it was closed due to no water. We collected the laundry tokens we had ordered from the gate's guard, but found both washers occupied. An Australian couple was muttering over how slowly the laundry was working. Being rather dense, I still hadn't made the connection between no water in the restaurant and slow laundry. The Aussies finally took their clothes away to dry on board, she complaining that they didn't seem to have been rinsed very well.

I loaded the washer and watched a pathetic dribble of water going in. A chap who was trying to wash his pulled-out boat, using one of the many hoses available to marina customers, said he was having a hard time. He couldn't get any water pressure more than a short distance above ground. We decided to try running a hose into the washer. It wasn't a torrent, but it was better than nothing. Slowly, the machine began to fill. Just as I was beginning to believe we would have cleanliness, a very concerned man came up and said we couldn't possibly use the hose in the washer. It took several minutes for us to impress upon him that it was the only way as the connections weren't working and I'd already poured in liquid laundry detergent. Finally he relented and let us do the wash cycle.

We loaded our sodden soapy clothes into Boffo and returned to Django. We were down to our last quarter tank of water and I had to use rather a lot rinsing. Then everything went along Django's safety lines to dry. There was a strong wind and bright sunshine. The job was done in no time. Meanwhile, WW polished the fuel with his labour-saving drill pump. I attacked the galley with mould killer. WW oiled all the tools. We manhandled the pillows back into their covers. Django was verging on the pristine.

We had dinner ashore to live music, but were both too tired to really register much. Pullout tomorrow.

St. George's

St. George's is a very beautiful town, built on the hills surrounding a large and excellent harbour. Colourful houses stand in disorganized ranks on the hillsides, with all the gaps filled in by green. The harbour itself divides into two bays. The northern one, The Carenage, is in the centre of town. Wharf Road, lined with shops and restaurants, runs around the perimeter of the bay. The other bay lies to the southeast and is called The Lagoon. It is here that cruisers anchor, and a number of yacht clubs and marinas have sprung up to meet their varied needs. One particularly swank place is the brainchild of a Quebecer...or so said someone we chatted with.

We made our way into The Lagoon in mid-afternoon, set our anchor, tidied, and had a post-crossing RP. Looking at the boats around us, there were distinct differences from those we had seen last up at the Bitter End. There, there had been a quantity of US and Canadian flags, as well as a number of rentals. Here, we were in a small navy of French, British, German, Dutch, and Italian boats. The way to the Caribbean from the Med is southwest to Barbados and Grenada, then catch the trades up through the islands in the fall. North American cruisers thin out the farther you get from the Bahamas.

We launched Boffo and headed off to explore a bit. We went in to one dock to look at another Flica. There were not many made, so it was fun to meet one of Django's sisters. We puttered past huge old working ships. Real tramps and wonderful to behold. We had read there is a dinghy dock in The Carenage, but a circuit failed to reveal it. Eventually, we moored at the police dock. We were told that wouldn't be a problem. Then we walked along Wharf Road to a restaurant recommended in our guide: Nutmeg.

I could rhapsodize on callaloo soup generally, but will refrain. Instead I will rhapsodize on Nutmeg's callaloo soup. Absolutely fabulous. We enjoyed our meal very much.

The next day, we headed over to the yacht club where we settled the burning issue of the proper pronunciation of the island's name: Grenayda, *never* Grenahda. "That's in Spain," said our interlocutor disdainfully.

We lunched at a cafeteria-style joint called The Creole Shack. Good stuff. Then went for a wander. I spotted a tiny book store. I have tried to pick up a small local cookbook at each of the islands we have visited. Search as I would, though, there seemed to be nothing. Until we turned to leave. The serene elderly woman sitting at the glass fronted counter was reading the Bible. Below the Bible were a number of cookbooks. We chatted. Rita (for that was her name) was a wonderful woman. She told me which cookbook to buy. We got to talking. She told us her husband, who had been in insurance (WW knew something of the people he had worked with) had died in March. She soldiered on. She showed us his picture. She told us all about him.

The people of Grenada are, generally, deeply religious and profoundly conservative. Youth will gather by the waterside to sing (fantastically well) all the latest...Gospel songs. Short shorts, tank tops, and skimpy skirts are frowned upon. But for friendly, outgoing, helpful, kind people, you need look no farther.

We climbed up to Fort George, which overlooks the approach to the harbour, including the cruise ship dock. The fort now houses the police academy. It didn't feel like a tourist destination as it is in poor repair. However, the view is spectacular. And Grenada must be forgiven for much. Although technically outside "the box" (insurance-speak for where hurricanes blow), the island was devastated by Ivan in 2004, its first hurricane in more than 100 years. Crops were destroyed, buildings razed, and the rain forest was levelled. The island has made an incredible comeback.

We had read that there is a terrific outdoor market in St. George's and were trying to figure out how to get to it. A nice fellow in worn blue overalls walked us over the fort, introduced himself as a policeman (WW had his doubts...thought he might be a convict), and pointed out various sights. He it was who told us about the Quebec involvement in the new ritzy yacht club. When we said we wanted to find the market, he marched us to the west side of the fort and up a little turret. From there he pointed out the market and the way to get there. WW tried to offer him some money for his help, but he declined, saying it had been his pleasure. "Go to the market," he said. "It is a very good market. It has everything you want, except what you don't want." Then he grinned cheerfully at his extraordinary wit.

The market was an extensive affair of little booths selling myriad spices in an amazing variety of packaging. Everything from plastic bags to woven baskets full of scented wonders. Grenada is the spice island of the Caribbean, producing vast quantities of cinnamon, cloves, ginger, turmeric and, top of the list, nutmeg. One fellow, lounging in a chaise longue, asked WW something. It took a minute for the singsong to make sense. "Home grown?" "No, thanks."

All around the periphery of the market are the fruit and vegetable stalls. We met a number of fruits we had never seen before. The vendors were happy to let us sample their wares. Very canny. We went away loaded down with exotic fruits.

Walking up the hill from the market, we were addressed by a striking woman in business attire. She wanted to sell us property. Given WW's real-estate predilictions, we chatted for quite a while.

That evening, we dined at the yacht club where I had my first flying fish. I'm afraid it was a disappointment. WW opined that it might have been frozen.

Carriacou and a Volcano

We arrived in Hillsborough at about 2 p.m. on Sunday, May 18. We needed to clear immigration but, given our experiences elsewhere, we reckoned the chance of anyone's being on duty on a Sunday afternoon was about a million to one.

Instead, WW leapt into his swimming trunks and over the side. We discovered why the port engine had taken a sabbatical. A vast tarpaulin and several meters of shredded nylon rope had formed a just-barely penetrable tangle around the propeller and rudder. WW hacked and hewed and freed the stuff. He then took the tarpaulin and later donated it to a local boatman; two large plastic bags full of mangled rope were deposited in the garbage. Every fishing boat that entered the harbour, WW eyed with suspicion. "I'm sure it was that one," he said, pointing to one. "I know I saw that boat out there." To my inexperienced eye, all the fishing boats looked much of a muchness, but he was convinced he had found the culprit. Not that he *did* anything other than disapprove strongly from afar.

We started the usual post-crossing decontamination procedures insofar as we could at anchor. Then, out of the blue, a vicious and fast-moving squall came charging into the harbour. The winds were 50 knots and there was rain. Rain! Lots of pelting, freshwater, torrential downpouring rain! Django was clean and ready for Grenada on the morrow.

We awoke to discover the anchor had dragged badly. Fortunately, the harbour wasn't crowded and we hadn't bashed into anyone or anything. WW headed into the town to register our presence. He was castigated for not having come in the day before. In fairness, we hadn't gone ashore at all. Still, immigration people like folk on boats to follow their rules.

We sailed out into a beautiful day with a good wind and pointed for Grenada. On the way we had to make a bit of a detour around Kick 'em Jenny. The Caribbean islands are a volcanic chain. Kick 'em Jenny is the most recent...so recent, in fact, that she hasn't put her head above water. She is, nonetheless, very dangerous. There is a five-kilometer safety zone around her, marked on all the charts.

Now, why do you think it is bad to sail over a submerged volcano? Because it may erupt and boil you and your boat?

Good guess but not the right answer. It is because volcanoes release large amounts of gas. The gas from submerged volcanoes decreases the density of the water above them. What keeps boats afloat? Why, the density of the water! So, if you sail over an active submerged volcano that is having a gassy moment, you sink like a stone. Thud.

Apart from volcano-avoidance, the sail to St. George's on Grenada was one of the nicest bits of sailing we'd had. Fair winds and fair weather. We fairly flew south.

Crossing to Grenada

Last little bit of land before Saint Martin/Sint Maarten

We left the Bitter End at about 7 a.m. and headed for the Sombrero Passage. We sailed and sailed. We sailed past Saint Martin/Sint Maarten just about nightfall, and could see the lights glowing off to port.

We sailed through the Anguilla Passage into the Carribean and passed Saba and Sint Eustasius. A few hours later, the lights of St. Kitts and Nevis vanished port and astern. By dawn, we had Monserrat off the port bow.

WW got quite excited at the plume coming off the Monserrat volcano. I explained that it is always there but he was insistent that major activity was under way. We later learned that there had been a slight increase in activity and that the volcano was being watched carefully. Nothing more, however, so presumably it subsided again. And that plume IS always there.

Then the wind died. We pooped along and finally the lights of Guadeloupe appeared after dark. The wind returned nicely.

We were doing our standard two hours on, two hours off rotation. While we do this throughout the 24 hours each day, we are a little looser during the daylight hours. Watches start more strictly at 7 p.m., which WW took. Then me 9-11, WW 11-1, me 1-3, etc.

The two hours off become golden. Sleep is instantaneous and deep. You dread the "your watch" call you know is soon to come.

At 4:30, WW yelled, "Kathy! Come here! I need you!"

I knew I still had half an hour that was MINE. I looked up and saw the hatch was open. My befuddled brain decided he wanted the hatch closed. So I closed it. He continued to yell. In a fairly foul mood, I made my way to the cockpit.

"The port propellor is fouled in a longline and I need you to hold me while I cut it free," WW said.

This is the kind of clear thinking that occurs in the middle of the night when you find your propellor has picked up a mile or so of sturdy, buoyed fishing line and is dragging it along behind you, white markers bobbing cheerfully off into the distance.

"Um, I think I'd prefer you used one of the harnesses and clamped yourself to the stern rail," I suggested.

"Oh," said WW. So that's what he did. I stood by and cheered him on as the last few minutes of my two hours off ticked away. Finally, the great self-appointed sea anchor was cut free, but the propellor was still so fouled as to render that engine unusable. We'd been running on just the one, so we turned to the starboard engine. It wouldn't start. Sailing in light to no airs had us whipping along for Grenada at a princely 4 knots. It could be a very long crossing.

It was with great joy, then, that, soon after sunrise, we found the solar panels provided that bit of extra juice needed to get the starboard engine going. Guadeloupe was a distance haze. We wouldn't see land again until St. Vincent. The wind was nonexistent.

In the afternoon the wind picked up again and blew at 17 knots to 20 knots until about 2 p.m. Then it dropped. And our only engine went kafizzle at about 3 a.m. in protest over dirty fuel. We polished. Sigh. We got her up and running at about 7:30 a.m. with St. Vincent in sight. Once again, the wind picked up only this time it stayed picked. Then we were in the midst of the Grenadines.

Due to the fouled propellor and our frayed nerves, we decided to make a stop in part of Grenada but not our intended destination of the island of Grenada. We headed for Hillsborough, Carriacou.

Roaming the BVIs

Since we are returning to Django next week, after five cool wet summer months back in Quebec, it seems an opportune moment to recap the last two weeks of sailing we had in May. This is in keeping with my trend of never being caught up.

Once we'd returned to Django from the Soggy Dollar in a crestfallen Boffo, we upped anchor and headed across to Tortola. We docked at the Village Cay Yacht Club and headed into the town for provisions. We were escorted back by a young woman pushing a shopping cart full of our provisions. She was extremely pleasant (she liked my dress) and chatty. The YC cat seemed very pleased we had returned. It had very poor manners, since it would go aboard any boat at all without invitation.

Further explorations revealed a shop specialising in British stuff that sold Twiglets!! For those unaware, this is my absolute bottom-line favourite junk food. I bought all he had...six packets. WW tried the prawn crisps. They were not his favourite.

A major boat show was to take place soon, so the YC was full of extremely glam yachts. We checked out one futuristic and very luxurious catamaran. WW was interested in the mast which was stepped at quite an angle to the deck. There's a word for that, but I've forgotten it.

The next morning, I went into the pantry (that berth full of cabbages and such) and found a package of seaweed that had been torn open, although none had been eaten. We wondered if we had rats. That, however, didn't make sense, since all sorts of delicious dried grains and pulses were untouched. As I pondered this mystery, I looked up through the hatch above my head. There, the YC cat was giving me a disappointed look. Aha! Seaweed smells like fish!

Because of the upcoming boat show, the YC had made it clear we were allowed our space for one night only and that we had to be gone by noon. We cleared the harbour at about 11 and set off for Virgin Gorda.

It was a lovely sail, cruising by islets with names like Round Rock (which was...well...round) and my favourite group: Broken Jerusalem and Fallen Jerusalem.

Right to left: Round Rock, Broken Jerusalem (barely visible rocks),
Fallen Jerusalem, and VG

After negotiating a long, narrow, well-marked channel with the nefarious Mosquito Rock at its entrance we arrived at the Bitter End YC. We had our rum punch ashore, then a dinner of Puerto Rican fish cakes and a salad on Django before turning in. Tomorrow we would leave for the crossing to Grenada.