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.
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