Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215)– Cruising the Windward Islands

Crew: Mike Rothery (Skipper); Nigel Sampson (Mate)

Tuesday 7^th February 2017

At Anchor in Prince Rupert’s Bay, Dominica

Prince Rupert's Bay (Portsmouth) Anchorage, Dominica

Silence. No, Dear Reader, I refer not to the silence you’ve suffered waiting for my next update, but the silence of the Rain Forest. Far from the anticipated hooting of howler monkeys, the raucous ticking of a billion insects, or the screeching of myriad birds, here in the Morne Diablotin National Park, only a sullen tranquillity reigns.

Somewhere below, a river roars

Our guide, Boodah, parked up at the deserted visitor centre and sent us hiking unescorted into this strange and melancholy forest, following the Syndicate Nature Trail. Despite the gloomy hush, the experience impressed us with the sheer wonder of the giant hardwood trees and chaotically lush vegetation. The winding trail under that vast canopy soon had us totally disorientated, but a sudden opening along the way gave us a wonderful panoramic view of a steep, tree-filled valley where a mighty river roared invisibly below.

The Emerald Forest

Now, That's a Hardwood

Leaving this enchanted spot, we drove back down the narrow road to where a dirt track led us to Milton Falls, a picturesque waterfall, reached only on foot along a squelchy trail. Along the way, we had to pay a man to pass his shack, though he did mitigate this with a welcoming grin and a selection of fresh fruits for our EC$5 toll (£1.50); so not quite Billy Goat Gruff and the ogre under the bridge. From here the trail wound downhill, becoming increasing wet and rock-strewn, until we reached a small but fast-flowing river.

“We got to cross dis river four times.” Boodah told us. I looked around for a crossing point, but saw only a narrow log lying across the rushing gorge. Without a word, Boodah skipped blithely over this perilous crossing, then, with a wicked grin, beckoned us to follow.

“Dis de easy one,” he assured us when we were safely across.

The next two crossings consisted of mere stepping stones, most of which were submerged below the surging waters, but surprisingly, we all managed to keep our feet reasonably dry. The final hurdle was more fun; a thick lianas creeper hanging some sixty feet from a bough, by which we had to swing, Tarzan-like, across. This went mostly without mishap, though I managed to misjudge my landing and dropped short into ankle-deep water.

Geoffrey Boycott in Flight

Wow! can you feel it?

Me, about to get my feet wet.

Our visit to Dominica is for me, a kind of nostalgic fancy. I was last here in January 1980, a few months after the infamous Hurricane David which all but devastated this beautiful island and took many lives. I was then a Petty Officer on HMS Birmingham, and we were sent here to aid the continuing disaster relief effort. Thirty-seven years on, that vile storm is still vivid in local memory. I remember well the shock and despair even six months after that tragedy, and was therefore pleased to see the welcoming and gregarious spirit returned once more to this extraordinary island.

So, I guess, Dear Reader, you’d like to know what’s happened between the last update, from our arrival in Grenada on 17^th December, till now?

In Prickly Bay (southern Grenada) Nigel found a previously unknown taste for rum; a lethal discovery, given our fatigued condition after sixteen days at sea. Having eaten a goodly meal - and here my memory of events become somewhat hazy – someone managed to take a picture of the two of us fast asleep with our heads on the table next to our empty plates. A little later, returning from the bar I was dismayed to discover Nigel lying curled up on the ground, having fallen sideways off his seat and banging his head on the ceramic tiles. Luckily, he sustained no lasting damage, and a nice young lady helped me get him back onboard.

We stayed a full week in Prickly Bay, getting our boat back into fighting fitness after the tribulations of the crossing. Yes, we finally managed to get that pesky genoa back up. We went shopping to stock up our diminished supplies, and had quite a few stomping evenings out, with much alcohol consumed. We also hauled the dinghy out of its stowage in the lazarette, inflated and engine shipped, and took it for a test run across the bay. From here on it would be a vital asset, as we would now be mostly anchored or moored out, there being an almost total absence of marinas in the Windward Islands.

It was here, at Prickly Bay’s marina bar, that we met our new friends, Jo and Andrew, a lovely Canadian couple with their catamaran, Sierra Hotel. Our paths were to cross several times in the following weeks.

We left Prickly Bay early afternoon on Friday 23^rd December, a lovely sail up the east coast of Grenada. It is said that one shouldn’t sail on a Friday, and sure enough, as we approached the northern tip of the island under full sail, a sudden fierce northeaster brought us a nasty squall that plunged the lee rail deep under water and had us scrambling to ease sheets and furl away some of the genoa. The remainder of the afternoon saw us battling into wind and swell; an uncomfortable passage making a paltry four knots under engine and as much sail as we dared. Thus, we arrived at Carriacou after dark, feeling our way gingerly past the reefs into Paradise Bay, dropping anchor in 3 metres in almost total darkness.

We found ourselves next to our friends on Sierra Hotel, and called them to come ashore and meet the locals. There ensued a boozy evening with Curtis and the guys from Off the Hook, and I was delighted to see my old friends Ingmar and Charlie again after my four-year absence.

Christmas Day in Carriacou kicked off with Irish Coffees, Andrew’s wicked version of Bloody Mary, fresh fruit salad, and a magnificent fried breakfast aboard Sierra Hotel, after which we all adjourned to Island Spirit for lunch. While the latter was mostly liquid, I had prepared an enormous bowl of Russian Salad with cheese and crackers, and this was gradually demolished throughout the afternoon. We eventually climbed unsteadily into our dinghies and hit the Off the Hook once more - and I regret to report that nobody remembers returning to our respective vessels that night.

We spent the next few days relaxing on the soft, white sands of paradise bay, whiling away the evenings chatting sociably with other yachtsmen and holidaymakers, and getting sensibly sozzled. 29^th December was my birthday, and while I rarely mark yet another year’s passing, Curtis’ girlfriend cooked a special goat curry, gratis on the house; sufficient in quantity to share with a few of our friends. That was also the day Pamela and Steve arrived from England. I have known them from my Warwickshire days and they came to the island on my recommendation, staying in Curtis’ modest holiday chalet on the beach for two weeks break from their swimming-school business.

Early in the new year we motored around the corner to Tyrrel Bay, a somewhat crowded but well-sheltered anchorage where we watered ship and got some maintenance done on the dinghy outboard. But by now we were both getting restless. Time to move on, we agreed.

Pam & Steve England - Great Day Out

On 9^th January we took Steve and Pam out to White Island for an enjoyable day’s snorkelling and lunch onboard, and the following day, booked out of Grenada, upped anchor and sailed north.

Heading North at Last!

The four-hour passage to Union Island passed unremarkably, although the sailing was good and blew away the Christmas cobwebs. Unfortunately, while anchoring in Clifton Bay my ancient anchor windlass decided to give up the ghost. We were in 12 metres at the time, with the hook firmly on the sandy seabed. So, reluctant to let out any more chain that would have to be recovered by hand, we hauled it back up and took a mooring buoy instead. A local engineer later took a look – and, in typical fashion, shook his head sadly and sucked his teeth; the old girl was a dead duck. After much discussion, I decided to muddle through without the windlass until we reached Martinique, where we could get expert opinion and a possible solution.

One highlight worth mentioning, was Happy Island, a quirky little bar out on the reef, that can only be reached by dinghy. To this day, we can’t remember which one of us drove the dinghy back that evening, but thankfully we woke up next morning safely back onboard. Two days later, on 12^th January, we sailed to Tobago Cays, a mere two-hours passage with the aid of a kindly breeze.

Gliding into this beautiful marine park with its startlingly bright blue water, we managed to find a sandy anchorage in four metres, making less work to haul up again. 

Here we met up once more with our friends on Sierra Hotel, and passed the next two days snorkelling and swimming among the turtles, and of course, visiting each other’s vessels for sundowners.

Tobago Cays is completely devoid of human habitation, being manned in the daytime by seaborne park wardens and “boat boys” offering a variety of goods and services, such as taking your garbage, delivering fresh bread in the mornings, and beer and rum in the afternoon. Oh, and the ubiquitous “mountain tea” of St Vincent, of course.

There is one special phenomenon I should note about this amazing place; at night, when the moon is up and the water calm, one can look down and see the bottom as distinctly as if there were no water there at all. You can trace all the anchor chains arraigned along the seabed, with fish and turtles just gliding as if through air. The effect is quite breath-taking. (No, dear reader, it wasn’t the “mountain tea”)

Yacht flying the White Ensign in Tobago Cays

On the morning of Saturday, 14^th January we said farewell to Sierra Hotel (who were heading south), weighed anchor, and made the short crossing to Canouan, a small, sparsely inhabited island to the north of the Cays. We anchored in Friendship Bay just past noon and took the dinghy ashore to look for provisions. Apart from a dilapidated fish dock where we parked the dinghy, this southern side of the island had little to offer, so we walked up a monstrously steep road, then down the equally steep other side, to a small village. Here we found a modest grocery store, and fresh fruit and veg sold by the roadside. And a pleasant little beach bar…

The following day, Sunday, we sailed for Bequia

Admiralty Bay, Bequia

We took a mooring buoy in Admiralty Bay, close to the several dinghy docks at Port Elizabeth, and went ashore to reconnoitre. Being Sunday however, the little town was quiet and that first excursion, brief; after a few drinks in one of the harbour-side bars, we returned onboard for supper. We were in need of rest, and still had Monday and Tuesday to enjoy the place.

Port Elizabeth is a pleasing little ferry port with markets and good provisioning, and a host of waterside bar/restaurants, many with their own dinghy docks. A quirky little walkway along the waterfront connects all these establishments - a barefoot stroll; slopping waves can ambush the unwary.

Port Elizabeth

Nigel spent most of that first day on his phone to his business manager dealing with some contract or other that needed his input, while I took off shopping for provisions. In the splendid fruit and veg market, I bought papayas, christophines and bananas, then some domestic essentials from the supermarket. Eventually we met up again and adjourned to one of those cute little bars; The Whaleboner, where we had lunch - not all of it liquid, and chatted to an English couple on holiday.

On Wednesday morning, after two agreeable but unremarkable days in Bequia, we slipped our mooring and headed north for Rodney Bay, St Lucia. 

That was the plan, anyway; to sail directly there with an overnight passage. However, motor-sailing in a light breeze became a tad tedious, and by 1700 we found ourselves seduced by Wallilabou Bay, a beautiful little anchorage on the west coast of St Vincent (where most of the filming took place for Pirates of the Caribbean), and decided to call in. The only problem was, we couldn’t find a shallow enough anchorage – neither of us fancied hauling up the anchor chain by hand from 12 metres. So we settled for Kearton’s Bay next door, where we took a mooring buoy and, with the help of a local boatman, deployed the spare danforth anchor as a kedge to hold us off the shore.

“De mooring am free,” the boatman told us, “long as you use de restaurant.”

I looked around the deserted, reef-bound beach and sheer rock-face surrounding the bay, and saw nothing remotely resembling a restaurant – not even a shack. I certainly didn’t want to beach the dinghy on that rocky shore. I shrugged, nonplussed, at the boatman.

“Der, in de corner, mon,” he called, “see de steps up de cliff?”

In the dying light of dusk the steps were barely visible, but there, in faded blue paint, I made out ‘Rock Side Café’. I gave him a dubious look and exchanged glances with Nigel.

“Call when you ready go ashore,” the boatman called, “and dey send a boat for you.”

At the top of the rough-hewn steps we found a magical garden, lush with flowers and shrubs, then the quaint little open air restaurant where trestle tables were laid for dinner. Two other boats were moored in the bay, and their crews were already seated at one of the tables. We were greeted by Rosi, the German lady of the house. We declined the complimentary rum punch (“we’ll have it after dinner”), and settled instead for a couple of beers. Dinner was fresh grilled Tuna and a vast array of salads and side dishes. And it was delicious.

Early the following morning we used the dinghy to recover the kedge, then slipped the mooring.

The crossing between St Vincent and St Lucia was a real bitch, with a big swell and 20+ knots of wind against us. The weather was too heavy for the autopilot, so Nigel took the wheel while I lay reading/snoozing in the saloon (Nigel relishes the challenge of hand steering in rough conditions – and who am I to deny him?). We reached the Pitons, St Lucia’s famous landmark, at around 1500, and with some fifteen miles still to go to our destination it was clear we wouldn’t make it before nightfall. 

The Pitons, St Lucia

Despite my pilot-station chart plotter, I’m loath to enter an unfamiliar anchorage at night, so we decided to drop the hook for the night off Anse Cochon, a nondescript but sheltered bay halfway up the coast. Having yet to clear in to St Lucia, I hoisted the “Q” flag opposite the country’s courtesy flag, and, like the good mariners we are, we left the dinghy on its davits.

We slipped into Rodney Bay Marina at 1140 next morning and took a pontoon berth. We needed water, and besides, it was time the batteries had a good charge up from shore power. First things first though; after booking in I joined Nigel at the bar, and we drank the afternoon away swapping sea stories with other yachtsmen. Oh, and we took our first hot shower since La Palma, back in October. Lovely! Next morning a lady came to collect our long-overdue laundry and returned it that afternoon, clean, dry and folded.

Rodney Bay Marina, St Lucia

On Saturday evening, I bumped into an old friend; Colin Thomas*, with whom I’d first sailed the Atlantic four years ago; he, more than anyone else, gave me the inspiration and courage sail my own yacht single-handed from Greece to Spain (see my early blog entries), a voyage I now consider much more arduous and risky than the Atlantic crossing. 

Memories of Summer Breeze with Colin Thomas and Friends

I had already met Colin again briefly during our stay in Union Island, and his opening words then were: “So you did learn something from me after all?”. If you’re reading this, Colin, yes, and thanks.

Later that night we joined a bunch of German yachtsmen for a barbeque in the local village of Gros Islet, a rip-roaring evening with much beer and good food consumed, then later, after Nigel got a taste for Mudslides (a fabulous concoction of vodka, baileys, tia-maria, cream, and chocolate syrup), found ourselves in a noisy, crowded bar in Rodney Bay Village. Once again, collective memory loss (and propriety) prevents me adding more details to that night.

Mudslide - Nigel's New Tipple

On Sunday (22^nd Jan) morning, we anchored out in the bay to save money (for all its advantages, the marina is expensive), but that didn’t stop our shoretime excursions – that’s what the dinghy’s for, after all.

We finally left St Lucia on Tuesday (24^th), arriving in Marin, Martinique later that afternoon. We spent the first night in the overcrowded anchorage, then moved alongside the marina to get that damned windlass seen to. After two days tutting, shaking of heads, wringing of hands, arguing, heart-searching, and hard negotiations, I finally went with a brand-new replacement windlass at a cost of 2000 Euros; a decision made tougher because I had to borrow the money.

It was in the marina at Marin that I met an old friend from Lanzarote. Trevor, a retired judge, crossed with the Barbados Fifty rally in early November (far too early, in my opinion), and had just arrived from Barbados, where his wife, Corrie, had joined him. Over a few beers, he regaled us with his stories of hilarious (and often unlikely) judicial scenarios, and, as a criminal barrister, with some of the less-than-savoury characters he defended. As a natural raconteur, Trevor has managed to abolish the awkward silence in conversation, and Nigel never seemed to tire of his long, drawn-out (but nonetheless, funny) anecdotes. I guess my listening-fatigue was due to having heard them all before in Arrecife. Trevor remains, nevertheless, a valued and likeable friend (I hesitate to say rogue, but he is, after all, a lawyer).

On Saturday (4^th Feb), spanking new windlass fitted, we sailed round to Fort du France, anchoring at 1130 under the shelter of the great wall of the fort, close to the town with its long and spacious dinghy dock.

The word city is a vague and frequently misused term in the Caribbean, but Fort du France is, in every sense of the word, a city, complete with tall office blocks, hotels, and grand civic architecture. The pavements are clean, well maintained, and wide, and its people, whether black, white or unspecified, are undeniably French. The women dress like French women, stylish and beautiful, and the men behave like Frenchmen, self-assured, humorously rude and slightly patronising to foreigners. French, and French Creole, are the only languages spoken (though many more of the population speak English than you would expect in the continental homeland), and the Euro is the only currency.

And Martinique, like the rest of the French Antilles, is notionally and politically French, so, as Europeans, we get all the privileges afforded to any Brit visiting the European mainland. Good, eh?

Until Brexit, that is… don’t get me started!

And like France, everything closes at the weekend. So, the following day, Sunday, we weighed anchor and sailed north for Dominica, agreeing to call here again on the way back for a longer stay, and so exploit all this European oasis in the tropics has to offer.

Once again, we spent Sunday beating to windward in heavy seas, and finally had to drop anchor in Roseau Bay; another non-landing overnight stop. The following morning, Monday, a few miles from our destination, we were intercepted by a Coastguard patrol launch; flashing blue lights as she streaked towards us.

“Good morning, Sir,” came the voice on #16 as the boat took station a few feet to leeward, “what is the name of your vessel?”

I resisted the temptation to glance over the stern to see if the name had been wiped off the transom. Besides, he must have been tracking my AIS signal, so he knew full well who we were.

“Island Spirit,” I replied, “and good morning to you. What can I do for you?”

“This is a routine check. We will now ask you some questions, after which we may board your vessel.”

For the next twenty minutes, as we drifted gently ahead together in a light breeze, he questioned me about my registration details, last ports, destination, next ports, names of persons on board, etc, with long pauses in between, presumably while he checked my replies and consulted his flow chart.

Finally, “Thank you, Sir, welcome to Dominica, and have a good time in Portsmouth.”

With that the launch roared away, towards his next victim; a catamaran sailing closer inshore.

As we entered the Prince Rupert’s Bay, another vessel raced towards us, this time a small, garishly painted speedboat of the type seen everywhere in the islands, usually there to sell you something you don’t need at a price pushed to the limits of credibility.

“Good morning,” the young guy shouted, a cheerful grin as he drew alongside, “welcome to Dominica!”

“Good morning,” I called back, “are you PAYS?”

He nodded, and I said, “Show me your card.”

He closed in, still smiling, and held up the plastic card that hung on a chain about his neck.

Portsmouth Association of Yacht Services. I’d read it up from the Imray Cruising Guide, how the local people had got together and evicted all the aggressive boat boys in order to provide services to a high standard at reasonable prices, and without the belligerent pushiness usually encountered at popular locations. This is what makes Portsmouth such an attractive anchorage for visiting yachtsmen; a model that has won much acclaim throughout the boating community.

I noted his name, and told him to come and see us after we’d anchored.

“You need a mooring?” he asked.

“No, we’ll anchor.”

He nodded, flashed another smile, and sped off ahead.

We anchored among several other yachts, a couple of hundred yards from a neat little dinghy dock leading up the beach, behind which, among waving palms and lush greenery, stood the PAYS reception office. To its left was another stone building; a bar with free WIFI, run by PAYS, and to the right, along the sandy beach, another dinghy dock with a line of shanty-style bars and restaurants, some of which were already populated by members of the yachting community.

The Island of Many Rivers. And why? Because it’s nearly always raining. The verdant, lush greenery here is astonishing; every space not occupied by a building is filled with trees and shrubs – you can almost see the stuff growing. Breadfruit, avocado, papaya, banana, mango, passionfruit, all sprout wild among a dazzle of richly flowering shrubs. As we explored ashore, we saw men with cutlasses, chopping back the encroaching vegetation from buildings and gardens. Brightly coloured blooms of countless exotic variety bursting through garden fences and cascading over rooftops, great bunches of fruits hanging ripe and juicy from above.

Supernature!

And the people here are also different from those on other islands, perhaps a product of their gentle environment. This is arguably the least economically developed island in all the Lesser Antilles; no hotels or resorts have sprung up here as they have elsewhere, and there is little in the way of tourist amenities. So their only income is from the abundance of local produce. But while the poverty here is palpable – the people are kind, generous, polite, and extraordinarily helpful. Here, for example, you don’t buy ‘mountain tea’ – they give it to you.

“It grow wild everywhere, mon, so why I want to take your money?”

We went to a back-street bar – little more than an improvised shack really, and a grinning black face bade us welcome and paid for our beers.

Perhaps I’ve overegged it a little – as everywhere, there are exceptions. Once or twice in the main town we were accosted by folk wanting a couple of dollars, ostensibly to buy food. But that doesn’t detract from the kindness of the general population, and even those beggars weren’t pushy or aggressive, and accepted our refusal with good grace.

The day after our trip to Morne Diablotin we took a boat trip up the Indian River. Here, motorboats are prohibited, and we were rowed up river by Boodah, our guide from yesterday, one of half a dozen official guides employed by PAYS.

Dr Boodah

Boodah, we discovered, has a doctorate in botany, and as he pulled the boat effortlessly upriver, he entertained us with interesting and anecdotal facts about the plants and trees along the densely-vegetated riverbank. Along the way we saw herons hunting on the muddy bank, iguanas swivelling their weird eyes down at us from high up in the trees above, tiny frogs with big luminous eyes that glow in the dark and give rise to ghostly folk superstitions, and the shapes of great fish gliding silently beneath us through the turbid, brown water.

In a quiet backwater of the river, we stopped at a roughly-built shack on a pile of rotting tree debris. The ramshackle structure was wet and slimy, hanging with weed and creepers, and exuded a sinister and evil presence, which was clearly the intention. It was almost theatrical - it could surely have no practical use?

The Witch's Cottage - apparently

This was built for the filming of Pirates of the Caribbean, Boodah enlightened us. It was apparently the witch’s hut. But never having seen the film, there was no connection for me. I assume it was the same for Nigel, for he just stared at the ghastly edifice in blank silence. I took a picture, nevertheless.

Finally we stopped at a rickety wooden pier, where we climbed out to stretch our legs.

“Dis way, folks,” said Boodah, leading the way along a neat little pebble path. And there, in amongst the wild forest, was the strangest and most unlikely thing.

A Bar!

0700 Monday 13 February 2017

We’ve been in Dominica for a week, and it’s time to go.

We wanted longer; Nigel especially eager to explore the wild places around the island; the unmanaged forests, the mountains and rivers, the hot springs and the sites of the original inhabitants; the Arawak and the Carib Indians, the former now long wiped out, the latter still evident in a handful of the island’s modern population.

Such a safari would need a couple of weeks, and would require proper hiking gear and camping equipment; which we don’t have. And Nigel’s flight home is on the 21^st Feb.

From St Lucia.

One day, I hope to come back and do it alone – or perhaps he’ll be back for his unfinished business.

Since his recent visit to the Pompey and Herculaneum ruins, Nigel’s got a bee in his bonnet about visiting St Pierre on Martinique, the island’s former capital before the 1902 eruption of Mt Pelée wiped out the entire population. I’ve agreed to stop there briefly on the way south. For that, Dear Reader, you’ll need to wait for my next update. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it; and perhaps feel inspired to seek an adventure of your own. Don’t forget to leave a comment or two below – it helps to gather new followers.

·  * Colin is an RYA Yachtmaster Instructor with more than twenty Atlantic crossings under his belt, and author of the Gibraltar Straits Handbook. He now runs sailing holidays with his yacht, Summer Breeze, in the Caribbean.