Dr Jeckyl and Dr Hyde were two very different faces to the same beast. On a full moon the doctor would change from a pillar of society to a rampaging beast who would terrorise the local citizens. St Barts is the island version of Charles Dickens’s creation. During the ‘bucket’ it is a raging torrent of money and superyachts, for the other 51 weeks of the year it’s just another destination filled with little boats with the occasional money pit at anchor.

After saying a fond farewell to our friends in Barbuda we awoke before the first of the birds to blast downwind to St Barts and it’s offlying islands. We got into the usual swing of offshore sailing taking watches and being ever vigilant for the coming winds. We also got into offshore mode by making bread and fishing.

With the fishing rod deployed Iain scientifically busied himself below by mixing his yeast culture with exacting quantities of warm water, sugar, salt and milk. As soon as he found himself in the depths of bread making the rod zizzed itself alive and we had a fish running away with Serafina ‘s magic lure. Bread making was put on pause and the task of reeling in and gutting the now unhappy 9lb Bonito was put to the top of the list. With the fish quickly turned into fillets and the dough turned into bread Iain was the happy owner of bready tasting fish, but more disturbingly fishy tasting bread.

The sail was blistering quick but we still stressed about making yet another night entrance. Right on time, before the sun set St Barts hove into view and after 70 miles we tied up to the last free mooring ball in Columbier Bay. The fact that there was a solitary ball free ran shivers through our spines and as quick as a flash Iain dived on it. After pulling himself to the bottom on its line and returning to the surface he was happy to report that the ball was fine, but his hands were now cut to bits from the barnacles he found on his way down.

With dawn we nipped around the to main harbour of Gustavia and completed the painful check in process, en route we saw some of the ugliest superyachts on the planet and felt proud of our fine little ship. Now legal, and therefore able to venture ashore, we elected to hike to the village of Flamands in search of yummy French bread, French cheese and the unusually illusive Wi-Fi.

We romped over the hill and found ourselves wandering though a resort full of pasty white people who could only catch rays for a week. While they made a beeline for any sun they could find we walked in the shade and cowered under the shadows of our hats. In town we accosted the local drunk and he pointed us in the direction of the bread and cheese shop. The first 2 things on our list could be ticked off but it looked like the Wi-Fi would be more problematic.

The generosity of people should never be underestimated and in his best pigeon French Iain explained his Wi-Fi need to the shop owner. Without hesitation he was granted, not only access to the shops Wi-Fi, but also the Wi-Fi of the owner. We felt so lucky as we sat outside in the shade surfing the web and eating lollie pops full of e-numbers.

Tiring of the delights of St Barts and knowing that our tax returns were due in just a couple of days we started to make for St Martin with ”Ocean Gem” and stopped halfway at the little frequented island of Ile Fourchue. It was like stepping back in time with great snorkelling and no civilisation.

Under the water we saw Puffa fish big enough to swallow us whole and turn us into a 20th century version of Jonah and the whale, while above us we were surrounded by towering volcanic cliffs. As you’d expect Iain couldn’t resist the temptation of walking to the top of one of the peaks. Cairns marked the way and up he went on hands and knees. He walked through pointy cacti and over black rock that was baking in the sun all for a great ‘Kodak moment’. Going up was easy, the going down was somewhat more challenging as his bottom was significantly more sensitive to the hot rocks than his hands and knees.

The tax haven of St Martin is only a stones throw away from Ile Fourchue and with tax returns looming and the need to give Ruffian some well deserved TLC, we’ll be turning our backs on the land that time. We are primed for yet another early start where we hope to get the 9am bridge opening into the delightful stinky poo and mosquito infested lagoon that sits in the middle of the island.

The magic green lure works his magic.


Fiona finds the downwind sailing very stressful.


Looks like we’ve got some cloud chasing us.


We thought that we’d left the lovely one design Hereshoffs in Maine.


St Barts. Home to some of the ugliest superyachts in the world.


Now that’s we call lovely water.


Oi oi Mr & Mrs Starfish. Are you making lots of little stars?


Tortoises know how to caravan the natural way.


The fiddly jobs never finish. We’ve only had a leak under the sink for 6 months.


The rain is trying to put out the sun.


No expense is spared in St Barts.


Ile Fourchue. The land that time forgot.


Ile Fourchue is the Caribbean version of Graciosa.


Spikey plants make for challenging hiking.


Ruffian is, as usual, the bravest of all the boats getting the closest to the beach.


All there is between us and Africa are these huge lumps of rock.