To the Volcano

Our shakedown sail had been a resounding success. Loose things had been tightened, sticky things had been greased, the head had relapsed...all pretty standard stuff. The skipper felt Django was ready to go cruising. So, on Monday, November 9, we set off for Montserrat.

Dana, the Irish half of our Irish-Estonian Eager Crew, was keen to visit Montserrat which has a long history of Irish settlements. Irish indentured labourers on St. Kitt’s were sent to form new colonies on Montserrat and Antigua when the British feared these Catholics might side with the French in the event of war. Montserrat, whose first settlers were the Irish, soon became a haven for Roman Catholics from many islands seeking religious freedom. Names like Potato Hill, St. Patrick’s, Kinsale and Cork Hill – not to mention the island’s nickname ‘The Emerald Isle’ – all speak to its Irish colonial roots.

In the 1970s and 80s, Montserrat was the playground of pop and rock stars, much as Mustique was and is for the rich and famous. The Beatle’s producer George Martin founded Air Studio there. Elton John, Sting, the Stones, Stevie Wonder and many others made recordings there. Then, in 1989, the island was devastated by Hurricane Hugo and Air Studio, among other installations, was closed. As if that weren’t bad enough, in 1995, just as the island had fully recovered from Hugo, its “extinct” Soufrière volcano erupted, completely burying the capital city Plymouth in pyroclastic ash. Almost two thirds of the island’s population fled to new homes.The population dropped to just 4,000 souls.

Today, about two-thirds of the island is a gigantic volcano laboratory, with an observatory, open to visitors, on the edge of this Exclusion Zone. During periods of low activity, there is a Daytime Entry Zone which allows access to the abandoned city of Plymouth, preserved in its deep bed of ashes. The Monserrat Volcano Observatory posts weekly updates on the volcano on its website www.mvo.ms and sets the hazard level each day on a scale of 1­–5.

This, then, was our destination. We had been warned that the Daytime Entry Area has not been open recently due to a moderately high level of volcanic activity, including a great deal of ash venting and pyroclastic flows. Nothing daunted, we set off in glorious sunshine and, naturally, straight into the wind. It had taken us some time to get going, largely because of battles with the rather ornery Bank of Antigua and Barbuda (its ATMs accept only Visa cards, no debit cards or other denominations), so we arrived too late for customs and immigration clearance into Montserrat. During the passage, we watched clouds of debris rise from the volcano in spectacular billowing waves, with steaming smoking chunks of mountain rolling down its sides.

Approaching Montserrat from Antigua. See if you can spot the volcano.

We anchored off Port Little Bay, on the northwest side of the island. The volcano is in the southeast. We could smell the brimstone, see the dust clouds as they spewed upward over the intervening hills, and feel the grit as ash settled as a fine gray powder on every surface. A rather nasty swell was with us all night and, in the morning, a fearsome squall blew in just as we were preparing to reset our dragging anchor. WW yelled from the cockpit for us to get back (we were on the foredeck lashing down the kayaks) and, as we dove for cover, the heavens opened. Our freshly waterproofed bimini did its best, but it was fighting a losing battle. The EC were sent below, we closed the companionway and WW and I, soaked to the bone and shivering (a novel feeling in these parts), steered Django in small tight circles till the worst was over.

Once again at anchor, WW was able to make it ashore in Boffo to clear us in, but on his return he announced that he would not be comfortable leaving Django for our intended four or five hour hike in the interior as the anchor was, again, dragging. The EC and I prepared to go ashore. It was gray, another squall looked to be on its way and the volcanic ash covered everything. I thought we should just head to Nevis and give up on Montserrat for the time being. We could come back in fairer weather and hope the volcano would be better behaved. But the EC (and I, in fairness) really wanted to see this island. WW and I went to the foredeck to check the anchor...it was dragging, of course. “Let’s just go,” he said.

So we raised anchor and headed northwest , past the uninhabited rock of Redonda, to Nevis (pronounced NEE-vis, not like Ben Nevis in Scotland).

Early days with the EC

We survived our final tot and another full tot at our celebratory mismuster as the newest members of the Royal Navy Tot Club of Antigua and Barbuda. This did mean that we were not at our most alert and capable when the Eager Crew put in their rather late appearance. Their flight had arrived at 9:30 p.m. and we started circling Nelson's Dockyard in Boffo at about 10 p.m. We failed to locate them. WW continued the hunt while I awaited aboard in case they wanted food on arrival. They had been supposed to phone us, but my cell phone just showed weird symbols, presumably from their attempted calls. In the end, they took loggings in the local (rather expensive) hotel. WW learned they were there from a security chap, but by then the place was locked up tight.

We collected them in the morning.

That afternoon, we hiked up to Shirley Heights along the trail WW and I had worked on with the Tot Club. It was wonderful, and the view from the Shirley Heights battlements is spectacular.

Spectacular view of WW, KMH and English Harbour (kindness of the EC).

We introduced the EC to the Tot Club then went along to a new restaurant's opening bash. Which was rather a failure. Over dinner we agreed we would head off to Green Island in the morning, to give Django and ourselves a shakedown sail before heading across the big water.

It was a lovely day for it, but the wind was straight in our faces. We found a very pleasant spot in which to anchor and all had long swims. WW and Enn swam in and explored a bit of the island. Then we barbecued a pork tenderloin and had that with curried okra and fried plantain.

The following morning we headed back to English Harbour and, that evening, took a taxi up to Shirley Heights to scope out the regular Sunday barbecue with steel band and reggae. The food was pretty unexciting and the music was very disappointing...unless you really want steel band or reggae versions of songs made famous by such notable Island artists as Sinatra, Van Morrison and, of course, ABBA.

Thank heavens for Donald, our taxi driver, who took one look at us and popped Bob Marley into his van's CD player. We travelled down from the heights to "No woman, no cry" and "Stir it up". Restored our faith in music. Thanks, Donald.

Impending EC

Yes, our Eager Crew are making a return visit and are due to arrive tonight, Guy Fawkes Day. We are all atwitter with joy and have been polishing the brightwork and holystoning the decks. Well, ok, I washed the soles and made up their berth while WW waterproofed the bimini and put patches on a couple of little holes. He thinks the bimini is coming to the end of its time on Earth and that perhaps we'll see about getting a new one made over Christmas, while we're back in Canada. Not orange. There will be a sea change regarding colour, trust me.

When last I posted, we had spent a goodly portion of Saturday with an intrepid group of Tot Club members, tarting up one of the several paths they maintain in the area and then celebrating our efforts. It was hot, hard work on a steep slope covered with dense scrub. WW wielded heavy clippers, clearing undergrowth and lopping the tips off Spanish bayonet near the trail. I raked. In a tropical forest, leaves are dropping all the time, so raking is an endless task. We were working in an area called Jones Valley and the trails dropped down the hillside from just beside an old fort called Shirley Heights. A huge cistern marks the start of the trail, which then drops down to two old graveyards, then to a riverbed and a dam. I was instructed to rake as far as the second graveyard then to come back to the top. "You'll be exhausted. Go no farther," Terry told me. He was right.

Terry the Thorn Tree Trimmer, beside the old cistern

The graveyards seem to be just loose collections of headstones with no discernible plan or pattern. The first or upper graveyard has about a dozen graves, only one headstone is still partially legible and several are broken. The one headstone still readable tells us that Caroline Weiburg was buried there in 1808 with at least one of her children. Terry says there is no way of knowing whether these people were criminals hanged for their crimes, servants or settlers. Of Caroline, we can only speculate that she either died in childbirth or that disease (yellow fever and malaria were rampant) took her and her child(ren).

We started at 10 a.m. and finished at noon. The last bit of my energy was expended climbing back up the hill. Terry drove us to Charly's (Charlotte's) house whence the work crew had been summoned for drinks and nibbles. I asked him how these little patches of graveyards had been found in the dense Antiguan undergrowth. Terry power. He found a map of the island dated 1822 and, being an exploratory soul, he took his trusty machete and went hunting. He has found any number of remnants of the island's colonial history and continues to find them still. The Tot Club does its work with a measure of support from the Antiguan parks people, who pay for signs and minor expenses, and allow the work crews access to the land.

Drinks and nibbles in Charly's glorious garden.

And now the news you have all been waiting for...our examination results. We passed! We have not yet taken our 7th and final initiation tot, but will be doing that tonight, followed by a mismuster...another tot. We should be in grand shape by the time the Eager Crew arrives.

Headless

We spent a day and a half really roughing it...no head and paddles needed to reach the facilities. WW, as is his wont, spent a lot of time in the head, hanging upside down and saying "Feck." He would periodically emerge, sodden and smelly, and paddle across the harbour to the the shop where he was purchasing the bits and pieces he needed. It just couldn't be managed in one day. However, upon the morn, he completed the task and we now have a fully functioning, much-bettter-than-before head. Kudos to Upside Down Guy.

In the ongoing battle to eliminate clutter, we find each other's stuff and ask, innocently, "We don't really need this anymore, do we?" Well, in fairness, as often as not we really don't. But when WW wanted to pitch the two little fishies and the bird that a lad off St. Vincent had woven for us from palm fronds, I couldn't allow it. Still, I had to come up with an out of the way place for the little dears. I had a brainwave. Please understand, I am not much of an artsy crafty type...my fingers turn into sausages when I want to do anything finicky. Still, here's what I managed--

KMH's mobile: Calder, eat your heart out.

Among other achievements of the week were the recovery of our two anchors, previously abandoned at our mangrove sanctuary. It was a mucky, muddy, disgusting job, but they are both safe aboard and much cleaner. I finished scraping the hulls over several days and left WW the much nastier jobs of the keels, which require diving to get to. Django has been fully rigged and is ready to sail.

On Wednesday (toast: to ourselves as no one else is liable to be concerned with our welfare), we had a mess o' lentils for dinner, with lots of sauteed vegetables cooked with them. It was the night of Tot 2. Thursday (toast: to a bloody war and a sickly season, to a blood war and a quick promotion) was shopping. We can get such exotic items as yoghurt and red peppers. I made us goat biryani with curried eggplant for dinner. It was the night of Tot 3. On Friday (Tot 4, to a willing foe and sea room) we finally recovered Boffo's motor and that has made life much easier. Saturday (Tot 5, to sweethearts and wives, may they never meet) we walked out to Fort Berkeley and up the Middle Trail to one-gun battery. It was a lovely if rather uphill hike and featured a good deal more goat droppings than I normally care for. (Goats are ubiquitous and I reckon the only way to fight back is...eat 'em.)

Self-explanatory

Fort Berkeley

View from Fort Berkeley up English Harbour to Nelson's Dockyard

View from Fort Berkeley ramparts looking towards...well, Africa actually.


Middle Trail signpost


The uphill bit to the one-gun battery.

Today is Sunday (tonight we will be examined and have Tot 6, toasting absent friends and those at sea). Antigua and Barbuda today celebrates 28 years of independence. This morning we joined a Tot Club work group and went to assist with trail maintenance in Jones Valley. About which more later. That's enough for now.

Tossing Back Tots

Once upon a time, in a bar in Antigua, a man noticed that, every evening at 6 p.m., the bartender poured himself a measure of rum, muttered something and downed it in one gulp. Finally, he (Terry) asked the bartender (Mike) what he was doing.

Mike was ex-Royal Navy and he was maintaining a tradition which had actually been eliminated by the navy itself back in 1970. He was drinking his daily rum ration and toasting the Queen, God bless her. It was the beginning of great things. Today numbering some 500 members around the world, the Tot Club meets every day at one of two Antigua bars at 1800 hours to consume a half gill (pronounced like the woman's name, not like what fish have) or 1/8 of a pint of rum, preferably Pusser's Blue Label, which was the rum issued by the Royal Navy. A particularly virulent form of rum it is too.

Each day, each member pours their tot and takes a glass of water. The rum bosun (assigned each week) calls, "Clear your palates" and everyone takes a sip of water. (It is wise not to finish the glass as surviving the tot depends on getting a water chaser happening as soon as possible after.) Guests are then welcomed, announcements are made and there is the date's reading from This Day in Naval History. Then there is a toast, which varies depending on the day of the week but always ends with the lower deck's standing toast: To the Queen, God bless her.

In order to become a member, one must consume 7 tots in 14 days, read the Standard Operating Procedures, and, believe it or not, pass an oral examination. The examination material is drawn from the Tot Club crib sheet, given to initiates at their sixth tot. (I am pleased to announce that we were given ours at about our third tot. This is good since it is four single-spaced typed pages with a lot of dates. Lots and lots of dates.)

Some of the information was not completely clear to me so I have been surfing the Web to round out my knowledge of the battles of St. Vincent, Cape St. Vincent, Camperdown, Copenhagen, the Nile, the Glorious First and, of course, Trafalgar. I've pretty much mastered them...well, except for the damned dates.

The crib sheet also gives the officer's toasts (those that vary by day of the week) and the Queen one; the reasons for the existence of the Tot Club; what is meant by mismuster, black mass and fanny; and many other thrilling bits of trivia.

Last night we downed Tot 4. I have been receiving baby tots because I look like a lady...last night I foolishly wondered aloud why that might be. Mike gave me an evil look and measured me a full half gill of the deadly Pusser's Blue Label. We raised our glasses and, it being Thursday toasted: To a willing foe and sea room, and the Queen, God bless her! I threw back my tot and thought I would die. It was endless. I needed to come up for air but, more than that, I needed my water. Obviously I survived, but I think I'll shut up when they're pouring my tot from now on. If we pass the exam and become members, we are allowed to pour our own tot which can be "up to half a gill". One member who actually doesn't like rum just pours enough so it's visible. Sounds about right to me.

As members, we will be given t-shirts which, if worn to the Saturday muster, drop its price from $5 EC (Eastern Caribbean dollars or about $2 CDN) ot $3 EC (you do the math). We also earn the right to fly the white ensign of the Royal Navy from our starboard courtesy halyard.

The moneys collected pay for the rum and for various good works in the neighbourhood. The club has cleared a number of hiking trails in the area, one of which I hope we will walk today. And they provide entertainment and leisure activities for crew of any Royal Navy ship that might stray into the harbour.

All good fun and nicer bunch of sodden water rats may I never meet.

Getting Older

Monday was my birthday. We awoke to knocking on the hull. It was not a birthday telegram. It was in fact, one of our neighbours in their dinghy advising us that we were gently drifting into their zebra-striped vessel. They were extremely nice about it, particularly since their steel boat would have hurt Django a lot more than we'd have hurt her. We decided to go to the fuel dock for water and a few stores.

Boffo's outboard having all but packed it in, we left it to be repaired. Unfortunately, the chap we had been told about was away. We didn't realize it would be several days (Friday, in fact) before we could stop paddling. Island time. Don't ever have a deadline if you want to remain sane.

Back across the bay, we found a good spot, set the anchor and WW started work on sundry repairs. I donned snorkel, mask and flippers and went hull scraping.

Hull scraping is remarkably rewarding work when your boat has been sitting about for a while. Anything afloat is attractive to small things that grow...plants and animals alike. Once they've set up house, other things come along and feed off them, larger stuff grows. It all happens incredibly quickly. Hulls covered with crud slow a boat down, so crud must go. Armed with tough gloves (barnacles can slice you up badly) and a scraper, I went into deforestation mode. Plants up to eight inches long were anchored to her hull. The water was soon full of the displaced, homeless, rootless...and of fish who thought this was all pretty grand and what was I serving for dessert?

After an hour of hull scraping, I dressed for dinner, prepared our RPs after consumption of which we paddled ourselves to the nearest dock, then walked in to the Waterfront Bar for our first initiation tot. We'd been invited and agreed to become members of the Royal Navy Tot Club of Antigua and Barbuda.

Afterward, the day's travails having somewhat fatigued us, we went back to the pizzeria and had a delicious dinner. We were given a glass of pineapple rum (gross) in honour of my birthday. Sadly, we were simply unable to finish it.

Return to Django

So here we are. I haven't posted since our arrival because it has been rather busy, but here's some of what's been going on.

We arose at 4 a.m. on Saturday, in Montreal and, 12 hours later, we were on the Nelson Dockyard pier being greeted by the amiable Terry who loaded us into his dinghy and ferried us over to Django. He cared for her in our absence and she looked remarkably well, snuggled into the mangroves with a litany of anchors to keep her safe.

Once on board, of course, we discovered all the stuff that needed to be fixed. We launched Boffo from the foredeck where she had been sheeted down to keep her safe in the event of a blow. As we had no gas for her outboard, we paddled her over to the refuelling dock, but everything was closed. WW called on his intrepid genes and loaded Lady (or Tramp) with a very small gas can and proceeded to kayak off into the distance. He reappeared soon after with a very small amount of gas. Still, more than enough till Monday when the shops would open. And plenty for establishing that Boffo's outboard was poorly -- coughing, wheezing, near-death experiences.

We had been invited to a meeting of the Royal Navy Tot Club of Antigua and Barbuda but, due to early boat prep and gasping outboard (and first mate's getting the time wrong) we were too late. We did however join the members still at the bar in Life Bar and Grill, just down the road. We left soon after for dinner at a very nice place called Trappa's where we had his and hers grouper (his: grilled, hers: fried). It is lovely to be back in the land of the grouper...an admirable fish!

Sunday morning we headed into English Harbour to see if we could pick up a few provisions. The off-season is still going, so we found things that will be open all the time all winter are still in a semi-dormant state. The grocery store will open on Sundays starting in a week's time. Naturally. We did stop in at a very typical tiny shop selling the essentials...bottled water, mayonnaise, a limited selection of fresh fruit (we got tomatoes, limes, grapefruit, bananas), and bags of in-the-shell roasted peanuts which turned out to be tiny and very delicious.

On our return to the boat, WW started rigging the jib. This always requires a bit of doing and redoing. It goes onto a furler so it has to be wound up and unwound and it is absolutely critical the he do some section of the work backwards. He really outdid himself in that we had the jib up and furled before he realized he had it reversed and we had to take the whole mess down and start over from scratch.

In other joyful news, the head is being a trial. It sits sullenly in its little compartment and suffers from a severe reflux condition. This has resulted in WW saying "feck" a lot and trying to think of ways to avoid taking the whole thing apart. His latest idea was to find a giant stopper and just cork the bugger. I said I was not looking forward to the midnight explosion that might result. He said, "Feck."

Tucked in among the mangroves is a very nice safe place to be during hurricane season, but it is hot, buggy and airless. It was time to move. Two of Django's anchors were so firmly embedded in the muck that we decided to put a buoy on their chains and come back for them later.

We headed across the harbour to a very nice anchorage with a good bottom. Now, just a few details about how our anchor works. It hangs from the middle of the bar that connects our two bows and its chain feeds back over the windlass, through a small hole, into the chain locker. By slacking off on the windlass, I can tip the anchor into the water and, in theory, the chain rattles out after it. Unless the chain has sat, moistly, rusting happily for several months. Then little nuggets of rusted-together links arrive at the small hole, grin impishly and have a little palaver. These need to be dealt with firmly. A hammer does wonders. However, it does slow the anchor dropping down, not to mention making a foul mess of the foredeck which gets coated with rust shards. So we drifted. The anchorage being somewhat crowded, this wasn't really good. So WW finally decided we should pull up our anchor and try again in a slightly different spot. As we weighed anchor and started to move to the new position, we heard frantic shouting and saw we had managed to pick up another boat's anchor chain and were pulling the boat along behind us. Fortunately, a fellow heading past in a dinghy stopped and cleared the foul, but not before the other boat had been dragged well out of its original position.

Blush.

We finally decided to cross to another anchorage with not so good a bottom. It took a couple of tries to get the anchor set but at last we could relax, have a nice RP and head over to Life for our first ever tot with the Tot Club. (Don't worry, I'll be providing details later.)

We dined at a truly wonderful pizzeria, complete with wood-burning oven. Thin crusts, yummy choices and excellent spicy oil. Then it was back to Django to collapse in preparation for exigencies yet to come.