More Grenadines

It being Monday, the shops were finally open, so we took Boffo back through the surge to the Basil’s Bar beach, where we rode the surf in and hauled her well up the beach so she couldn’t make a getaway. Then we wandered through the nearby shops...all very exclusive and expensive. We found a well-stocked grocery and picked up the provisions we lacked, then returned to Django.

Basil's Bar as we sail off

We dropped our mooring and made for Canouan, the next Grenadine lying southwest of Mustique. It was a run of about three hours down through Grand Bay to our mooring in Charles Bay. The Moorings charter fleet is centred here and we were surrounded by an navy of eerily empty monohulls and cats awaiting there temporary occupants. In fact, we were asked to move since we had picked up a Moorings mooring.

The boat boy who came to assist us brought us ice and said he could get us water when the water truck came from St. Vincent. There was a ferry due shortly and, if the truck weren’t on that one, it would be there in the morning. The truck would fill the water tender—a boat with a couple of huge black barrels—which would then bring the water to us. We were getting very near the end of our water supply.

The swell in the bay was the worst we’d experienced so far. I was in the throes of calalloo soup preparation, so stayed to wait for the ice while the captain and EC made an expedition ashore. They reported that the exercise of getting from Boffo to wharf had challenged all their not-inconsiderable agility and athleticism. I had watched Boffo leaping and cavorting at her mooring as the surge raced beneath her to break violently on the shore. When the boat boy came by with the ice, he asked for a third line and ran it to the mooring as a backup...just in case.

The adventurers returned after a couple of hours having found a bank, a shop, a restaurant and a bar. We thought we might stay another day and dine at the restaurant the following evening. The galley slave thought that would be a grand idea. The explorers had been informed that Canouan is known as “the gem of the Caribbean.”

By the next morning, however, we were fed up with the pounding wave action from the surge. WW saw the water truck come off one of the ferries, but it seemed the surge was so strong that they couldn’t get the tender to it. Finally, we had had enough, we upped anchor and fled the gem of the Caribbean to seek quieter waters in the south.

It was a short run down through the Tobago Cays, past Mayreau, to the southernmost Grenadine, Union Island.

A fishing boat in the Tobago Cays
(with a Club Med pseudo square-rigger behind)

Following markers around the curving Thompson Reef, we entered Clifton Harbour. In the middle of the harbour is another reef, the Roundabout, so mooring and anchorages lie in a circle. Immediately a boat boy appeared. WW asked about water, the boat boy asked about fuel. WW said water, the boat boy said fuel. Finally, WW made it clear that we did not need fuel, only water; the boat boy looked frankly cranky. Clearly he gets a bigger cut when there’s fuel involved.

We docked at the Anchorage Yacht Club Wharf, took on water and ice, dropped of laundry, then were led to a nearby mooring. About 10 minutes later, the boat boy was back, saying we couldn’t use that mooring after all. He led us well out in the harbour to the edge of the Thompson Reef. It was a lovely spot with a cooling breeze and the reef acting as a buffer between us and the swell. However, it was one of the most expensive moorings thus far at $60 EC for the night. We would not be staying a second day.

Mustique

After our return to Django from the Bequia Whaling Museum, we decided to move up to Admiralty Bay. The swell in Friendship Bay was mildly unpleasant. We reckoned Port Elizabeth couldn’t be much worse.

It took only a few hours. We picked up a mooring with the assistance of a fellow in a motorboat. These chaps, known as boat boys, are everywhere in these islands, ready to lend a hand...for a price. We went ashore to explore. The bookstore was closed and would remain so until Monday (this was Saturday). WW went off for a haircut while the EC and I went looking for some needed provisions.

Back at Django, we decided we didn’t want to stay in Port Elizabeth till Monday and that we would raise anchor and go to Mustique in the morning.

The glorious weather remained glorious and the crossing to Mustique was a very pleasant little cruise. The EC performed admirably.

Enn looking positively nautical as Ile a Quatre (south of Bequia)

drops behind us on our way to Mustique

Photo by Dana

I had pulled a muscle and they (the EC) insisted on doing all the work. I was in charge of giving orders, which I found very therapeutic. I will miss them when they go and I have to start toting that barge and lifting that bale again.

Islets in the sun, sailing the south shore of Bequia on our way to Mustique

We anchored in Mustique’s Brittannia Bay, off Basil’s Bar, renowned as a place to spot the rich and famous who come to enjoy vast estates on the tiny island. Fortunately, it is the off season, so we didn’t have to rubberneck throughout our brief visit there.

A carved door on Mustique

We took a walk up behind the little town, found the power plant, the school, the playing field (where an exciting game of football [soccer] had drawn quite a crowd), the equestrian centre. Whatever else the rich and famous may do, they have a salutary effect on appearances and establishments in their proximity.

KMH, Enn and WW in front of gingerbread shops on Mustique

Photo by Dana

View over Britannia Bay

The island is now owned and administered by The Mustique Company which, according to the magazine The Ins and Outs of St. Vincent & The Grenadines, “...acts as custodian for the entire island...its mandate is to protect the environment and retain the privacy and tranquility that has made Mustique the ideal peaceful and secure Caribbean hideaway.”

View up to Bequia and St. Vincent

We had a rum punch at Basil’s Bar, seated with a view out over the sea to the setting sun. The RP was unanimously considered less fine than the Django special. But then, the captain and EC know upon which side their bread is buttered.

Enn, WW, Dana and KMH sip RPs at Basil's Bar, Mustique, Django behind us

Photo by our waiter...a very nice guy

For those who don’t know, the Django RP is one that was taught to me by my friend Lorna who learned it on St. Kitts. My Grenadian cookbook claims it as an old Grenada recipe. My suspicion is that it is a universal Caribbean rhyme. And here it is:

One of sour, two of sweet
Three of strong, four of weak.

That leaves plenty of room for interpretation, but the basics are lime juice (sour), demerara sugar (sweet), dark rum (strong), ice and/or water (weak). After creating the perfect blend of these three, Angostura bitters are the finishing touch...although Grenadians would insist on a grating of glorious Grenada nutmeg. Of course, the key questions are: One what? Two what? Cups? Ounces? Pounds? And therein lies the alchemy of the proper Django RP.

But it really isn’t rocket science and I fail to understand why we can never find such a drink at a bar. Perhaps we are asking for the wrong thing. A request for rum punch or planter’s punch always ends in sweet fruit juices—principally pineapple—with rum, and usually quite a lot of that. I think I will try ordering a rum sour. But I am not sanguine. I may need to cruise the length and breadth of the Caribbean, teaching bartenders how to make the “Django”, so that future generations need not suffer as we have.

Django seen from Basil's Bar at sunset

The Whalers of Bequia

Friendship Bay had a pretty marked swell, so the night was spent being rocked on, blown at, and rained on. In the morning, however, things had changed. The wet season was spitting its last. The heat and sun were with us.

We went ashore and walked a mile or two over to the Bequia Whaling Museum.

The Bequia Whaling Museum seen from the water

From the late 1800s, whaling was an important part of Bequian life. The business was begun by a man called Wallace and one Joseph Olivierre. It followed the share basis system of whaling which Wallace had learned in Scotland, and the whale they sought was the humpback. These whales come south to breed. The whaling season on Bequia was and is February to April. The seasonal work reached its peak in the 1920s when 20% of the island’s men were involved, then declined when humpbacks became scarce.

The whaling museum is run by Harold Corea, nephew of Athneal Olivierre (“the greatest whaler”) who was Joseph Olivierre’s grandson. Athneal died in 2000 after spending 60 of his 77 years whaling.

Athneal, the greatest whaler, depicted on a whale's shoulder blade

Harold, in an amazing island singsong (it reminded both Dana and me of the accent of Kerry, Ireland), told us whaling tales, stood placidly to have his photo taken, explained the exhibits—including harpoons, whalebones, pieces of baleine, and a winch used to haul the whale ashore for flensing—and accepted a beer from us. “But not for now,”he said. “I’ll have it before bed tonight.”

Harold chatted with us as we quenched our thirst

Dana, Harold, Harold's neice Nakya (I think), KMH and WW.
Photo by Enn

The whalers have been granted the right, under the indigenous traditions provisions of the International Whaling Commission, to hunt two whales a year. The hunt is not always successful. Some years they kill only one, some years, none. They hunt from from two 27-foot whalers, each carrying six men: one harpoonist, five oarsmen, one steersman. Lookouts on Bequia and on the water alert these crews to the presence of whales...by cellphone. Motorboats are used to pull the craft part way to the whale, then the sails are raised (they once tried to motor to the whales, but ended up in a day-long futile whale chase as the animals were alarmed by and avoided the noise).

When close enough, the sails are dropped the oars are manned. The boats are steered with a massive single oar that looks to be about 20 feet long wielded by a single man. When a whale is harpooned, the oarsmen pitch in to help kill it using lances. Sadly, using these tradional methods means the death can be prolonged. Athneal once killed a whale instantly by striking the harpoon straight into the great beast’s heart. The whalers nearly lost the catch because the lines to bind it were slack since they hadn’t expected so quick a kill.

Once the animal dies, its mouth is sewn shut so it will not take on seawater and it is towed to a processing station. Harold told us the meat is shared out to be eaten, the blubber is reduced to oil for burning or for medical use. In this way, the hunt makes an important contribution to the local economy.

One of the massive steering oars is slung along one wall of the museum. Beside it hangs a plaque “Why Ask Return”. This puzzled us. Harold explained. Athneal had had a boat called Why Ask. She was ashore on nearby Ile a Quatre when a hurrican lifted her and broke her into three pieces. The keel, her starboard side and her port side. Athneal gathered the bits together and dragged them across to Bequia to restore her. As he made his slow progress with his boat bits, people kept saying, “Why bother?” He ignored them and, soon enough, he had her rebuilt and afloat. Instead of sticking with the old name, however, he decided to underscore his point and called her Why Ask Return. She was back. So there. The little plaque had been her name plate.

Harold, now in his 70s, tends the museum begun by his famous uncle. The $5 EC per person is a small price to pay for the pleasure of standing in the single room of whaling bits and pieces and hearing his tales.

Harold with some of the whaling museum's whaling paraphernalia

It was almost noon when we left. Someone muttered something about mad dogs and Englishmen. On the way, we walked down to visit one of the whale boats. A man was working on it, preparing to give it a new keel. She looked a small frail thing to take against a 55-foot whale. Her name is Rescue.

Rescue being prepared to receive a new keel (in foreground)

Repairs and a Walk

Dana had been absolutely dandy throughout the run from St. Vincent down the coast of Bequia. Then we bore westward and rode a following swell. While less choppy, it is a bit of a gut-churning motion with its gentle rise and fall. In response, Dana turned an interesting shade of greenish white. She allowed as how she was feeling queasy. She knew she was not at her best when, safely anchored in Friendship Bay, we determined it was beer o’clock and she was not remotely interested. She eventually retired below for a little lie down.

I prepared lunch while the manly arts of rigging repair were practised on the upper deck. Consultation, experimentation, innovation all got a workout. A broken shackle was replaced. A fix for the snapped weld on the boom carwas jerry rigged. (Later, under sail, both were to be found effective.) Post-prandially, we snoozed.

Late in the afternoon, we went ashore, planning to walk into Port Elizabeth, about 2 miles away. But first, we needed to lay in some ice. The Friendship Bay Resort has a dinghy dock, so we took her there. There was some discussion as to the availability of ice. We felt that bringing ice from Port Elizabeth would result in our arriving with a bag of ice water. Fortunately, the beach bar was able to provide. We trotted down there and WW purchased a lovely bag of ice. He went to return it to the boat while the EC and I started along the road to town.

It was a lovely ramble along narrow roads through the gathering dusk. We examined trees, fruits, flowers, birds. At one point Dana asked, “What bird is that?” listening to its singing from the brush. “That,” I told her, “is a frog.” She was suitably astonished. We stopped outside a hilltop restaurant to await our captain, who had still not caught up. He suddenly appeared from ahead of us...a chap we had asked for directions had been driving by and offered him a lift.

Port Elizabeth is a tiny town centred, as most are, along its waterfront on Admiralty Bay. We walked along, noting the position of important things like the bookstore and the market. Then we found an equally important bar, had a beer and called for a taxi.

The taxis are, for the most part, small pickup trucks with a shelter over the back and benches down each side. The driver hops out, opens the tailgate and in you get.

On the drive back we discussed what we’d do in a COB (crew overboard) situation. Opinions varied. The fact is, often enough, there is not much to be done. However, there are procedures to follow. Punch the COB button on the GPS, send out a mayday, switch on the EPIRB (electronic emergency position doodad that zaps a signal to Canada giving its position and information about the boat it is registered to), drop sails and turn the boat, etc. Dana was deeply offended by the thought that one might just carry on, as WW pointed out would be the sensible thing to do if one awoke to discover the person on watch was no longer aboard. Somewhere, sometime, that person had gone adrift. Odds are, you’d never find them in all that water, waves and wind out there. And so the conversation went, until we hopped out of the taxi, the driver was paid and he said to us, “Please. All of you. Please. Don’t any of you go overboard.”

That evening, we dined on a truly outstanding fish soup using the fumet I had prepared the day before. I served it with bakes which were well received by the EC. And so ended another day upon the water.

Down to Bequia

I was up first on Friday. The sky was clear with clouds banking over St. Vincent. I watched a brown booby fishing. Watched the workers coming in to the Young Island Resort, reputedly the most expensive resort in St. Vincent and the Grenadines barring those on Mustique. I washed all my galley towels and hung them in the sun to dry.

WW was next up and I fed him breakfast while he listened to Chris Parker. The news was better. Incoming fine weather starting midweek.

Next came Enn, who made his bowl of cereal and cup of tea. We all knew Dana would be a little later. She enjoys her lie in.

When all were assembled, I announced my my joyous news. The night before, WW had promoted me from antipenultimate mate to third mate for excellence in crew management. I would like to thank my mother, the Academy, but most especially, the Eager Crew, without whom this would not have been possible.

Then the heavens opened. We knew we were going to be sailing today, but hadn’t decided where to yet. So, while we waited for the rain to clear, we consulted guide books, charts and each other. Because the weather was unpromising for the next few days and because the only decent anchorage on Mustique is not great in a westerly swell (guess what we had), we decided to go to Bequia (pronounced, by the way, Beck-way). The swell would, it seemed, be an issue in Admiralty Bay, so we decided to go to Friendship Bay on the south of the island. It would be a bit of a rocky run, what with the swell and the wind and so forth. WW and D popped motion sickness pills.

The EC made themselves terrifically useful, assisting with raising Boffo, securing Lady, releasing our mooring, stowing lines. We were off.

Saying farewell to Lagoon Marina and Young Island

The swell was coming at us on our port quarter, the 12 nm/h wind was blowing all wrong for getting around Bequia to the west, as we’d planned, so the captain decided to run us down the island’s east side. All hands assisted in raising our sails. Then we got out into the channel and the wind picked up. Clouds were massing over St. Vincent behind us, but heading eastward. The wind was blowing 20 nm/h and more, and we were making a good 7 knots. The waves were breaking over the bow and, every so often, we were doused with spray back in the cockpit. Dana stood by WW at the helm, absorbing sailing information from him like a sponge.

There was a nasty crack and WW soon spotted the problem. The welding job done back in Puerto Plata, DR, on the boom car for our mainsail had failed. It wasn’t an immediate problem, but it would need to be fixed.

The wind grew fiercer and WW decided to furl a bit. We sped down the east coast of Bequia until we needed to change our heading to one on which we could sail no more. Down came the genny. WW put Django into the wind and we started to bring down the mainsail. Something jammed. Then a shackle at the mast snapped. Then the halyard got wrapped around the boom. The EC earned their grog, freeing the halyard and we were able to finish bringing down the sail. Something else to fix. While you are breathing, your boat is breaking.

View over Friendship Bay

We motored into the supposedly tranquil waters of Friendship Bay, only to find a reasonably persistent swell that would keep us moving throughout our stay. Oh well.

Rain, Rain, Rain

In the night, it rained. Oh my it rained.

I had given our Eager Crew the rundown on the head, the shower, the necessity of always holding on to something, etc. We had discussed the weather and the rain that would, inevitably, fall. I failed to tell them about that little porthole in their berth. The one over the hullside cabinet. The one right over where you automatically put things like magazines. The magazines you have brought to feed your hosts’ need for reading material.

It rained cats and dogs on Thursday night. The magazines were, for the most part, dry by Saturday. The Walrus and the most recent New Yorker had taken the brunt of the damage. They were laid out on a towel and their pages gently turned. I tended to them every hour or two, separating their pages. Their sanctuary was WW’s and my berth during the day, the salon table at night. They are now (Saturday) both being read. So that’s alright, O Best Beloved, do you see?

On Friday, it rained pretty much nonstop all day. Which was fine, because we had decided to hold provisioning until D and E could join us. I spent an hour in a Kingstown Internet cafe while the other three pottered about in a mildly exploratory mode. D found some great sandals for next to nothing, so we went back to her store and WW and I each got a pair. They are very comfy.

Then we went to the market, which is wonderful. With bags full of callaloo, ginger, green onions, carrots, oranges, star fruit (carambola), plantain, tomatoes and limes, we were led by WW to the fish market. A raucous place, we viewed the fish available. Small silvery things, big tunny, and a mass of red speckled fish looking very grouperish. They turned out to be red hinds, among the finest of eating fish. WW chose three and they were turned over the the fish cleaning guy. Wielding an immense machete-like cleaver, he whacked off their fins with amazing accuracy. Then he scaled them. Then he fileted them. Then he asked if I wanted to make soup. Yeah, ok. He trimmed the gills and, with one pull, out came gills and guts. He cut the heads from spines and put them in the bag with our filets. That bag went into a bag of ice and we went outside to pay.

WW had read or been given a recommendation for a restaurant called Aggie’s. We asked on the street and were told it was a long long way. “Go to KFC. Turn left and go up the hill. Look to the right at the Carib Cell dealer.”

Our experience has been that these long long ways are maybe a 10-minute walk. So we set off to find KFC. As we were walking along, a chalkboard advertised a rooftop cafe. We decided to explore. It was great. Sandwiches and hamburgers and, of course, beer. We cancelled the climb to Aggie’s and ate there.

After lunch, we went to a nearby supermarket to get the last of our provisions. WW called Preacher and he was outside by the time we were done. We schlepped our bags of goodies through the rain, back to the van, where Preacher asked if we minded him giving a lift to one of his sisters in the Lord. The first time WW heard the expression, he thought it was sister-in-law. By now, we were all well versed in Preacher’s healing ways, his exorcisms, his laying on of hands. The spirit of the Lord is strong in Preacher. I found it a serious pleasure to ride around with him, listening to his tales.

Back on Django, we decided to leave the marina and go to a nearby anchorage for the night. It was a brief motor, but gave our eager crew a chance to help cast off and moor.

That evening, the weather was overcast but not actively raining. WW grilled the red hind in packages with onion and tomato. I experimented with the remaining breadfruit, WW having announced that he did not like it. At all. I grated it, rinsed it, added grated onions and made a sort of breadfruit rösti. It was a hit.

Then we sat outside, sipped fabulous Barbados rum, and sang songs till we could sing no more.

Crew Arrival

We slogged pretty much straight into the wind for the 10 miles from Admiralty Bay to Blue Lagoon. The entrance to the lagoon is flanked by nasty shoals made visible by the breakers surging over them. We motored slowly into the bay where Michael, a man in a dinghy, came up and offered to lead us in and help us dock. Which was good, because we docked stern-in, picking up two mooring bouys from the bows.

It was about 11 and WW went immediately to find out about getting in to Kingstown and clearing us in. Strictly speaking, all crew must remain aboard until the formalities have been completed. The marina had no problem with my getting some laundry ashore—no self-service, they would do it for us at $35 EC per load—and having a lovely long hot shower.

I talked to the marina office and asked about when the restaurant opened. We had told our guests, Dana and Enn, to grab a taxi and meet us there when they arrived. Their plane was due at about 6 p.m. It was, therefore, a bit of a blow to learn that the restaurant and bar were both closed. As in, not in operation. Hmmmm.

WW came back having completed his assigned tasks and having visited the wonderful Kingstown market. He bore a long skinny pineapple, a couple of cucumbers, three eggplant and a cabbage. Yum. His taxi driver, Vernon “Call me Preacher” John, returned to the boat with him. He had offered to go to the airport to wait for D and E, and deliver them to the marina. What an excellent solution! We’d throw their kit on board and head out for dinner.

Evening came, the clock ticked. Ok, the plane must be late. Ok, the plane must be really late. Finally, WW called Preacher. He said the plane was delayed with no ETA, which meant there was a problem with the plane itself and they didn’t know how long it would be till it was repaired. We were getting very hungry, so Preacher came, picked us up and dropped us at the Lime and Pub ( a play on words, “limin’” being the region’s term for chillin’, hangin’), then returned to his vigil. We had a fabulous, if somewhat pricey, dinner. WW had grouper in a delicious tomato sauce. I had catch of the day: red snapper, perfectly pan fried with lots of garlic. As we were mopping up the last of these and the fabulous salads that accompanied them, Preacher arrived with Enn and Dana in tow.

We stayed for a drink at the bar, then went out to Preacher’s van. He delivered us to the marina and we introduced D and E to their new quarters. Then we sat in the cockpit, provided our eager crew (EC) with a light supper, a glass of wine, and lots of chat before we retired to our berths for the night.