July 20, 2010
Well I find myself anchored most securely on the windward side of the Soufriere volcano of Montserrat. An island that I had an interest in since when the volcano erupted in 96 and made most of the island uninhabitable. I came into Old Road Bay small bay right on the edge of the exclusion or 'no go' area near the volcano. I had come in just ahead of some nasty weather ahead, hoping to get some sleep before continuing south. I have been racing against what has seemed as a continuous succession tropical waves, bringing storms and gusty winds and waves and numerous squalls. Same old slog to weather.
But I get ahead of myself.
I spent almost two weeks in St Martin, most of it having a pretty good time. After clearing in at Marigot, the next day I sailed up to Frere's bay to watch the Netherlands and Uruguay match and enjoy the beautiful beach there. From there I basically short sailed from bay to bay until reaching the northeastern side of the island and the shelter (sort of) of Oriente Bay. Its pretty built up since the publication of the pilot guide, jet skis and excursion boats buzzing about the wide and shallow bay, protected to the east by a small island and barrier reef. I was intent on once again catching the next match of the cup at a comfortable venue; bar on the beach basically. I took the ULI surfboard into what looked like the most likely spot, a quiet end of the beach with a small restaurant surrounded by several cottages. By now I had gotten used to the charming tendency for women here to sunbath topless. What I did discover though that the beach I had landed was actually clothing optional. There were some participants there that I may not have chosen to see naked but oh well, it was certainly a cure for elevator eyes. After checking with the bartender, who was the only one there besides me with pants on, that they would be showing the match, I ordered a beer. Of course so that I would not stand out in the crowd I returned to the beach and left my pants at the board. It was a first, whooping and hollering watching the match with a hundred football fans, all in they're birthday suits. I would have taken a photo, but the numerous signs gave indication that that was a definite faux pas. It would have made quite the picture though.
As it was a rolly and windy anchorage that night, and sleep was difficult that night, the next morning when to the offshore island of Tintamare. I would have stayed longer in Oriente, no doubt saving tons of money on laundry, but the current latitude was a little high for this time of year. Certainly the secession of tropical waves that had stymied my southerly progress was a reminder what could be coming in the not to distant future.
Tintamarre's storied history and status as a park attracted me and I set off for the short sail there. Mooring right off the island on the lee side, I ULI'd into the small crescent beach. The shore was forested but the interior I found was mostly scrub, the prickly scratchy kind. There was a path leading to the ruins of the once ruler of the island, a character that briefly set up his own little fiefdom, raising cotton and goats with his hundred or so loyal subjects. All that was gone now except for what I was told was a hardy homesteader who was trying to raising ostriches there. Well I found the ruins and possibly the camp of the homesteader, long abandoned, but no ostriches. I did find some beautiful cliffs and shoreline on the eastern shore there with dramatic drops and bird life. Spent most of the morning walking along the steep cliffs. The shore line was protected by a barrier reef, complete with a beached sailboat, another reminder of the dangers of a lee shore. Once reaching the far side of the island from the boat I thought the quickest way back would be to cut across the island. This ended up a long slow zig zag following goat trails through the bracken. Legs were all scratched up before I was able to make the high rise overlooking the Natie M. calmly bobbing at the mooring. There were several charter cats there by now and picnickers on the beach.
Continued my sail back toward Marigot stopping for the night at several of the small bays, mostly quiet and secluded with resorts, some quite fancy, along the beaches. At Anse Marcel I was boarded by the Gendarme de la Mer. Five French coasties, came aboard my little blue boat to check my papers. They were pretty friendly but one got serious about fining me for not having a bottle of California wine that I had been drinking.
Back at Marigot, I continued to wait for favorable weather. I spent the time exploring the island more, this time by bicycle. I road along the south coast of the island to the Dutch side, ostensibly to watch the cup matches, third place and the next day, the final, at a boater popular bar. The place made my prime criteria for bars and restaurants, $1/beer, served in buckets of ice!
The third place match was exciting with some interesting characters hanging around the bar but the next day when I rode my bike up to the front the place was packed with lots of orange wearing Dutch whooping and swilling beer. I squeezed to the bar and ordered my bucket and tried to find a spot with an unobstructed view of one of the 10 widescreens hanging on the wall or any other flat surface. Wonderful party, only slightly tempered by the outcome of the game.
On the afternoon of the 10th, moved the Natie M. around to the southern Dutch side of the island. My intention was to stage from Simpson Bay before heading south. The weather wasn't great but I was beginning to think it was the best I was going to get. I was hoping to make for Barbuda, taking advantage of a day of forecasted light NE winds. As I arrived after business hours I was going to avoid clearing in. 0600 the next morning was hauling in the anchor. Cool calm breeze blowing out of the NE, I put the boat into a turn away from the wind, gybing, when bottom of the main took on an unnatural shape. It took a couple seconds or so, before I realized that the boom had broken near the gooseneck, where it attaches to the mast. Any consternation at this disturbing development was eliminated by the realization that what this malfunction would have meant out in the deep water. Motored somberly back to my original anchorage, one that I had left barely 5 minutes earlier. Upon discovering that the cast aluminium gooseneck fitting had snapped off, looking like the thing was held together by the chalk like corroded metal. About 18 inches of the foot of the main sail was ripped. Great now I was looking for a metal shop and a sail maker. I lashed the boom and loaded the main sail into the dingy and zipped in to first clear in. A local charter captain who witnessed my curious short sail, gave me the name of the local fixit guru.
Within 24 hours I not only had the boom repaired, but the rip sewed on the main sail. I picked up both, got them back to the boat and by lunch had the boom rigged and the main bent on. A little poorer for it, but immensely sobered again at the timeliness of the particular boat fix. The combination of both high UV and salt has taken its toll on my little boat. I've become accepting of the fact that sailing a vintage, read 'old boat', in the Caribean, involves a lot of time and money spent on repairs. Things just break here.
Once I could feel that the boat was ready, (is that possible now?) I cleared out from the Dutch side and prepared to depart the following morning on the 17th I set out, leaving behind a memorable first visit to St Martin. If island could have astrological signs, St Martin would be a Gemini. Two distinct cultures, different governments and languages.
In the tourist areas, its clean and choked with duty free stuff; in the outer neighborhoods a little more gritty. On the Dutch side a more party like atmosphere reigns along with consumer duty free crack houses, disguised in quaint colonial architecture. At least on the French side it's a little more refined, and of course, clothing optional.
It was twenty hours later and I anchored in Nevis shortly after midnight. It was an exhausting sail. The waves were steep, and on the bow. As usual my hoped for northeaster failed to materialize and I was on the windward side of St Kitts before cutting through the Nevis passage in the calm lee of Nevis. The passage was one of either the most memorable bits of sailing or as is most likely, the stupidest. Narrow and dotted with hunks of rock and coral along with a nice little current under a black sky.
Met a wonderful couple on their Lagoon catamaran from Australia who had an amazing ability to generate ice on board.
My first attempt to leave Nevis was canceled once I hit the 8 footers around the corner from the island. The next morning, again at six I was raising sail and once I was in the deeper water of the channel the sea settled into a more manageable roll. I was going to bypass Montserrat, but nearing the last anchorage and the looming dark clouds to the south, decided to take shelter in a small bay right on the border of the exclusion zone of Montserat. The zone is that area of the island that is either uninhabitable due to the gasses and occasional boulders that the Soufriere Hill volcano spits out. After 13 hours of rough going I was in the mood for some sleep.
As it had been squally most of the day, the river empting into the bay, I noticed, was loaded with sediment, almost a gray color. Probably a lot of ash, as the river valley went almost directly towards the north face of the volcano. The island is lush and beautifully vegetated, but the slopes of the volcano are a gray, barren dotted with house sized boulders and ash. I got a view of Plymouth, the former capital, when I sailed in and it was sad to see the roof tops peaking out of the huge amount of lava and ash that had buried it. I came into the small harbor, noticing the abandoned houses on one side of the bay, and the other homes, apparently still maintained but dark. (Found out later there was a power outage that night). I snuggled up to the shore away from the out flow of the river and dropped the anchor. Exhausted, made a quick meal and watched the sun set on the steaming and desolate volcano.
It was a restless night with some rolling and several gusty squalls coming through.
Which brings me to the situation I found myself when first writing this post. At first light was hauling in the anchor to continue my trip south. I discovered, however, that the anchor was firmly stuck down there. The thought came to my mind that the chain was horribly wound around the trees, boulders that would have washed down the river since the eruption. The depth sound showed 32 feet, not the depth I would prefer to free dive down to. It took two attempts to find the bottom and found that the anchor was not fouled on something but buried in a coarse silty bottom. Just the very end of the anchor shank was poking out the dark grey sand. It took two other dives to realize that I was no way going to dig that sucker out. I had 30 feet of chain and ten feet of rope and the rode was almost vertical.
Ok.
First of all, I was a little loathe to abandon $500 of ground tackle to the volcano. Second this fascination with volcanoes was getting a little crazy if not potentially expensive.
I was not intending to inform the local authorities of my presence but this seemed unavoidable. I was in a bay literally at the foot of an active volcano, my anchor stuck in the mud as it were and the only houses overlooking my situation, were either abandoned or unoccupied (both true I later learned). Got the harbor master on the VHF and they said they would send somebody. Nothing to do but start to write this post.
About two hours later, the sound of big outboards announces the arrival of the local police in a spiffy police boat. I was thinking during this time that what I really need is someone with some SCUBA to rent, not the police. Officer Kelly, once informed of my problem, said they would try to pull the anchor up with the help of two 250 HP Evinrudes. I was a little doubtful but I put on a rolling hitch to the chain and within 30 seconds the anchor was free. I was so relieved I decided that a couple of days on Montserrat were in order plus the cops were expecting me to clear in now. I guess the volcano wants me to stay awhile.
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