Anchored 100 ft from the mooring we lay to until the day before yesterday, we are out of touch with the world. Alicia is dying to get Skype running on our computer so she can while away the hours chatting with B for very little money. We have the Rogers cellphone, but at $3.00 per minute, I am mumchance at the thought of a half hour to Bermuda every evening. So we bob to the anchor eyeing the shore, knowing that if we just take the computer in and sit on a bench, we can connect again.
Last night was the first good sleep we have had since arriving. The first night anywhere is difficult for me. The next night, our first at anchor in a while, the suspected tropical depression manifested a nasty squall at 1:15 am, dragging us from sleep and Django from her tenuous hold on the bottom. We are in a tiny cove off the main Castries harbour, home to the police and coast guard, various fishing boats and the cat tourist carriers where we had shared moorings. At anchor there is almost no swinging room and definitely no room to drag. Without the loss of a moment, I fired up the engines and got Alicia out of bed to raise the anchor. 1:00 am is a poor time to give instruction on the mysteries of the anchor windlass. In point of fact, the anchor windlass had chosen this particular moment to give up the ghost. By dint of great efforts, we raised the anchor and moved out to the entrance of the cove, hoping to hook on again in a place with a bit more margin for error. Success finally and, after setting the anchor alarm, back to bed.
The morning broke to sun and Chris Parker could be heard in the distance, on and off, telling us of nasty weather in the region that should clear late Thursday (today, I believe). After breakfast, I pull all the bumpers, lines, jerry jugs and the spare anchor from the side by side forward deck lockers where the innards of the windlass lie. Exploratory surgery reveals that the “on deck” switch has ceased to be, the main control solenoid has stopped pulling down heavy duty switch on the “pull the chain in” side, and has been shorting on the “let the chain down side” for sometime (cable has been disconnected from the winch, explaining why we were never able to make the down switch work). The hand held switch has been bad for the long while. I resurrected it in Grenada, knowing it needed replacing at an early opportunity.
We are not far from Rodney Bay where there is an Island Water World marine distributor, whose handy 2007 catalogue shows the parts we need to be functional again. There is a little voice which says replace the entire winch. The main motor will probably die sooner rather than later, but I am resisting the outlay of large sums of cash, in keeping with the theme of this voyage.
Alicia is hungry four times a day, so we prepare a lovely small brunch of bread toasted in the pan with olive oil and a tomato and green onion omelette made from the egg whites and some yolk left over from Alicia’s Caesar salad dressing from the night before. Delicious. Then off to town to seek out a convenient handset for using the computer as a cheap long distance phone.
The route to town runs along a rustic path through a muddy patch, leading out to the cruise ship landing, where many taxis gather hoping for a fare. We have to run the gauntlet of taxi drivers begging us to let them take us to the beach, or just to town, which is a 15 minute walk. Then there is the old man trying to sell the same battered conch shell every day, without luck, so he begs as well, just for a bit of money to get a plate of food, he says. I give him some money, I have learned to carry a pocket full of change to dole out on the road. Then there are the rude boys who hang out at the fish boat landing, behind the sheds smoking ganga, who come out to the road and dance and beg for coins to go and buy a Piton beer. We cut through by the fisherman’s Co-op, no fresh fish to be had there, the fishermen prefer to set up rude wooden tables by the roadside and sell direct. On the main road over the little bridge and past the small park, there are the serious beggars, not many, but they are down and out, crippled, missing limbs, or just terminal drunks.
Into town the world is less dire, and it bustles with the life of the market and the food stalls. We make our way to Digicell to see if we can get the cellphone unlocked and set up with a local SIM card. No luck. On to a local computer store, where we find a reasonably priced USB handset for use with Skype. Now we are ready to talk for hours for very little money. Lunch is a large shared beef roti and a Piton beer each at the five star (?!) restaurant in the market (EC$14.50= US$5.60). Then back to the boat. A second quick trip in to get gas for Boffo while Alicia scrubs the bottom. She scrubbed for a bit but found the water too murky for comfort, worried about unseen fish that might come and bite her toes. So the scrub consisted of a very fast swim up one side of the boat with the scrubber held firmly (yet ineffectually) against the hull, and an even faster swim back making as much kicking fuss as possible to ward off importunate fish.
I determined that we should up anchor and try to get in close to our old mooring spot in the hopes of an internet connection. More strenuous effort and eventual success, only to find we are still just out of reach. So here we sit, eyeing the shore.
Last night was the first good sleep we have had since arriving. The first night anywhere is difficult for me. The next night, our first at anchor in a while, the suspected tropical depression manifested a nasty squall at 1:15 am, dragging us from sleep and Django from her tenuous hold on the bottom. We are in a tiny cove off the main Castries harbour, home to the police and coast guard, various fishing boats and the cat tourist carriers where we had shared moorings. At anchor there is almost no swinging room and definitely no room to drag. Without the loss of a moment, I fired up the engines and got Alicia out of bed to raise the anchor. 1:00 am is a poor time to give instruction on the mysteries of the anchor windlass. In point of fact, the anchor windlass had chosen this particular moment to give up the ghost. By dint of great efforts, we raised the anchor and moved out to the entrance of the cove, hoping to hook on again in a place with a bit more margin for error. Success finally and, after setting the anchor alarm, back to bed.
The morning broke to sun and Chris Parker could be heard in the distance, on and off, telling us of nasty weather in the region that should clear late Thursday (today, I believe). After breakfast, I pull all the bumpers, lines, jerry jugs and the spare anchor from the side by side forward deck lockers where the innards of the windlass lie. Exploratory surgery reveals that the “on deck” switch has ceased to be, the main control solenoid has stopped pulling down heavy duty switch on the “pull the chain in” side, and has been shorting on the “let the chain down side” for sometime (cable has been disconnected from the winch, explaining why we were never able to make the down switch work). The hand held switch has been bad for the long while. I resurrected it in Grenada, knowing it needed replacing at an early opportunity.
We are not far from Rodney Bay where there is an Island Water World marine distributor, whose handy 2007 catalogue shows the parts we need to be functional again. There is a little voice which says replace the entire winch. The main motor will probably die sooner rather than later, but I am resisting the outlay of large sums of cash, in keeping with the theme of this voyage.
Alicia is hungry four times a day, so we prepare a lovely small brunch of bread toasted in the pan with olive oil and a tomato and green onion omelette made from the egg whites and some yolk left over from Alicia’s Caesar salad dressing from the night before. Delicious. Then off to town to seek out a convenient handset for using the computer as a cheap long distance phone.
The route to town runs along a rustic path through a muddy patch, leading out to the cruise ship landing, where many taxis gather hoping for a fare. We have to run the gauntlet of taxi drivers begging us to let them take us to the beach, or just to town, which is a 15 minute walk. Then there is the old man trying to sell the same battered conch shell every day, without luck, so he begs as well, just for a bit of money to get a plate of food, he says. I give him some money, I have learned to carry a pocket full of change to dole out on the road. Then there are the rude boys who hang out at the fish boat landing, behind the sheds smoking ganga, who come out to the road and dance and beg for coins to go and buy a Piton beer. We cut through by the fisherman’s Co-op, no fresh fish to be had there, the fishermen prefer to set up rude wooden tables by the roadside and sell direct. On the main road over the little bridge and past the small park, there are the serious beggars, not many, but they are down and out, crippled, missing limbs, or just terminal drunks.
Into town the world is less dire, and it bustles with the life of the market and the food stalls. We make our way to Digicell to see if we can get the cellphone unlocked and set up with a local SIM card. No luck. On to a local computer store, where we find a reasonably priced USB handset for use with Skype. Now we are ready to talk for hours for very little money. Lunch is a large shared beef roti and a Piton beer each at the five star (?!) restaurant in the market (EC$14.50= US$5.60). Then back to the boat. A second quick trip in to get gas for Boffo while Alicia scrubs the bottom. She scrubbed for a bit but found the water too murky for comfort, worried about unseen fish that might come and bite her toes. So the scrub consisted of a very fast swim up one side of the boat with the scrubber held firmly (yet ineffectually) against the hull, and an even faster swim back making as much kicking fuss as possible to ward off importunate fish.
I determined that we should up anchor and try to get in close to our old mooring spot in the hopes of an internet connection. More strenuous effort and eventual success, only to find we are still just out of reach. So here we sit, eyeing the shore.
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