Higher and Higher

As good as her word, Sue collected us next morning from the road just above the marina and drove us to her and Jean-Charles's gorgeous home in St-Claude, on the outskirts of Basse-Terre.

The garden is spectacular. JC likes orchids. So does WW, who pottered from one to the next with an awed expression.

WW admiring an orchid, one that grows locally in the wild.

Sue prefers controlling Nature's bounty. "I'm more into clear-cutting," she said. In addition to orchids, the garden is home to a mango tree, an avocado tree, a grapefruit tree and, of course, the wonderful citron vert. Sue said she thought she had killed the passionfruit vine -- they can be pretty invasive -- but passionfruit littered the driveway. In the tropics, Nature tends to fight back.

The house also features a glorious, extensive, comfortable and shady veranda, where we sat around the dining table while Sue drew a map and gave us instructions for finding food to take on our hike.

A nice place to visit and, yes, I'd want to live here.

The Soufriere: Guadeloupe's volcano. At 1,467 metres, the highest peak in the Lesser Antilles. That was the day's challenge. We were pumped.

We found the grocery store Sue had told us about, but it was closed. An adjacent pastry shop provided ham-and-cheese, and sausage buns, as well as sticky buns of several types and the essential bottled water. Well-provisioned, we set out for the trailhead.

We were able to find a parking spot right by the entrance to the rain forest trail. Almost immediately after starting up this well-maintained pathway, the sulphur-spring-fed baths appeared on our left. Then it was a 10 or 15 minute hike through beautiful rain forest, over bubbling brooks and up steep rocky steps. The rain forest ended abruptly, and we emerged at Savane a Mulets, elevation 1,142 metres, a flat grassy area with an erstwhile parking area no longer accessible to vehicles. Before us stood La Soufriere in all her glory.

The summit of La Soufriere seen from Savane a Mulets.

It was a marvelous climb. The trail spirals up around the volcano, so is never terribly steep (not like going up all those wretched stairs on the Saba volcano) -- at least, not until the very end when it's a bit of a scramble. The air is wonderfully cool and, even though there was bright sunshine for our climb, it was not a sweaty, unpleasant grind. While the other three came up halting often to take photos or water breaks, I found I wanted to keep moving. I hit my pace and moved up the mountain at a comfortable and consistent rate, stopping once or twice to read information placards placed a long the route, once taking a longer break to let the others catch up. I sat in a shady spot and watched fabulous Antillean crested hummingbirds (such a dark green they appear black, with a brilliant crest that catches sunlight and flashes emerald) zing around me. In the end, however, I couldn't sit still any longer, and continued my ascent.

The views were extraordinary, both upwards and down. To begin with, the view was south and west toward Les Saintes and Basse-Terre. The climb took us all the way around to the northeast side, with a splendid views over Les Mamelles, Grande Terre and Pointe-a-Pitre. Along the way, deep crevices slashed up into the mountainside, lined with strange yellow mosses and clusters of tree ferns. The last bit of the trail was rather rough and very steep, but the knowledge I was almost there made the climb much easier. A few minutes after my arrival, the others appeared.

What I saw looking down...

...and what they saw looking up.

It turned out we were still a short steep pathway from the actual summit with the actual sign boasting the actual maximum elevation. Truly not a bother. We made our way up there, took the requisite photos, and settled down to our nosh.

One of the requisite photos.

After our meal, we made our way along the path that circles the crater. Many areas are roped off with warnings about toxic gases. WW and I are aware of the sulphuric acid that lurks in volcanic ash. I can't image it is nice on lungs either. One great vent issued a steady stream of steam. The lads tossed in stones to see if they could hear the bottom.

A good spot for throwing stones.

The trek down actually seemed much more difficult than going up. Very jarring on tired joints. Still, bloodied but unbowed, we arrived back at the sulphur-spring baths to give our feet a well-earned soak.

Hospitality Plus

As I mentioned in my last post, when Sue had come aboard, we had arranged to meet for dinner. As Jean-Charles is interested in sailing and matters naval, we invited them aboard for a pre-prandial drink. During the course of this exchange, I had mentioned our low opinion of French rhum. Sue looked aghast.

WW went in to the marina in Boffo and collected our guests at 6:30 that evening. I had planned a batch of RPs, but that was nixxed when they arrived. JC had rhum, sugar and citrons verts (the Caribbean French refer to green lemons and JC explained that they are different from limes, though uneducated palates such as mine cannot make the flavour distinction). The citrons had come from their own tree in their own garden. He also brought a triad of small spoons. We were to be introduced to the French equivalent of an RP: the ti-ponche (sp?).

WW and I had actually experienced this drink in Deshaies on our first visit. We had sworn it would never pass our lips again. We were to be forsworn.

Jean-Charles, with flourish, sliced his green lemons into chunks. He put two or three in a small glass. He mashed them with one of the spoons.

Citrons verts are step one.

He added sugar and mashed again. Then he poured in a measure of white rhum. More mashing and...voila!

The alchemist at work.

It was absolutely fabulous.

That said, we gave Sue a bit of Mount Gay on the rocks and she was stunned to learn it could be drunk like that, unsullied by other ingredients...and tasted OK. Both the Anglos and the Francos had scored direct hits. No need to re-enact the Battle of the Saintes.

After our delicious libations, we crowbarred all six of us into Boffo and headed, very carefully, back into the marina. It was a short walk to a wonderful pizzeria. Sue said she and JC eat there often, and she had made reservations. The meal was delicious, the conversation sparkled. I was deeply happy the swimmers had swum and made this all possible.

Jean-Charles and WW at the pizzeria.

Sue, Dana and Enn at the pizzeria.

As the evening drew to a close, Sue offered to pick us up at 8:30 the next morning. She works from home as a translator and wanted to get to her desk at a reasonable hour. She would take us there, lend us the car, and provide us with instructions for getting to La Soufriere. I mean...wow.

We parted well pleased with the wonderful evening we had spent.

Making Contact with Natives

During our stay in Deshaies, I attempted to reach my friend Susan who, several years ago, up and married a Frenchman and moved to...Guadeloupe. I got her contact info from our mutual friend Madeleine and another nudge from Sue's brother who had recently emailed me. She lives outside Basse-Terre (on the southern part of the west coast of Guadeloupe) a good place to stop on our way to Les Saintes provided the weather and seas were going to be calm.

After our visit to the rain forest, we had returned the rental car, slung our hammock and had a very lazy day. I have been attempting to swim six laps around Django every day since exercise on boats is hard to come by. I think, however, I am infinitely better at hammock snoozing.

We set off bright and early on Wednesday, headed for Basse-Terre (the town). We stopped for lunch and a fabulous snorkel at Ile aux Pigeons. The Eager Crew proved invaluable as fish pot spotters, and Enn oversaw our fishing rod with admirable results: a fresh mackerel turned into a fresh mackerel seviche for lunch.

It was a lovely sail,with light airs and an almost flat sea. The only blot was the death of our mainsail, which has definitely reached the end of its cruising days. The several layers of its fabric are no longer holding together as they once did, meaning it is very difficult to haul it out of or cram it back into its furler. Thank goodness Enn was there on the last time it was hauled in, as proved a Feat of Strength. WW decided it would not come out again, except for replacement. He has been waiting weeks for a quote on a new one from the Antigua sailmakers.

We arrived at our anchorage, off a black sand beach near the Riviere Sens Marina south of Basse-Terre, late in the afternoon (as advertised) and decided to make our first foray ashore the next day. I was trying to determine the best time to try to call Sue, or her husband Jean-Charles, at one of the phone numbers she had provided. Ah well, we'd work something out.

Thursday dawned clear and lovely. WW, Enn and I became very wrapped up in a project WW and I had started back in Antigua: an awning for the foredeck. With grommet kit in hand, the two produced shade.

And WW and Enn said, "Let there be shade"...

...And there was shade.

In the midst of all this activity, a voice called from astern and WW went back to see who it might be. He returned a moment later.

"That was a message from Susan," he told us. Sue had asked her friend Linda to check whether a catamaran with a Canadian flag was anchored off the black sand beach. Linda had spotted us and swum out to let us know that Sue would be down at the beach at about one o'clock.

Something, I think was lost in translation, since the gentlemen went ashore to explore at about noon and, soon thereafter, Dana and I were hailed from the water. Sue had swum out to see us.

We agreed to meet for dinner at a pizzeria in the marina. The lads arrived back just in time to give her a lift ashore...she was due to pick up Jean-Charles from work.

Thus, when technology fails, the residents of Guadeloupe manage, er, swimmingly.

Exploration in Guadeloupe

Monday, November 29, was WW's birthday, and we celebrated in style...by having him buy lots of stuff he wanted.

We headed down the coast to go exploring and to visit some of the places we had read about in the guide books.

Guadeloupe is separated into two islands by a thin saltwater river, the Riviere Salee. Basse Terre, the western island, is the larger and has wonderful mountains, and a rich and luxuriant growth of rain forest . Grande Terre, in the east, is smaller, low and relatively flat, with the fancy beaches and resorts all along its southern coast.

We drove about halfway down the west coast of Basse Terre to where the Route de la Traversee crosses through the Mamelles...smallish mountains, but still steep enough and wet enough to make a walk a must. At the Maison de la Foret, we dismounted and went for a lovely easy hike along a "discovery" trail, branching off onto the "discovery 2" trail, which took us up a slope to a place where there would have been a view if there hadn't been such incredible forest growth.

Setting off through the lush forest growth.
From the front of the line: Enn, Dana, WW.

Huge buttress roots on a gum? kapok? Well, on a rain forest tree.

The trees they do grow high. Lay on my back to take this photo.

Sturdy vines twining through the undergrowth.

After our hike, we drove back the way we had come to a place called Parc des Mamelles, which features an otter and that classic Guadeloupian forest dweller...wait for it...the raccoon. (Don't ask me, I have nooo idea). We didn't actually go in there as the cost was more euros than we felt were necessary, but we did cross the road and have a lovely sandwich and a beer at the snack bar there.

We then decided to return to Deshaies via Point a Pitre. This meant driving clear across Basse Terre to the bridge that would take us to Grande Terre. On the way, we visited the Cascade aux Ecrevisses. This lovely little waterfall is a short walk from the parking lot and the boardwalk leading to it means it is wheelchair accessible!

Cascade aux Ecrevisses. WW tried to find a way up
the far side (he's the little yellow dot over there).

WW, Dana and your correspondent at the falls.

In the parking lot, there was a crafts shop which WW explored with fascination. We came away with a hammock for the boat -- a Creole hammock -- and a couple of rhythm instruments of a basic nature which would, we were sure, make our evening singsongs even more annoying to neighbouring boats.

From thence, it was onwards to Pointe a Pitre where WW bought himself a new guitar case and we bought swim fins for me (mine had been chewed by rats...ew). We had wanted to visit the market, but it was pretty much closed. One woman was still at her stall, packing away spices. I managed to buy turmeric (saffran in Guadeloupe) and fresh ginger.

Then it was off back to Deshaies and Django and our well-earned RPs.

The French Connection

We left Antigua on the morning of Friday, November 26, and had a rip-snorting, up-and-down, blowy, lovely sail down to Guadeloupe. Unfortunately, I made my annual error and took an anti-seasick pill about an hour before leaving. It knocked me for a loop and I spent most of the crossing unconscious in one corner or another while poor noble WW managed the boat work.

We arrived in lovely Deshaies at about 4:30 p.m. and were almost immediately visited by our friend who, for a small fee, picks up baguettes and pastries from a nearby bakery and delivers them to the boat at the crack of dawn. Yum. We'd be having croissants for breakfast.

We had planned to dine ashore but found we were both so dopey (WW had taken one of the pills too) that we ended up staying aboard and having a light meal of the few things still lurking in the fridge. (It is only sensible to empty one's refrigerator before a crossing to France where things like real ham, real pate, real bread and real croissants can be found.)

In the morning, WW went ashore to clear us in and to find out about car rentals. While he was away, I cleaned the boat and prepared the guest berth for the arrival of our cruising companions, the inimitable Eager Crew: Dana and Enn. They would be arriving late in the evening, so had arranged to stay the night in a Gosier hotel. A series of consultative emails ended with our deciding to rent a car to pick them up and to explore a little more of Guadeloupe than can normally be seen from a boat.

The rest of the day was spent in extreme indolence.

Sunday morning, we rented a car (a tiny Ford Something with protesting brakes and powered to zoom us from 0 to 60 in 45 minutes). We drove through the cane fields from Deshaies to Ste-Rose, down across the bridge over the Riviere Salee (which separates the two halves of Guadeloupe and which we had sailed last year) and around Pointe-a-Pitre. Then it was a short drive south to Gosier. There was a brief moment of concern when our guests appeared to have disappeared. All was well, however. Their late arrival had meant a regular receptionist had not been on duty and the night watchman had stuffed their registration into a drawer. It all took a bit of finding...as did Dana and Enn who had gone off for an exploratory stroll. Just as we worked out that we were at the right hotel, they came wandering up. We loaded them, their bags and ourselves into our little Ford and trundled back whence we had come.

We tried to stop at the rhum museum on the way back, but this is the French West Indies. On Sundays, everything seems to stop (if it ever starts) at noon or soon thereafter. During the week, all the shops and businesses close at midday and reopen at about 3 p.m. The great old tradition of siesta is alive and well in Guadeloupe. So, of course, the museum was closed.

We arrived in Deshaies and, rather than head straight out to Django, we carried on along the coast road to the south, up the long steep hill to the botanical gardens. This would be my and WW's third visit, but the Eager Crew's first.

The koi pool greats visitors at the entrance to the botanical gardens.
Little cups of fish food can be bought for a few cents and, as is clear, the fish like it.
This photo is of WW, Dana and me, kindness of Enn.

Dana photographed WW and Enn covered in lories.
The aviary also holds lorikeets, but the lories are bigger, pushier and more gluttonous.
As for the koi, food is available. Lories like fruit so their food is some sort of fruit mush.

We had a very pleasant lunch at the gardens, then made our way back to Deshaies proper. There, in her standard spot, was the lovely ice cream lady with her two huge hand-crank ice-cream makers. The ice-cream eaters all seemed to think coco-passion sounded good. It certainly vanished quickly enough.

Then it was into Boffo and off the Django to install the crew in their quarters.

Antigua the...Cute?

The tot is a movable feast, taking place a different pubs and bars depending on their open days. It used to be held at Life, just outside Nelson's Dockyard, but Life has closed its doors and is up for sale. So now it moves between private homes, the Waterfront Bar and Reef Gardens. One of the features of these places is the almost inevitable presence of domestic animals.

Reef Gardens features a quebecois cat of ancient vintage. Alas, I have never yet got a photo of him.

At Waterfront, owners Jules and Dennis (both originally from Vancouver) share the pub work with two lovely, boisterous, completely fearless young men who do, however, get tired from time to time...

A bit of a snooze in the smoking room...

...until it's time to get on with working the crowd.

When they wake up, they are all business--checking out the social scene, intimidating dogs... Absolutely nothing fazes them. Tot Club members Mark and Lindsay often bring their lovely two-year old Delean for a bit of mingling. She and the boys get on remarkably well.

Lindsay and Mark with fearless kitten and
an intrigued Delean (breed: purebred Island Dog).

Mark, kitten and Delean.

Last night, there was a special guest star. A real youngster, this week-old lad (brought by local character Jacko, who rides the youngster's mother through the streets of Antigua) was entirely mannerly and even managed to join the tot for a few minutes.

Young pub crawler.

Joining the tot circle.

With Tot Club President Terry.

So, there...isn't Antigua cute?

Catching Up

I'd like to say I've been so frantically busy, I haven't had time to post. Truth is, however, I have been lazy. WW, on the other hand, has been frantically busy and the boat is now ready to sally forth on her next series of adventures.

Trampoline back in place.

The trampoline is back in place, the rewound electromagnetic clutch has been installed in our big autopilot, and a fancy fishing pole has appeared in a holder on our port side aft. (One evening we actually went fishing, just outside the cut. WW motored about in Boffo while I trolled. He swears we had a strike. Yeah, sure. Whatever.) The rigging is all in place with jib and main neatly in their furlers and lines stowed neatly. All shipshape and Bristol fashion we are.

WW spotted a large Danforth anchor in the garbage dump and, with some local help, got it moved to the beach beside the dinghy dock. There he hammered away at it with a cold chisel since it was completely seized up. Once he got it moving again, he brought it out to where we lie, in Tot Club Corner just under a hill that provides blessed shade at about 3:30 every day. We now have a mooring. For those who don't know what that is, it is a fixed place to come to in the harbour. We have a friend who will use it in our absence so it will not be taken up by some unknown member of the Great Unwashed. There are no recognised moorings in English Harbour, so you have to defend yours valiantly.

WW would like to beef up our mooring's weight.
Here he's trying to get some really big chain.
The guy on the table is our friend the water taxi driver.

We also pulled out all the sails we have never looked at before. There were three: a sort of storm jib, a huge light spinnaker, and a common or garden jib. This last we lashed up over the foredeck. It was a bit of a hodgepodge mess, but it gave us a taste for the cool and air of a shaded deck. WW headed over to the sailmaker and was given a rubbish spinnaker which we are in the process of converting to an awning. Much painful forcing of needles with waxed thread through layers of ripstop nylon. Thank heaven for the sailmaker's palm and pliers.

We had our friends Peter and Sam (Joy) and Bob and Carol (Rubens) on board for dinner. Bob and Carol returned the favour and we had a delicious spaghetti dinner on Rubens...and perhaps just a leetle too much rum.

The next day we went up to the hills to have dinner with the Tot Chair Mike and his wife Anne in their brand new, absolutely gorgeous house. Of course I forgot the camera. It was roast leg of lamb, cooking to a glowing turn of pinkly goodness, with all the trimmings. Including, brussel sprouts. On Antigua. Who knew?

Tot Club members at the Waterfront Bar for the tot:
Moya, Carol, Bob, Mike, Sam (and WW in the back there).

Today we are going to take Django over to the Slipway to fill her tanks and refuel her. Then a garbage dumping, food gathering run over to Dockside market. We head off on Friday for Guadeloupe where we will meet up with our seasoned sailing companions Dana and Enn. A couple of weeks exploring yet more of Caribbean Europe will be fun. We need to lay in puncheons of rum since all we'll be able to get there is rhum -- best used for engine degreasing.

I promise to take more pictures and write more often.

Heat is very...hot

OK. Of course you head to the Caribbean for the warmth, but the past week has been sweltering. No wind at all. Even the goats seem overwhelmed. The only living things doing a thriving business are the mosquitoes and the no-see-ems. We lie panting in the shade, fans at full throttle, covered with horribly itchy welts from the nasty biting insects. Pass the Off.

We went to "keep fit" this morning with the Tot Club. For those uninitiated, every Sunday, Tot Club volunteers go to a designated historical site and wield clippers, machetes, rakes, and sundry other grounds-maintenance equipment. From 10 a.m. until noon, they work on one of the ruins in the area. We have variously employed our talents on Fort Charlotte, Clarence House and assorted trails and graveyards.

Today it was Clarence House, which overlooks English Harbour. A beautiful wreck. I laboured with our friend Connie, tidying up around the house while the gentlemen hacked their way through the mangroves below, to create a trail from the harbour up to the house.

And, boy, was it hot.

The Tot Club buys us water to consume during our labours and two beers later in the Nelson's Dockyard Galley Bar. Very welcome.

All this to say that my failure to post has been due to extreme heat and humidity. No break is predicted before Wednesday. Aaaargh.

Oh, and no photos due to extreme absence of batteries.

So Much Work

In the past few days, we have twice rented a car so we could go about the island getting Important Stuff. On Friday, we drove into St. John's to find (extremely expensive) sandals to replace those chewed by rats, drenched by hurricanes and/or forgotten at home. Then on to Jolly Harbour and Budget Marine for an array of nautical whatnots.

The trampoline was ripping along a front seam, so it had to be removed and taken to the sailmaker for repairs. A major production.

Trampoline gone.

WW worked on the electrical systems, of which we have three. He decided there is a problem with the 220v system, so we are trying not to use it in case it kills us...or something. (I was never very good at physics and wiring and such.)

Then our trusty charge meter thing started showing the power dropping unusually low overnight. At first WW thought it might be the hazy weather was cramping our solar panels' style. But he finally decided the original four batteries (not the two we got in Grenada) had probably reached their best-before date. Subsequent research revealed that driving to Jolly Harbour would reduce the price by half, even factoring in the car rental, compared to what the English Harbour Slipway was asking. So off we went yesterday. (Peter was most disappointed since three cruise ships were expected...he did just fine on his own.)

Batteries are very heavy. I was seriously concerned that my husband would soon be enjoying his first hernia. However, the four old batteries were successfully removed from their hiding place under the saloon's long bench, and all the new were snugged in. Then WW looked at his wiring drawing and realized he couldn't understand it.

This is what it should have looked like:

...and that's just two of the four batteries.


He carried on by touching electrical connections between the batteries and, if they didn't spark, saying, "Well, no complaints there." My job was to hold as-yet unconnected wires out of the way. I kept a careful eye on the radio, plotting the exact path of my leap to it for when I needed to pan-pan for an electrocution on board. Nor leap nor pan-pan were, in the end, required.

Today, the voltage is at 12.60 and WW response is, "Wonderful!"

I Blame Peter

We are anchored in the Tot Club Corner of English Harbour. To port are Rush (from S. Africa), Cormorant (Arnold and Gay) and Antilia (Graeme), to starboard are Sanctuary (Roger) and Kuma (Peter). So, we are nestled among friends. But that last boat? That Peter? It's all Peter's fault.

Peter lives a hand-to-mouth existence, scrabbling for pennies wherever he can find them. He does deliveries (sails ships from, say, here to Spain), works charters, polishes boats (he did ours), will do any odd job that presents. Very handy, very entrepreneurial in a "don't wake me before 10" sort of way

We met Peter shortly before we headed back north for the summer. He loves to play guitar, sing and hang with friends. When we came back and moved out of the mangroves, there he was off our starboard bow in his lovely little yawl. We hailed back and forth and, eventually, Peter appeared with his latest Great Idea. He'd talked to the manager of Nelson's Dockyard and she was delighted with the plan: Get all dressed up in period costumes (she would provide) and entertain the hundreds of cruise ship visitors who get trucked, bused, taxied and carried here.

Sounds like a lark, right?

Dress and hat for me, piratical shirt and trousers for himself. Grand.

Day One: 9 a.m. start. Not good. Peter doesn't really do 9 a.m. Oh, and we're going to sing. I don't know any of the songs he knows, he knows none of mine. Rehearse?? That's for wusses. Still and all, the punters threw the odd dollar in our battered hat and begged to take pictures of us. They get a free rum punch out of the trip to the Dockyard. "So do we," said Peter. "Is 11:15 too early?"

Apparently not...

Busking is bloody hard work. We tip our hats to all you buskers out there. By early afternoon, I'd worked out a smooth line in patter. Stuff about capstans and sea shanties and jigs. Honestly, if you just stand there and sing, they walk away, but stand there and tell them something they didn't know, you'll earn a dollar here or there.



Day Two: Rain. Does this mean we can give it a pass?

No, it doesn't.

We found places to shelter. We did the strolling minstrels thing. I finally got my curtsy right. "Good day, missus," smile curtsy. Peter all "Aaaar, matey" and "The best ones is the dead ones" (he's from Poole and can pull it off).

Meanwhile, back on the boat, WW has discovered the head overflowing, the bilge pump is dead. Works on that all day only to find our 220v system seems not to be grounded. No one sure of the implications. Finally digs through his workshop to ensure there are no rats in there. Well, only one mummified one. Manages to get the fridge working. Clears out a bunch of rubbish. Works like a slave while his bride is...singing.

Thank the sweet Lord there are no ships till Monday.

Things That Don't Work

It is always exciting to return to our little home upon the water and to discover just what's got buggered up while we were away. Head would not fill, starboard engine would not draw water (which is its coolant), outboard engine moribund (more paddling of Boffo), fridge petulant, a certain "air" in the interior. Oh yeah, and rats.

Well, I rather overstate the case. Terry, the man who cares for the boat in our absence, found a nest of rats in the after starboard cockpit locker. He disposed of it and then put bait on the boat for two weeks...until it stopped being eaten. So we are hopeful there are no rats still aboard. I have told WW that if there are, he'll be coughing up for a hotel or a flight home. I signed up for no hot water, limited cooking accoutrements, even paddling the damn dinghy. I did not sign up for vermin. So far, the only rat we have found was what can only be described as dissolved. It was in the locker just forward of the one that had held the nest. WW dealt with the remains, I dealt with the locker. Ew.

As Antigua has been hit (not directly) by a couple of hurricanes this year, there was a lot of rain over the summer. Django responded by leaking here and there. Leaking means mildew. Another joy of boating revisited.

Yesterday, WW got the engine drawing water, he got the head flushing. Then came the big job: moving out of the mangroves. This involved lifting three anchors from the primordial slime, much of which ended smeared all over the trampoline and foredeck, Boffo, WW and me. Once under way, we headed straight to the Dockyard quay where we hooked up our hose, hosed ourselves and the foredeck down, filled our water tanks and were about to start rinsing Boffo, when:

"Hello."

Uh oh. Our friend Graeme had told us there'd be no one about.

"I see you are using our water. Did you ask permission?"

"Um, not yet."

Smile. "Not yet? Well, just come by the office when you are done and pay for it, please. It will be 20 cents a gallon."

"Of course."

In the event, it cost all of USD 25 for filled water tanks, a much cleaner boat, a spotless dinghy (Boffo positively gleamed) and well-rinsed anchors and anchor rodes. Worth every penny, I say, and especially good since the Slipway is charging 75 cents a gallon.

We are now settled in Tot Club Corner, with several of our old friends near by. Today I donned my cape and mask and became Super Cleaner. The boat now smells of biodegradable cleaning liquids. A significant improvement over rat funk and mildew, trust me.

WW has got much of the rigging done as well as repairing the outboard (yay). He's now working on the fridge. When he's done, we'll head off for provisions, shops having been closed yesterday for Independence Day. He has been nobly suffering without breakfast for the past two days. We have the peanut butter, we have the marmite, it's the support we lack. Oh, and he's been having to drink tea since we left no coffee aboard. Poor man. Ah well, all will be well once we get to the shops.

I promise to take pictures soon. Of pretty things. Rats need not apply.

Return to Base

After our lovely visit to Barbuda, we set off back to Antigua on the morning of Tuesday, March 9. We had a pleasant enough crossing and managed to catch a fish on the way. WW and Jordy were unable to pin a positive ID to it, but allowed it was "some sort of jack". I turned it into a yummy seviche almost as soon as it had been filetted.

Our delicious, very fresh seviche.

We arrived in St. John's in the afternoon and made our way into the harbour there. We dropped anchor and took the dinghy ashore to let Jordy see a bit of the town.

A St. John's street scene taken from a balcony bar.

The following morning, intending to head off to Jolly Harbour, we raised anchor. This was one of the most disgusting anchor raising to which I have ever been party. The oily, yellowish, noisesome slime from the harbour bottom coated the chain and splattered across the trampoline and deck as the windlass laboured. WW and I spent several minutes scrubbing the slime off the deck with buckets of sea water and our handy deck brush. We let the anchor stay just below the water's surface for a time as we left the area, hoping the sea water sluicing over it would clean it. No such luck. The adherent and revolting primordial ooze had to be scrubbed off. Yeccch.

I took the con for the short cruise down the coast to Jolly Harbour, with WW keeping a watchful eye on my efforts. We anchored under Mosquito Hill where we had anchored on our previous visit. WW and Jordy went off for a long kayak ride to a beach around the headland where they used the kayaks to "surf" and had a great time.

Jordy on Django in Mosquito Bay.

The next day, Jordy went for a last kayak...WW was too sore from his exertions of the day before to join him. Then we went ashore for lunch a bid a sad farewell to Jordy who was headed back to Canada. There was weather brewing over the island and WW wanted to get Django moving as we were anchored on a lee shore. Any Jack Aubrey fan will know that's a Bad Thing. So we hastened back out to our anchorage and got Boffo stored on her davits.

Weather moving over Antigua.

Aboard the echoingly empty Django, we motored out and back to English Harbour. Again, I took the con. I took her through the Pelican Channel which runs along the western bit of the south coast between rather nasty reefs. It's quite wide, so not a tricky business. We were back at our home base in plenty of time for the tot.

With no other visitors booked for the season, we had just over a month till our return to Canada. We planned to spend it cruising. We spent a couple of days in English Harbour, provisioning, getting the laundry done, hanging out. We joined the Tot Club Keep Fit on Sunday, March 14, and helped build stairs for those arriving by dinghy at Life--one of the bars at which the tot is regularly held. All sorts of people promised to send me their photos of that event, but haven't yet. I'll post 'em when I get 'em.

Exploring Barbuda, Part Two

After a very pleasant fish lunch at a restaurant in Codrington, Dilly drove us across the island to Two Foot Bay (he doesn't know why it's called that). There are some amazing caves here, including one you can climb up and through to come out on top of the Highlands. Our sandals, sadly, were not equal to the task, so we consoled ourselves with wandering about through the lower caves and enjoying the beautiful beach with its view out over the Atlantic.

WW and Jordy in the Two Foot Bay caves on Barbuda.

Dilly at the caves.

I had wanted to visit a place called the Darby Sink Hole, but Dilly said it would be a half-hour hike and time was getting on, so we were unable to visit this natural bowl containing a mini rain forest. One day.

We began the return to Django, stopping for ice and limes. The limes we picked from a tree in Dilly's sister's garden. Did I mention, the Barbudans we met were among the friendliest, most helpful and most outgoing people we've ever had the pleasure to encounter?

As we headed back to Django, Dilly turned the taxi off onto a little-used track and stopped it by an unfinished and derelict hotel complex. He led us through a bit of scrub to an amazing beach. It is pink. It is not, however, as I have read from time to time, because it has pink sand. The pink comes from thousands of tiny shells washed up by the sea. Beautiful.

The pink "sand" beach.

The pink "sand".

With that, our tour of Barbuda was ended and all that remained was to return to Django, much taken with this tiny, out-of-the-way island and its people.

Exploring Barbuda, Part One

At about 10 the next morning (Monday, March 8), we went in to shore where a charming fellow named Dilly was waiting for us with his taxi van. I was interested in Barbuda for a number of reasons.

The island was first settled by the Codringtons, who leased it from Britain in 1685 for the monstrous price of "one fat sheep". Codrington used the island to grow livestock and root crops for his sugar plantations on Antigua, and as a hunting ground. Wild pigs were introduced. The island was later abandoned to the slaves who had been imported by Codrington to work it. There was some subsistence farming as well as fishing and hunting. In the early days, donkeys were used as transport. When automobiles put in an appearance, the donkeys were allowed to run wild. As a result, the island is alive with wild pigs, the inevitable goats, wild donkeys and horses. The goats and pigs are hunted; the donkeys just hang out. The horses have owners and are carefully tended. They are not used as transport. Every second Sunday, there are horse races at a track south of the main village of Codrington. Alas, we were never there on an appropriate Sunday.

The total population of the island is about 1,500 souls. There is no individual land ownership. You fence in a bit of land, build a house and that's yours. The island is also essentially flat. The Highlands, on the Atlantic side, rise a staggering 125 feet above sea level. That's as high as it gets, folks.

In his Cruising Guide to the Leeward Islands, Chris Doyle says:

"...there have been several ambitious projects to develop the island...an idea strongly resisted by many Barbudans, who see no benefit to changing their traditional lifestyle for one of being dressed up and employed to wait on tourists, in exchange for the dubious benefits of better roads, more cars and Kentucky Fried Chicken."

The people of Barbuda halted a planned desalinisation plant, fearing that their beautiful lagoon would be destroyed. That lagoon was another reason I wanted to visit Barbuda.

View across Codrington lagoon. Yes, that's a hotel on the 25-foot wide beach.

The entire northwest of the island is a vast lagoon. I believe it is over 6 miles long and a mile or two wide. It is delimited by a narrow sand beach on the seaward side that runs 12 miles along the coast. The village of Codrington is on its landward, eastern edge. The lagoon is home to one of the largest frigate bird colonies in the world; matching those in the Galapagos. (I can't find any numbers, but we saw hundreds of birds during our visit.)

Dilly took us to a small dock in Codrington, on the lagoon, where George welcomed us aboard his skiff. We were joined by another group and he took his loaded boat into the lagoon.

George Jeffrey and Jordy as we leave for our lagoon tour.

Our first stop was a large buoy that had appeared offshore some time before. A couple of local fishermen had claimed it as salvage (they were after the tiny solar panel) and dragged it into the lagoon. There it rests, aground. Since most visitors to Barbuda are cruisers, George likes to show this example of the many dangers lurking out to sea and reminds us that a good lookout is worth all the GPS you can carry.

For a long time, no one knew where this buoy had drifted from, until an industrious American visitor used the Web and its buoy number to trace its history. It originally marked Grampus Rock, somewhere on Canada's east shore. It set off, one day, and wandered over to Spain. It probably cruised down the African coast for a bit before deciding to head for the Caribbean. It is now a permanent resident of Barbuda. Its bell rang gently as we moved off.

We then crossed the lagoon and viewed a sad little stand of mangrove. This was the original frigate bird colony, destroyed by a hurricane some years ago. Fortunately, the birds like the neighbourhood, so they just moved north a bit. Their noisy (rather smelly) nesting site was to be our last stop.

The magnificent frigate bird (to give its full name) or man-o'-war bird is so named because of its penchant for harassing other seabirds until they drop or even regurgitate the fish they have caught. I've seen them do this to terns. The frigate bird then swoops down and takes the meal. They also catch surface fish...they are not divers, nor are they swimmers. They spend literally weeks in the air and travel hundreds of miles, riding the air currents in glorious swoops and glides. At the colony, I saw them preen on the wing, ruffle and settle their feathers on the wing...activities most birds perch for. They are big birds, with a wingspan of some 2.5 metres. When they do come in for a landing, it is usually at a nesting colony such as the one on Barbuda.

A very few of the hundreds of magnificent frigate birds at the Barbuda colony.

The males have a dark red pouch at the throat which they inflate as part of the mating ritual. It was not breeding season (there were chicks about) when we were there, but there were inflated pouches...perhaps just claiming a branch or a bit of territory. The colony features all ages and stages of frigate bird. A marvel.

A frigate bird chick.

We had a fabulous ogle while George explained the steps Barbuda has taken to ensure the birds are not disturbed. He also introduced us to the "upside down jellyfish" that are found in the area.

Then we were taken back to Codrington for lunch and the remainder of our tour with Dilly.

The Next Horde

Between the departure of one horde (Dan, GG and Maia) and the arrival of the next (WW's son Jordy...a smaller horde), we had a few days to relax and regroup.

Our first order of business was to relocate ourselves in Freeman's Bay when we invited our friend and fellow Tottie to join us for dinner on Wednesday. It was to be a simple meal of ginger pumpkin soup with bakes and a salad. On Wednesday afternoon, I made the soup...only I couldn't get the burner to stay alight. This happens when there's a wind. I swear, close the galley window, and start again. No luck. Hmmmm.

"WW, do we have propane?"

"Let me check."

We told Len at the tot that his feast had become moveable and would be delayed a day. He credited us with creative ways of ditching dinner guests. I have to add that we successfully served dinner to Len on Thursday and he claimed to enjoy it.

The following day, Jordy arrived during the afternoon. He was dragged off to the tot and then we dined at Johnny Coconat's. The following morning, we provisioned and sailed off to Green Island. Overnight we experienced a brief but torrential downpour, the first in over a month.

The next morning we headed off to Barbuda, leaving Green Island via the Spithead Channel. This is a very narrow twisting serpent of water just deep enough for passage, with nasty coral heads and reefs on either side. Most of the charts for the Caribbean carry warnings that much of the information dates back to the 1700s and 1800s and may be unreliable. So I watched the charts and the nav station while WW watched the sea. I ended up standing on the bow keeping an eye out for bad things while WW yelled out our depth. It was at 2 metres we got nervous (we draw just less than a metre). Our voices became somewhat shrill at 1.8 metres. By 1.5 metres, we weren't being at all nice to each other. Finally, the depth started to increase and we brushed the sweat from our fevered brows.

We motored to Barbuda in no wind and a combination of NE and SW swells. We arrived at Gravenor Bay on the south of Barbuda, a lovely calm area protected by reefs and requiring a bit of care to enter and leave. A dolphin swam by as we prepared to anchor.

Barbudan welcoming committee.

It was rainy and cool (24C). Jordy and WW went ashore in search of George Jeffrey, local lobster fisherman and guide. A call to his home had said he was in the area.

Jordy ashore at Gravenor Bay, Barbuda.

In a somewhat surreal incident, they found two men digging post holes by the road while tending a boiling pot of lobsters. Both were wearing little more than underwear. When asked if they knew where Mr. Jeffrey might be found, one of them replied, "That's me."

As a result of this fortuitous meeting, we dined on a most succulent lobster salad and were all set for a taxi tour on the morrow.

WW gets at the meat; shells being saved for a bisque.

Quick Update

After Dan, Genevieve and Maia left us, we had a few days to rest and recover. Then WW's son Jordy flew in for a lovely visit. He was with us long enough for a very pleasant cruise up to Barbuda, then back to St. John's and Jolly Harbour. We were sorry to see him go. (Details at a later time...I hope.)

With his departure, we were free to spend the next month or so cruising. We spent a couple of days in English Harbour, then set off back to Barbuda. After a couple of days there, we made the crossing to St. Barts. We are now in St. Martin and will be leaving this afternoon after a very pleasant couple of days shopping for Important Stuff for Django.

Next stop: Anguilla. Then it's Saba, Stacia and back to St. Kitts before we return to Antigua, tuck Django into the mangroves, and head back to Canada.

I hope I'll get organized to give more details when we are in an Internet-friendly spot (i.e., not a cafe).

The Horde Descends

On Friday, February 19, we moved Django into a berth at Nelson's Dockyard, making for easy entry by persons not entirely at home on boats: Dan (my son), Genevieve (aka GG, his lady) and Maia (their friend). This would be our first experience of having five aboard, with Maia crowbarred into the berth that usually serves as my pantry. She was extremely congenial about it, permitting me to crawl over her mattress to access important supplies like, say, tuna.

Dan and GG on Django's foredeck.

I am not going to go into gory details. You can get those from GG's blog:

genevievesadventure.blogspot.com

She swears the posts will go up as soon as Maia sends her the photos. I need to warn you...they took over 600 photos and shot 18 video clips.

I will restrict myself to a brief summary and just a very few of all those photos.

Day One: installed on Django, tot in the evening and dinner aboard (butter chicken)

Day Two: roaming and exploring, the ladies having a dip and a sun at Galleon Beach (one would not wish to swim off Nelson's Dockyard...ew). The Royal Ocean Racing Club (RORC) held a party in the evening to launch the RORC Caribbean 600, a 600-mile race from Antigua as far north as St. Martin and south around Guadeloupe, over to Redonda and back to Antigua. Over the course of the evening, Dan looked increasingly unwell. From 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., he visited the loo about every 45 minutes. Poor guy.

The ladies' first Antigua swim at Galleon Beach.

Day Three: Dan in recovery, sipping flat soft drinks and overly sweet smoothies. In the early afternoon, we moved out into the harbour. Maia and GG immediately donned swimsuits and split their time between sunscreen applications, swimming and sunning.

Day Four: the start of the RORC race and a long, hot, sunburn-y hike up to Shirley Heights for lunch. A cooler hike down the Jones Valley Trail after lunch.

Maia and GG at the RORC Caribbean 600 start.

Maia, Dan adn GG on the hot, dusty trail to Shirley Heights.

Day Five: car rental and island tour. Devil's Bridge, Betty's Hope, St. John's, Jolly Harbour.

Day Six: someone's birthday. The boats in our part of the harbour started threatening to bonk into each other due to wacky airs. It was touch and go whether we'd make it ashore for the gala birthday dinner at Trappas. We managed it in the end. The birthday girl was a good sport about everything, including not being able to bring her hair into correct alignment for the event.

A boat too close...WW copes.

A newly minted 26-year-old appears to approve of Trappas fare.

Day Seven: a total day of lolling broken only by the arrival of the winner of a trans-Atlantic rowing race. He'd done it in under 60 days.

Day Eight: cruise to Green Island. Dinner of lamb biryani and curried eggplant. Not bad, if I say so myself.

Day Nine: back to English Harbour. Farewell dinner at Johnny Coconat's. Pizza was judged "as good as or better than Pizzaiolle's." High praise.

Day Ten: tearful farewells.