Rodney Bay Maintenance and Reflection

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Whunk Bang, Whuk boom, Bong, Whuck bang..... The mainsail is out of the mast and the roller for which it normally provides a pad and a muffle is free to bonk around inside the mast. For those who don't know the sound, you need only imagine a thirty five foot hollow vertical aluminum post, swaying back and forth, with a 2 inch aluminum pole rising the length of it bouncing around inside. We have made great strides in damping out this dementing distraction, bringing it down from a full throated whang bang to a relatively quiet, if constant, reminder that the mainsail is in the sail loft until Tuesday (and if you believe that, I have bridge you might be interested in buying). The genoa is in as well, both sails much the worse for wear following our high energy sails of the past few weeks.
The Designer has been hard at it, banging out a series of dresses and accessories to be featured in a self published catalogue. She reminds me of several highlights I missed in our story of the non-cruise through the Grenadines. On reflection, we had some pretty interesting times, dear reader, which I know you really would like to read about. There may be some photos we can show as well, if you are ready.



The first thing to come to mind is the small whaling boat we encountered as we skirted a squall on the way across to Beqia at the end of our long haul South. There was this very small boat, three men aboard, outboard on the transom and harpoon gun mounted on the bow. They were moving in tight circles and it took us a bit to figure out they were hunting whales. As we passed them, we came upon the whales themselves, a large pod of pilot whales. Fortunately for the whales, there was a good distance between them and the whalers.


I have been hard at the maintenance today, replacing the two cleats pulled of the stern by Boffo. Pack the grease cups for the steering cable and work the grease into the system. Muck about with Cetric's wiring input. This is deep in the bowels of Django, and is inscrutable. The wires go in, that much I have determined with some certainty. How they attach, or how to get at the attaching mechanism is still beyond me. The mucking about has had some effect and Cetric is responding with alacrity, though for how long is not clear.



The cleats have been replaced. If I were an obsessive type, I would be displeased by the slight cant of the starboard one. My mind was elsewhere when I marked the holes; on Whit, as a matter of fact. He emailed to say that I may be suffering from some debility or dementia following the unfortunate evening in Rodney Bay when I incurred serious injury ferrying him and KMH ashore in the middle of the night to have a drink at the bar. Shortly after getting Whit's email, I remarked that our ship's computer suffers from a nasty virus. The Artist says its because we have been using memory sticks in the internet cafes, and picked one up there. I am not so sure, hence the distraction resulting in Django's askew stern cleat.

In Bequia, we walked out to the turtle farm and took lots of pictures, but they all disappeared mysteriously. We stopped at a coconut grove by the sea and your scribe spent a good long time bashing away on a fallen nut to provide some sustenance for his two children. Sharp rocks, stone walls, conch shells all provided little in the way of damage to the damn nut. Success came eventually and we all gnawed away on coconut sitting on the beach. The next day, we met a talking billygoat over by Friendship Bay. He was being led along the road, hobbled, by a young boy and stopped to call his son who munched grass down the slope... "Come on, Kenneth" he bleated.

Despite two dinghy runs for water in Soufriere, we are out again, and most all of yesterday afternoon was dedicated to the refill. The fuel dock inside the lagoon would be our first choice, but there is a line up stretching back outside into the anchorage. These are all French registered yachts from Martinique. Both Martinique and Guadeloupe are locked down in a general strike, apparantly in protest for increases in the subsidised price of food. It has been going on for over two months in Guadeloupe, and, I suppose, 2-3 weeks in Martinique. I'll not comment on the politics.. oh,all right, if you insist.. from an ignorant outsiders perspective, one finds little to no services offered to boaters anywhere outside Le Marin. There is none of the small enterprise of boat boys, fruit men, laundry and water delivery that one finds in the other islands. Everyone seems to be very well fed, the roads are excellent, and all the solid teak docks have acknowledgements to the generosity of the European Community. Apparantly, large sums are being transferred from Europe to these Islands to keep the populace fat and happy. France has taken steps to reduce the drain a bit. The people will not stand for it and have walked out en masse. It is reminiscent of the situation in Quebec, where the public service unions have successfully thwarted rationalisation attempts by more than one government. Beware the government and the tax payor when a sufficiently large proportion of the populace is sucking contentedly on government benificence.


Back to the fuel dock in Rodney Bay, the water hose has gone missing. I think they have taken it away because it slows down the sale of fuel to the multitude of Martiniquais refugees.
The next possiblity is the marina. I round up a man who sets up a hose and lets me make four trips back and forth to Django. Seven hundred and twenty pounds of fresh water heaved up on deck and poured in to the tanks later, we have more or less a full load and its past RP o'clock (not that there's much in the way of RP aboard Django these days).


Django's bottom is dirty, wanting a good scrubbing. Despite an aching back (no peace for the wicked), I have one quarter completed this afternoon. We will be here long enough to finish the job before our sails come back from the loft. Perhaps the thuck bonk of the mast will have faded into the unconscious by then. In the meantime, Chris Parker says the weather will be fine during the whole while.

Cruising the Grenadines, not

Tuesday Feb 17 Pick up Jordy

I can't believe a week has passed since arriving in Rodney Bay. We did laundry and stocked up for ten days with my son, 21 year old Jordan, arriving from Halifax to Vieux Fort on Feb 17 to join the Artist and I for a trip through the Grenadines. It is rather all consuming, fretting about how to comunicate, to get transport arranged to pick him up and deliver him to Soufriere, further down the coast and then to arrive comfortably in advance of his arrival and find a decent mooring to hold onto.

In the event, all went very smoothly, if exhaustingly. After a full power race into Jalousie, between the Pitons, between Django and two other mooring aspirants to pick up the last available mooring, we were ensconced in the stunning setting a full day in advance of hs arrival, We were still 2 miles away from the dock at Soufriere and the last arrangement to fall into place was transport into the town dock and back. We met Michel who picked up the mooring for us and promised to be boatside at 3 pm the next day to ferry us in. How much? What you think is right, man, he said. Sounded good to me. Still I fretted. The cell phone remained on all day and, sure enough, fifteen minutes after scheduled landing of the aircraft at Vieux Fort, the cell phone came to life with Jordan needing the name of the boat and where we were, to get past the naturally inquisitive immigration official at the airport. So he had made it this far. Notable relief.

Still I fretted that Michel would forget, or get a better job, or whatever would result in his not arriving, so I launched Boffo, got the engine aboard and loaded her essential gear. Unlike KMH, the Artist feels no need to participate in the tribulations involved in launching Boffo, so I am able to practice the solo approach to the problem over and again, perfecting my engine lob into the water and my mighty heave getting it back aboard all by myself.

At exactly three minutes before three, our agreed rendezvous, Michel rounded the Petit Piton and came alongside. A and I boarded, ships papers carefully stowed in my napsack for the clearance out of St Lucia, and we headed off to Soufriere to pick up Jordan. I figured we would be early, but as we approached the dock, there he was, getting out of the taxi. Lambert, the driver I had set up, was not there. His father had died suddenly. No wonder I fretted. But his cousin filled in and there was Jordan, broken hand all bandaged up, but otherwise ready to go. With his passport in hand, I was ready to run the gauntlet of customs and immigration clearance to permit us to leave St. Lucia for St. Vincent and the Grenadines.

Customs was a breeze, then off to the police station for immigration. The man was out, so we hung about waiting. After a while of this we went off to buy a cabbage and some carrots and bread. Checking again, no man. So then we went for a beer and Jordan had a fruit salad. In the middle of this eating anf drinking my fretful feelings retturned and I went back and found that although in, there was now a line up to see the man. So wait did I. It seemed like a very long time, In fact, it was probably longer than that. I made friends with the skipper of the 70 ft yacht moored next to us. A private yacht, pristine, with a very old man aboard, maybe the owner? The skipper says he has guests aboard about two weeks each month. He married the chef, but she is stuck in the US waiting out the Green Card mandatory stay. Finally, I was out of there and we were on our way out past the Petit Piton to our stunning resting spot between the Pitons. We had the first steak I have found in the Caribbean, barbequed nicely, the wind abating just for the occasion.

Next day I unhitched at 6:30 am and set out for Bequia, two islands down. The kids kept there beds until we cleared the lee of St. Lucia and were into the large seas of the St. Vincent Passage. They regretted not having risen early for a decent breakfast and were decidedly green through the morning. The wind was light, never over fifteen knots and abaft the beam, so not very fast for Django.

The passage to Beqia took a good nine and half hours, and Jordan and I were somewhat burnt by the end of it. Another gauntlet of officialdom to run on arrival. I was taken aback by the increase in fees to visit St. Vincent. I had to pay EC$275 for the three of us. To add insult to injury, the mooring fee seems to have skyrocketed as well. The harbour in Bequia is full. The recession seems to have passed over the boat people. There are more and more, and they seem happy to pay the hefty levies here. So this is not a recommended stop for those on a close budget. More later, I am ready for my bunk.

Break Break

This is coming to you from the relative sanctuary of Soufriere Bay, St. Lucia. The date is Feb 25, I believe. We have endured a full week of 30 knot winds and squalls. Bequia was lovely, we walked all about and, between rain showers, had a good time being together and exploring the island. We were stuck there for three days due to weather. Finally on Saturday, we determined to try to make Mustique, at least, our plan for a trip through the Grenadines in tatters. There was a 9 ft swell out of the North compounding the 25-30 ENE wind and big sea. We tucked down past the point outside Admiralty Bay, and back up under the lee of Isle au Quatre. Then out into the open sea for the 6 mile crossing to Mustique. Tumultuous seas! Very strong wind, but we were well reefed and Django responded with grace. Jordy steered, and although not a sailor, has a knack for getting the best out Django going to weather. His plaster half cast suffered a bit from the salt spray.

Mustique was a bust. The prices are through the roof. I was completely insulted to be asked to pay EC$42 (US$16) for a loaf of bread and three croissants. Our mooring was close to being untenable, we rocked and rolled and the dinghy crashed about. I couldn't get away fast enough. The only good news is that we missed the Harbour Master and were not priveleged to learn what they charge for the mooring fee.

So Sunday we made the run due North to Kingstown, barely skirting the wicked rocks on the NE tip of Bequia. Django was hard on the steady 30 knot wind and we motor sailed past the point to give us a bit more pointing ability. We gave Django yet another dousing of salt water. The seas past the point defy description, confused, steep and jagged. We managed to dislodge everything not bolted down. Catching up the dinghy painter in the prop on arrival behind Young Island crowned an eventful crossing.

Next day we explored Kingstown, cleared out at customs (another EC$35 fee) and immigration, bought a large (3 lb) tail of Dorado at the fish market for less than our loaf of bread in Mustique, and ate lunch in the lovely restaurant in the little hotel above Basil's Bar. This restaurant is great, not pricey but well presented and friendly, full of the local business lunch crowd. My advice to the cruiser world, avoid the Grenadines in high season.

I heard the weather report on the radio in a store in Kingstown. Small craft warning and heavy surge warning until Thursday. We need to leave Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest to get Jordie back to St Lucia for his flight home. The taxi driver at Young Island dock tells us we should leave at 4 am to catch the early calm. Chris Parker calls for 28-35 knots overnight dimishing to 20-25 during the day, with squall coverage diminishing later in the morning and returning more on Wednesday. We make Hobson's choice and opt for a Tuesday departure, 46 miles to Souffiere, St Lucia.

It rained through much of the night, and dawn brought a strong squall. I breakfasted as the wind calmed down, and by our 7 am departure, the wind was fairly light behind us. We made our way gently up the lee of St. Vincent under power, raising sail as we approached the north end of the island. We had 18-20 knots at a good angle as we approached the open sea, but a large squall obliterated our view of the situation outside. As the squall came down, we reduced sail in anticipation of 30 plus wind. When the wind and rain arrived, the wind spiked at 38 knots, all as we emerged into the open sea and encountered the 12-15 foot swell. Once the squall passed the wind settled down to a steady 30 knots and we slogged to as close to the wind as we could to make the NNE course into St. Lucia. This was as hard going as we had encountered so far.

Not to cow the reader with details of interminable struggle and dousings, we skip to 12 miles off St Lucia, inside the lee, making for land under power, the wind having mercifully disappeared, leaving a sea as mixed up as chopped egg, leaping and ducking, forming holes and towers, through which Django dipped and yawed toward Soufriere Bay, and our mooring by the Bat Cave.

Today we will walk again, if the rain lets up, up to the souffiere and around the botanical garden. Our water is down to the last cupful, so part of the day will be spent ferrying jerry jugs. Eddie, the boat boy, has offered to do it for us, but he has a knack for charging WAY TOO MUCH money, so his services will not be required. I think people coming down here must leave their brains at home, allowing these fellows to rinse their wallets clean.

Tomorrow, Jordy gets on his plane and Django will make her way back to Rodney Bay, free anchorage, free internet, good groceries, water, marine supply store. There are a number of repairs to do. As the wag pronounced, while your cruising in 30 knot winds, your boat is breaking.

It is a truism that while cruising, one can define either a time or a place to meet a cruising boat, but not both. Working to a set schedule results in having to sail in poor conditions. We have experienced this in spades.

Adventures and the Strike

Tuesday Night and Wednesday February 11, 2009

I think I mentioned that the wind has been blowing pretty hard lately. We were grateful to be firmly attached to a mooring in Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica, as the Designer and I discussed applied math as it relates to dress design measurements after a pretty good dinner aboard Django.

We heard a distinct clang clang of a ship's bell, quite close by, so went into the cockpit to investigate. Our German friends aboard 'Balena' seemed to have an unwelcome visitor in the way of a small cruiser laying up against her bow, the lone yatchsman fending off and calling out. I was sure the Germans would awake at any moment and help the poor man, but after a minute or two we realised the Germans were not aboard. Alicia prodded me into action. We jumped (or shall I say eased?) into the dinghy and braved the whistling wind to help our colleague in distress. His anchor had dragged, and the boat lay with Balena's mooring line caught between his propeller and the skeg rudder. He could go neither forward nor back and had been fending off off almost half and hour. He wanted us to let go the mooring and drop Balena's anchor. Not likely, I opined, envisioning both yatchs dragging down through the fleet and WW responsible for the damage. Seeing the mooring ball had a eye bolt in its top, an alternative came to mind. There was a good deal of struggle involved in attaching a new mooring line to the eye bolt, finally involving a fresh run in Boffo round the interlocked vessels to reach the ball. We put the new line to the eye bolt, over the stern of the distressed yacht, then let go the old one. The smaller boat drifted free and clear of the mooring line, and our new friend was able to engage his engine and stop the drift. After reattaching the original mooring line, A and I jumped (!?) back into Boffo and joined our beleagered co-adventurer who was not able to deal with his anchor and drive his boat at the same time. The wind whistled away thoughout. A and I raised the anchor and convinced a now much happier skipper to pick up a mooring for the night.

His name is Michel. This, perhaps, 26' older sloop is his caribbean boat, on which he spends three months alone each year, sailing out of Martinique. It is spartan inside. In France he has a larger Sparkman and Stevens racing yacht, also older, which sailed as one of three racers for France in the Admiral's Cup some years ago. He is something of an old salt, though no older than I. Years ago, he and his wife cruised the Caribbean in the S and S and fell in love with Bequia. They built a house and became Vincentians. He invited us below for a drink, no booze on board so we had water with a bit of anise syrup, and he told us his story. He was embarrassed by the dragging. Twenty five meters of chain out in 3 meters of water should have held fine, he said. He normally has no troubles sailing alone, and had come up from St. Pierre in Martinique that day, a distance of fifty miles, in a wind blowing 30-35 knots. We told him we were headed back that way in the morning. It is a strong wind, he said.

In Dominica, there is no need to clear out of customs if your stay is less than two weeks and the crew remains unchanged. First thing in the morning, we prepared for sea, dogging down all the hatches and putting away the dishes from the washing up. The passage along the lee side of Dominica was uneventful, the wind fitful and gusty off the mountains. As we approached the open water of the Martinique Passage, I could see there was more wind ahead, but was not prepared for the sudden increase in wind to over 30 knots sustained all of a sudden. Although already reefed in, we added some more rolls to the reef without too much drama and hunkered down for a wet and not very fast slog. The spray flew up from the bow and over our orange bimini at times, soaking the helmsman (guess who) and leaving sallt water dripping heavily into the cockpit. Because of the heavy sea and deep reef, we were not able to make our usual speed, and had to content ourselves with 5-6 knots. The wind was well forward of the beam and we were fortunate to be able to lay St. Pierre in one tack. The artist found the conditions a bit awesome and napped a good deal. Thoughts of making Fort de France in one go evaporated. My black cotton shirt grew stiff and streaked with white as the roaring wind dried it out in minutes after each dowsing. The sound of the wind in my ears was the dominating sensation, followed closely by the bucking and heaving of the boat. Our preparations for sea were not quite up to the conditions and A had to repack the galley. I went to the head and found the toiletries basket bottom up in the toilet. I have learned this lesson a couple of times, but still backslide between sessions of extreme weather.

We made St. Pierre by five and gratefully dropped the anchor. The camera has been put away all day, not allowed on deck because of the salt spray.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

We should have noticed it in St. Pierre, the overflowing garbage being the main clue as we arrived after closing time and walked the streets in the evening. We cleared in at the cafe down the street from the dock. In Dominica there were rumours of the situation in Guadeloupe. Everything shut by the strike.

On awakening, I stepped into the cockpit and looked down into Boffo, only to see, to my complete horror, that the plug had come out and she was knee deep in salt water, with the blue boat-paper zipper bag bobbing about in it. Maybe it's waterproof? Not the case as I lifted it up and drained a cup or two of water out through the closed zipper. The morning passed with Alicia and I peeling apart our passport pages and separating the other VERY IMPORTANT PAPERS onto a towel. Canadian passports are not designed to be soaked. The covers are glued to the inside page; the glue comes away, and the cover shrinks. There shall be no allocation of blame for the leaving of the boat papers in Boffo, but I think Whit is involved.

I went ashore to get bread in the morning, and found a long discontented line at the DeliFrance where fresh baguettes are normally available. The grocery store doors were closed except for a narrow entrance guarded, to allow only a few people in at once. The market by the dock was unchanged, and the old man in the little creole store was open as usual. I had still not twigged, but I was not about to wait for half an hour for the baguette.

We packed up and headed for Fort de France. The wind just as strong, but we in the lee of the island. Rounding the point into the Baie de Fort de France, we met the wind head on, 30-35 knots on the nose, with a very short stiff chop. Engines roaring, we pushed the last mile and a half to the anchorage at about 3 knots. Whit would have liked this part the least.

The fort at Fort de France is built on a high promontory protecting the anchorage. We tucked right in close and found some peace. First on the list is water, we have enough for two large cups of tea. Because of the wind, my thought is to cross the promontory with jerry jugs to the small sailiing club on the other side, to avoid rounding the point into the more exposed bay leading down to the club by dinghy. A and I set out an find the gate locked, so back to the dinghy and make the trip around. The water is littered with garbage, I have to steer to avoid the partialy submerged plastic bags. No one home at the sailing club, but we fill up anyway and put 20 gallons into our tank for the time being.

Alicia needs to see the fabric man at Doum2000, and I have a shopping list of things to get at Leader Price, so we set off again into Fort de France. While the dock are is normal, kids playng and swimming, people strolling, but it is Thursday afternoon, no school? The town is eerie, shut up tight everywhere. My first thought is that we are trapped and cannot clear out, so we go straight to Sea Services to find out what the story is. Their store is also shuttered, but there is a hand written sign in the door, 'Press buzzer for entry'. I press and the owner opens up. Can we clear out?? Yes. There is a hint of fear in the air, a certain furtiveness in her look. She tells me the market will be open early in the morning for a while, for fruit and vegetables. No bakery open. Thuggish men drink on the street, and Alicia is rudely accosted.

The KFC appears closed as well, two of its three doors shuttered, but it is actually serving customers. The juice place by the dock is also open. We wait for an hour to be served, me fit to be tied, the artist urging patience. My mind is made up that we will make for St. Lucia on the morrow, wind or no wind.

Friday, February 13, 2009

No mariner with an ounce of superstition will leave port on a Friday.

I have come ashore to clear out. On my way to Sea Services, I come across a roadside vendor selling bread and cake. That's a bit of luck for you. Once in to clear, I notice that not only is it Friday, it is the thirteenth. Next bit of luck, I don't actually need to clear out because we have not stayed more than three days.

Back to Django and more serious preparation for sea. The basket of toiletries goes on top of the closed toilet seat.

What a lovely day. The wind is strong, but not above 25 knots. We can carry enough sail to make an easy 7 knots. The seas in the St. Lucia Passage are large, but we take in very little spray. Alicia steers for a while.

Into Rodney Bay, it's straight to the fuel dock to top up diesel and fill our water tanks, then anchor close to the beach to see if we can get some internet. All is well, although my to do list is still as long as one of the Designer's long dresses. I have not cracked a book of plucked a guitar string in days.

So much for superstition.

Dominica Contemplation

Tuesday, February 10, 2009.

The internet connection, for which I have paid a dear US$30 for a week's subscription, has been failing on a regular basis. We have a fine connection to the Portsmouth server, but nothing happening beyond that. The line is down from the Purple Turtle on out. There was a brief period where it opened up this morning, and I was able to post two updates with pictures, but then Alica got on and the whole thing failed again. It remains out as I pen this short essay.



The day has been very windy. We spent the afternoon in contemplation, I of the many wrecks, photographing, the camera set to some weird setting that only the artist understands. So some of the best shots are washed out. I'll post the good ones anyway, as well as some of the shots taken after she pointed out that I might do better with the camera set to automatic. Alicia and I contemplating shells and sea glass, destined for the sea glass repository outside the front door at 'Enfin' in Cap a l'Aigle. I found one blue one, then came upon a bunch of blue ones in the little souvenir shop where I bought two Carib woven insulating place mats. Their weaving is really good, solid and beautiful. There is a tribe extant in Dominica who do a lot of baskets and mats. One can find them in Ste. Lucie at the market in Castries. The artist took pictures of the kingfish dinner which I think are worth sharing.




After walking up to Cabrits National Park with our newfound dog friend, we stopped at the Purple Turtle for a drink and a chicken leg with fries. Who should show up but Jeffrey, president of the guide and security association. He is very interested in squiring Alicia around and shows up a lot. I have managed to fend him off, mostly. He is really very nice, but that may not be a good thing. He has asked me to correct a mistaken impression. Not ALL the security people are at the Sunday barbeque. He makes sure that the security here is maintained 24/7, and would like you all to be clear on this point. There you are then. We had an issue with a very poor looking character who paddled out on his surf board this morning offering fruit. Actually he had no fruit, but promised us mangoes and bananas and tomatoes in ten minutes. He also loaded our very large garbage bag onto the back of the board for an extra $EC 5. I am a trusting sole and gave him the money, telling him we were going out but just to leave the fruits in the cockpit. AFTER I had given him the money, Alicia called me in and said that Jeffrey had told her that the men on surfboards were mostly crack addicts. Normally we don't lock when we go out. This time I closed the door and hid the little Acer computer in the my stateroom. We came back with our shells and sea glass two hours later and no tomatoes or bananas were to be seen. Chalk it up to experience, I thought, and be thankful nothing is missing. We set out again for Cabrits Park and ran into Jeffrey on the way. He said he would look into it.

When we finally got home after dinner, there were the bananas, mangoes and tomatoes, just as advertised. I like to think it was my man on the surfboard, who was just a bit late delivering. Or possibly it was Jeffrey's crew making things right. Either way, alls well that ends well. If the internet will let me, there will follow some contemplative photos of wreckage, fish dinner, shells, a dog and a snake.

In the morning, we hope to make a long push into Martinique, possibly to Fort de France which is at about the limit of our daylight range. Jordy will be in St. Lucia next Tuesday to meet us.

Dominica, Indian River

Fire showed up about 8:30 this morning and we cruised the shoreline toward the mouth of the Indian River. Dominica has been hit by a lot of hurricanes, four or more since Hurricane David. The shoreline is littered with the wrecks of ships that have piled in on top of the wrecks from previous hurricanes, rusting and being cut up slowly and the bits shipped to Trinidad. Fire points to the space where the Catholic Church once stood, victim of an earthquake. At the mouth of the river, a large Haitian ship has wrecked almost closing off the entrance. Fire negotiates the rocks and we are in.

We stop at the small dock so I can nip to the bank and pick up the passes to enter the river. The river is brackish and the bank low, the area protected so Fire has to row his heavy boat up. The water is not very clear, greenish gray milky color. We see schools of fresh water mullet, lots of them. On the banks the crabs scuttle into their holes, and the water fowl hide. There are moorhens and small red crowned herons. Many coconut trees, mango and strangling fig, bois this and bois that. The whole flood plane was once a plantation estate, now owned by a woman who will not sell parcels, only lease or sell the whole lot. Now it is a jungle of trees and vines, often flooded by the river, the banks eroded out with each freshet. As we move up, the river narrows and the trees on each side begin to close in over the center. The film crew for Pirates of the Caribbean set up fog machines to create an eerie scene for the home of the witch. Fire and his guides were not allowed to bring up their clients during filming, but were paid by the film company for each cancelled trip. Fire was given the task of ferrying a crew from Good Morning America during a shoot they set up. The bank side trees have curving, swirling buttress roots that sweep up from the water and hold up the tree as well as tie in the bank. In low lying areas they grow in away from the river.


The guide crew maintain the river, cutting back vegetation where it is getting in the way, and dislodging trees and stumps washed into it during the frequent floods. There are no improvements, just general cleaning up, to maintain an enjoyable wild river experience.

At the head of the navigable section of river, there is a bar, garden and the beginnings of a rude wood get-away apartment for those looking for a natural, if well visited, sejour. Snake Man is the gardener. He cultivates many fruits and flowers and herbs. He serves us cut up and peeled sugar cane to chew while we await our pina coladas (it must be at least 9:30 am, why not? KMH helped me understand a thing or two.). He is friendly and I have invited him to come for dinner to share our 3 lbs of kingfish sitting in the fridge. I am not a natural host, so this is a bit out of my safety zone. He is having the full moon party at the bar afterward and wants us to come. There is a path through the swamp from the village to the bar up river. In the event, he never showed up and we passed a quiet evening observing the other full moon party at the Purple Turtle on the beach, not one but two large bonfires.

The artist has done a series of postcard-sized drawings of the river, now she is painting them in, in water colour. I think it will make a good batch.

Dominica, Portsmouth, Party Central

I believe that Dominica may not be the best place to spend a long time. The artist and I arrived to the moorings tucked up in the NE corner of Prince Rupert Bay about 3:30 pm, after having been met by Titus about three miles back, offering services, including a trip up the Indian River the next morning bright and early so as to avoid the traffic coming from the Roseau cruise ship people. We found ourselves between our German friends on the port side and Belair, whom we had met briefly in Roseau, a Bermuda boat. Several of the local guide and security patrol guys motored up to welcome us, offer service and try to sell us tickets to the barbeque by the beach bar.

I was not enthusiastic, having found a man in a boat to sell me 3 lbs of king fish for supper. The beach barbeque was for a good cause, to renew the security association's RIB dinghy they use to patrol at night, and Alicia was keen, so we motored in to the dinghy dock by the bar, swells lifting and dropping the several boats competing for space at the end of the rickety dock. Down anchor and lock up to the end of the dock, we are early and have a preferred spot.

A and I were bit apprehensive, we were the first there and it took a while before others straggled in from there yachts in the bay. By 7:15, the end of the dock was alive with rubber dinghies surging in the swell and the party began. Barbeque chicken and fish, salads and rice cooked with pumpkin, and rum punch or beer. The near full moon was well risen over the mountains to the east. All the members of the guide and security association were there, helping out and chatting up the cruisers. The place filled right up and we found ourselves seated with the Belair crew. A New Zealander, he came to Bermuda to work with Kevin Horsfield at Horsfield Tree Farms. I new Kevin from sailing. She works in the Department of Health and worked with Shirley Higgs; Jack and Shirley were good friends of Louise (the artist's mum) and I in Bermuda. Straining against the blast of reggae music, I learned they bought their boat in 2002 in New Zealand, and have been working their way East ever since. Up to Hawaii, Alaska, Vancouver and the islands, on down the coast into S. America, around Cape Horn and back up the East coast. So it was old home week. She went out with 'Wip Woaring Wussel', my ex's cousin. So funny. Alicia could relate too.

After dinner (mine a bit abbreviated by a small shower of beach sand falling on my head and plate from the bar upstairs), the DJ called for dancing. He had a bank of speakers big enough to cover my cockpint and main saloon together. His selection was good and, in the pungent air, mostly everybody got up and danced, including most of our diligent security and guide people.

The Security Force have this fundraiser every Sunday night, so one would presume that the thieves, all good catholics, do not sin on Sundays. Our hosts enjoy a party. A and I met Jeffrey, the president of the association. He is doing well and has several boats doing guiding and taxiing. We asked him about our guide, Titus and got a bit a blank stare. He said all the guides should show you their licence. He didn't know Titus. This was a cause for thought, and mulling a while, who should I bump into but Titus himself, and he is introducing Fire, who is the licenced guide who will take us upriver early in the morning. Now it turns out that Fire and my old Bermudian sailmaker friend Steven Hollis go back a long way. I knew and liked Steven and his wife Jenny very well and we had another old home week right there and then. Anyway, too much fun was had by all. Fire told me next day that they have a Friday night party for something else, and that that night, the bar at the head of the river is having their regular fulll moon party, and that there is something else every Wednesday, ALL YEAR ROUND!

I think Whit would like it here. I find myself a little worried. A is plotting land buying strategies.

Dominica, Rasta Heaven

Thursday, February 6, 2009

Sea Cat came out around 9:00 am to see if we wanted to do a tour with him and a couple from a German boat across the way. We didn't know too much about what was to transpire, but he said we would be out all day, needed good walking gear and a change of clothes. He has been running tours from his house for more than 20 years, specialising in nature walks and visits to out of the way people and places. He goes where the cruise ship passengers are not. The German couple turned out to be teachers on a one year sabatical, having sailed out from Germany via the Canaries. Our destination is Victoria Falls.

Sea Cat knows a huge number of people, and we stopped along the way for various visits. The first was with a small group of guys who were farming a plot in a valley where once there had been a large plantation. Sea Cat explained that they were descendants of the slaves who had been on the erstwhile plantation and had returned to claim the land for themselves. The independent Commonwealth of Dominica government encourages small scale agriculture, permitting squatting and facilitating the aquisition of title after five years working the land. We were served green cocunuts, drank the milk and ate the gelatinous young coconut flesh with slips of husk cut as scrapers.

Next stop is a small roadside bar. "Moonshine, moonshine" yells Sea Cat. We sample the local hooch, lemon and French Vanilla rums.

Tooting and calling, Sea Cat passes through the Rasta villages where, he told us, the people had been quite fierce in the pursuit of independence in 1976, but now were peace loving and friendly. Good people to have on your side, he said. We passed along the Atlantic shore, roaring surf pounding the boulder strewn black sand beaches, more rocks than sand. Eventually, after descending a very narrow steep track into the river valley, came to the abode of Moses and his small Rasta tribe at the head of the trail leading up to Victoria falls. About my age, Moses is famous and his picture is in a number of magazines and guides. He and his crew live simply and peacefully, gardening the land and being Rasta. He serves us an Ital lunch cooked over a fire in the cooking area after our strenuous trek up to the falls and back.



The hike is beautiful, clambering over the rocks and fording the stream at least five times, we get wet before arriving at the falls, my bathing suit still in the pack. Alicia is in beaded slippers, despite the warnings, but manages anyway. The falls are about 100 ft high, water cascading down into a small pool. The water drives a blasting wind as it hits the pool, forcing spray into our faces at high speed, making it hard to look towards it. Sea Cat dives into the pool and leads us across to te side closest to the torrent. He climbs the 20 ft rock and leaps into the tumult. Alicia climbs the rock too, but can't quite make the leap. I am desparately trying to keep my shorts up after deciding to keep my bathing suit dry as the change of clothes. I have removed the belt, and they drop to my knees at every chance. Sea Cat explains that the moonshine was to give us courage at the falls.



The tour goes on all day, stopping here and there to sample fruit, cinnamon, bay and visit with his friends, all of whom are deeply committed to a natural way of life.

A wonderful time had by all, and Alicia stiff and sore today.

Martinique Channel

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

We intended to leave St. Pierre early on Tuesday morning for Dominica, but fell afoul of the improved computerised Martinique customs systems. For the convenience of yachties, the customs entries may be made on computers set in strategic, though unadvertised, spots dotted around the island. Obvious places like yacht chandleries, waterside fuel stations, or, in St. Pierre, a very cool little cafe. The rub is that the local computer sometimes doesn't work, or, as in St. Pierre, the cafe is closed on Mondays.

Tuesday morning at 9:15, A and I headed in to clear customs at the cafe. All went well and we were ready to up anchor at 10:30. I put in a good reef as we set up the sails, anticipating a strong breeze in the Martinique channel. Out we went, making for the end of Martinique, clear of the wind shadow of Mt. Pelee. After an hour of motor sailing and not much wind, I shook out the reefs, thinking there would not be much wind after all. Applying Murphie's Law, one can anticipate the fact that the wind commenced to blow a steady 22-25 knots within 15 minutes.

We reefed in again and managed a comfortable set while maintaining a very respectable speed of 6-7 knots.

The wind was fair and we reached straight for Scott's Head at the southern tip of Dominica. Being on a reach, we had a good deal more spray into the cockpit than I am used to. A took some pretty good pics of the sea. It is hard to get a good perspective on the waves, but A has managed to catch some big seas looming.

We pulled into Roseau late in the afternoon and picked up one of Sea Cat's moorings south of town. A HotHotHotSpot internet service and one of the best tour guides on the island, this is the place to be.

St. Pierre, Martinique

Monday, 2 February, 2009

Martinique is a desert when it comes to internet wifi coverage. We have had none at anchor, save for a brief interlude in Fort de France, cadging free internet from a large gin palace anchored next to us. St. Pierre is equally unsullied by wifi radio waves, and I write in the hope that somewhere, somehow, I will be able to reach my dear readers with this post in the not too distant future.

The shock is back. Whit has made a mistake in his linkage of the wayward windlass to the periodic mild shocks we receive climbing, dripping, up the swimming ladder. I am not sure how he is responsible for the return of the shock, but I would like to think he is. He seems to know too much about the phenomenon to be without blame.



We arrived in St. Pierre yesterday afternoon after a leisurely sail up from Fort de France. St. Piierre is the last town in Martinique before the leap northward to the island of Dominica. Once the capital city, it was utterly destroyed by the explosion of Mt. Pelee about 110 years ago. We are anchored close to shore, near enough to make a nice swim to the beach and back through the deep clear water. Alicia, our resident designer and artist, is totally taken by the town perched along the shoreline, steep cliff rising behind, and Mt. Pelee looming a few miles distant. Usually shrouded, Pelee's peak was clear this morning. Last evening, at sunset, A. and I took a stroll arround the town and stopped in a little shoreside pizza restaurant to share a very resonably priced vegetarian pizza, some rum and red wine. The sunset was a show stopper and Alicia deeply regretful of having left the camera aboard Django. She has managed to fill up two camera memory chips and one USB stick with photos and video clips of our voyage so far. She has managed to figure out all sorts of things about Mum's camera that I would never have guessed it could do. We need more capacity.

While here in Martinique, Alicia has sold two copies of a stylised portrait print in a gallery in Bermuda. The logistics of organising additional prints in the sparse internet environment are of concern, but not unduly so. More importantly, she has come up with a scheme to launch her "Simply Beautiful" line of summer clothing without having to travel!

This morning before breakfast, after a calm night spent twisting on our anchor, bumping up against a mooring ball, and coming very close to our neighbour to the north, I determined to go ashore for a fresh baguette and bananas. Lovely breakfast listening to Chris Parker's extended discussion of the weather. Today we will clear out of Martinique and head for Dominica tomrrow morning. It is about 35 miles of sailing, so a good day's voyage. Today the weather is gorgeous, we will swim and walk and paint and practice guitar, and perhaps, photograph the sunset.