The Man Boat

Living on Strolla had always been a bit primitive, but when Becca left us, life aboard ship devolved into is most basic masculine form.  All prior restraint was now gone.  None of us had been wearing underwear for quite some time by this point but, now Mark gave up on clothing all together.  Most mornings after that, the only thing he wore during his morning calisthenics were a pair of sunglasses.  

 

Throughout the trip, Nate had proudly claimed to have not once put on sunscreen.  His badly sun-damaged back had turned the color and texture of old leather.  It now blistered and peeled constantly.  Without Becca to help, he took to scraping the dead skin from his back with a 3.5 ft machete he'd bought in the Dominican Republic.  The blade was deeply rusted from the damp salt air and the boat was quickly filled with Nate's rusty brown shavings.  

Most notably, all of us gave up on using dishes.  We were tired of cleaning them.  The established routine aboard Strolla had always been to wash dirty dishes in a bucket of sea water out in the cockpit.  The clean dishes were then brought into the cabin for a quick, freshwater rinse in the sink to get the salt off.  This method dramatically conserved our fresh water stores and got us at least another week between fill ups.  However, depending on where we'd anchored for the night and the cleanliness of the harbor water there, it was at times questionable if this system actually made the dishes cleaner.

 

With Becca no longer there to hold the line, the pots remained dirty on the stove top and the "snippings" from previous meal became the base for the next, like sourdough bread.  Our personal bowls and silverware went into the sink the first day out of St. Lucia so that they didn't fly across the cabin while we were underway.  There they stayed, wet and slimy, catching the gray water from each hand wash or strained canned goods.  We now ate off our bodies, hands, thighs, and lap. 

If sea and weather conditions were right, and the meal was big enough to require the extra space, we lay flat on our backs and ate off our stomachs.  This had the added advantage of allowing the belly button to be used to hold dipping sauces and seasonings.  Cleanup was simple.  We just rolled our bare, browned bodies over the side like sea elephants.  There we floated beside the boat motionlessly, and the little fishes of these tropical waters swam over and did the cleaning for us.  Truly a tropical paradise.

(Leaving St. Lucia)

(Mark enjoying big swells coming through the cut on our way out of St. Lucia)

 

(Stormy skies and following winds)

(Strolla running downwind)

(Mark poses at the bow)

(Perfect sailing)

We continued south.  The wind was strong and steady and unfailingly from the east.  It was the kind of wind that trade routes could be established with and empires built by.  I almost stopped tuning in to weather reports altogether.  The only variation were the occasional rain squalls that were pushed through by those winds.  They swept across the sea and over Strolla, cleaning the sails and rinsing away the accumulated salt from the deck.  It was a welcome change and a brief relief from the tropical sun and heat.  When they passed, they left rainbows in their wake.  No cause for concern.  Hurricane season was still months away. 

 

The ocean swells pushed up by this wind were as big as any we'd seen on the trip so far.   But, these open ocean rollers were spaced out and taking us on the beam, not the bow.  They made Strolla sway rhythmically, pleasantly.  It was nothing like the steep, closely stacked chop we'd battled our way into crossing the Gulf stream or the Mona Passage.  Those waves had swirled around us jarring and punishing, shattering our momentum into a series of sickening lurches.  Here, no one got sea sick and Strolla flew across the waves.

Goodbye Becca

(Becca in Rodney Bay)

 

 

Fort Vieux is where one of the two airports on St. Lucia is and where Becca left us.  Money was low, commitments back home were pressing (or so she said), and it was time for her to go.  Arriving late morning,we had the rest of the a day to spend in the town.  Becca's flight left the next afternoon.  After a good swim to wash myself and my clothes, Mark and I went ashore to wandered around town and look for internet access.  Nate stayed to help Becca pack.  

 

Fort Vieux is not a stop for cruise ships or even private boaters to any large extent.  The only draw there is the airport and there is another one on the island farther north, closer to the resorts.  Its a regular, working town, not particularly pretty and not set up with the amenities that transient sailors desire.  The harbor was filled with commercial vessels.  There were no showers, no WiFi, and no pricey restaurants serving American food to tourists.  As Mark and I walked along the streets, we had the new (for us) experience of being the only two white people we saw.  No one paid us a second's notice.  After being followed and harassed everywhere we went in Soufriere by beggars and taxi drivers and tour guides, it was great to be ignored.

We all walked Becca in to town her last morning but Mark and I peeled off at the internet cafe and let Nate go with her alone to the airport.  It was a long walk with little shade.  When Nate returned, sad and sweat stained, our crew now reduced to three, we joined him silently in the street and headed for the harbor.

Along the way, we stopped to pick up a family value meal from Kentucky Fried Chicken, our first fast food in many months.  I hadn't seen a McDonald's since leaving Florida, but we had noticed several KFC locations sprinkled through the Caribbean.  This one had a line but, we got complimentary grape jelly with our biscuits.  Worth it.  

 

Back by the water, we bought necklaces with pendants of polished drift wood from an emaciated old man sitting out on the fishing wharf, then took the dinghy out to where Strolla lay at anchor.  It was noticeable how much faster the little boat went with only three people in it.

The value meal was supposed to feed a family of six.  The three of us finished it without too much difficulty but, I was grateful to be wearing a bathing suit with an elastic waistband.  When the last greasy crumb of chicken skin had been licked up, the last biscuit used to wipe up the last dollop of mashed potatoes and gravy, we settled back into various positions of repose, sated beyond comfort.  As we reclined in silence, watching the sun drop towards the watery horizon, bare-chested save for our new pirate necklaces, each lost in his own thoughts, wondering what the trip would be like without Becca.

Becca, you will be missed...

(Fine tuning the autohelm)

(Dance Party Roosevelt Roads)

 

St. Lucia

The next stop down the line was at Rodney Bay on the northern end of St. Lucia.  The leg from Martinique to St. Lucia was Becca's last overnight sail of the trip.  She had just two short hops to the south end of the island left before flying out.  So, she took the opportunity to do a few things she hadn't done yet this trip.  Namely, climbing the mast.

 

 

(Becca climbs the mast)

 

(Mark approves Becca's efforts)

 

 

(Swinging from the top)

Rodney Bay is surrounded by a string of beachside resorts and a marina.  Not much else there and not much to entice four shoestring travelers like us.  But, all of us met and became friends this past Summer working at Jackson Lake Lodge, a Vail Resorts property.  We knew they also owned a hotel on Rodney Bay and were curious to see it.  We did.  It was your basic tropical resort, expensive and sterile, little to do except lie on the beach and bake.  I get enough sun.  I seek the shade.  We took a quick walk through, dipped a toe in the pool, briefly considered about steeling some towels, and then left. 

Further down the coast, we stopped in at Soufriere, a beautiful, deep bay in the shadow of the Pitons, two jagged mountains rising straight up from the water's edge.  Here, we had our first encounter with "boat boys," local boys in motor launches who come out and give unrequested, unnecessary assistance in exchange for tips.  We'd been warned that these boat boys could be aggressive but, no one had told us what exactly they did.

(Approaching the Pitons)

(Entering Soufriere)

 

 

When the first two motored up to us in their skiff, five miles out from the bay, and asked where we were headed, we told them.  Why be rude?  And, when they approached us again one mile from the bay asking if we needed a mooring, we said, "sure, why not?"  By the time we realized what they were up to they'd already spent enough time and fuel on us that they weren't leaving without a tip.  They led us to an empty mooring, held up the mooring line and then kept their hands held up after I'd taken it, waiting for money.  I gave them a five.  They insisted on twenty.  I laughed.  They remained bobbing next to us, staring sullenly.  We sat on our boat and stared back.  They saw the empty beer cans in the cockpit and asked for a beer.  I laughed again and gave them each a warm can.  They took the beer, threw the five on the floor of their boat contemptuously, and motored off.  That was the last time I was nice to boat boys.

(One of St. Lucia's Pitons)

 

 

The town of Soufriere wasn't much of a place.  It was dirty, dilapidated, and what businesses there were, were closed down for the weekend.  A quick walk through convinced us we didn't want to spend another second there.  We spent the night on the boat and left early the next morning, bound for Fort Vieux on the island's southern tip.

 

 

(Sailing St. Lucia's western shore)

 

(St. Lucian fishermen working their nets)

Fun with the French

From Guadalupe we jumped down to Martinique, another French island.  In between we passed Dominica, which hurt to miss but, Becca had a flight to catch.  We were on a schedule now and had to make time.  It was an overnight sail and the biggest event was a rain squall that hit just after sunrise.  Becca said she saw a waterspout but didn't point it out to anyone until after it had dissipated.  Becca's observations are suspect.

 

(Sailing into the storm line)

 

(Becca readies for a stormy evening)

(Approaching a cloud covered Martinique)

 

 

We put in at the historic port of Saint Pierre.  Once Martinique's main port and capital city, that all changed in 1902 when the island's volcano, Mount Pelee, erupted.  The "Paris of the Caribbean" was totally destroyed with a loss of more than 30,000 lives.  The only survivor was a drunk who's stone jail cell protected him from the destruction.  Though badly burned over most of his body, he managed to survive in his cell for nearly a week before being rescued.  He was later picked up by the Barnum and Bailey Circus and toured the world as part of their side show.  Mark and I learned all this at the town's volcano museum, where we also got to see boxes of nails welded together and a church bell that had been crushed like soft clay. 

 

(Saint Pierre, Martinique)

 

 

(Saint Pierre, Martinique)

 

 

The island is also famous for its rum industry.  Apparently, Martinique is to rum what Scotland is to whiskey.  The closest distillery to Saint Pierre, and the only one in walking distance, is the Depaz distillery, just outside of town.  Off we went.  The day was brutally hot and it was long steep walk, but there was free rum at the end of it so we kept going.

(Impressive fruit)

 

 

(Cool tree on Martinique)

 

The Depaz Rum Distillery was a beautiful property, up on a hill overlooking the town and harbor, nestled amongst the sugar cane fields.  The tour was free, self guided, ending in the gift shop where samples were handed out freely and without limit.  On the tour, we were behind what appeared to be a French high school class.  Fun field trip.  And, were more than a little surprised when they all filed into the gift shop and each and every one partook liberally of the free samples before filling their arms with liquor bottles and staggering to the cashier counter.  I wish I was raised French.

(Depaz Rum Distillery)

(Depaz Rum Distillery)

Welcome to the Windward Islands

Two and a half months, constantly on the go, packed into our little boat in the steadily rising heat, had left all four of us feeling a bit weary and burnt out.  A couple days on Virgin Gorda refreshed and revitalized us.  With our enthusiasm for exploration recharged, we were ready to move on.  Becca, by now feeling the keenest pangs of financial stress, had bought a plane ticket home from St. Lucia, 350 miles away.  We had six days.

From Virgin Gorda, we turned southeast, cutting down towards Guadalupe, and said goodbye to bashing out way into the Trade Winds.  No more darting between safe harbors during a weather window.  No more playing the night lees, land breezes, and katabatic winds to crawl our way east.  We had finally finished the "Thorny Path" and would have fair winds from here on.  Now, we could sail whenever we wanted.  A steady east wind was the best thing for us.  It was as if a great weight had been lifted from our shoulders.  Sailing was no longer like the weary trudge up a sand dune, sliding one step back for every two forward.  It was now the wild, reckless, and carefree romp down the other side with all sails set, bronzed hands light on the helm.  

 

We were chocking up the fastest speeds of the trip.  From Virgin Gorda we raced through the Anegada Passage and on into the night.  We approached the Dutch island of Saba at dawn.   It was a towering, cliff edged volcano island.  Dark and vibrant green except where the bare, brown, rock broke through.  A tiny cluster of white houses perched halfway up its east face, the only settlement.  There was no safe anchorage and the sailing was too good to stop.  We admired it from afar as we flew onward. 

 

(Nate and Becca watch Saba slide past to starboard)

 

The next mountain of green to break the horizon was St. Eustatius, another Dutch island.  Here, we were joined by a pod of dolphins, jumping and playing, zigzagging with speed and grace, back and forth beneath our boat.  The mercury was rising with the sun and Mark determined it was time to take a dip with the dolphins.  We were about twenty miles from land.  No other boats in sight.  The water was a very dark blue and very deep.   We hove to, Mark grabbed his snorkel mask and dove in.  

For weeks after, Mark found ways to bring up his swim with those wise and playful sea mammals.  The truth is, the dolphins disappeared as soon as we stopped moving, and were long gone before Mark's foot ever broke the water's surface.  Perhaps, they decided simply to move on as suddenly as they'd appeared.  Perhaps, when we stopped sailing we stopped being fun to swim with.  Perhaps, they smelled Mark coming and fled in fear.  But, let me be clear, if Mark has swum with dolphins, then so has everyone who's ever swum in the ocean.   

 

 

(Fair winds and calm seas)

 

(The impressive island of Saba to our stern)

 

 

St. Kitts was the next to slide by at sunset, then Nevis in the night, and then Montserrat just after dawn.  This last one is still an active volcano and we'd been warned to pass on its windward side lest we be caught in the fallout of one of its eruptions.   As we came up on it, we were about ten miles downwind of it.  I was the only one awake.  Should I turn and beat to windward for the rest of the night to pass Montserrat on its upwind side or roll the dice and continue on course?  I chose the easiest of the two options.  As we passed, I could smell the sulfur and brimstone.

 

(Approaching Guadalupe)

 

 

We finally made landfall on Guadalupe, in the port of Deshaies.    It was like a tropical France.  Our first contact with the locals was when a young man with a long, blond ponytail motored out to us in a fiberglass runabout.  With a heavy French accent, he explained that he was going boat to boat in the harbor, taking orders for fresh baguettes and croissants to be delivered at 0630 the next morning.  How could we resist?  They arrived on time, as promised, just as we were ready to weigh anchor.  They were delicious.

 

(Deshaies, Guadalupe)

Virgin Gorda

We spent a couple nights on Tortola, lounging about, recovering from Jenny's visit.  The big project was repairing the broken fore stay.  We'd left if for after Jenny's departure so that we didn't have to waste a day of her already too short visit to the tropics.  The forestay had been attached to the end of a metal bar welded to the mast cap.  It wasn't the weld that broke.  The metal bar itself had actually snapped in half.  

With the use of some spare shackles and some existing hardware already mounted to the top of the mast we were able to jury rig it in a way that leaves me feeling quite confident.  It took several trips up and down the mast.  The climbing harness we were using wasn't designed for extended sitting.  We were only able to stay aloft until our feet turned purple and numb.  Then, we had to lower ourselves down and rub the circulation back into our toes.  After my third trip up the mast, my shoulder muscles were trembling and I was soaked in sweat.  I think my river guiding muscles from the summer are long gone.

 

 

(Aloft with a tool bucket)

 

Once Strolla was back in top form, we set our sights on the island of Virgin Gorda to the east. The island is covered in round, smooth boulders the size of houses, piled along the shoreline, creating caves over the white sands and turquoise waters.  What brought us were the baths, a string of secluded beaches and coves connected by trails through the boulders.  Pictures of them graced the covers of every travel brochure and booklet we'd seen.  What kept us was what lay just beyond the well worn trails and beach bars, an endless trove of climbing routes to be discovered and ascended, all to ourselves.  I took a lot of pictures.

 

(Mark scouts a route)

(Peter works a crack)

(Mark maneuvers up)

(Mark and Peter simul-climb a multi-pitch route)

(Mark kicks out a leg for balance)

(Pete and Nate on the rocks)

(Nate works a crack)

(One of the "baths" on Virgin Gorda)

(Peter on climb)

(Looking for the pot of gold)

(Nate makes a bold, bare-footed leap while Mark waits his turn)