Have been anchored outside of the harbor for two days now and that took some time to figure out. I have arrived at the time of carnival, a time of the year here where keeping track of what particular day it is, much less what time, other than the general indicator of the sun, assuming of course that it is shining, which it hasn't much. Although this trip has had it share of tribulations and equipment failures, it has had it experiences and rewards.
I ended up staying on Montserrat for 3 days and learned and saw a good amount of the island in that short time. I met some scientists that worked at the volcano observatory and got to visit the observatory itself. It was very impressive along with the awesome view of both the volcano and old road bay where I had my little adventure at anchor. I hiked a rainforest trail on the other side of the island that since it had been raining almost consistently during and before my visit, had a beautiful set of shallow waterfalls near the summit of one of the mountains. I also met several locals, including the marine police that assisted me earlier, that introduced me to the island. It seems that the island is pinning its future hopes of recovery on the alter of tourism. I hope it works out for them. They are however a very friendly people who where positive about their future in the face of the catastrophe that they faced 14 years earlier, a cataclysm that caused a diaspora of many of their relatives and friends from the island.
Once I departed I wanted to make some miles south so except for a surreptitious overnight at a secluded bay on St Lucia, I went on to Dominica, where I anchored in Prince Rupert Bay. It's a nice spot where I met my Australian friends on Stevee Jean and got to visit the town, while I caught up on my sleep and prepared to continue on. It was the first time also that I ran into the infamous Caribbean boat boy, men who made their living on 'providing' services and goods to visiting yachts. Some of the 'boys' that I have encountered were good honest guys who provided fruit and vegetables, with a markup for those who could not or did not want to deal with the local markets ashore. Generally I found the guys here annoying. They were aggressive and positively put out when I declined their services, suggesting that they concentrate their marketing on the bigger more impressive yachts further out in the bay. I was anchored close to shore so I was the first in line. On one occasion I was awakened in the morning by a guy who had apparently swam out to my boat, climbed into the dinghy and plead his case for the need for work, so as to feed his numerous children, get a house and afford some much need medical procedure, displaying a nasty suppurating sore on his ankle as proof of his desperation. I offered to dinghy him back ashore to seek medical care, when he declined, told him to get off my dinghy. This did not go over well. At the market in the village I bought some mangos but when I refused the entreaties of the other vendors, was met with derogatory comments as to my frugality and rudness at not spreading my yachting wealth. I took it in stride but I was getting a little fed up. I am more than willing to buy from a farmer selling mangos or vegetables at the side of the road but the aggressiveness of some of the boat boys is a real turn off. Dominica is poor but a lush and beautiful island with lots of gardens and agriculture. But again it was late in the season and the latitude was still too high. I'll will return to Dominica, to explore more of the coast and the interior.
The following day moved the natie m. further south along the coast to get the jump for the next passage, and anchored near Roseau (pron. Rozo like bozo) The famous cruiser friendly hotel there, mentioned in my guide book, was a derelect building now, apparently having gone out of business, looking now like the locals had striped everything including the sinks from the property. It was a quiet spot though and I spent the night.
Up anchor the following morning early I sailed into the following night and snuck into Martinique, in a secluded little bay with the intention of leaving at dawn so I would not have to check in. Got four hours of sleep. With the first graying of dawning I was getting ready to leave. An old fishermen with a grey beard rowed over in a small boat to talk to me about something in the French Creole of the island. As much as I tried, still groggy from sleep, I could only understand through pantomime, that he was concerned about me cutting one of the lines to the fish pots which I now notice surrounded my vessel. I tried to assure him that my intention was not to foul any of his lines and pulled up the anchor, along with I notices the several charter catamarans in the little bay, and started to motor out. I did the slalom course out of the bay, surprised at the large number of fish pots that either I had amazingly avoided coming in the night before or had just been set by the brightly colored row boats tooling around the area. I had only one more buoy marking the last obstacle. Surely it would be ok to clear it within 15 or so feet of the buoy. I took my attention away from my course to take a sip of tea and suddenly felt the motor make the straining noise that could only mean that I had fouled the prop on something. What I saw now was that the buoy to the trap was surrounded by a huge radius of excess polypropylene line, like a giant birds nest, a good part of which was wrapped tightly around my prop shaft. What the hell? The depth sounder said 32 feet but there had to be over 100 feet of poly line floating around the marker. Exasperated at the prospect of not only a swim first thing the morning but facing the wrath of the local fisherman who no doubt noticed that I was at a complete stop, and was starting to row towards my position. I jumped overboard and began to unwrap the line, in the turbid water, cutting my hand on the barnacles that I had neglected to clean from the area of the prop on the hull. Irritated and embarrassed and bleeding, I climbed back into the boat, started the engine and started to leave. I waved to the fisherman, barely out of range of their Creole curses and rounded the point southwards. I fear I may have set back relations between locals and the American cruiser community a tad bit.
With Martinique off my stern I was finally sailed past St Vincent, again impressed with the lushness of the island and the numerous farms and gardens along the west coast. I said on and once south of the island, finally entered the Grenadines. I spent two days in Bequie, a very nice island. The boat boys were much more civil and polite, and the local economy much more established with little cafes and shops. It was a nice respite from the hectic passage that I had undergone thus far. I rested and took walks around the main town of Admiralty Bay which was crowded with both resident and transient yachts. The resident population seemed to be of a more affluent status than what I had seen so far in the windwards with several large houses overlooking the bay. I did not get to explore much of the rest of the island though. Next time.
On the 29th of July I departed Bequie for Cariacou. Almost immediately upon clearing the south part of the island, the wind started to freshen and numerous squalls kept me busy constantly reefing and trimming sails. At one point I was shadowing the numerous little islands of the Grenadines and being forced to beat away in 30 knot winds and rains so dense that visibility was less than a quarter mile. Fortunately this weather like all weather I'd encounter on the trip was quick and past in 30 minutes or so. It was a little unsettling though to be sailing unfamiliar waters with lots of reefs and little islands all along the way. Finally, nearing the end of the day, I could see Cariacou dead ahead.
Arriving at Tyrell Bay I was happy to see some old friends from my cruise through the Bahamas. Opus was anchored right in the same little cove that I had decided would make a nice home for awhile. Tyrell Bay is a quiet little anchorage with a small village and marina. Jim, Linda and Jennifer where wonderful company, inviting me over to Opus for dinner and we spent the evening reminiscing of our travels. They also gave me information on clearing in (tell the customs and immigration officer that you were anchored in Hillsboro, NOT Tyrell Bay, they get quite put out about anchoring there before clearing in). After telling Jim that I was hoping to get a crew position on one of the racing sloops during the regatta, I informed me that he was planning the very same thing! He invited me to meet him at the rigging area where the boat he was crewing on would be rigged for the race the following day.
Next morning caught a bus into Hillsboro. I'm really feeling the Caribbean vibe, with modest but neat houses along the road, numerous rum huts, and lots of vegetation.
Hillsboro, itself is a nice town, with shops and stores and as the excitement of tomorrows regatta and associated festival building, numerous sidewalk bars and food stalls were being built out of scrap lumber, 55 gallon drums and basically any thing that would create a counter to which to sell drinks and food. I acquired a map at customs and decided to try and walk to the bay where I was hoping to find Jim and the racing sloop, hoping to meet the owner/captain and gain a spot on the boat. It was a bit of a walk along a well paved road to the airport and beyond that a dirt road that turned into a trail through a mangrove forest along the shore. I asked some passerby, a little surprised to see me out in the boondocks and they confirmed that I was on course. The trail through the mangroves was reasonably well marked and I kept a good pace, just keeping ahead of the cloud of mosquitoes hot on my scent. It wasn't long and the trail opened up onto Paradise Beach, aptly named with coconut palms and white sand, right out of a postcard, where the racing boats were to be rigged and launched in preparation for the great Cariacou regatta.
The fist thing I noticed was that there were no sloops in sight, just a couple of the local wood speed boats that are more common for both transportation and fishing on these islands. I walked with increased concern that I had missed the launching or was in the wrong bay, even though it was barely 10 in the morning.
I walked along the shore and just as I reached the end and was asking an aged Rasta where the race boats when I caught sight of Jim emerging from the thick forest just inshore. Smiling and wishing me good morning he pointed to a sailboat hull tucked up on the shore next to a couple of rum huts surrounded by palms. There were two other hulls further up the beach, under a palm thatch roof and all without masts. I was aware that they were to be rigged today but expected to see boats with at least the standing rigging in place, much less some degree of activity. But it was just Jim and I plus a couple of curious resident Rasta hanging out. Nevertheless it was exciting to get close up to these locally hand made boats, descendants of the whale boats that where brought down from Nantucket more than a hundred years ago. Stout framed double ender hulls with hardwood frames and beautifully faired hulls. A lot of pride went into these locally built boats. I was reminded of my experience in the Bahamas on Old Farm Cay during the regatta there. But still it was just me and Jim and the old gentleman who had taken an interest in our arrival. Jim showed me around and seemed to know the boat and the owner from racing the previous year. He was optimistic that I would be able to get a crew position for the racing, and we poked around the building housing the other boats for the spars and rigging. It was getting close to noon when the other crew and the owner showed up. Very congenial gentleman, owner and he seemed open to the possibility of my participation, but first we needed to rig the boat. The first project was riveting on the gooseneck which took a little time. As no one seemed to have a real idea of what needed to be down, Jim and the owner soon had the spars in place, which seemed to be all salvage from other boats. It was kind of jury rigged and made due with what was lying around but when it was all done it was a sailing boat. It was also getting kinda late in the day and we were supposed to do a trial run with the boat. By the end of it all, 20 feet from the surf was the closest the boat got to the water, which it had not touched I learned in more than two years. I was beginning to wonder if we would be done and over to the start in Hillsboro in time tomorrow. Everyone seemed unconcerned including the owner and what I learned where to be two of the crew. I had trouble following some of the conversation, some of it seemingly heated, but everyone departed on good terms and we finished the day drinking beer one of the nearby rum huts, a bar that seemed to be under construction as we stood in the sand courtyard. At dusk the owner gave Jim and I a ride back to our anchorage.
The next morning we took a bus to a point where we could walk a short trail through some residential area and forest that emptied out on the beach near the boat, which by the way is called 'ACE'. She is a double ended sprite rigged sloop, though the rigging seemed to be a bit ad hoc. I got to know the owner-captain, named Leo, a little more. He was on the race committee and it was with not a little bit of competitive spirit that he was getting ACE ready for the race. There seemed to be a great deal of competition between he and another captain from Bequie.
The pace of work was slow and at the end of the day we still had some issues left to resolve in preparing Ace for the regatta. No one seemed unduly concerned even though ti was apparent that our sail over to the beach in Hillsboro, where the start line was, would be our shake down cruise as well.
Finally the first day of the regatta arrived, and a local sailor named Gerald, who would be what I could only describe as our sail master, who would call out course, tactics and trim, plus two other local crew, not to mention Jim and me. As the boat is launched with the main raised and the jib bent on. It seemed that as soon as the boat was floating clear of the shore, we were scrambling onboard the quickly accelerating hull. With the jib raised we shot away from the beach and were sailing along briskly, as I scrambled into the position designated for me, alternating between jib trimmer, bailing, and hiking out on the weather rail. As these Cariacou boats have little in the way of ballast, a few fertilizer bags of sand, most of the crew spent much of the time shifting there weight to accommodate the angle of sail. A couple of tacks brought us around the point of land that separated Paradise Beach with Hillsboro Bay and it was an exciting run right up to the beach, jumping out seconds before hitting sand to push the hull up onto land. The party was in full swing, with loud speaker blaring soca and reggae music, numerous crew and spectators walking among the brightly colored boats, awaiting the official start of the various race classes. The islanders here like there beer strong and their music loud. Several times I walked too close to the speakers, meaning 20 feet away, and I could feel the vibrations in my chest. It felt like my heart was going to jump out of my throat at times. Jim and I assisted Leo and Gerald in the final preparations for the race start, filling ballast bags with sand, arranging lines and final adjustments to the rig.
The start of the race was a somewhat chaotic affair, with crews all muscling their boats into the surf. Again as soon as the boat was afloat, most of us scrambled aboard, incurring another round of bruising and tangled lines. The start itself was the signal to raise the jib and we were off. On the first day of racing their were only three boat, including ACE, in our class, but one boat in particular, was always in Leo's sights, the Bequie boat. The third boat, Iron Mike, over 100 years old and actually made in Nantucket, seemed to be a little slower than the rest of us. There was a lot of yelling, in accents and vernacular that if not Jim, I certainly found difficult, but we made a good showing and came in a close second to the Bequie boat. It was exhausting and soon after the days racing I was riding back to Tyrell Bay in the back of Leo's pickup in the early evening. Great fun and was looking forward to another day on board ACE, that is if I was needed.
The next morning, I rode my bike the short ride around the island to Hillsboro the for next days racing. This was to be the main day, with two races for each class. The harbor and beach were crowded with sails, both of local participant boats and some cruisers here to watch the race. On this day, I found myself being the main sheet man. I was glad that I had remembered to bring some gloves for the main sheet had to be trimmed without the benefit of any cleats, much less a winch. As usual the scheduled start time passed and people were still rigging boats, drinking beer and talking to each other. Finally the rest of the crew ambled over to ACE and we muscled the boat around and into the surf. With no warning the official announce that the start for our class would be in 3 minutes and then things really got exciting. As the boat finally cleared the shore we all scrambled into the boat, grunting and falling all over ourselves, adding to the bruises already acquired in previous racing.. At the announcement of the start, Jim and Gerald (our tactician) raised the jib and we shot out away from shore, in the lead of the other two boats by a couple of lengths. My hand soon became cramped with holding the main at the proper trim, or at least trying to do so, much to the loud coaching of the rest of the crew. I don't know exactly where we were in the standing by the end of the race but in this heat we came in first just beating LIMBO DANCER, the Bequie boat and our main competition. This made Leo our captain, very happy and we drank beers on his tab after the race. But the party was not over yet for another race was scheduled for around 2.
Around 3:30, the same start scenario happened again, a little buzzed from the strong beer they serve here, but alert and ready to compete, we shot off at the start. Jim and I noticed the menacing dark cumulous cloud to windward of the bay, as we made for the first the first mark. It was gonna blow and I was not just a little nervous in the fact that these stout little sloops with their large sail area included no way to reef any of the sails. It was all out or nothing with these guys.
Approaching the first mark we had taken the lead. The mark was actually an island called the Sisters. It was surrounded by reef and the windward shore which formed the mark was a jumble of shear boulders. The first race we made this mark with little more than 5 feet from the rocks. The captain insisted this was the way to go, even though we were almost becalmed as the wind was blocked or shifted by the Sisters. Just as we came around back into the wind we were swept up in a sudden gust, the boat healed before I could ease the mainsheet and we swung violently into the wind almost going into irons. I should of anticipated this and the jib sheet man was also caught off guard. But our attention was now latched onto the upwind leg of the race and the looming squall line that already had crossed the start line and was bearing down on us. We had just completed the first tack when the wind shifted, briefly calmed, then rapidly freshened, growing to 20 knots with a driving rain. Visibility was down to a quarter mile at best and between alternately hardening and easing the sheets, adjusting course and madly bailing, the boat was a scene of flailing arms and legs. The boat was bucking and way overpowered as we were flying way too much canvas. It was crazy as the boat would either want to heel over with water coming in green waves into the hull and then wanting to go into irons and tack. Leo, Gerald and the other crew were yelling contradictory orders that I had a hard time adjusting trim fast enough, mush less keep a grip on the sheet. In the middle of this maelstrom Leo decided that we should tack. We were about 2 miles offshore, in a small boat with way too much sail up, wind hollowing and waves broaching the bow. Our first attempt at reef was a fiasco, as the boat came about into the wind it seemed to stop and could not make the turn. We just could not make enough way or speed so that ACE could come about into the other tack. It was scarey and out of control and I stayed focused on the mainsheet while alternately riding the rail or jumping down into the bottom of the boat to help react to heel. There were two men on the trapeze and I was lending my weight by riding the rail just to keep the boat on an even keel. On the third try we finally made the tack but again the main, taking up the wind heeled the boat way over and the helmsman over compensated to bring her more to wind. I was hiked way out on the rail as the boat was almost on its ear, when the rudder finally bite, the boat righted itself, but also suddenly released the load on the sheet. It was the load on the sheet that I was keeping balanced and basically on board. When it released, I was over the side in an instant. Fortunately I had the presence of mind, more likely survival instinct, to hang onto the line; no way I was going to be swimming out in these conditions as far offshore as we found ourselves. Even though I was back aboard, performing on adrenaline and fear, within 20 seconds, the boat was completely in irons and going onto the original tack again. Jim later said he never someone climb back into a boat so fast. I felt I was almost in shock and was all I could do just to concentrate on the lines again. Another 2 attempts and we finally made the tack just as the squall was blowing over. It was maybe 15 minutes for all this to happen but it was enough to blow the race for us. The rest of the crew was sullen and I couldn't help but feel that a lot of the blame was on me for going over the side. We made the best of the race with Jim goading the Grenadian crew that the race wasn't over yet and that we still had a chance. Leo was muttering to himself, using oaths that a religious man usually wouldn't use, the crew was quiet except when occasionally rehashing what had happened. One thing was apparent was that these guys were competitive. Earlier, I heard a story about Gerald falling over in a race. The boat kept on sailing so as not to lose time. That was of course in clear conditions and there was numerous chase boats close by. This was probably on my mind when I found new reserves of strength in my hands as I was dragged through the waves. I wasn't going to be left behind no sir. As it was we came in second but I was feeling so down, that I had let the boat down though I knew that it wasn't entirely my fault. We finished the race third. After the boat was squared away on the beach, I headed to the bike. On the way there I ran into Leo and apologized for going over the side and screwing the race. The sullen angry face was replaced with a big smile, laughing he said "NO PROBLEM MON!", and that he wanted me on board tomorrow for the last race. I was elated and relieved. I really enjoy sailing on these boats, and especially liked to make friends in the local boating community, really getting more of the island experience than just hanging out with other cruisers.
Again, I rode back to the anchorage, exhausted but elated. The following day, arrived first light in Hillsboro to find bodies strewn everywhere, sleeping off the previous nights festivities. The usual bottles and Styrofoam food containers littered the beach and streets, the usual detritus of a nights' bacchanalia in the islands.
Slowly the crews roused themselves, got something to eat or just a Guinness for breakfast, and the last race of the day commences. It went a lot better this time and Ace came in first this time in almost a perfect sail. At the end of the day I joined Jim and his family for lunch and some cold beers under the awning set up for the crews and families. There was a lot of back slapping and laughing, as other crews would come up to you to revisit the days racing and the outcomes. Jim and I were the two of the three visitor crews and we felt really welcome and part of this famous regatta.
Two days later I rode my bike back into Hillsboro and except for the flags stretched across the street and the food and drink stalls being torn down there was not sign of the regatta festivities. All the garbage had been cleaned up and the streets were pretty much deserted. I was going to ride that day across the island to Windward, the settlement where these boats were mostly designed and built. Occasionally a car would pass and someone would stop and say hi, a regatta friend I had met the days before. It was a hot steep climb up the mountain, but at the top I was met with a spectacular view. The down hill, a little bumpy, and I was in Windward. The area very rural, interspersed with the occasional shop or rum hut. Mostly men, lounging in the shade around the bus stops or under a shade tree. Like elsewhere, no one in any particular hurry to do anything. It's a culture that defiantly runs on a different schedule or for that matter no schedule at all. It was a holiday week so now one was at the boat yard so I just looked at the beautiful sloop taking shape in the yard, barely twenty yards away. She was a 50 or so feet with a sleek shape and raked stern, definitely destined for pleasure rather than freight. It also had the classic Cariacou bow, almost vertical with wide beam and a slight tumble home. It was just the frame of the boat, surrounded by piles of wood ships and sawdust. No power tools are used in the fabrication of these magnificent boats. The history of the ship yard goes back to the 18th century when the British, then in control of the area, brought in Scottish ship wrights to build a fleet of trading sloops and whaling boats. Gradually, probably from prolonged exposure to the Caribbean sun, the Scots gradually became very tan, till now you meet locals in Windward with last names prefix of MAC or Mc. Its really neat to walk through the old graveyard. Though only two boatyards seem to be operational, there were several more previously. Now with the interest of some offshore boaters to have one of these boats, several have been commissioned plus locals have the smaller sloops and sprit rigs built for racing.
I stayed in Tyrell for a week longer, riding the bike, and playing dominoes with the locals at one of the rum huts near by. As the harbor slowly emptied of cruisers, all heading further south, came time for me to make the jump and join friends for the big carnival in Grenada.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment