Dear family and Friends,
Before departing Bequia on the day before St. Patrick’s Day, we took on a delivery of ice, and then sailed out of Admiralty bay into the Caribbean Sea. Beam-reaching under “jib and jigger” (headsail and mizzen), we had a bumpy 21-mile ride under clear skies in five-foot seas, with 18 knots of wind, and arrived at the island of Canouan (“can’-oo-ahn”) four hours later. In island-style celebration of our arrival, we lunched on sweet juicy mangoes, and sipped cold pina coladas at sundown. As a further evening treat, we were witness to a beautiful “green flash” at sunset. A “blink and you’ll miss it” show, this optical phenomenon occurs when atmospheric conditions cause the final sliver of setting sun to flash green as it sinks below the horizon. To see it, you need a clear horizon, and some say that a tot of rum helps. (Worked for us!)
Of all the places to anchor in Canouan’s big bay, this French flagged charter cat chose to anchor right on top of ours (note our anchor marker floating under the cat). As our friend Ray on Yacht Horizon would say, “what can you do?”.
The northern part of Canouan has been developed into a gated community, complete with golf course, but our anchorage in Charlestown Bay, on the southwestern portion of the island, off of the village, was decidedly low-budget. There’s one large nearly-empty luxury resort surrounded by colorful botanical gardens, with a dinghy dock that offers a landing site safe from the rough surf that hammers the crescent of sandy beach. The Tamarind Beach Hotel may have looked empty, but it was well-staffed, and its little deli shop was stocked with gourmet goodies, primarily Italian imports. We were unable to resist, and splurged on some cheese and a fresh crusty baguette.
Charleston Bay, Canouan Island
On our strolls through the little village, we noted lots of sheep and goats, but no tourist-oriented shops or businesses, and every person we passed greeted us with smiles and hellos. An abandoned dinghy in a field provided a playground for some young goats, who butted heads in mock fierceness, and jumped in and out of the dinghy, looking for all the world like the goat version of 9-year-old boys.
Besides goats, there were plenty of sheep wondering around too!
We happened upon a mom-and-pop eatery, situated on the first floor of what appeared to be someone’s home. The tiny dining area was spotless, simply but attractively decorated with colorful tablecloths and little vases of flowers. The place appeared to be run by the two women who did the cooking, and our lunch, eaten on the shady, breezy porch, consisted of generous portions of fresh fish, salad, rice, stewed green vegetable, and breadfruit. It was cheap, delicious, and a welcome change from tourist-oriented menus and prices.
Stewed fish, breadfruit, spinach, rice & peas, salad. A lot of food for $6.
We renewed our Grenadines 30-day visas, and after a week weighed anchor for an 8-mile motor-sail to the Tobago Cays National Maine Park. (Not to be confused with Trinidad and Tobago.) This cluster of five tiny uninhabited islands is sheltered from the open Atlantic by big, appropriately named, Horseshoe Reef. The palette of gorgeous colors in the water ranges from gold and brown over the reefs to turquoise, green, and blue over the sandy spots, making the stunning, pristine waters a hugely popular destination.
The “herd” at Tobago Cays
The park is also a sea turtle sanctuary, and is a popular snorkeling, scuba diving, and turtle-watching site. One of the five islands, Petite Tabac, was the location for filming the desert island scene in the first “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie, and its beach and coconut trees were readily recognizable through our binoculars.
Petit Tabac, Tobago Cays
When we arrived at the Cays, the anchorages were crowded with dozens of yachts and charter vessels, and numerous little open local boats zipped among them, hawking fish, snorkel tours, or whatever. It all gave the area a “theme park” atmosphere that was not much to our liking. Away from the most congested areas, we managed to find a secluded spot with only one other anchored boat. Despite the protection of the reef, we spent a windy, bumpy, roll-y night, and so the next morning we weighed anchor and moved three miles west to Saline Bay on Mayreau island, which is still part of the National Marine Park.
Saline Bay proved to be an ideal anchorage, the water calm and clean, with a long stretch of pristine sandy beach a short dinghy-row away.
Saline Bay, Mayreau Island, Grenadines (Union Island in background). SD is at top center.
The island’s single unnamed village has one very steep road, along which we found a few open but empty restaurants, and a single mini-market.
Mayreau Island local showing the captain how to spin bottle caps.
Local bar/restaurant, owned by Rastafarian “Righteous Robert”, in Saline Bay, Mayreau Island
We ordered lunch one day at one of these places, and were served an outstanding lobster-salad sandwich, with a couple of ice-cold beers. The island’s only drinking water is rain-caught, and electricity was not introduced until 2003. Unfortunately, the islanders have yet to come up with a workable solution to the trash. Once away from the beach, litter lined the road, and although we happened upon a burn pit along a dirt trail in a secluded area, it was obvious that this was only a half-hearted attempt to manage the problem. Too bad, as the pretty anchorage attracts a fair number of boats.
Four days later we sailed a few miles further south to Union Island, anchoring in secluded Chatham Bay. This big breezy bay is accessible only by boat, or by a long and arduous trip over the mountains on a road that is only partially paved. Yachts anchored here have blissful seclusion from any commercialism. A couple of beach shacks offer fish or chicken BBQ if you order it the day before, presumably so that they can order the fixin’s from wherever, but we opted to save our money and dine on board, sipping our rum and watching for more green flashes.
We spent a few days there, took the dinghy for a row, had a stroll on the long empty beach, and then moved a few miles around Union’s SW corner and dropped our hook in the lee of little Frigate Island, which is essentially a tall, foliage-covered rock. From our cockpit we could watch numerous kite-surfers flying back and forth over the chop. Tiny non-touristy Ashton village, at the head of the bay, had friendly residents who stopped to chat, cheap rock-hard block ice, tasty local food, and the best rum raisin ice cream we’ve ever eaten. In the large hillside cemetery, a handful of goats defiled a fresh grave by chowing down on the funeral flowers heaped on top of the dirt. We called out to them that they were being rude, but their rudeness extended to ignoring us.
An inexpensive mini-bus provided transport to Clifton, Union’s main town, with its shops, markets, restaurants, tiny airport, and kite-surfing school. The day after Easter we rode in and stumbled upon the tail end of a festival called a “j’ouvert” (which the locals pronounce “joo-vee”). The word derives from the French, meaning something like “to open”, and it “opens” the day, beginning around 4 a.m. Lonely Planet describes it as “a no-holds-barred pre-dawn street party”, where revelers file into the streets and let loose, slathering themselves and others with paint, and sometimes mud, oil, or even liquid chocolate, while imbibing significant quantities of alcohol and listening to maximum-decibel music. (We were in Thailand for similar paint-and-water-splashing festivities some years ago, during their Songkran festival, but there they omitted the hip-hop music. Thank goodness.) Unaware of this social phenomenon when we boarded the bus in quiet little Ashton, I thought that the young man squashed in beside me must have been suffering from some dermatological disorder, as smears of dried pink calamine-looking stuff covered his arms and face. Fearing contagion, I leaned as far away from him as I politely could manage, practically climbing into Ken’s lap, but I guessed from the strong alcohol fumes of the guy’s breath that he was oblivious to my aversion.
Arriving in Clifton, we found ourselves in the thick of it, even though the party was winding down. Painfully loud island hip-hop music blared from speakers the size of phone booths, at a volume that hurt not just my ears, but also my teeth. Not even bands like Metallica achieved these decibel levels! Paint-smeared party-ers of both sexes, some in advanced stages of inebriation, happily wandered the streets clutching their beverages and shouting out to each other. Almost everything was closed, so we didn’t linger long, but it was quite the memorable experience.
After a several days in Frigate Bay, we moved SD over to the harbor off of Clifton, anchoring in the colorful gin-clear water behind the big reef that protects the harbor. SD floats with her bow into the prevailing east wind, facing the reef, and we can sit on the foredeck and enjoy the entertainment provided by kite-surfers zipping past.
Clifton’s harbor, Union Island
On the south edge of the reef is a remarkable little island called Happy Island. Its owner, a pleasant local fellow named Janti, created his own island by hand. Taking conch shells from the huge piles that are a common sight on the beaches, he built an island, cemented it over, then covered it with sand and built a bar on it. Power comes from wind generators and solar panels, and he lives in a house attached to the back. Dinghy right up to the island, and enjoy a frosty beverage, poured over ice or whipped up in a blender, as were our favorite rum drinks, “Pain-killers”. The place has gained quite a bit of fame, and a Travel Channel segment even featured a visit by Anthony Bourdain.
Happy Island
An excellent dinghy dock at Clifton’s harbor
On the recommendations of our cruising publications, we splurged on a couple of restaurant meals ashore, both of which turned out to be well worth the money. One of these was a lunch of lionfish, an exotic and colorful predator that is stripping the reefs of the native fish.
Yummy Lion fish.
It is speculated that this species found its way into the Atlantic via the tropical aquarium trade, and since the native fish don’t eat them, they are proliferating. The islands have mounted an “eat them to defeat them” campaign, or as one source calls it, “the revenge of the knife and fork”, and it helps that they are absolutely delicious, a white flaky fish similar to cod or snapper. We did our part, and found our meals, one grilled, one with lemon sauce, to be as good as promised.
Colorful Clifton markets (above and below).
Besides our sun awning, which doubles as a rain catcher, we sometimes utilize this one rigged on the bow.
With the clock ticking on our Grenadines visas, we’ve plotted a course for Carriacou (“carry-a-coo””) island, seven miles south, which is part of the country of Grenada and is the last island before our sail to Grenada itself. We plan to hang out in Carriacou for several weeks, as there is lots of great stuff to see, new rum to sample, as well as some of the famous chocolate from Grenada. We don’t want to miss a thing!
Cheers and beers! Katie and Ken
