Explorations and Farewells

We decided to spend the next day going round the island. There is a main road that runs the entire circumference. Once on it, one becomes aware of a great truth about Saint Martin/Sint Maarten: there are too many vehicles. This ring road is perpetually filled with cars and trucks moving in both directions, a sort of perpetual motion machine. As soon as one takes an exit, another is there to take its place. The flow of traffic remains unbroken, unending.

We set off to the west and visited the tourist mecca of Orient Beach and environs. Mile after mile of sandy beach is lined by resorts distinguishable from each other only by the colour of their chaises and brollies. We walked a mile or so along the beach, watching parasailers, swimmers, and wind surfers out in the howling gale. Sailboats tore along in the offing.

We then proceeded south and west to Philipsburg, the commercial centre of Sint Maarten, where the cruise ships come in. Crass and garish pretty much describe it. That said, if there’s anything you need to buy, you can probably find it in this city. We decided not to dismount, but continued on the ring road through the town, past the great salt pond, to veer northward and up the coast to Cole Bay, Simpson Bay (the big lagoon) and Marigot. We grabbed lunch in the last and climbed the hill to Fort Louis which sits high above the town, with great views out over the harbour and lagoon. The wind, she blew. The flag atop the fort was straight out, taut as a drum.

We had hoped to cruise over to Saba with our guests but, alas, the wind had made that impossible. The next day, we drove them out past the airport to the Sunset Bar and Grill for a burger before their flight. We were very sorry to see them go.

[photos when Internet permits]

Getting Wheels in St. Martin/Sint Maarten

We spent an energetic morning, prowling the street of Grand Case, trying to find a car rental place. We finally found one, but it showed no signs of life. Grand Case has a small airport but, of course, it never occurred to us to go there. We decided to take a bus bound for Marigot. Frisha thought we were highly adventurous to do so, but the buses on St. Martin proved to be far more civilized than those we have experienced on other islands. For 2 euros apiece (about a fifteenth of the cost of a taxi), we were deposited right by the centre of Marigot—an easy walk to the marina and, we hoped, car rental information.

No such luck. The chappy waved a hand in the general direction of Europe and suggested we’d find something up there. I proposed visiting a hotel and asking the concierge. There we found a flyer for a car rental place based, naturally, in Grand Case. “But wait!” I cried. On the back of the folder were maps for the company’s two locations, one not far off in Marigot. We started to walk. We walked and walked and eventually turned into an unlikely looking street combining post-industrial with neo-concrete architecture in an alluring fashion. Frisha and Whit stood on the main road and looked down this thoroughfare with deep scepticism. WW and I marched forward and found…a hotel. WW entered while I called the doubters to join us.

Inside, the nice lady told us the car rental place had closed at this location and is based only at the Grand Case airport. Sigh. However, she was willing to call them up and see what could be done. After much toing and froing, she told us it would be half an hour. Fine. It was beer o’clock and there was a nice little bar by a pool in a garden. WW and Whit ordered beer, I asked for white wine. Sorry, no wine. Seriously?? This is France. Ah well.

Eventually we had a car. We drove it up a very steep road for a long way, past homes of the fabulously wealthy with views of the fabulously wealthy, then we parked at the bottom of a very steep and stony trail. Up we hiked, higher and higher, until we reached the top of Pic Paradis. An array of radio and microwave antennae greeted us, but also truly spectacular views down to Orient Beach on the east of the island and to Philipsburg in the southwest. We felt fabulously wealthy.

That night we had a superb meal at the Auberge Gourmand in Grand Case, one of a number of outstanding restaurants in the little town that vie to produce extraordinarily fine food.

The wind continued to roar.

[Photos will be posted when Internet allows...]

Another Fish Story

The next leg of our trip took us from Barbuda up to St. Barts, another pretty full day of sailing. Once again, Frisha went into fish-killing mode. This time, however, we hooked a nice big mahi-mahi/dorado/dolphin fish. As WW tried to haul it in, however, the leader broke at the lure and it made its getaway. Nothing daunted, a new lure was attached and the hunt continued.

A little over halfway to St. Barts, another strike! This time, WW took the gaff hook and managed to wrestle a new, even larger dorado aboard.

The one that didn't get away, incoming.

Gaffing dinner aboard.

WW guesstimates this fishy at about 15 pounds.

We spent the night anchored off Gustavia, St. Barts. The fish had been cleaned and cut into enormous pieces that could barely be squashed into the fridge. WW delivered one chunk of fish to a Grenadian Rastaman floating in his nearby boat…and very grateful he was for it. I immediately began the process of turning the enormous head into a fumet. Astonishingly, it was fish for dinner.

A very big fish head for a very big fumet.

On the morrow, we headed in to Gustavia for a little potter about. There is an absolutely fabulous bakery there which we visited and from which we purchased some of the best bread the Caribbean has on offer. Then we returned to Django and went to our favourite mooring place, Ile Fourche, north of St. Barts. Dinner was...fish.

The wind was getting pretty wild by this time. We love this sheltered little bay, but it had a hard time on this occasion with winds gusting up to 30 knots all night long. It moaned and howled and caused poor Django to pull back and forth on her mooring lines.

Next day, we headed off to St. Martin, a short distance north, but decided to go into Tintamarre, a little island off its east coast. A lovely spot with a shallow bay, beautiful small white-sand beach and moorings tucked into its north side.

We dined (on curried chicken, thank heaven) there as we had decided to spend the night. A mistake. The wind continued to howl and moan and built the seas up on the south side of the island, from whence they spread to either end and wrapped around to meet in the middle on the north side…right where we were. Before we hustled away in the morning, Frisha and Whit went out in the kayaks to explore the reef on the west end of the island. While they were away, WW and I watched four sea turtles noodle around our boat.

Once crew and craft were back aboard, we set off along the north coast of St. Martin to Anse Marcel. A narrow sinuous channel leads from the bay into a marina. It is so narrow that boats must sound airhorns to warn boats coming from the other end of their presence. At the marina, we were able to clear in, buy ice and refill our water tanks. Then we moved a few miles along the coast to the epicurean centre of the island: Grand Case.

Sunset at Grand Case.

[Timestamped photos are kindness of Frisha.]

Formidable Fish and Frigate Birds

I have been castigated for my failure to keep this blog even close to up-to-date, so I’ll play a little catch up…sorry ‘bout that.

When last we posted, our heroes were at Jolly Harbour, Antigua, preparing to sail off into the sunny blue.

At about 6:30 in the morning, we raised mainsail and anchor, and moved north along Antigua's west coast. Once we'd cleared the northwestern headland, we altered course slightly to the east and directly towards Cocoa Point, Barbuda.

The winds were fair, the day glorious. We held a pretty steady six knots on a broad reach in six- to eight-foot seas. A bit urky, but none of us up-chucked although some of us had our green moments.

Frisha, always keen to kill god's creatures, quickly had the fishing line played out astern. About midway through our crossing, we came up with a nice, fat, little Spanish mackerel, destined to play a starring role in an forthcoming seviche. Her killer instincts whetted, Frisha once again set lure to ocean. The next catch was a large, baleful barracuda. We all gazed in amazement at its very nasty, razorlike front teeth: two on top separated by a gap that fits neatly over the central lower tooth. Nasty. WW bravely attempted to remove the hook, but Barry was having none of it. He broke the line and swam off. Never fear, Nature lovers, the hook will corrode very quickly and Barry will be none the worse for his experience…perhaps a little more circumspect when neon pink squid go by.

We arrived off Cocoa Point in the late afternoon. Frisha and Whit went off snorkelling, WW and I had a swim and pottered about the boat. WW called our favourite Barbuda guide George Jeffrey, who arranged for a taxi to come and collect us next morning at 10.

Your correspondent and Whit on one of Barbuda's amazing beaches.

Duly ensconced in the taxi, our first stop was The Caves. The highest point on Barbuda– called The Highlands – is in the northeast and rises to something like 128 feet. The Caves look out from here over a splendid rocky Atlantic coast. Within are stalagmites, stalagtites, even a couple of ancient Indian petroglyphs. A lovely clamber was had by all.

The Caves.

WW and Frisha in...a cave!

Petroglyph.

Then it was off to meet George in the island’s one and only town, Codrington. The island population is something like 1,500 and they all live in and around Codrington. The island boasts the largest lagoon in the Caribbean, with the town on its eastern (inside) edge. Within the lagoon is the largest frigate bird colony in the world, with roughly 20,000 birds breeding and nesting there. Frigate birds are unable to take off from water or land, so they rarely come to earth and then only on mangroves which have enough spring to launch them.

I’ve written about Barbuda before (last year), so I’ll shut up and let pictures, kindness of Frisha, tell the story.

Approaching the mangrove islands that are home to the colony.

Frigate birds eat, preen, sleep on the wing for weeks or months at a time.

The males inflate their red chest sacs and drum on them with their bill to attract a mate.
The young birds start off white and gradually (over about 2 years) become black.

Frigate birds are past masters at riding the air currents.
They feed on surface-feeding fish and flying fish which they scoop up.
Or they harry other birds into dropping their prey.
Hence their alternative name: man o' war bird.

Plymouth and Home

We had decided to return to Antigua in the morning. The hazard level 3 meant we were allowed to sail around the south end of Montserrat—strictly verbotten last year. We could go as close to shore as we wanted, but we could not set foot on the land.

We set sail shortly after 6 a.m., about 15 minutes after Nick and Anna. I was very keen to see Plymouth from the water. Then, horrors! As we passed Breackweck Point, a horrendous squall struck. The usual: howling winds, torrential rain. Zero visibility. The island, a couple of hundred feet away, disappeared.

We moved down the coast, closer and closer to Plymouth, as if travelling with our own personal cloud. I begged the sun to come out and clean up this mess. And, bless it, it did. The following are some of my pictures from that coastal run.

Plymouth seen through our "cloud".

Plymouth engulfed.

Plymouth, Montserrat.

Volcanic muck carved away beside Plymouth.

The volcano over Plymouth.

We made good time back to Antigua, which means we were home in time for the tot. A great three days and a wonderful island. I'm glad I drank that water as it means I'll be going back there.

Back in Antigua, it was all about waiting for the mainsail. Nerves were becoming frayed. The sail loft said it hadn't left China yet. Then, miraculously, WW got a tracking number for it, only a couple of days after it had been due. He logged onto the internet regularly to find out where it was.

We had several very pleasant social engagements. Mike and Anne had the Tot Club to dinner one night. WW and I were rum bo'suns January 24 to 29. On Wednesday, January 26, the Tot Club celebrated Burns' Night, a day late, at Life with Sainsbury's haggis, champit tatties, neeps, sundry toasts, too much food and rather a lot of wine.

We rented a car and went up to Crabb's Peninsula to look at the spectacular marina there. WW wants Django pulled for the summer and have her bottom cleaned and redone with antifouling paint before our return next fall. It was a most impressive place set amidst lovely islands suitable for pleasant shore cruises. We may take her there rather than Jolly Harbour.

Our guests, my sister Frisha and her husband Whit arrived on January 29. The sail was in Japan. Then Alaska. Then Louisville, Kentucky. Sunday night, it was in Puerto Rico.

On Sunday, WW and the guests hiked up to Shirley Heights on the Lookout Trail, where they joined me and other totties at Keep Fit. They then had a drink at Shirley Heights before hiking back down via Fort Charlotte, back to Boffo.

Whit and Frisha hiking down to Fort Charlotte.

We rented a car on Monday and went up to St. John's to visit the museum and for lunch on Redcliffe Quay. Then we drove down to Jolly Harbour to provision and show our guests the marina. When we got back to English Harbour...the sail had arrived.

Without wasting a moment, the sail was raised and furled. We organized ourselves and set off for the bay outside Jolly Harbour. Our next cruise had begun.

Under the Volcano

We arrived at Little Bay after an uneventful crossing at about 3 p.m. WW went ashore to clear us in and met taxi driver George Christian who would give us a tour for $100 US. We were to meet him at 10 the next morning.

On his way back to Django, WW asked the couple on Tom Tom, our nearest neighbours, whether they would care to join us. They were, alas, leaving early the next day. In the end, however, the day dawned bright and beautiful and Nick and Anna came to ask if they could, after all, come with us. Reducing the cost from $50 per person to $25 per person made WW a happy tourist.

George was terrific. He drove us up from Little Bay, which, for reasons I cannot fathom, the government is trying to turn into the new capital. Not more than a mile or two away is the town of Brades, probably the larges settlement on the island and home to the administrative buildings. Now, why would you go to the fuss, bother and expensive of moving everything a mile or so? Beats me. George said I was not the only person to feel that way.

I confess, I was a little concerned about the content of the tour when George, a dour but knowledgeable fellow, began by pointing our such notable sites as “the insurance broker”, “the hair salon”, “the school”, “the grocery store”. In fairness, though, there's not much to point out in a small town other than those things. Once we left town, however, the tour picked up. We stopped somewhere between (I think) Soldier Ghaut and Runaway Ghaut (rivers), to sample water from a stream running down the heavily wooded hillside to the road. A faucet had been installed. George told us that anyone who drank the water was “destined to return to the island.” Works for me. I drank both from the stream and the faucet.

The island is very beautiful with many gorgeous houses in carefully groomed grounds. When I told George I thought the island very lovely, he grunted. “You should have seen it before.”

I came to a small appreciation of the love/hate relationship he has with the volcano. It has ruined a lush and beautiful landscape...bad for locals. It is a huge tourist attraction...good for taxi drivers.

Volcanic mud, ash, and debris accumulated to fill Old Road Bay.

He drove us down to Old Road Bay, as was. The volcanic gloop (this volcano specializes in mud, ash and debris it picks up on the way down, and pyroclastic flows of steam and hot rocks; it does not do lava) that flowed down entirely filled the bay. The cruise ships used to anchor here and send their guests in on their boats. At one point, George looked down and said, “There used to be 20 feet of water here.” The golf course is 15 feet under. It beggars the imagination, even standing on it. We saw a small cottage to one side of the flow. Oh, beg pardon, not a small cottage, the second floor of quite a large house.

A house, buried up to its second floor in compacted volcanic goo.

(By the way, I forgot my camera for this trip. Doh. The photos were sent to me by the very kind and obliging Nick and Anna. They are a delightful young couple from the UK taking a six month sabbatical from life and work and everything to sail the islands.)

George walked us over the several hundred meters of new land that used to be a bay. By a small pond, he picked up a stone and pitched it in. It floated. We came away with nice lumps of pumice to keep our feet pretty.

Then he took us up Garibaldi Hill, a very steep climb that took about 20 minutes. We were all warm and puffing by the time we crested the rise. And there, spread before us, was Plymouth. Abandoned. Crumbling. The roofs have gone because, as George explained, the ash ate through the nails holding on the shingles. If a great hand had taken aim, it could not have done a better job of totally engulfing the city.

George pointed out the Air Studio building and said George Martin still comes to the island, was, in fact, there as he spoke.

Then it was up to the Montserrat Volcano Observatory (MVO) for spectacular views of the volcano's north side.

The Soufriere Hills Volcano seen from the MVO.

There we met a man from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu who has bought a house nearby. (We drove by it; a lovely seaside estate on Breackweck Point.) He fell in love with the island a few years ago, bought land and intended to build until an aged neighbour had to sell. He got the house, he says, for half the asking price. The volcano is a non-issue, he says. When I mentioned last year, he threw his hands up in a most Gallic gesture and agreed, last year was bad, terrible, awful.

George took us to get some groceries then delivered us back to Little Bay where we had lunch in the tiny beach bar (which is still able to crank out boat-shaking decibels until 3 or 4 in the morning). We sat at the beautiful mahogany bar, donated by George Martin from his house. Around it are little brass nameplates: Paul McCartney, Sting, Mick Jagger, Stevie Wonder, Jimmy Buffet. Choose your superstar.

The four of us returned to our dinghies and bade each other farewell and fair winds.

To Montserrat

We had a good weather window on Friday, January 14, to sail the 25 or so miles southwest to Montserrat, so off we went.

We had made an attempt to visit this island in late 2009, but the anchorage at Little Bay, the only harbour on Montserrat, is not recommended in a northerly swell, which we had had. We managed to hang tight overnight, but then were attacked by a vicious, thundery squall which caused us to drag, so we ended up circling about trying to anchor. In addition, Montserrat's volcano was having a bad year. The hazard level (as determined by the Montserrat Volcano Observatory, www.mvo.ms) rose to 4 of a possible 5. Its activity finally began to wane in the spring after a dome collapse during which it spewed volcanic ash nine miles into the air. During our previous visit, there had been numerous pyroclastic flows (fast-moving steam and rocks) as well as ash pumped out at an impressive rate and carried it straight over Little Bay. Volcanic ash is bad—very bad. It contains sulphuric acid which eats up metal things, likc windlasses and other expensive yacht fittings. We and our guests had very much wanted to visit the island but, in the end, we turned tail and fled to Nevis.

This time, we had much better luck. There was no swell and not a great deal of wind. Little Bay was a pleasant stopping place, the volcano was behaving, with the alert level being a balmy 3. This meant we'd be allowed into the Daytime Entry Zone, the northwestern corner of the Exclusion Zone.

Django sitting pretty in a calm and pleasant Little Bay, Montserrat.

Perhaps a bit of history is in order.

Montserrat was originally settled by Arawak and then Carib indians. Columbus sailed by it and named it Santa Maria de Montserrat, for its toothy mountains. It was claimed by Spain, but no one did much with it. To the immediate northwest were the islands of St. Christopher (St. Kitts) and Nevis. The latter was British but the northern part of St. Kitts was held by the French. In the mid seventeenth century, the British were worried about a possible French invasion. A lot of their workers were indentured labourers from Ireland and there was concern that these might sympathize with and take the sides of the Catholic invaders. To remove the threat of rebellion from within, these workers were resettled on Montserrat. To this day, the Montserratians have huge St. Patrick's Day celebrations, and the island retains a few very Irish place names such as Cork Hill and St. Patrick's.

In the 20^th century, Montserrat became a favourite playground of the fabulously wealthy. George Martin built his Air Studio there and the elite of the pop and rock music worlds recorded there: Sting, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Clapton, Stevie Wonder and more.

The front building is the erstwhile Air Studio.

In 1989, Hurricane Hugo devastated the island. The studio closed. The beautiful people faded into the distance.

Then came 1995, as though the island needed more drama. The Soufriere Hills Volcano woke up.

Six major ash/mud flows careened down the mountain's sides, creating land where water had been, annihilating everything they touched. Nineteen people died. The capital town of Plymouth was engulfed and is now a ghost town. Islanders fled their home in droves. The population shrank to less than half of its pre-eruption head count. There are about 4,000 inhabitants now, all living in the north third of the island. The remaining two thirds are the Exclusion Zone, to which access is carefully controlled.

The Montserrat Volcano Observatory keeps close watch on the volcano, adjusting the hazard level as needed and, with it, access to various parts of the island. The locals were told the grumbler would probably give up after five or so years. It has been 15 years, and still it belches and groans.

Back Aboard

We returned to Antigua and Django on January 8, 2011, after a lovely visit with family and friends, a groaning board at Christmas, and a fabulous New Year's stay at dear friend Lorna's house in Val Morin.

Django was in excellent shape and Peter reported no problems at all, except that the bimini had sagged badly under heavy rainfall. He'd just dumped the water and all was well. He'd attempted to pump the bilges but, as usual, they were bone dry.

We were soon back in the groove with our friends and neighbours. The day after our return we went to Keep Fit and helped clear the bottom part of the trail from Fort Charlotte to Shirley Heights. I was given a saw to work with—not my weapon of choice—and ended up using it on a rather large, obstructive cassie. Cassie is the local name for acacia, a low-growing tree with fearsome thorns. Word has it that this is the very plant from which the Crown of Thorns was built. The thorns vary from baby quarter-inch fiends to inch or longer diabolical spikes. They fall from dead branches and penetrate even the thickest shoe soles. If they don't prick you right away, they are happy to work their way through. I have taken to carrying needle-nose pliers so I can extract them early in their migration. Somehow, goats manage to eat cassie, despite its defenses.

So, there we were, my saw and I. I had to stand under a cassie bough, close to the trunk but in from the many smaller branches (all armed to the teeth), and saw through its two inches of diameter. I had gloves, so I carefully removed thorns to give myself a handhold. All fine except I was standing under a large, heavy, fully armed cassie branch which, once I sawed through it, would land on...well...me. Fortunately, a fellow tottie was nearby and we managed to extract the great thing without too much fuss. Bloodied but unbowed, I left the field of battle swearing never again to accept a saw at Keep Fit.

Nasty cassie...

We were still waiting for our new mainsail which, the sail loft assured us, would arrive as planned on or about January 26. We had guests arriving on the 29^th and a fairly packed schedule of events to keep them entertained, for which the sail would be essential. It was a nervewracking time.

In the meantime, we decided to take a short cruise to a place we'd once tried to go to, but had been foiled by wind, weather and, to add interest and excitement, volcanic activity.

Antigua Days

Back in Antigua, we settled into the usual round of maintenance, cleaning, lolling, reading and tots.

It was Agents Week in English and Falmouth harbours. This is when the fancy charter boats come and strut their stuff to agents who, they hope, will book them to clients at $100,000 US a week. The boats are very big and very shiny. They take up a great deal of space and block our Internet signal. Still, it's nice to walk around and pretend you'll take, hmmm, that one. Or maybe this one.

Internet blockade duty: big boats between us and our signal
during Agents Week in Nelson's Dockyard.

A vast boat leaving English Harbour.
Yours for a week for a mere hundred grand.

Our mainsail, dead in its furler, was removed and delivered to the Nelson's Dockyard sailmakers to be measured and then disposed of humanely. Prices for a new sail finally arrived and one was ordered. The head honcho at the sail loft came to measure the mast as WW has always felt our mainsail was a bit on the short side. The new sail should arrive on January 26.

The other task was to replace all the little slides through which the lacing supporting our trampoline are threaded. They are plastic and the current set had come to the end of its lifespan. Years of sun and salt had weakened them and they were starting to break. WW was the first to get that sinking feeling as one snapped and the trampoline sagged. Then Enn, helping with raising the anchor, popped another. We banished the men from the trampoline.

I counted the slides. We'd need 130.The sailmaker had some but would not part with them for love nor money. One chandlery had a few, not nearly enough and their price was exorbitant. Finally, WW ordered them online. We'd get them at home, in Montreal, over our Christmas visit.

On Sunday, December 12, we attended Keep Fit as good little totties to. We were to work in the H.M. LIVth Regiment's graveyard up at Shirley Heights. A descendent of one of the men buried there had complained the the Antigua parks services that it was in dreadful nick. We werer asked to deal with the problem. Much weed whacking, brush cutting, raking and chain sawing ensued. It looked rather better when we were done. At least you could see the graves.

View from the Shirley Heights graveyard.

Commemorative marker at the Shirley Heights graveyard.

Connie at work on the overgrowth around
the Shirley Heights graveyard's gates.

It's hard to read. It is to the memory of Harriet,
wife of a sergeant major in H.M. LIVth Regiment
"who fell a victim to the withering effects of
the climate & dysentery on the 23 January, 1851, aged 33.
The last tribute of her sorrowing husband".

A few days later, we decided to do the hike to Shirley Heights from Fort Charlotte, down at the mouth of the harbour. We also wanted to go and check out a wreck we'd seen on our return from Guadeloupe. We found out it was an old acquaintance, Sea Terror. She'd dragged her anchor while her owner was away and had done herself in on the reef a the harbour's entrance. Very sad. We visited her grave after an excessively hot and sweaty climb up the shore path and much cooler walk down the road back to the harbour.

WW climbing to Shirley Heights at noon-ish
on a very hot, airless day. Mad dogs...

R.I.P. Sea Terror.

Then it was time to prepare for our departure. On Saturday, December 18, we flew home (without having to spend any time blizzard-bound in Newark, for a happy change). Django was left to the tender care of Peter Mac, who would visit her daily during our three-week absence.