Northward Bound

We raised anchor at about 8 a.m. on Thursday morning, and started our return voyage to Antigua. The weather was sounding pretty dicey for our crossing on Saturday -- high winds from the wrong direction, big seas -- so we planned to stop at Pigeon Island for a snorkel and lunch, then head straight to Deshaies. If the picture improved we would go for it, otherwise Whit was reluctantly considering the option of returning from Guadeloupe. Reluctantly because it would entail a fairly substantial expense.

Our run up to Pigeon Island was lovely until we got in the lee of Guadeloupe, when it became a solid motor up the coast. We tucked ourselves into a little cove on the south side of Pigeon Island and had a marvelous snorkel...far better than the one we'd had (on the wrong side of the island) when we'd visited before. We then continued our plod up to Deshaies.

In the morning, Chris Parker's forcast had been revised most favorably: winds moving to the east at about 20 kts, seas 6 to 8 feet (or something like that) for Saturday. We decided to stay the extra day so we could show Whit and Frisha the beautiful botanical gardens. We walked up the hill to them and spent a delightful hour or so wandering through the flowers and forest. It was interesting to see knew things in bloom. The last time we'd been here was in November.

Boys and Birds: WW and Whit with lorikeets at the botanical gardens.

KMH, WW and Frisha in the botanical gardens.

Frisha wanted to purchase a colourful Creole tablecloth, Whit wanted to go for another dive, WW wanted to check the weather online. I was happy to amble about with Frisha and give her unwelcome advice on her tablecloth selection. So we all had a mission and, after lunch, we returned to the village to fulfill them. Whit's dive place was closed...we had arrived too late and the boat had already left. WW succeeded in confirming the promising weather for the morrow. Frisha bought her tablecloth despite my interference.

Almost-full moon over Deshaies.

It was a lovely night on board. The moon, one day from full, rose above the hills behind Deshaies and lighted the crowded anchorage. We had an early night in preparation for our 30-mile crossing in the morning.

Thanks, again, the Whit and Frisha for the photos.

Ah, yes...siesta

Les Saintes.

The mooring was very...active. Django danced and pranced the night away. Pitch, roll, combo, she did 'em all, with a symphonic accompaniment of gurgles, splashes and sloshings. It wasn't the most restful night I've ever had.

We were all up bright and early on the morning of January 27. WW taxied Whit and Frisha ashore for their dive rendezvous at 8:30 a.m. They would return at about noon.

WW and I spent the morning doing not terribly much. I was not feeling too well. I couldn't figure it out. Hangover? Seemed unlikely. I really hadn't had all the much to drink the night before. It was really only after we went ashore and I began instantly to feel better that I realized what it was. Seasick. I'd got seasick sleeping on Django. WW and I opined that a change of anchorage might be indicated.

After WW picked up and returned with the divers (who had had a fabulous time and strongly recommended the small dive company they had gone with), we donned our going-ashore gear and were soon back in Boffo, going into Bourg for lunch.

We found an excellent little cafe and had a late lunch of salads or sandwiches, sparkling water and, of course, beer for the gentlemen. It was by now about 2:30 and we decided to climb to Fort Napoleon, which both WW and I had thoroughly enjoyed on our previous visit.

We'd advertised the walk as not difficult. It's not exactly a short climb. It's not long, but it isn't a waltz up a bit of a rise. It is steep and we, naturally, were doing it in the midday sun. Frisha muttered about mad dogs and false advertising and such. I promised her it would be worth it.

We arrived, finally, at the Fort's portcullis (open) and main door (closed). Frisha, Whit, some goats and we milled about the sign saying the Fort is open till noon daily. oops

Bourg (and many other parts of the French islands) close for lunch and reopen in the evening. Siesta. They rest while the sun is high. A commendable notion. One mad dogs might give a shot. But mad dogs and so forth tend to forget this statutory nap time and do silly things like climb steep hills to closed museums.

What we'd have seen if the Fort had been open.

Ah well, it was a nice walk. Really.

We returned to Django and all agreed that a move to a different anchorage would be nice. We headed to a cover off an island just north of Bourg and very peaceful it was. We dropped our anchor and it held at once. There was virtually no motion. Lovely. Apart from the moron who decided to anchor on top of us. There's always something.

I got to work on my lobster bisque, using the shells from yesterday's crustacea. It was a bit of work, but when I served the bisque (with my lobster meat chopped up and stirred into it) with fried bakes, it received rave reviews, so was worth the mild hassle.

We accompanied it with fabulous French cheeses, fresh delicious baguette, one of the best we'd found so far.

(The photos are from our previous trip. Frisha failed us miserably in Les Saintes...never remembered to bring her camera.)

Les Saintes and a Song

Bright and early in the morning, after an eggy, bacony breakfast, Whit and WW took Boffo in to Pointe-à-Pitre to purchase lobsters. Discussions about storage of same had revolved around and been solved by a gift from Whit.

Whit had, upon arrival in Antigua, presented us with an enormous thermal shopping bag from California Innovations (based, naturally, in Toronto). It will handily enfold a bag of ice and sundry perishables. Mind you, once fully loaded, you need Whit to carry it. For 10 days, at least, it would be dandy.

The gentlemen returned with four large lobsters nestled in a bag within the bag and surrounded by chipped ice. They must have been wondering why their balmy Caribbean home had suddenly developed such an Arctic chill.

Once men and lobsters were safely stowed, we weighed anchor. The windlass made horrible groaning noises and acted as it has, in the past, when we’ve picked up another anchor or other heavy item. The added weight is almost too much for it. I was rather surprised, therefore, to find it covered with nothing more than normal icky harbour muck. This sort of thing creates small nagging worries at the back of sailors’ minds. The windlass hauls miles of heavy anchor chain, not to mention a heavy anchor, out of the water with the push of a button. The alternative does not bear consideration.

The wind was fair and strong (25ish knots) for Les Saintes, with seas of about 6 to 8 feet. It was a rather bouncy but fast run. Naturally, we had a fishing line out during the crossing. Just as we were arriving at Les Saintes, a fish struck. Whit went to reel it in and we discovered a wee mackerel. It was returned to its sea home after being dubbed “Whit’s minnow” by Frisha.

At Les Saintes, we spent quite a long time trying to set our anchor. It dragged. It dragged again. We moved to a different spot but were too close to the ferry channel. We tried again. We moved to a different spot where we held. We rested from our exertions, then headed ashore. It began to rain, so we dove into a café and ordered to a coffee to make ourselves welcome while we waited out the downpour. At the far end of the café were three gentlemen of a certain age and advanced casualness as well as inebriation, one of whom had a guitar and looked a little like Gerry Garcia (beard, pot belly, no shirt). He played, another beat out a rhythm on the table top and all three sang what sounded like Creole songs. The last chap serenaded me boozily, clearly having some difficulty in focusing on my feminine charms. Although Frisha found them offensive, they seemed harmless enough and the music was actually quite good.

WW bought them a round as we left, which the guitar player refused unless we would sing something from Canada. We tried Alouette, which they loved. The Guitar Guy then created a round by mixing Alouette with Frère Jacques. All jolly good fun, but Whit and Frisha were disappearing in the distance. WW continued to sing and I departed.

We walked to the far end of the town, with me assuring Whit and Frisha that WW was happy in the music. We climbed to an old fortification which now contains a cluster of microwave dishes. Thoroughly irradiated, we turned back to Bourg. Whit espied a diving place and arranged for a dive the next day.

We met up with WW near the centre of town. It appears he had not been “happy in the music” but had left soon after I had. He’d been hunting for us ever since. oops

We returned to Django where we had pumpkin ginger soup, grilled lobster tails with a rum-lime-butter sauce, topinambour and salad, with a small piece of dark chocolate for dessert. WW saved the lobster shells for me so I could make bisque.

Lobster preparation.

The topinambours were not the sort I am used to. The market lady who sold them to me told me to boil them 25 minutes but to add no salt for the first 15 minutes. Should I peel them? No. Well, she was wrong. I should have peeled them. As it was, I spent 20 minutes in the galley juggling boiling hot little vegetables to remove their tough fibrous peels.

In the middle of all this culinary drama, the anchor dragged. We had to move and reset it. Les Saintes ended up being a series of anchor resettings.

By the time I go to my lobster it was room temperature and not terribly appealing. But that was OK, I had plans. Whit had plans too, but I got territorial about it and he backed off.

To Market, to Market

After a couple of hours of snooze, the crew reassembled in the salon to respond to Frisha's ringing cry: "What's the plan?!" Going ashore was the crux of it. WW needed to go into the Capitainerie and clear us in (and out...the French do have some nice touches to their red tape) and we needed to get lovely French provisions.

As we prepared to depart, Frisha looked out and observed that the boat formerly anchored next to us was moving astern, toward the shipping channel, at a fairly good rate. Her inhabitants had taken their dinghy ashore earlier. She was dragging her anchor and had no intention of stopping. We tried to radio the marina to alert them, but got no answer. We watched as the boat gracefully missed a buoy, stopped for a bit as her anchor caught, was carried off again as her anchor dragged, crossed the channel and finally settled in on the other side of the harbour. This was, of course, an opportunity for a reliving of various anchor-dragging horror stories.

When the drama on the high seas had run its course, we loaded ourselves into Boffo and went into the marina. While the captain dealt with immigration and so forth, the crew went into the marina, found a nice spot for coffee and a croissant, and indulged in a pleasant little nosh (breakfast had, after all, been at about 5:30 a.m.). WW appeared in time to join us and then we agreed that "the plan" would be a walk into Pointe-a-Pitre.

Guide books describe this city as not terribly interesting from a tourist's point of view. It is about a 20-minute walk north from the marina; a fairly industrial walk with some frankly dicey bits that we all felt we wouldn't want to walk at night. But, upon clambering up a grotty stairway behind decrepit buildings, we emerged onto the crest of a hill with a road leading down to what was very obviously the market.

The market is housed in and around a building on the waterfront. Fishermen cry their wares along the dock, selling from stalls and boats. A step farther along takes you to the fruit and vegetable stands. In the shelter of the building, spice merchants give a new meaning to aggressive merchandising.

We stopped to admire the multicoloured fish, huge winkles, slabs of conch, and huge spiny lobsters at the fish market. Much muttering about lobster dinners occurred.

At the Pointe-a-Pitre fish market.

The vegetable stalls carried the usual array of delicious local produce. We even found something called "toupin ambre" which I translated as topinambour or sun choke. Silly not to: I bought some. In the spice market, vanilla, ginger, turmeric (called 'saffron' locally), cloves, great scrolls of cinnamon and scores of other spices and herbs scented the air. WW bought some vanilla. (We had learned, in the Jardin Botanique at Deshaies on an earlier trip that vanilla is the pod of an orchid. WW has always been an orchid fan...)

WW buying vanilla at the Pointe-a-Pitre spice market.

We continued our explorations, finally arriving at a pleasant streetside cafe where we lunched on salads and sandwiches. We then returned to the market to lay in some lovely fresh fruit and veggies, as well as a slab of bacon from a salt fish and pork vendor over by the stairs.

Discerning shoppers in the Pointe-a-Pitre vegetable market.

We had located a taxi stand and treated ourselves, burdened with purchases, to a ride back to the marina. There, we did further shopping in the supermarket. A very annoying place. You need to weigh your vegetables in the vegetable section. The first time WW and I had been there, we hadn't known that and had lost our place in the incredibly slow line. I was not allowed to run over and weigh the stuff while the cashier processed the mountain of goods we were getting. The other cool thing they do (customer service seems to be anathema) is to let you get to the cash, ask for ice, tell you to go get it and, yes, make you line up again. I think they should hand out the rules at the door.

All set, with many fine things like baguette, French cheeses, French wines, French saucisson, French rillettes, we returned to Django, delayed only briefly while WW went in to pick up Important Documents from the clearance people.

Boffo full of galley slave and provisions.

Back aboard, the plan having been completed, Frisha needed to know what the next plan would be. In summary, then, The Plan became: RPs, dinner ashore, WW and Whit to run ashore first thing in the morning and purchase lobsters, cross to Les Saintes, RPs, grilled lobster dinner. All of which is coming soon to a blog near you.

Photos, again, by Whit and Frisha.

Two Bridges and a Port

I had set my cell's alarm for 3:45 a.m. as backup. It dutifully went off. Sadly, I hadn't noticed it was still on Montreal time. WW and I decided 2:45 was a bit early.

An hour later, our wee vessel was a hive of activity. I was making coffee and starting breakfast. The captain and crew looked to the anchors and placed fenders down both sides.

Soon we were moving slowly through the pitch dark down the narrow channel leading to the bridge. We stood off a short distance from it and, shortly, a light went on in its small control booth.

North bridge on the Riviere Salee, Guadeloupe.

Soon after, a voice over a loudspeaker announced that we should prepare ourselves. The traffic across the bridge was halted and the two sides slowly rose. In addition to the fenders slung off Django's sides, more were wielded by Whit and me on the bows. From where we waited, it looked to be a tight fit, given our 19.5 feet of width. The closer we came, however, the clearer it was that we would fit through nicely.

Passing under the north bridge on the Riviere Salee, Guadeloupe.

We shouted our thanks to the bridge operator and moved off down the channel, watching as the bridge closed behind us. The lights of the Pointe-a-Pitre airport appeared in strings off to port.

Because the channel is so narrow, southbound boats are let through first. It takes about 20 minutes to get from the first bridge to the second. The channel is marked by lighted buoys, which makes it easy to follow in the dark...except, as in one or two cases, where the light has burned out. Whit stood on the bow peering ahead to spot the unlighted markers. At the south end of the Riviere, a second bridge opened for us and, again, we fit through without trouble. Two boats were waiting to head north. Once they learned we were the only southbound craft, they started their transit.

Almost immediately, we were out of the mangroves and in the busy industrial port of Pointe-a-Pitre.

The harbour at Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe, just before dawn.

We followed the channel until we had enough water to head over to the anchorage, on the east side of the harbour, outside the local marina. We left the channel just before a pilot boat came to yell at us because a very large bit of shipping was making its way towards the harbour...and us. Big ships are not particularly manoeuverable and are definitely unable to stop on a dime. Also, 37-foot sailboat vs. container ship = only one winner. And it wouldn't be the sailboat.

We set our anchor and retired below where the crew consumed their breakfast and then collapsed back into their berths, just as the sun began to rise.

Thanks to Frisha and Whit for the photos.