Thursday, March 26, 2009
My fingers are beginning to loosen up from the beating they took Sunday evening, hammering away on various drums at the jam session at H2O. I am not really a drummer, classical guitar is more my speed, but there were a number of drums sitting idle as the talented keyboardist and the lovely singer, backed up by the owner of the place on a drumset, a great sax guy sitting in and an englishman on bongos, ranged through all sorts of good music for the aging audience of yachties, and I had to give it a go. Into it I got, and found a large djembe to beat on. It made a big boom when hit in the middle ..
Rata tata Boom tata Boom tata Boom tata, Rata tata Boom ti Boom titty Boom.
The floor shook and the crowd got wild. Lots of sweat and sore hands.
A. and I decided to take a trip up to Green Island, on the East Coast of Antigua, where the anchorage is in behind a barrier reef. We anchored facing out across the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, no breaks before Gibraltar.
On the way up we were passed by two very fancy yachts, one French, one British. Antigua has many more beautiful large yachts than the islands further south, some are great gorgeous classic yachts, all gleaming varnish and bright masts.
My fingers are beginning to loosen up from the beating they took Sunday evening, hammering away on various drums at the jam session at H2O. I am not really a drummer, classical guitar is more my speed, but there were a number of drums sitting idle as the talented keyboardist and the lovely singer, backed up by the owner of the place on a drumset, a great sax guy sitting in and an englishman on bongos, ranged through all sorts of good music for the aging audience of yachties, and I had to give it a go. Into it I got, and found a large djembe to beat on. It made a big boom when hit in the middle ..
Rata tata Boom tata Boom tata Boom tata, Rata tata Boom ti Boom titty Boom.
The floor shook and the crowd got wild. Lots of sweat and sore hands.
A. and I decided to take a trip up to Green Island, on the East Coast of Antigua, where the anchorage is in behind a barrier reef. We anchored facing out across the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, no breaks before Gibraltar.
On the way up we were passed by two very fancy yachts, one French, one British. Antigua has many more beautiful large yachts than the islands further south, some are great gorgeous classic yachts, all gleaming varnish and bright masts.
At the anchorage, the water was clear and shallow, we were parked not far from a a coral head, which I explored. There were a few healthy looking brains, but altogether the site was not very pretty. Most of it was dead. The artist worked hard on her projects and struggled with angst over her relationship crisis. Difficult to do much at this distance, so we swam in the clear water. On the beach, the super yachties were getting lessons in kite boarding.
Chris Parker missed the weather indicators a bit for our second night. The wind came up quite a lot, 20 plus at times. I had this nasty exposed feeling; although the barrier reef cut out the swell, it did nothing for the wind. I had visions of us dragging into the coral head close at hand. Not a lot of sleep was had by Django's fretting skipper.
Funny thing, most of the other boats left before we did. Perhaps they listen to a different forecaster. In any case, dawn brought a diminishing wind, but I was ready for a change of scene, something less prone to aggravation of my agoraphobic tendencies. The tight small spaces and green flat waters of English Harbour beckon.
Funny thing, most of the other boats left before we did. Perhaps they listen to a different forecaster. In any case, dawn brought a diminishing wind, but I was ready for a change of scene, something less prone to aggravation of my agoraphobic tendencies. The tight small spaces and green flat waters of English Harbour beckon.
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