Frisha and Whit arrived more or less on time on Thursday afternoon, Jan 21, in time to stow their gear and enjoy a sundown rum punch in Django's cockpit before dinghiing over to Johnny Coconat's for a delicious pizza on the waterside. We laid out the plan: Friday out to Green Island on Antigua's Southeast corner to pick up a better line into Guadeloupe's central bight, and the town of Port Louis; a day in the shallows snorkling and lolling, then a night in the mangroves in the Riviere Salee which divides Grand Terre from Basse Terre and leads into the city of Pointe a Pitre on the South coast; a broad reach down the south east shore of Grand Terre to the islands of The Saints to spend a couple of days, then up the west coast to Deshaies before the 42 mile slog back up to English Harbour, where on Saturday evening we would take them to the Tot at 6:00 pm.
Friday worked out as expected, wind out of the East, and an hour or so bash into it to Green Island. Great barbeque of spare ribs for dinner and anticipations of a fine reach down to Guadeloupe on the morrow. Whit was beginning to cause trouble already. Our head, which has been the center of a great deal of attention, thought and work, began to repeat its reflux bad habits. Its hard to know precisely what Whit did to cause this annoyance, but given his history, we are sure he is involved somehow.
Then he managed to screw up the weather. The trade winds, which blow dependably out of the East day in and day out, failed. We left Green Island in a very light South breeze, motoring toward Guadeloupe. Our new Volvo-Penta folding props worked very well, and the weather was grand, but not quite right. We pulled into Port Louis and after abortive attempts to anchor off the beach, we pulled into the seawalled harbour and set anchors bow and stern close to the entrance for the night. There is a very good fish market, still open at 17:00, where we picked up some red hind (grand gueule) for supper. A brief walk up and down the main drag revealed a very quiet town, mostly closed up for the day. This is not a haven for tourists or yachtsmen, but there are a lot of solid fishermen.
Sunday morning broke clear and flat calm. After breakfast, we made our way down towards the entrance to the marshy shallows which stretch for miles out from the entrance to the Riviere Salee. We started up the channel, then sheered off to starboard near tiny Isle Colas, to drop the hook in shallow water and explore the shallows and the shores of the mangrove island Isle a Fajot. I had hoped to find oysters in the mangroves, but the water is crystal clear, no food for the oyster. It is a sparkling gorgeous place in the bright sun. After swimming and lunch, we made our way down to the entrance of the river and began scouting for a suitable place to anchor for the night. There are two lift bridges on the river (not really a river, but a salt water channel in the mangroves running North South).
They open only once per day, early in the morning. Moving South, the first bridge opens at 4:30 am. We scouted the river down to the bridge and settled on a spot at the entrance to a bayou some 15 minutes North of the bridge. After some messing about and getting stuck in the mud, we set anchors fore and aft, safely out of the main channel. Now this is the spot for oysters. The mangrove flat oysters, which cling to the mangove roots in the same way as mussels, are abundant. Less common, but far sweeter and tastier are a small oytser, in the shape of the northern oyserts but smaller, which grow on the roots and hold on by depositing shell material and cementing themselves solidly. This was our quarry.
They open only once per day, early in the morning. Moving South, the first bridge opens at 4:30 am. We scouted the river down to the bridge and settled on a spot at the entrance to a bayou some 15 minutes North of the bridge. After some messing about and getting stuck in the mud, we set anchors fore and aft, safely out of the main channel. Now this is the spot for oysters. The mangrove flat oysters, which cling to the mangove roots in the same way as mussels, are abundant. Less common, but far sweeter and tastier are a small oytser, in the shape of the northern oyserts but smaller, which grow on the roots and hold on by depositing shell material and cementing themselves solidly. This was our quarry.
With Frisha and K in charge of moving Boffo around, I was the hunter. After messing around in very shallow muddy water and digging the prop into the mud too many times, I suggested we paddle to the likely spots. With grumbling crew, we headed in and spotted the oysters. The crew had to push hard to get Boffo close into the roots where I could pick off the oysters and throw them into the bucket. There were a few no-seeum; my adreniline level must have been a tad high from the thrill of the hunt, as they didn't bother me much. Not so with the motive crew, who, after 10 or 12 minutes of vain swatting and swearing, mutinied and demanded return to Django. We had a pretty good haul, but I was keen to continue and Whit offered to replace the bedraggled crew, so off we went again. Of course, having Whit on board was not the blessing it might appear. We went to a spot where there was not one of the desired species of oyster, and where the no-seeums were so fierce that even I had to concede defeat.
We returned post haste to Django just in time to see rum punches pouring into ice filled glasses, and set to scrubbing and shucking oysters. With a drop of lime and perhaps a hint of hot sauce, these little oysters are wonderful.
Enough for now, more later.
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