I recently received an email from Ann updating what she, Steve and Receta have been doing since she last reported in. The following is reprinted with Ann’s permission:

We really loved Trinidad, and as our time there ticked away, we found
ourselves burning the candle at both ends to fit in everything we
wanted to do. Being at a marina (and a very nice marina at that) was
a real treat for us, and we had a rude awakening when we started off
again and had to disconnect ourselves from shore power, shore water,
shore-powered air conditioning, morning newspaper delivery to our
side deck (except when it was raining, and they actually put the
paper right in our cockpit so we didn’t have to get wet to retrieve
it), and a free ice machine steps away….

But as much as we enjoyed those luxuries, being back at anchor again
is WONDERFUL. It’s hard to match the evenings here at Hog Island,
Grenada, where the piping frogs provide dinner-hour music, and then,
later, the moonlight sparkles on the water, and the wind whistles
through our hatches making for wonderful sleeping.

Still, we have a “tabanca” for Trinidad. This became my favourite new
Trini word that I learned during our stay. Technically, it means the
forlorn, abandoned feeling that comes with the end of a love affair,
driving you to drink — but it is used to refer to the feeling for
their homeland that afflicts Trinis who have moved off the island. We
already have a plan for dealing with our tabanca: We’re sailing back
to Trinidad in mid-January and staying through Carnival. To a person,
our Trini friends tell us that you absolutely HAVE to experience
Carnival in Trinidad once in your life. And we decided this was our
year to do so.

In no particular order, here are some of the other things that have
given us a tabanca for Trinidad:

The area where all the marinas are located is essentially a suburb of
bustling, dirty Port of Spain. But despite its closeness to the city,
it’s a national park. One of my favourite daily events was the
departure (at dawn) and the return (at dusk) of the wild
orange-winged parrots that roost in the trees. They squawk loudly as
they fly by, always in pairs, and when the sun catches them, they
show their brilliant green even when high overhead. Lovely.

Steve read two newspapers a day there, which not only kept him up to
speed on the politics (the national election was the first week of
November, and the political machinations were quite unbelievable),
but also on musical events. We got a bit of a reputation in this
regard, and when we put out the word that we were going to some
event, we could fill a maxi-taxi (12 people) faster than you could
say “calypso”. Late October marked the start of parang season: Parang
is the Venezuelan-derived Christmas music, sung in Spanish to the
accompaniment of cuatros (small four-stringed guitars), maracs
(maracas to us, but also called, appropriately, shak-shaks), and a
box bass (literally, a wooden box, from which a string is extended on
a stick), plus ordinary guitars and percussion. For those who find
conventional carols annoying and overdone (read: our Steven), parang
is the perfect antidote. This Christmas music is also meant to be
danced to, and our cruiser group made quite a stir at an event WHEN
WOMEN DANCED TOGETHER. (Some of our menfolk being quite reluctant in
this regard.) Very un-Trinidadian.

My favourite, though, are the steelpan orchestras. Their music and
sound bears almost no relation to what’s produced by the steel-drum
players that entertain tourists during happy hour at bars throughout
the Caribbean. A full steelpan orchestra in Trinidad has more than
100 pans, — even a casual performance by one of the orchestra’s
“show bands” has more than 50 — and the sound is absolutely
thrilling when heard live. Trinis take their steelpan seriously,
discussing the results of the annual “Panorama” (steelpan
competition) and the arrangers (of the steelpan compositions) the way
we discuss sports and sports stars. And each band has it’s loyal
followers. We became regular attendees at panyard “limes,” and other
performances.

Trinis LOVE to eat, and eat well, and “doubles” are probably
Trinidad’s national dish: essentially a curried chickpea sandwich on
deep-fried roti-like bread, topped with mango relish (kuchela), hot
pepper sauce, and diced fresh cucumber. I know what you’re thinking.
But trust me on this one: They’re delicious, and addictive — Steve
could eat four doubles at a crack, but you know what he’s like. (Most
people settle for two.) Just remember to ask for “slight peppa” so
you don’t fry your taste buds. Unfortunately, doubles are only sold
from roadside/streetside stands that spring up in certain places at
certain times of day and disappear a couple of hours later once the
doubles are all sold. You’ve got to know where to look when…..or be
ready to screech to a stop when you see a little knot of Trinis on
the street all eating out of paper-wrapped parcels. Doubles are a
popular breakfast food, and a popular late-night pick-me-up, and as
with pan bands, Trinis have strong opinions as to which are the best.

Rental cars are decidedly cheap in Trinidad, which is reflected in
the quality of vehicle: We affectionately called each of our rentals
either Shitbox du Jour (SdJ) or Shitbox de la Semaine (SdS),
depending on the term of the rental period. (It took us 2 rentals to
realize that if you want a rental where everything works, YOU HAVE TO
PAY EXTRA. How come Avis and Hertz aren’t onto this???? Anyway, I
digress: The rentals helped us go farther afield, including to
Tobago: We took the SdS with us on the fast ferry (it takes about
2-1/2 hours and only costs $50 TT, about $8.50 Can., per person –
went for four days, and travelled all around the island. Very
different from Trinidad: More tourist-driven, but way less developed
and way more laidback. Great beaches, great birding, beautiful
anchorages (albeit with an occasional propensity to roll), and great
curry crab and dumplings. But now that we know the lay of the land,
we plan to return with Receta in a couple of months.

Our last SdJ — this one a serious junker — took us to the town of
Paramin. Way up in the hills north of Port of Spain, Paramin is where
the herbs for the island’s “green seasoning” are grown, and where a
collective of ladies turns them into seasoning to be sold in the
supermarkets. The road is so steep and roller-coaster-like that
normal vehicles can’t handle it, let alone a SdJ. You have to park
your car in a nearby town and take a 4WD jeep-taxi from there. (The
fare is $3TT, about 50 cents. One of the jeeps we took on our last
visit had a prayer posted next to the driver, called the “Paramin
Drivers’ Prayer”: “Heavenly Father, we ask your blessing as we drive
the hills of Paramin. Because the roads are steep and winding we live
with danger every day…..” Very reassuring, as we hung almost
vertically on the mountainside….. First visit, we watched the
ladies grind and blend the herbs — two types of thyme, parsley,
green onions, pimientos, chadon bene (related to cilantro) — and
shared their homemade fruit wines with them (banana and guava, in
case you’re curious) as they waited for the pot of green seasoning to
boil; we were given a gift of home-made pastelles. (Pastelles are
delightful little food packages consisting of a piece of fig –
banana — leaf, with a thin layer of cornmeal pressed on it, topped
with a filling of minced beef mixed with olives, capers, raisins, and
“secret herbs and seasonings”; the whole thing then folded up into a
little flat envelope — leaf on the outside — and tied up with
string.) We returned for a second visit and were taken to see their
“gardens” (read: agricultural plots) on the almost-vertical
hillsides, and bought some sorrel wine, a Christmas specialty. I
don’t think it will replace cabernet at Receta’s table but, hey, you
gotta try these things.

Ann and Steve, you’ll be happy to hear that a Trini has set up a “doubles” stand on Bequia. He doesn’t sell them every day, but his doubles have become so popular with Bequians, including Dennis, that the man usually very quickly sells out of all that he’s prepared every time.

For more photos of Dickie’s trip, go to Bequia photo, etc. in the blogroll.

Mijas

Mijas belongs to one of the typical white villages spread all over Andalusia. It is a town divided into Mijas Pueblo (the old town), Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas, and is situated in the heart of the Costa del Sol. While Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas can be found by the sea, the old town is located on a mountain from which one can overlook not only the coast, the beaches and the Mediterranean, but also the town of Fuengirola and other surrounding areas.

Mijas Pueblo is the part where you can find whitewashed houses, the town hall, the bullring, historic buildings and parks with spectacular area views. Both Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas have fewer visitors and tourists as this is where you will find more housing developments. The former farms and agriculture along the Fuengirola River have been replaced by hotels and golf courses as tourism is now the town’s main focus.

Traces of Mijas’ history are everywhere. For example, the town’s old watch towers are located close to the sea. In addition to the Torre Vieja and the Calaburras towers there are also the Torre Nueva, built in the 19th century, and the Torre de Calahonda, which dates back as far as the 16th century.

Those interested in the history of Mijas can visit the two Mudejar churches. Dating back to 850, there is also a sanctuary of Mijas’ patron saint. Should you be visiting the town in January, you will be able to attend the San Anton Festival – one of the countless festivities held in Mijas.

In the area around the town’s parish church several archaeological treasures have been discovered that date back a very long way. Back in Roman times, Mijas was known as “Tarnisa” and could be found on the old road that connected Cadiz with Malaga. As with nearly every town and city along the Costa del Sol, Mijas also has a Moorish background. Conquered in 714 by the Moors, the towns name was changed from Tarnisa into “Mixa” – the origin of the name as we know it today. After being re-captured and re-re captured a couple of times during the rebellion of Omar ben Hafsun, Mijas finally fell into the hands of Christians in 1487. Later, during the fights in 1512, Mijas remained loyal to Juana La Loca and therefore was awarded the “Muy Leal” title as well as freedom from taxes.

Fuengirola

Fuengirola lies twenty minutes from Malaga airport and is probably most famous for its five miles of sandy beaches, flanked by high-rise hotels and residential blocks of apartments with views of the Mediterranean and coastline. It has a wide promenade lined with of palm trees, interspersed with colourful flower beds and seating. The beaches known as Boliches - Gaviotas and Torreblanca hold a European blue flag.

Fuengirola is particularly popular with Spanish nationals, many of whom own summer apartments here. A considerable percentage of British and other nationalities also visit with the result being a wide variety of entertainment and restaurant choices, ranging from the Andalusian traditional tapas (bar snacks) and shellfish dishes, to British food.

On Tuesdays Fuengirola hosts the largest street market on the coast. There is also a Saturday boot sale (flea market) with a large selection of items on sale.

Being a tourist resort there are lots of things for holidaymakers to do in Fuengirola, ranging from such family-fun activities as aqua park, a trip to the zoo, and a host of sea sports to a leisurely sight-seeing tour, on a horse-drawn carriage or by foot. Walking tours are particularly recommended for Fuengirola’s neighbour, Los Boliches, which still reflects the ambience of a bygone era with narrow streets, neighbourhood shops and traditional white-washed houses that once belonged to local fishermen.

Annual fiestas here include the feast of the Virgin del Carmen in July when local fisherman carry an effigy of the Virgin out to sea, and the colourful feria, which takes place in October and is the time when the town comes to life with flamenco, fino (dry sherry) and fun that carries on from dawn to dusk for a week.

Marbella Old Town

Partially surrounded by the ruins of an old Arab wall, Marbella Old Town is filled with narrow white-washed streets, old churches and squares, as well as lots of fascinating shops and boutiques At the heart of old town is Orange Square, dating back to 1485 and, according to Christian urban design, its surrounded by whitewashed houses and three historical buildings - the town hall, the old governor’s house and the Chapel (Hermitage) of Santiago. The gardens are full of flowers and orange trees and in the centre stands a bust of King Juan Carlos 1.

At the end of Nueva Street (the shopping street), where it joins Orange Square, stands a stone fountain dating from the year 1504 when it was erected by the first Mayor of Christian Marbella. To the left is the Old Governor’s House, which was built in 1552 and still retains the original stone facade adorned with shields and a three-arched balcony.

The Town Hall located on the square was built in 1568. On the front right-hand corner of the building is a sun-dial, various shields and some commemorative stone inscriptions perfectly conserved and in legible condition. One of them has a date of 11th June, 1485, when the town was re-conquered from the Moors. Within the Town Hall are the original Council Chambers, now divided into two floors. The upper floor has an artistic ceiling carved in Mudejar style and the walls are covered with curious murals that date from 1572. These represent the eagle from the Imperial Standard belonging to the Catholic King and Queen, a scene from Christ’s crucifixion, Marbella’s first coat of arms and some allegories of the power of God and the administration of justice. The Catholic King and Queen’s pendant, an important historical relic, is also held in this hall and publicly displayed every June 11th to commemorate the date of the re-conquest of the town.

Dominating the square is the most important building in the town, The Church of Saint Mary whose construction began in 1618. The main facade of the building is adorned with a beautiful red stone entrance worked in Baroque style while the interior consists of three sections that underwent restoration after the 1936 Civil War.The church organ here is the most important built in Spain in the last 125 years. The installation began in 1972 and was completed in 1975. It is made up of 5000 pewter, copper and wooden pipes, four manual keyboards of 56 notes, a 36-note pedal and various other special characteristics. In the church square there is also a tower that was part of the wall that originally surrounded the Moorish town.

Walking from there to Trinidad Street past a row of houses, there are more ruins of the castle and remains of some Roman Capitals that were taken from other constructions and used for building its walls. The existing wall extends to the end of Portada street where it disappears, as did so many others when, in 1786, by royal command of King Carlos III, town and city walls were pulled down. Nearby, the Chapel of Santiago, built in the 15th century, was the first Christian church in the town. Today it houses religious figures belonging to the Brotherhood of Love and Charity, including a wooden carving of Christ in Neo Baroque style.

Located in one of the major streets of the old town is the Santo Cristo de la Vera Cruz Square and Chapel, dating back to the 15th century. The main facade is a combination of simple stone-work construction and traditional whitewash.

Here’s another guest blog by me mate, Dickie:

One of the best memories I have from my first trip to SVG was climbing Mount Soufriere with my father-in-law and others. Mount Soufriere is an active volcano situated on the north end of Saint Vincent. It stands a little over 4000 feet high and last erupted in 1979. On that occasion there were no casualties, but thousands had to be evacuated and there was extensive damage to property and agricultural land. In 1902 an eruption killed almost 2000 people and prior to that the last time it erupted was 1812.

We were staying at a relative’s house and they also had other relatives staying. It had already been arranged that we would visit Soufriere when these other relatives decided to join us. I have to say they were a funny couple. The wife had a penchant for eating ice; she would take bowls out of my auntie-in-law’s freezer and noisily chomp away on the lumps. It got to the point that auntie was a bit miffed when she looked in the freezer to find no ice. The husband was an abstemious fellow who didn’t smoke or drink. Their son, aged about 13, obviously enjoyed his rice and peas, maybe a little too much, if you get my drift!

The day arrived and off we went in uncle’s truck laden with a few additional relatives and a couple of large steel pots filled with rice and peas and curry for later. Now the roads in Saint Vincent are not what you’d call smooth, but after we crossed the dry river bed at Rabbaca it became like you were sitting on the back of a rather irate bronco. We held on for dear life and eventually arrived at the start of the trail, which was a kind of picnic area. I gladly jumped out of the truck, rubbing my complaining derriere.

So off we went: my father-in-law (with his dodgy ankle), Mr Life & Soul of the Party, Master Dough Ball and me (Mr Smoker, Drinker and general rabble-rouser!). From the picnic area the trail soon goes through fairly thick jungle, which was very hot and humid. Immediately, I was dripping wet with a face that resembled a very ripe tomato. After you are out of the jungle it cools down and the gradient kicks-in with the going getting tougher on the feet due to loose volcanic stones underfoot (good shoes required, which I didn’t have) and the ground becomes more barren. After about an hour and a half my father-in-law and myself arrived at the crater. About fifteen minutes later Mr Life & Soul of the Party arrived closely followed by Master Dough Ball who, at that point, we could have renamed Puffing Billy. I smugly mentioned to my father-in-law, as I dragged on a ciggie and sipped my strong rum, how good it was that he (nearing his 50s at that point) and I (totally unfit) beat a youngster and someone that could beat Mother Theresa in the temperance stakes.

After that climb the stiff cool breeze was very welcome, but in a while I recall thinking I should have brought another layer to put on. I crawled to the rim of the crater to peer in and was a bit disappointed to see a crust of thick vegetation inside the volcano with occasional puffs of steam/smoke, but no obvious activity. Where was all the boiling lather spewing flames and rocks?!! I foolishly thought the term ‘active’ meant it would be a mini Vesuvius. Whilst looking into the crater I noticed on the opposite side a rope ladder descending into it with a few brave (foolish?) souls venturing down. I think someone mentioned to me since then that the crust has now been covered by water and there is a lake inside. On our climb up and descent down we saw few people, but there may have been about a dozen or so at the crater when we arrived and they were mainly locals taking visiting relatives on the trip. As it turned out we sat down and talked with a few guys and ended up enjoying a picnic of shared resources that consisted of corned beef and hot pepper sauce sandwiches, rum and coconut water (one of the best picnics I’ve ever had!!). At that point I had my first insight into the make-up of the people of Saint Vincent. As I sat munching my sandwich a very pronounced West Indian voice asked me where I was from. I turned and came face to face with a white chap. I looked to my left and right to see who had been addressing me, the white man smiled and said “ah reet Mon.” Very confusing to say the least! My father-in-law explained later he was probably from the Dorsetshire Hill area of Kingstown where there are a lot of pale-skinned Vincentians, a result of the white plantation owners, pre-emancipation, having their wicked way with the female servants.

During the impromptu picnic I spotted a figure coming out of the clouds from the higher peak next to the volcano. The figure came closer and closer and walked past us carrying a very large bundle slung over his shoulders. I asked the other picnicees what he was carrying. After they had a laugh at my stupidity, they informed me he had probably slept on the mountain over night, harvested his crop of ganga for the next day and was now about to deliver it for local use or to meet a boat that would take it to who knows where.

After a while it was time to descend. In some ways it was more challenging going down than up, we often resembled figures in a Hanna & Barbera cartoon after marbles have been thrown on the floor, our feet were very unsteady slipping on the small rocks and gravel. In fact the sole from one of my father-in-law’s sneakers came off halfway down making for a rather amusing sight of him seeming to a rain dance willing clouds to appear.

On our arrival back at the picnic area we were greeted with a nice cold beer from the icebox and a plate of chicken curry and rice and peas. Wolfing it down I thought, Edmund Hillary didn’t get this after his little trek! All in all, a great day out.

A few things have changed since my visit. The potholed Windward road is being resurfaced (thank god!), although the rate of progress means Soufriere will probably erupt again before it reaches that far north! Whilst I drive when on Saint Vincent, I would not recommend it because of the roads. That and the fact the local dollar van drivers drive like they’re applying for a job in Formula 1.

If like me you don’t have the benefit to go with relatives I would definitely take a guide, times have changed - a woman and her two daughters were raped by a gang of men in 2006 after they stayed behind alone on the trail and their husband and brother went ahead up the mountain with the guide. I don’t mean to alarm and hasten to add this was very much a one-off, but it is worth mentioning. There are drivers who would be more than happy to take you there and accompany you up the volcano.

As I said it was a memorable day out and one that my feet and leg muscles remembered for many a day afterwards.

Yes, we’re back from our 2 1/2-week trip to Canada — back in Trinidad, where we’ll probably
be for the better part of another month. Receta is in the middle of several spa treatments, including the refinishing of all her exterior wood. The work is 95% complete at this point, and she is looking fabulous, thanks to Averia and Alicia, the two lovely young Trini women who are doing the job. And yesterday, Receta went on the hard, so that her bottom can also be repainted: The barnacles have been finding it all too easy to get a toehold recently. While she’s out of the water, we’re staying in the hotel that’s part of the marina where the work is being done (I’m too old to pee in a bucket, and we can’t use our head — or our refrigerator, for that matter — while the boat is on the hard), and already I’m
impatient to have her back in the water so we can return to “normal” life.

Work aside, we’ve been enjoying Trinidad. We’ve already made several trips to “Patricia’s
Restaurant” in downtown Port of Spain, for some of Miss Pat’s wonderful cooking. (I wrote about her in the May 2007 issue of Gourmet). On our last visit, she took me into the kitchen and showed me how to make her killer hot sauce. Very easy — as long as you remember to cover your nose and mouth while the blender is whirring so you don’t choke on the hot-pepper fumes…. And although pre-Carnival activities are not yet in full swing, we’ve gone to several panyard evenings (featuring performances by steel, or pan, orchestras in their practice yards). It’s impossible to stay seated or stand still while a big pan band plays — and equally impossible not to smile at the sheer joy of the players and the sound.

Two Saturdays ago was the 9th annual Scotiabank Women Against Breast Cancer 5K Classic here. Along with 8 other “Cruisers for a Cure” and more than 4,000 Trini women, I took part, and it was truly amazing. Some women ran, some women jogged, some women fast-walked, some women slow-walked — a veritable river of women flowing around the Queen’s Park Savannah in downtown Port of Spain. The Savannah is beautiful at any time — an
expanse of vivid green in the heart of the city, with the dark mountains of Trinidad’s Northern
Range rising in the distance behind it and dramatic clouds moving overhead — but it was
lump-in-the-throat beautiful on Saturday. A very powerful experience, especially in a foreign
country, especially knowing the money raised will be used to provide free mammograms for Trini
women who otherwise couldn’t afford them.

Not being a runner, I mostly fast-walked it — with a little jogging thrown in from time to time
– and got a real feeling of accomplishment since I had never participated in this sort of thing
before, and given that even “fast walking” 5K is tough when the temp is close to 90š. The woman who crossed the finish line first is Trini: finished in 18 minutes, and ran in her bare
feet…..

When we leave Trinidad in mid to late October, we’ll return to Grenada to spend some more time there. Rumor has it we’re slated to be the godparents to Belicia, the gorgeous
nine-month-old daughter of our friend Gennel and her partner Blaise.

Thanks, Ann!

Please use the comment section of this post to send greetings or questions to Ann & Steve. I’ll ask her to reply through my blog whenever she has internet connections and can access it.

Dickie, you’ve started something. Now I’ve been asked to post a story Dennis wrote as an email to friends a few years ago about…

Dennis & Marty’s Excellent Adventure

Marty asked if I wanted to go on a bit of a busman’s holiday with him down to Carriacou for the weekend, and I thought, why not. The only time I ever actually get a break from work is when I physically remove myself from the island. The plan for Friday night, then, was to go out for dinner then shove off around 9 p.m. and sail through the night to arrive in Carriacou in the early morning. Jean from Moonhole was going with us, as well as a fellow from Tradewinds (the yacht place by the old Harpoon Saloon), and one other guy (who also worked for Tradewinds) as an extra hand. The mission, then, was to deliver a broken-in-two mast to a welder in Carriacou then tow another 32-foot catamaran (that had been purchased by the fellow from Tradewinds) back to Bequia.

I met Marty down at the restaurant where the old Harpoon Saloon used to be. We got into a pretty good BBQ dinner they had going on that night. Jan and Louie were playing “cruise ship” music. Jean joined us later on, but not for dinner. And Neil Sanders (who was running or otherwise operating the Bequia slip at the time) also joined us at the last minute. Towards the end of dinner, through conversation, it became apparent that we had a limited selection of music for the trip. I jumped in the car, drove back home, gathered (with Sue’s help) an eclectic selection of some 20 CDs and headed back to the boat. We cast off a few minutes later and motored out with the tide past Moonhole through the West Cay gap (nearly full moon, so navigation was OK) and set sail. There were six of us on board: Marty, Jean, Neil, Leon (purchaser of the not-running catamaran to be towed), young Miguel (18 years old and from Portugal), and me, Dennis – the least nautical of the lot.

To describe the night sail as awesome would be inadequate. The moon was about seven-eighths’ full, the seas were calm with a steady warm breeze, and the sky was crystal-clear. I’ve never experienced the likes of it. Marty assigned one hour watches at the helm, but it was such a beautiful night that everybody pretty much stayed up anyway. My watch was second, the run from Isle à Quatre to Canouan - where we would be least likely to hit anything.

The southern sky has about triple the number of stars as the northern sky, so when the moon set just after midnight it was truly breathtaking. We were coming up on the lee of Union Island just after 2 a.m., and were now into (for me, at least) unfamiliar waters. All of us stayed up throughout the night, off and on, sipping on ice-cold Heineken’s, taking turns at being DJ with the CD player, and grabbing catnaps up on the net at the bow. I was snoozing there sometime after 2 a.m. when a flashing light woke me. Marty and Neil were on the bow with the big search light, waves breaking everywhere off our bow and to port (towards land). We had cleared Union and were now approaching the north lee of Carriacou. The water was shallow, and Marty had not been that way in a while. He chose to bear off west and keep a more comfortable distance from land. Neil had better familiarity with the navigation lights, so it was just as well he’d boarded with us at the last minute. It was pitch black by then.

Going on about 4 a.m. and everybody was up, either on bow or beam lookout, with Marty at the wheel. We sailed past the lights of Hillsborough, Carriacou’s main town, and picked up the navigation lights to Tyrell Bay, our destination. Marty then put me on the helm (Yikes!) and went to bow lookout. Ahead slow under motor now, I drove us the last couple of miles into Tyrell Bay where we set anchor at 4:30 a.m. Everyone then found their own comfy spot and promptly fell asleep. I lay out on the net and watched the stars until sleep overcame me – about three seconds later.

I woke up to a bright sky at 6:30 a.m., the sun not yet having cleared the line of low hills to the east. Propped up on my elbows and looking around, I thought, “Geesh, what a pretty little bay!” About twice the size of Bequia’s Admiralty Bay, it had lower hills, and a quarter of the number of houses. There was also mangrove along the north end. Everybody else was soon up and Marty moved Passion over to tie up alongside of the welder’s floating workshop. Marcel’s set-up consisted of a plywood building built on top of the hulls of an old 60-foot catamaran. His reputation was second-to-none and apparently he has a steady stream of customers. Once the business of the broken mast was discussed, Marcel ran us in his dinghy the 100 yards over to the marina. We then met the marina owner and arrangements were made to transfer the 1200-pound mast, in two pieces, from Marty’s deck on to shore, using their travel-lift. The marina owner directed us to an adjacent store and small restaurant that was part of the premises. There we indulged in steaming mugs of fresh strong coffee served with a pitcher of hot milk. Ahhhh!

With the technicalities squared away we arranged for a rental car (delivered to us in fifteen minutes by a really nice lady) and Marty, Jean, Leon, and I headed to Hillsborough to check in with Immigration. Leon also had to fill out more papers because his boat would be leaving the country. We thought that rather than go to the police station en masse, it would be best if just Marty and Leon went in. (Marty, as captain, had all our passports.) Jean and I would wait nearby. We sat on the steps of the tourist information office about a hundred feet away from the immigration door at the police station. After about a half hour we heard some sort of commotion going on from the direction of the office Marty and Leon were in. Jean and I thought it best to sit tight just in case Marty had got into some kind of a row with the officials. We had put the boat into Tyrell bay and not Hillsborough where you’re supposed to check in, and you know how officious these places can be when it comes to their paperwork. While sitting there I kept looking at a concrete bust, placed on a pedestal, of Grenada’s first Prime Minister. Someone had placed a pair of glasses with thick dark frames, of the same style that the PM had worn when he was in office, on the bust. I cursed myself for not having brought my camera.

Presently, Marty and Leon emerged from a direction opposite to where this commotion was still going on, and said that everything went smoothly and the officials hadn’t even asked where we were anchored. We took Leon back to the marina to deal with his boat. Then Marty, Jean and I headed off to explore the island. We drove around for quite a while, mostly getting lost – we had no map or any idea of the lay of the land. Carriacou is about twice the size of Bequia but with half the population. Eventually we picked up an old man who was thumbing a ride, thinking we’d get directions from him. He was moderately inebriated and told us he was on his way to a draughts game. After not more than two hundred yards he motioned that was where he wanted off – a small store and rum shop, some men sitting out front playing dominoes. He thanked us profusely and then gave us directions to “Windward,” the place at the north end of the island we were trying to get to, mentioning that the road was “not good.”

The road was indeed “not good” for sure, consisting of a rough dozer-cut that had seen about a dozen rainy seasons. We eventually found our way on to the north shore and were looking for a shipwrecking ground that Marty had heard of. And there it was – scores of old boats, ships, and other craft either run up on the beach or wrecked on nearby reefs. Just before arriving there I noticed what seemed to be a running length of graveyard along the beach. There were hundreds of headstones, through the trees and on the sand, with some right at the waters’ edge. It was a bizarre sight. We got out and walked along the beach looking at, and poking around, the derelict hulks of ships and boats. Fascinating, actually.

In the car again we started to make our way back to Hillsborough, but not before stopping a woman who was jogging by to ask for yet further directions. Marty (on a long shot) also asked if she knew of a couple, the Coopers, that ran a guesthouse at that end of island. Marty had met them about five years back. She did know the guesthouse and said it was about a mile further on. We found it and talked with an English couple who had apparently bought from the Cooper’s about 4 years before, but did not know the previous owners’ whereabouts. On leaving we asked if there was a good place to get a late, 2 p.m., lunch in Hillsborough and the guy replied, “Yes, Bill Patterson’s.” Jean wanted to make a note of it, but I said not to worry; I’d remember that. I’d gone to school with a guy who had the same name.

Bill Patterson’s, across from Gramma’s bakery, was a rum shop with a three-table restaurant out back facing the beach. On a little chalk sign in one corner was written “Lambi Today.” After forty-five minutes, and several cold beers, “Bill” brought out three platters of curried conch, cut in big chunks, with rice, plantain, and salad. It all evaporated in front of us. We finished our beers and paid the EC$60 tab, a bargain for three of us, and headed back to the marina. By then it was a little past 4 p.m.

Back at the marina we met up with the others. Leon and his helper, Miguel, had been making his boat ready for the next day. We all went to have EC$5 showers that the marina advertised, picked up some premium rum from the little store, went back and sat on the stern of Passion to watch the sun set, rum and coke in hand. (The marina guy said it was okay to stay tied up to the dock where the travel-lift was because nothing else was going on that day.) While there, a man rowed by in a skiff and asked, “Any clams today?” There were buckets of fresh clams in the bottom of his boat, harvested from the nearby mangrove. Regrettably, we had to pass since we were just on our way out for dinner and then would be leaving at first light in the morning.

We ate at the same place we had coffee that morning. Excellent pan-fried tuna and a couple of bottles of really nice wine, for six of us, came to EC$200. Sometime around 10 p.m. we got back on Passion, rigged up the towing harness, picked up Leon’s newly acquired catamaran, and moved back out to the middle of the bay to anchor in about the same place as the previous night, ready for a quick departure the next morning. I settled into my same spot on the net to sleep under the stars again.

You rarely meet someone with as much enthusiasm as Leon. In his early forties, he worked as the mechanic for Tradewinds. He had borrowed money to buy this old catamaran to fix up, with the intention that he and his wife would then move on to it and live aboard. His wife was to learn of this plan the next day when she saw the boat for the first time.

In the grey light just before 5 a.m., we pulled anchor on Passion and took up the towline slack. Leon and Miguel were, however, having trouble pulling their anchor. We used Passion to try to pull their anchor off forward, then sideways, but even under full throttle it wouldn’t budge. Marty sent Miguel down with mask and snorkel to have a look. He was back up in a few seconds to say, unbelievably, that their anchor had hooked underneath the mooring chain of an old ship anchored about 200 feet away. Leon then went down, but to no avail. Marty paced the deck, then donned mask and snorkel himself and went over. We were shining lights in the water to try and see. A long minute went by, then another 30 seconds. Marty finally bobbed to the surface, and between long-rasping breaths he hollered to Leon, “What are you waiting for? Pull it up. LET’S ROLL!!!” We were underway two minutes later, having lost an hour.

The weather was good that morning with a southeast wind and a slightly following sea, allowing us to make 6 or 7 knots even with the tow. There was a lot of lightning and heavy cloud in the very distant south, but it was moving past us. We were sparsely provisioned, with only three baguettes and part of a stale loaf of bread from the previous day, odds and ends of cheese, and some drinks. Marty suggested that once we were in the lee of Union Island we could pull the tow up and, remembering Leon had said there was a working galley stove on board his catamaran, boil water for coffee. We were all dying for a cup of coffee.

When we arrived, we brought Leon’s boat up to our stern and handed off two thermoses of fresh water. Leon popped his head up from the galley a moment later holding two thumbs up. Two minutes later he reappeared with two thumbs down.

Marty yelled, “What’s wrong?”

Leon replied, “I ran out of gas.”

Marty walked slowly to the stern of Passion, put his foot on the towline and said, “Well, Leon, we’re going to cut you loose now. Good luck, then.”

Leon said, “Can you pull us up and pass some food over? We haven’t got anything on board.”

Marty turned to us and said, “Put some stuff in a bag, and give him the old bread too.”

Jean said, “That bread’s pretty stale.”

Marty replied, “Leon was in the navy; they’re used to eating shit like that.”

We got underway again. Leon standing up on his deck and beaming looked like Admiral Nelson. My hopes of coffee dashed, I filled a cup with Coke, turned to the others and said, “Caffeine is caffeine.” The others followed suit.

We continued to make good time and by about noon we were just a few miles off Isle à Quatre. Marty had fixed himself a celebratory rum and Coke and sat it on the consol. We had dodged a few passing thundershowers in that past hour and could see a big one to the north-east that we weren’t going to be able to miss. About a mile or so off West Cay at the end of Bequia the squall line slammed into us. Christ! The rain was driving horizontal under the canopy without even touching the boat. Visibility was a boat-length and we could hardly see Leon’s boat at all. Marty stayed on the wheel with the rest of us on the bow trying to watch. We must have taken on 2 inches of rain in 10 minutes, and it wasn’t letting up. All of a sudden Marty ran to the stern and pulled the port engine hatch cover off. “OH SHIT!” was all we heard as Marty disappeared into the engine compartment. Neil took the wheel and turned us hard west, and out to open sea, as we had no idea where we were. The bilge had flooded and water was already up to the starter motor. The little scupper hole in the deck rim where the hatch cover sits had become plugged with a tiny piece of debris. All the deck water was pouring in. The fuse box for the bilge pump on that side had shorted and melted into a blob. Marty was wallowing around in oily bilge water trying to rig up a length of hose over to the other bilge pump. It wouldn’t prime so he started the siphon by mouth. The wind howled and the rain poured; Steppenwolf was still blasting away on the stereo.

As the rain diminished we could see we were about a mile or two down from West Cay and in a line with about the middle of Admiralty Bay. The bilge was pumping. We could see our oily wake. Marty squirted Sqeezy all over himself and we hosed him down. “Where’s my rum and Coke?” he asked. It was still there on the consol, mostly water by then.

We motored in and put Leon’s boat on a mooring then tied up to the fuel dock. Two rounds of drinks were quickly downed and we began to gather up our soggy possessions. A successful and most enjoyable voyage, we all agreed. As Marty put it, the flooded bilge event was the most minor of blemishes on an otherwise perfect trip.

I’ve asked Dickie’s permission to post the following about of a trip he took to the Tobago Cays. He originally posted this over a year ago on tripadvisor.com and I always thought it was a wonderful description of his experience, one that many of us have shared. I think everyone reading this will agree this is beautiful, whether you’ve visited the Cays before or not. I’ll add some of his photos later. In the meantime, enjoy Dickie’s word-picture that he has lovingly painted…

My defining travel moment was on a holiday to Saint Vincent and the
Grenadines. My wife and I stayed on Bequia and took a day-sail trip to
Tobago Cays. The Cays consist of a group of four small islands surrounded by
a horseshoe reef that protects it from the sea. They are located near the southernmost part of the Grenadine islands, midway between St Vincent
and Grenada. We sailed from Bequia early one beautiful, sunny morning
accompanied by a number of other day-sailors.

The 60 ft. catamaran was captained by an ex-marine who had upped and left Florida for the Grenadines some years earlier. The crew consisted of two Vincentians, Shorty and Maria. On the outward journey Maria served her own home-baked banana bread which was delicious and accompanied by coffee and juices - a great way to start the trip. During parts of the journey on the open sea
dolphins and flying fish at alternating times swam along with the boat. I thought, “This is as good as it gets.” How wrong I was.

On our entrance to the Cays, we sailed past uninhabited atolls of sand and
swaying palm trees. We were astounded by the beauty and tranquillity of this
tiny dot of heaven on that place we take for granted called Planet Earth. We
approached the mooring buoy (it is illegal to weigh anchor and damage the coral below). Before any of the guests were allowed in the water, the captain gave us very strict instructions on the do’s and don’ts of entering the sub-marine world we were soon to experience: “Do not take anything from the sea floor,” “Do not handle the coral,” “Swim with a T-shirt on,” (strange order I thought at the time), etc. After the talk I took time to have a cigarette before swimming, looking around at the stunning beauty with cotton-wool clouds in the sky and the slight breeze creating the slightest ripple over the mill pond that was the Caribbean Sea, it struck me what a disgusting habit smoking really was. I did not dare pollute the idyllic surroundings and extinguished it in a beaker of water on board.

Now it was time to get wet. I looked over the side and could see the fine
coral sand beneath the pristine water; the sand acted as a projection screen
for the sun’s rays to create rippling patterns through the water. I was
however very surprised, as I vaulted over the side feet-first (thank
goodness), to find the sea was chest high. I stood there for a moment,
looking around, and thought, “I’m in the middle of the Caribbean Sea with no
mass of land in sight and the water is chest high!” On with the goggles,
flippers and snorkel. Now, coming from the UK with its rather colder
off-shore water temperatures, I am not accustomed to snorkeling, but in the
warm Caribbean water I took to it like the proverbial duck to water!

Floating away from the boat I entered a world I had never imagined
existed, certainly nothing like the world I inhabited, that of deadlines,
rush-hour traffic, financial pressures and alarm clocks. No National
Geographic or Planet Earth documentary can EVER prepare you for this. Coral, both hard and soft, was lit up by the sun gleaming through crystal water. The soft coral swayed rhythmically with the gentle current; all around fish of every
shape and size passed me, swimming through the coral, fish I could never in a
million years name. The colours were amazing – startling blues, crimson
reds, bright oranges, dazzling greens and stunning yellows greeted my every
glance. It was astounding and truly beautiful. I was overcome by the whole experience that was so good I started laughing with delight. (A bit tricky with
a snorkel attached to your mouth!) I was lost in another world where time
meant nothing. Unfortunately, after I don’t know how long, my preconditioned instincts kicked in. How long had I been away? I looked up to see I had drifted a considerable distance from the catamaran. Most of the guests were already back on board.

I reluctantly returned to the real world and joined my wife and fellow
passengers for our return journey. My wife asked what it had been like (she
doesn’t swim very well), and I actually, and rather embarrassingly (the
British Stiff Upper Lip, you understand), got a bit choked trying to describe
my experience, and was sad that she had not been with me to witness what I had. Whilst the return journey was as pretty as it was on our outward trip, it now paled in comparison to what I had experienced in the coral world.

The advice the captain had given proved invaluable. You know the song about Mad Dogs and Englishmen… Well, for good reason. Coming from the climate I enjoy (!?) Brits don’t often see that strange yellow orb in the sky and, whilst on holiday, we have this irrational compulsion to expose our pale epidermis to ridiculous levels of radiation. I have, therefore, been addressed as Red Man when visiting St. Vincent! Whilst snorkeling you become so mesmerised by your surroundings that you forget the sun is very strong and constantly beating down on your back. So thanks for the T-shirt tip!