Ship's Log April 23

Departed at 0600 for St. Lucia. Heavy swells exiting Friendship Bay. Winds east @ 20 knots. Big 2 meter swells. Sailed windward around Bequia and St. Vincent, averaging 7 knots (8 knots speed over ground S.O.G.), passed Gros Piton, St. Lucia @ 1230.

Pick and Choose

One of the challenges of seeing the Caribbean in only three months is having to decide what to miss; the sole consolation being that we tell ourselves we are saving it for next time. This time we opted out of a stop in St. Vincent and went around the windy side, straight for St. Lucia. The towering twin peaks of the Pitons were first on the itinerary, but we made such good time, that we continued north for a stop that would be more "get off the boat" friendly. Don't get me wrong, the Pitons are spectacular, but the bottom is VERY deep so you have to pay to hook up to a mooring buoy and the snorkeling didn't look promising either. So we checked this off our reconnaissance list as a place we'd seen and might like to return when afforded a more leisurely pace.
Continuing up St. Lucia, we tucked in a sweet little nook called Marigot Bay and dropped anchor. After the miserable, sea-sick rolly night we had in Friendship Bay, we had learned quickly to be discriminating when choosing our "bed", preferring anchor to mooring whenever possible. But anchoring comes with its own obstacles. One must first consider the holding. White sand holds really well when the anchor can dig down and grab, but sometimes the bottom underneath is too hard to make a dent. Coral is a definite "no-no" and rocks can foul your anchor. Then there's the swing. Do we have enough room to roam when the wind and tides change to not go banging into a neighbor at midnight? Or worse yet, in a big blow, not drag anchor out to sea? (Yes, we've listened to VHF radio drama and it does happen.) For as much as we wanted to stay in Marigot, it just wasn't in the cards for us. First we were scolded for bumping out into the channel too much. Next we were dragging, then swinging too close and dangerously shallow. Have I mentioned that Marengo draws 7.5 feet of water? Finally, we ventured into the mooring area where the dock boys shooed us away. Ok, we can take a hint, on to the next port, Rodney Bay where we hooked in, flew our "Q" flag (quarantine), and watched the sun set before we collapsed from exhaustion. St. Lucia, we tried.

Bonjour, Enchanté, Merci, Au Revoir

Cul de Sac du Marin, Martinique is the closest we've been to France. In fact, technically speaking, it IS France. So, for the ten days we were "in France" we lunched cheaply on "baguettes avec jambon plus fromage, no buerre", bought 4€ bottles of Bordeaux, and stockpiled 200g dark chocolate bars at 1.5€. Sure subconsciously, the euro to dollar exchange made shopping seem more fun, but reality met us at the Lav-O-Net. Let's see, 8€ for a small load, 11€ for a large. Holy cow, we just spent $37.80 to do our laundry! Not to mention that we dragged monstrous wet bags all the way back to the dinghy to hang out to dry on the boat. Imagine my disgust upon discovering a few days later, a locker full of soggy, mildewy towels from our last lengthy voyage where a very small hatch didn't get buttoned down. Aaaaggghh.
Among our observations of the French, we decidedly made our own generalizations, most of which I'm sure are completely unfair and biased, so please pardon my hyperbole. First of all, they don't like us. That's understandable. We don't speak the language; we eat fast and scurry about; we expect to be catered to. Secondly, they don't care. When checking in at Customs & Immigration, they pointed to the computer, never even bothering to look at our passports. Fishing regulations, eh. We browsed a dive shop with the most wicked arsenal of spear guns and fishing lures ever encountered. Third, they all smoke. Not chunky boxes of Marlboros, but hand rolled cigarettes or skinny brown ones. Finally, even by Caribbean standards, they don't work too hard. Don't expect to find any establishment, except for the occasional sidewalk cafe, to be open between the hours of 12:30 and 3:00 (sometimes 4:30). The word "nonchalant" comes from French and is the key to enjoying yourself while in their midst. When in Rome...just sayin'.
So after stuffing ourselves with as much bread and cheese and chocolate (and lobster) we could take, we moved north from our crowded but steady-as-land anchorage in Marin for a picturesque beach called Grande Anse d'Arlet. On Saturday, we aimed to set out for the big city of Fort de France by land to shop the produce market. Piecing together information gleaned from four or five locals, we surmised we should catch the public bus around the zig-zaggy mountain road to the ferry dock where we could hop a ride across the expansive bay to Fort de France. However, we were left in the dust when a guy we were speaking (gesticulating) with earlier, hopped on a bus that swerved over to his side of the street and never bothered to tell the driver that we, too, were waiting for a ride. Again we feel the steep sting of the language/cultural learning curve.
Someone else suggested we walk over to the next town and catch a bus there. We went by dinghy thinking the route by water would be shorter and safer. Alas! We missed the noon bus, but did find cheap bags of masala and curry. No worries another van/bus came by shortly and carried us to the ferry, where 30 minutes later we were picking up free wi-fi (pronounced wee-fee) at a McDonald's where a Big Mac costs the equivalent of $8.40 US. Downtown Fort de France reminded us of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico with its skinny, cobbled streets and endless teensy storefronts. As it was getting late in the shopping day, we decided that a couple of school girls would A) know where all the stores are and B) not resent having to use their schoolbook English on a couple of American tourist. Voila! We found the vegetable market just in time.
Unlike the aggressive green market of Bequia, here we leisurely satisfied our epicurean desires, including our newly acquired passion for passion fruit. One lovely man in particular was especially generous, joyfully shaking the passion fruits to see which were ready and adding extra fruit into our shopping bag without charging. Loaded to the gills with groceries, we made a mad dash for the ferry. Seeing us struggle against the weight jogging through the car park, the ferry steward motioned for us to slow down, implying that the ferry wouldn't leave without us. Across the bay, we debarked and waited for a bus that would take us to our dinghy which would deliver us to our boat. And waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, a car pulled over and a local girl inquired with the driver, who agreed to drive us to Petit Anse d'Arlet. Bill imagined it was like Trinidad, where "unofficial" taxis often pick up fares, but when he tried to give her a couple of dollars, Paulette politely refused. Her mission was one of kindness only. We stood on the pavement, flabbergasted by the generosity and hospitality we had encountered throughout the day, wishing we had shared our mangoes.
Don't worry Paulette, we'll pay it forward.