Last of the Leewards

 

Our departure from the little island of Nevis on Ken’s birthday began on a most inconvenient note. During the previous night, the twists and turns of the mooring ball had incorporated its underwater line with our own mooring line, resulting in an enormous underwater dreadlock. (King Neptune must have been a Rastafarian.)  After hanging over the bow pulpit for 15 minutes in an unsuccessful attempt to “unlock the dreads”, Ken got in the water and pulled the mess apart by hand.

A pleasant 10-mile downwind sail put us in the roll-y anchorage outside Port Zante Marina in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitt’s. We hadn’t been in a marina yet this year, so two days later, when a berth became available, we treated ourselves and moved inside.

Some years after its discovery by Columbus, the first English colonists arrived in St. Kitt’s in 1624, followed a few months later by the French. The two groups joined forces to massacre the 2000 local Carib inhabitants, after which they fell out with each other over possession of the island. Although influences of both nations remain, today St. Kitt’s and its sister island of Nevis are a fully independent nation.

Lush and green, St. Kitt’s has a dramatically steep, cloud-shrouded central mountain range, its slopes covered by tropical rainforest, which descends to fertile agricultural lands. The dormant volcano of mighty Mt. Liamuiga towers over it all.

During colonial times, sugar was the cash crop, and as plantations sprang up on the island, the horrors of slavery came to St. Kitt’s. Those days of slavery are blessedly gone, as is the heyday of the sugar trade, and  tourism is the new moneymaker, with cruise ships arriving daily. But the visual beauty of the plantations lives on, with many having been converted to upscale restaurants and small luxury hotels.

A railway for transport of the sugar cane once ran right around the island. An abbreviated portion now runs about two-thirds of the way, and a bus route completes the final third of the circuit, with the whole tour making up the St. Kittt’s Scenic Railway. We bought tickets for this “must-see” luxury ride, which proved to be the highlight of our time in St.Kitts.   

The driver of our modern air-conditioned mini-bus kept up an interesting commentary on sites and sights as we drove up the west coast of the island, where we transferred to the train.  The railway itself traverses the northern and eastern coastlines, crosses tall bridges over steep canyons, and winds through small farms and colorful villages, where we and the children in the schoolyards waved at each other. From the covered, open-air upper level deck, we had spectacular views of the sea, the cliffs, ruins of some old cane mills, and the towering volcanic core of Mt. Liamuiga.

Beverages (with or without rum!) were complimentary, and at several intervals, a trio of local women appeared to serenade us “a capella” in perfect 3-part harmony.  A constant on the ride was our hilarious tour guide, who treated us to a colorful narrative on the island and its history. The rainforest here has been overrun by little vervet monkeys, who now allegedly outnumber the humans on the island.  Introduced years ago by the French, who brought them here as pets, they’ve now become the scourge of the farmers, munching their way through the crops.  Our tour guide, tongue-in-cheek, remarked that one suggestion to deal with the problem was to market the monkeys to the local restaurants.  “Try it, you’ll like it!”, she teased; “Tastes like chicken!”.  She also pointed out that they’d make the perfect St. Kitt’s souvenir to take home to friends, and she encouraged each passenger to take six monkeys when they left. “Duty-free!”, she added.

We spent almost three weeks in St. Kitt’s, awaiting the return from New Zealand of our repaired AIS – automatic vessel identification system - now working perfectly again – and a weather window.  We strolled the streets of Basseterre, where handsome old colonial-era buildings sport decoratively-painted shutters.

From the historic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, two tall stone towers look down on the shady park of Independence Square.

 

The Cathedral’s interior is lovely, with elaborate stained glass and a soaring vaulted ceiling.

We certainly didn’t have to venture far for entertainment.  At the port, sidewalk vendors grill up juicy BBQ chicken, and icy-cold local Carib beer can be bought for one dollar US. Local ladies sell frosty, spicy, sweet-hot, home-made ginger beer from coolers, still half-frozen in the bottles. The marina itself offers plenty to look at , with fishing boats, local tour boats, the Port Pilot, and the occasional yacht, all coming and going. It became our habit to sit in the cockpit over morning coffee and watch the cruise ships arrive;  toward sunset, we’d observe their departure over our evening glass of wine. And all day long, a dozen brown pelicans (the national bird of St. Kitt’s)  would dive headlong, kamikaze-style, into the marina water to try and score a meal.

The smile on this pretty girl’s face typifies the Kittitian spirit. The locals here are some of the most cheerful, easy-going, helpful people we’ve met in our travels.  Entering a room or passing on the street, everyone says a smiling hello, and when we’ve asked for directions, we’ve not just received information, but have sometimes actually been led to our destination. The gentleman in the Tourism Office, on hearing that we have no phone, voluntarily made multiple phone calls for us.

Adult beverages flow freely in St. Kitt’s, but the only evidence of intoxication we’ve seen is confined to the cruise ship crowd. Among locals, a little nip during the day is just part of island life. A young Coastie who wandered over to chat with a tour boat crew was given a rum punch, and the marina security guard occasionally quenches his thirst with a beer as he walks the docks. 

The Kittitians’ persistant good humor may not actually be related to the laid-back approach to a nip here and there, but we applaud  the smiles, the joie de vivre, and also the nips. Cheers!

Life‘s good! KandK 

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Moving On

 

Antigua (pronounced “antee' ga”), like multiple Caribbean islands, was discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1493. Briefly occupied by the Spanish and French, it then had more than three centuries of British occupation, so despite its now being an independent state, it is a very British place.

We spent a week there, anchored off the south coast in Falmouth Harbour, which sits side-by-side with English Harbour, only a short walk away. The era when the British Navy was based here is memorialized in the beautifully reconstructed Nelson's Dockyard National Park. The Naval Officers' Residence, the Copper and Lumber Mlll, and multiple other main buildings have been reconstructed and now hold shops, restaurants, the well-done Dockyard Museum, and a busy working sail loft. All that remains of the original Boat House and Sail Loft are a line of massive stone pillars, which once supported the loft.

 A&F Sails - where we helped the local economy by having a head-sail restitched.

 

 The Pillars

Here are seen sailing craft of all sizes, and during our stay English Harbour was the final destination of the Atlantic Challenge, a trans-Atlantic rowing event. Teams of one to eight rowers had departed the Canary Islands to row (row!) across the Atlantic ocean, taking months (months!) to make the passage. Having crossed the Atlantic ourselves, albeit in a much more comfortable craft, we can only begin to imagine the hardships these rowers faced. A rower on one team was lost at sea when a wave washed him overboard. Another team capsized and had to be rescued.

 

 

This boat was rowed across the Atlantic some years ago by a single-handed rower, and is on display in the Dockyard.

English Harbour is smaller and full of history, while Falmouth Harbour is larger and full of all manner of yachts, from cruising sailboats to floating palaces. Charter yachts of sail and power, mind-boggling in size and ultra-luxurious in their appointments, tower over smaller craft. The sailing super-yachts have masts so tall that at night they have red lights at the mastheads so that aircraft don't run into them. One of the multi-million-dollar power yachts carried a helicopter on its top deck.

The high-rent district; note the helicopter on the deck of the power yacht on the right.

Above: Super-yacht docking in English Harbour

Also much in evidence were a host of big-money professional racing yachts, full of scurrying uniformed crew, preparing for the Caribbean 600, a challenging 600-mile race around multiple islands.

Oddly enough, with all this maritime hubbub in the area, there were surprisingly few amenities. Plenty of restaurants, but only one ATM, 2 very small chandleries, and 2 mini-markets. Conversely, quite a few shops sold resort wear, with bikinis selling for $185 US and flip-flops for $100 US. Happily for us, the services we required were readily available; our balky outboard was repaired in an hour and our headsail was re-sewn in one day. The Happy Hour prices at Antigua Yacht Club Marina were reasonable, so we treated ourselves to some gin-and-tonics (very British, no?) over a game of dominoes in the second-story harbor-view lounge.

View of Falmouth Harbour from Clogger’s Restaurant, on the second floor of the Antigua Yacht Club Marina.

Grilled chicken on the barbie at the roadside “snackette”.

The captain enjoys a cheap and tasty local lunch; grilled chicken, salad and a cold beer! 

A special treat for us was the discovery that the catamaran “ 'ti Profligate” was anchored behind us. This boat is owned by Richard Spindler, the editor of the wildly popular (and free!) San Francisco sailing magazine Latitude 38. Ken, on his previous boat, “True Blue”, first met him in 1994, when Spindler was “the Big Burrito” on the inaugural Some Like It Hot! rally from San Diego to Mexico, in which Ken and his family participated.  Truly a legend in his own time, Richard is personable and easy-going, and we had an entertaining 15-minute visit; turned out that he actually remembered Ken from that rally. It would be terrific some time to sit down with him over a couple of cold ones and swap sea stories.

Richard “big burrito” Spindler – creator and editor of the very popular Latitude 38 sailing magazine

As we departed “ ‘ti Profligate”, climbing into our little hard dinghy, Richard inadvertently put a hex on us.  He asked if we’d ever tipped her over, since hard dinghies are less stable than the popular inflatable RIB’s. Only once, we replied, when Katie capsized her nine years ago in the Sacramento River. We should have kept our mouths shut. A mere five days later, on Ken’s birthday, having fortified ourselves with some celebratory refreshing rum beverages, we were boarding the dinghy when Katie managed, once again, to capsize her. We’re certain that the rum had nothing to do with it, but there you have it.

Antigua is special in its own right, not just because of its nautical history and activities. We took a 90-minute hike high up into the hills, which afforded us views of the sea and of both harbours, all at the same time. The rough and rocky trail is nick-named “the goat track”, allegedly because it is frequented by goats, but we were inclined to re-name it “the goat-pellet track”, as we were seeing pellets aplenty rather than goats. But the hike was beautiful, with sights and scents reminiscent of the hills of southern California. Among the occasional ruins from British occupation, there were big century plants, painful-looking cacti, and fragrant acacia trees, with honeybees rummaging among the blossoms.

Falmouth Harbour as seen from the goat track.

(Rather than hustle her kids up the goat track, this mama preferred to munch on the harborside foliage.) 

After a week, we departed Antigua one morning at first light for our 53-mile sail to the island of Nevis. The wind was light and variable, but our passage was predominantly down-wind, and we averaged five knots, sailing wing-and-wing under mainsail (with a preventer) and poled-out headsail. We arrived at Charlestown, Nevis in the late afternoon and picked up a mooring off the little ferry dock.

Nevis, dominated by majestic, cloud-shrouded Mt. Nevis (3100 feet), whose slopes are blanketed in thick green rainforest, is the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton (check the face on your 10-dollar bill). Born in poverty and out of wedlock, Hamilton at age nine was sent to St. Croix to work to support his mother. He eventually moved to NY, where as a lawyer and statesman he became the Father of the US Coast Guard and America's first Secretary of the Treasury. A small museum in Charlestown chronicles his rags-to-riches life and accomplishments.

Admiral Horatio Nelson is also remembered in Nevis, where he met and married a local girl, Frances Nesbit, in 1787. Nelson met his end when he was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Reluctant to consign Britain's favorite naval hero to a mundane burial at sea, Nelson's officers opted not to plop him into the ocean, but instead pickled their commander in a vat of brandy and carted him back to Britain for a properly dignified interment three months later.

Charlestown during our time there was beset by a particularly muscular swell, making landing at the dinghy dock an unusually exciting endeavor. Ken managed to get “Loose Change” safely to the dock, and he put out a stern anchor to keep our little craft from being bashed into the dock with the surge. Even so, there must have been some drama during our absence, as we returned to find her unharmed, but with several gallons of seawater sloshing around inside. The following day, loathe to put the dinghy at risk, Ken dropped Katie off for grocery shopping and returned later to pick her up.

That afternoon we moved a quarter mile north and picked up a mooring at Pinney Beach, a pretty and popular stretch of sand where the swell creates a significant shore break. We watched a few inflatable dinghies manage to land safely on the beach, and saw one large 20-passenger tender get caught sideways and wallow from gunwale to gunwale in the surf. The passengers hung on while some folks on shore struggled and managed to get her bow in to the beach, and we finally decided that our little hard dinghy was probably not ideally suited to those conditions.

The following morning we motored three miles to the NW corner of Nevis, picking up a mooring in protected little Oualie Bay.

Oualie Bay, Nevis – St. Kitts Island in background (SD 2nd from left)

Ashore is the Oualie Beach Resort, with cute little cottages whose lawns stretch down to the beach, where guests relax in lounge chairs under the shade of palms and almond trees. Quiet and un-touristy, far from any village, it was a lovely and relaxing final Nevis stop for us.

Next stop: Nevis’ sister island, St. Kitt’s, eight miles north. Ciao for now – K&K

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