A Sail of Two Idiots (41 page)

We had planned to stay on our northeasterly trek for another 16 miles to Mustique, but we were having such a good sail that we decided to keep going and ended up at
Bequia, 24 miles north (west of Mustique). The winds were higher than expected (and it rained), but we had an invigorating sail.

Once inside the anchorage in Admiralty Bay, we found even higher winds—like the ones in Deshaies, Guadeloupe. They slowed us to a crawl once they hit us head-on. I thought we'd never get to the beach. Once we neared the shore, the winds died, making our wind generators worthless. Hrmph.

We wandered around onshore (looking for alternator belts, not realizing that we had run through all our spares) and made a point of giving our middle fingers to the Whale Boner Bar & Restaurant (“decorated” with real whale bones).

Small rant here:
Bequia is the only island in the Caribbean still whaling because they feel a sense of “tradition.” Here's how they define tradition: They started slaughtering whales in the 1870s when a Scottish guy, who moved to Bequia, visited Cape Cod in the USA. He liked whaling so much that he came home and built the island's first whaling station. Whaling became a free-for-all throughout the Caribbean (mostly by
non-
Caribbean people) until there were barely any targets left.

Most islanders are smart enough to realize that slaughtering whales isn't good for business so they don't participate in the bloodbath themselves. Bequia hasn't found its conscience yet.

Lest you want to dabble in this “tradition,” be forewarned. Bequia's quaint method is to harpoon the whale (tiny harpoon, very large whale) and drag its slowly dying, bleeding body into the harbor. There they cut it up—most likely while it's still alive, as harpooning is incredibly inefficient and it can take days for a whale to succumb to its injuries—and then they bathe in the blood-filled waters to celebrate. Good times …

Let's hope that by the time you read this, such ruthlessness is banned. Remember, whales aren't fish—they're mammals—and we don't even allow farmers to treat livestock this badly. Please don't participate in this bloodbath; ask for a whale-watching tour instead.

End of rant.

We had debated boycotting Bequia over this issue, but I chose to write several articles about it instead and decided to see what else the island had to offer.

Such as turtle conservation. We rented a couple of mountain bikes (yes, you need them on the regular roads, which are steep!) and tootled around much of the island. Despite the “one main road,” we still got lost a lot but had fun doing it. As with mopeding, the locals waved and said “hi” and yelled when we were on the wrong side of the road. We went to an art/pottery gallery in an old sugar plantation and eventually made our way to the turtle sanctuary. I asked about the disconnect between the islanders trying to save the turtles while still killing whales, and got the response that they hoped that whale killing would be stopped one day. Too soon, it was time to pedal our sore bums back.

We shopped at a small produce market while we were there and bargained like crazy for our stuff. This, of course, made our taco salad taste that much better.

We thought Bequia was pretty with its gingerbread-style houses and quiet streets, but we weren't as enamored with it as many other boaters seem to be. Apparently Christmas is special on this island though. Bequia is worth a stopover or two, but we thought that about all the islands.

On to …

Mustique is 14½ miles southeast of Bequia, which means going into the trade winds. We tacked three times and screwed up only once, so I declared our sail a great success. Once on Mustique, you must pick up a mooring. The required mooring fee of $75EC (about $28US) was for three days, even if we'd be staying only one or two days, but we were determined to see all the islands so we sucked it up. I think the price has gone way up since we were there (to about $75EC per
day
), so I guess you have to really want to see it.

We felt about Mustique the way people did about Bequia. Mustique smelled good—so good that you noticed it. No sewage ran down the street gutters, no farm animals were in the road, no trash littered the ground. It was maybe a bit make-believe, the place is very exclusive after all, but it was beautiful. There was a ranch with horses, a picturesque airport, stunning beaches, and huge houses. We couldn't afford to rent a golf cart like everyone else, so we just walked. The island was bigger than we thought. You might want to splurge.

Although the island is too big to walk in its entirety, the “downtown” consisted of only four buildings. After exhausting ourselves walking up the street, we went to the famous Basil's, where Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and friends were known to jam on occasion. As it turned out, Mick had left just a week before we got there, but his little white dog was still out and about (with a dog walker). Maybe on a star-studded night packed with folks, liming/relaxing at Basil's was fun, but we thought the staff was surly and were shocked when we ordered two local beers and paid $25EC for them (the night before in a Bequia bar, the same order was $8EC). Ouch!

We spent another day hiking, walking through the beautiful neighborhoods and wondering who lived where, climbing down to pretty beaches, and eventually stumbling across the Cotton House restaurant. The staff was friendly, the prices were reasonable, and it was on a small beach. It also had a view of the little airport landing strip so you could see who might be visiting.

We had a great time on Mustique with only a single interruption to our bliss. One morning at about 5:30 a.m., I heard some yelling
under
our boat. When I got out of bed, I realized we were surrounded by a fishing net and several fishing boats while two scuba divers were under
Jacumba
trying to herd the fish hanging out in
our shadow into the nets. The divers were scratching our newly painted hulls with their tanks and literally getting handprints in our brand-new antifouling paint—remember, it is intended to slough off. AAAGH!

I asked them if they wanted us to move, but they just waved. I shrugged and waved back but was glad it didn't happen the other two mornings we were there.

If we could have stayed in someone's pool house, we would never have left. The island had a grocery store and a library. What more could one ask for? Money? A job? Oh, yeah. Guess we'd have to keep looking.

We had one fast sail over to St. Vincent, 18 miles due north. Winds were twice what they had been reported to be, and a few waves came over the bow and drenched us, but surfing at 10 knots was a blast. With winds at an optimum angle off our beam, we got there in record time.

With its reputation for crime against boaters, we were choosy about where we wanted to go, so we picked the southern anchorages near Young Island. Similar to Dominica, a couple of “helpers” came out to us, but unlike Dominica they got into a fight about who would get our business. It was awkward. We went with the guy who had reached us first and told him we wanted to anchor. As he was leading us in, we ran out of fuel in one engine (who's responsible for checking those?!), so we anchored in the only spot available away from all the moored boats. But it was too close to the beach and would be too tempting to curious swimmers. We emptied our reserve diesel into our tank and then dinghied over to the nearby lagoon, the Blue Lagoon if you can believe it, to see what it looked like.

I'm a lagoon snob—too close quarters, too filled with waste—and will do everything in my power to avoid them, but this lagoon was different. The anchorage was encircled by a low-lying reef that protected it from the elements but allowed the bad stuff to flow back out. Our guides had made this place sound difficult to get into, and our chartplotter was way off in this area. After looking at the entrance via dinghy though, I felt confident that we could get through the reefs without incident, so I decided to make a move. If in doubt, scout it out! Also known as LESSON 80, Investigate.

We moved the boat, zoomed to shore, and flagged a taxi to the airport.

Welcome aboard, J.D! By nightfall we had introduced him to the world of provisioning, given him a tour of the boat, and were preparing to head back to Bequia, just 10 miles southwest.

J.D. had been taking lessons on a monohull, so he wasn't completely clueless, but he enjoyed learning the nuances of our catamaran as we sailed in the perfect winds.

The last time we were sailing to Bequia, I had noticed a few boats cutting between some rock cliffs that seemed too narrow to allow passage. I was intrigued. Although I'm not a sheep (LESSON 40), I do learn from others, so I thought I could at least look at it. If I didn't feel comfortable, I'd add the 20 minutes back on and go around.

I loved the expression on J.D.'s face when I headed for the cliffs. It was a bit close, with birds on ledges almost within touching distance and about 12 feet of water below us, but it looked doable and was the route I would take on every other visit there simply because I could.

J.D. was quickly initiated into the world of boating, breaking two pairs of sunglasses in as many days and having to search for new ones (polarized, of course), and pay double what he would have paid elsewhere. (All boaters should invest in sunglass companies and have at least 10 of their favorite pair aboard.)

J.D.'s price of admission was adjusting our block-and-tackle davit system so that I could pull the dinghy up by myself. I couldn't get the engine side out of the water and couldn't stand the thought of not being able to do something as basic as lifting the dinghy by myself. It took a while, but J.D. finally pulled it off, resulting in a well-earned sundowner.

I had to thank our guests to date for bringing the perfect weather with them. We had another fantastic day of sailing, 30 miles south in five hours, and anchored on a different side of the reef this time (and away from the mooring field). This side definitely had more living corals, but also had stronger currents. We scrambled up and around the small uninhabited islands for different viewpoints and exercise, lay in the sun, took lots of pictures of one another, and then headed over to …

I'm saying it again because I can. The sailing was fantastic. Our decision to get away from the cold fronts up north was really smart! The light winds were behind us, letting us sit forward for a change as we sailed downwind. (Winds on the bow mean getting wet.) We just sat on the trampoline enjoying the warm breeze as we sailed to yet another picture-postcard island.

We first let J.D. do a little souvenir shopping in Clifton, on the east side of the island, and then motored south around the 6 miles to Chatham Bay, on the west coast. While there we were approached by a local in a boat letting us know he could bring us ice, bread, and what have you. We said we were set, thanks, but the barbecue on the beach sounded interesting. J.D. bargained the guy down bigtime (two of us were vegetarians, after all) and the next thing we knew we were drinking
rum punch on the beach. The meal was home style and delicious. Breadfruit salad made like potato salad—yummy. I watched one of the best sunsets I'd ever seen while sitting on the beach eating Caribbean-style food, with great company and with an island cat in my lap.

It just didn't get any better than that.

Well, until we then went to Mayreau, 7 miles northeast of Union Island. Okay, now
this
was our new favorite island. What a great anchorage!

Caveat: We were traveling almost crowd-free, since most boaters were just now making their way down to this area (it was May). If there are a lot of boats in the small Saltwhistle Bay anchorage, located on the northwest corner of the island, or even a small cruise ship plying the area, it might not hold as much appeal, but we loved it. The island was ringed by blindingly white beaches, and we were overlooking a sandy spit to the ocean and the reefs beyond. I get giddy just thinking about it.

We hiked all over the place, including to a colorful church with a bird's-eye view of the Tobago Cays (2 miles east), an overlook that cannot be missed. We made our way to the tiny town and had a much needed beverage at Dennis's Hide-away. For our trek back, we decided to take the beach route. That wasn't such a bright idea, so I wouldn't recommend it. Boulders and trees made for some interesting side jaunts and caused two casualties: J.D. hurt his knee while leaping over some seaweed; and my hiking sandals split apart in the midst of it all, resulting in some uncomfortable walking/limping back to the dinghy. Neither was enough to diminish our enjoyment of the anchorage and the island though.

Ho hum, we had another great 28-mile sail northeast, first to Bequia for an over-nighter and then the final 10 miles to St. Vincent. Actually, the 90-minute trip to St. Vincent was more exhilarating than the previous sails, putting J.D.'s stomach to the test. Although winds were on our beam, just the way we like them, the waves were a bit higher and choppier than we had been experiencing. This was a good chance for J.D. to get a feel for the seesaw action of a catamaran vs. the slicing action of a monohull. He got a bit green but did well otherwise.

For our last day together (whaa), we took an inland tour of St. Vincent. We were somewhat restricted with J.D.'s bum knee and my lack of hiking shoes, so we took a taxi tour. We went to farms and gardens and walked through beach tunnels dug by slaves for pirates to smuggle their loot. Aarrr! We loved the island's black volcanic beaches. For some reason in some places, the black beaches look dirty; here they were romantic and exotic.

On our final night we went ashore, had one too many rum punches, returned to the dinghy, and then tried to motor off but couldn't move. This would be a good time to remind you about LESSON 78, Dinghy lessons, about driving with beer goggles on. We knew that all the lines were off the dock, so we were stumped when we gunned the engine but didn't go anywhere. J.D. finally noticed a rope going over the side and yanked up a bent anchor. Oops! The funny thing is that one day we had given another boater pal a hard time about forgetting about
his
dinghy anchor. In his case the anchor was high in the air, flailing kite-like behind him. Sailing (and dinghying) by idiots …