Yuletide greetings from Bonaire

22/12/2018;  Bonaire, Dutch Antilles

Most passages up the Windward isles seldom enjoy the benefit of a rare southerly component to the prevailing north easterlies, so when one is forecast, everyone grabs it.  It was too good an opportunity to miss hanging round waiting for my anchor winch motor to arrive, so we also cleared out of St Lucia and had a glorious 25 nM sail up to Martinique.

This meant that a couple of days later, I had to sail back down by myself in some very bumpy seas, while the others enjoyed the quiet anchorage of Le Marin. It took another three days of typical stuff-ups, such as the agent assigned to collect the package from Fed-Ex going off on holidays without so much as a bye. Then the usual long lunch hours, half days, no days....

But in the end, it came through, really in rather remarkable island time of less than 6 weeks. I even managed to find some wall-propper-upperer locals willing (for $US20) to cut me a few inches of dirty old PVC pipe to wrap around the motor and hopefully retard the inevitable corrosion.

So with priceless treasures in hand (or bunk), I beat my way north again, where my good German friends were itching to help with the motor changeover. I won’t mention the uncharacteristic human error that entailed triple install and uninstall – which when being approached blind in a shoe-box was perhaps understandable. However, on the third go, woo-hoo! Super power to spin those gears and cogs and shoot elephants into orbit.

Le Marin is the most crowded anchorage I have ever seen, with literally a forest of masts spread for miles and many expats living out their days on all manner of immovable craft.  South African friend, Hurgen, unkindly compared them to rotting cabbages. Several sunken wrecks border the mangroves as testimony to old age, atrophy, natural attrition and hurricane devastation.

The anchorage is one of the safest, the soft mud providing good holding for most anchors. Most, apart from Hurgen’s “Bruce”, which is no match for his 17 ton steel ketch in a good blow.  We came back after doing a hire car tour of the island to find “Morwenna” had dragged over 200 metres, practically onto the wreck-strewn reef behind, a strong reminder of how easily one can lose everything. 

Land dwellers seldom have to worry about strong winds dragging their home away or crashing into another in the night.

From Le Marin it was a short sail around the coast to Grande Anse. 

Grande Anse on a harmless day.

One of those ominously uncertain rear-approaching dark clouds dumped its worst, with strong winds, torrential rain and zero visibility striking just at a narrow pass between mainland and Diamond Rock. I had to stand outside to keep a lookout for any oncoming boat that might suddenly appear in front of me, as well as for the ubiquitous fish traps.  These clear plastic bottles strung off metres of floating twine are near-impossible to spot and several boats have gotten caught up in them, even with more than one pair of eyes looking out.

Arriving in the crowded anchorage, drenched to the skin and teeth-chatteringly cold, I didn’t do my usual dive on the anchor to check if it had dug in well.  As it turned out, it had landed in a patch of weed instead of sand and had no hope of holding, despite being the best anchor money can buy.  But I wasn’t the only one; “Morwenna”, naturally, went slowly backwards throughout the night, missing all others, and “Rosine’s” anchor caught on another’s chain.  You can be lucky.

I was lucky too. At around midnight, realizing I was dragging, I saw my only hope was to try and pick up a nearby mooring buoy, which had been several boat-lengths behind me, but was fast closing the gap. I knew there was no time to lose, because once passed it, I was out to sea. Rowing around in pitch black and pouring rain in the middle of the night with a couple of long ropes tied together is not much fun, but I managed to get secured. The ‘mooring’ was a small float with only very thin rope attached to who knows what below, so I kept anchor watch for the rest of the night just in case it gave way.

German cruise line, Mein Schiff 5 in port at Fort de France

The anchorage at the capital of Martinique, Fort de France, was much better, and I did dive this time to check. Here, we met other interesting sailors, a young French woman, Margot, on a small 28’ yacht, and my first other Australian, Trevor, on a 35’ steelie, “Ironbark II”. He was about as different from your average cruiser as you can get, having spent a couple of years in Antarctica, then sailing directly from there to Ireland. He prefers the cooler latitudes and has no sun shade over his cockpit at all.

Aussie Trevor rowing over to say G'day

The town itself is that fascinating blend of first and third world, with the iconic buildings, like the pale green cylindrical high rise, the vaulted Cathedral and the Schoelcher Biblioteque, being the least typical but the most eye-catching.

Schoelcher Biblioteque (Public library)

Inside library

Creeping up the hills behind are the shanty shacks with the million-dollar views.  For me, it was great to be in a French-speaking country again, with more opportunities to have myself misunderstood.

Many happy sundowners were had on each other’s boats, watching intently for the elusive green flash as the sun kissed a cloud-free horizon.

Farewells are part of a cruiser’s life and so our little group disbanded, some to stay in the Caribbean for another season, me to begin my move West to the island of Bonaire in the ABC’s in the Lesser Antilles. The 470 nM passage which I expected to take 4 days took only 3, with strong winds and current assisting.

It was calm initially, but then one of those lovely black storm cells hit, bringing 30+ knots with 3 metre waves, which I was not prepared for. I’m very happy to report I seem to be (relatively) free of my old “mal de mer”.

Bonaire is the “B” of the ABC’s, the others being Aruba and Curacao. It’s easy to see why it is a world-famous dive-site, the waters being crystal clear. Dozens of colourful angel fish mill around Shanti’s keel, attracting the eerie luminescent green lights of night divers.

The next ports for me are Curacao and Aruba, then Santa Marta in Colombia, and the San Blas islands en route to Panama. So I’m homeward bound ....

Some token gesture of festive decorations on Shanti

 

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a safe and stress free New Year, and may your homes always be where you left them.

Good fortune within the bad fortune.

Monday 19/11/18; Rodney Bay, St Lucia

Some readers of this blog have asked for fewer calamitous reports of the good ship Shanti’s misadventures, and so I have sugar-coated these latest events by considering the multitudinous good fortune within the bad. Bear with me.

The amazingly great fortune of being here.

The sail from Bequia to St Lucia via the windward side of St Vincent took us back into the Atlantic Ocean, as big and bold and boisterous as ever. The compass course was mostly 60 degrees, the wind mostly 90 deg, when it was not dead ahead.  The seas were a lumpy 2-3 metres with an agitated cross pattern on top; all of which conspired to stop Shanti dead in her tracks, wallowing up and down, going more sideways than forwards.

The 60 nautical mile passage took 11 hours, not too bad, considering some of it saw SOG (speed over ground) of only 1-2 knots against current. Arriving just on sunset, worn and weary, I made an uncommon mistake – I forgot to turn off the engine salt water intake valve.  It was a very rolly poly night with catabatic gusts reaching 40 knots; ideal conditions for syphoning water up into the engine. (I do believe the anti-syphon valve is supposed to prevent this, but after fitting two new ones to no avail, I suspect the height above water level is an issue).

Anyway, sure enough, the next morning when I opened the engine cover to turn the water on and discovered it still on, I knew that spelt trouble. Trouble with a capital T.

This is how it goes – put gear lever in neutral, full throttle; turn key to the reassuring shrill shriek of the oil pressure alarm; push start button; and “clunk”. Nothing. Or at least nothing that’s supposed to happen. Not the sweet grumble rumble of cold metal turning over; just the hard jarring thud of metal cogs refusing to mesh.

I have heard this before, several years ago when I didn’t know what it was, when the original anti-syphon valve had a small chock of wood plugging it, and I ignorantly kept on trying until I had torn all the teeth out of the starter motor. Not a good place to do that here in the undeveloped small bay at the south end of St Lucia where there are no other boats.

Now this is the good fortune in the bad, where something is learned (and remembered) from previous breakdowns.  It is also extremely fortunate that “Janis” the 3GM30 Yanmar diesel has 3 decompression levers on top, which when flicked up, allow a water-logged engine to turn over without firing, and gradually expel all the water from the cylinders.  Yay!! On the move again.

The wondrously grreat fortune of seeing sunsets like this most evenings.

The next exciting challenge had far more good fortune within the bad, which could have ended disastrously.



The magnificent Pitons.

It is not possible to anchor in the marine reserve of the Pitons, where the water close to the shore is around 40 metres deep There are 16 white plastic moorings available, at the cost of about $50 a night and young locals come out in dinghies to help pick up the ropes for a $5 fee. On top of this there’s a $35 marine reserve permit, so a couple of nights in this majestic spot is not cheap, but well worth it. The locals say the Pitons are the breasts of St Lucia that the town is nestled between.

The wind funnels fiercely down the buxom breasts and there’s a strong current swirling through the bay, so boats are often facing in all different directions. After one uncomfortable night I decided to move in closer to shore, so started up the engine, released the mooring, and backed away from it slowly.

About half way in toward the new mooring the engine suddenly stopped dead. I tried restarting it but got nothing. The gear lever was jammed tight and wouldn’t budge.

My mind was racing as we drifted powerlessly at the mercy of wind and tide. Wolfgang was nearby in his dinghy and called out to me to turn toward another free mooring that was downwind. He lined himself up there ready to catch us. Shanti was still moving at about 1 knot and I wondered if he’d be able to stop her. He did. And the second bit of good luck was I had had two lines set up at the bow, so he could grab one and quickly attach it to the heavy mooring rope before I sailed on by toward the rocks. 

My other line had blown off the deck as I reversed away from the first mooring, gone overboard and gotten wrapped around the propeller. I try not to beat myself up too much over this stupid mistake that could have cost me the boat.

Later that day, the third musketeer of our impromptu band, Hurgen, arrived in “Morwenna”, with his engine failed.  It's fantastically good fortune the way cruisers all help each other.

It was impossible to sail into the bay with the wind coming from all directions, so he had to be towed in by the young locals, who charged him $100 for the pleasure. Wolfgang also helped, but the 16 ton steel ketch put a hefty strain on his outboard, so I was lucky to have had its aid while it was still healthy. Later we had to help Wolfgang retrieve his dink when it somehow untied itself (must have used a "Jacquie knot") and went out to sea unattended.

Morwenna being towed into a mooring.

All of the towns on each of the Caribbean islands are completely different from one another, with the one common feature being the lavish use of colour.  

The next stop after the Pitons was Anse la Raye, a quaint village with many small houses that are just like a child would draw, with pitched roof and two windows each side of a door.

The village Council Office in Anse La Raye.

From there, it was another windward bash to Rodney Bay, which again, is a totally different scene, more like a mega tourist destination with money written all over it.  There is a vast marina development not unlike Queensland’s Gold Coast with pricey waterfront properties and private jetties lining man-made canals.

Not at all like the shacks only a few miles south of here. Where does all the money come from?

The shopping malls are glossy and full of everything except customers (waiting for the tourist season). There is a well-stocked Island Water World chandlery, which is good news for me. Over the past few anchorages my anchor winch has been struggling to lift anything heavier than a walnut and I decided a new motor might not be a bad idea before it ground to a halt completely. Luckily the very helpful store manager tracked one down for me in the USA, which should get Fed Ex’d here in a couple of days.

If you take your ship’s papers and customs documents with you the prices are ex VAT, so I did that this morning, once again with the help of Wolfgang’s bigger dinghy and now temperamental outboard.

The not so good luck was we both took a tumble into the drink as he was stepping aboard, I with my backpack on my back with all my documents, passports, money, phone, etc. I even took the two bags of shopping with me as I went, just as something to hang onto. 

Wolfgang didn’t see the funny side of it, but I couldn’t stop laughing.  Back on board Shanti, everything is spread to dry and the waterproof case on my iPhone seems to have done its job. Good luck hey!!

Very lucky to have good cruising buddies: Hurgen & Wolfgang.

 

No longer a reef virgin.

St Vincent and the Grenadines 3/11/18

One great advantage of the Caribbean chain of “Windward Islands” is their proximity to each other, often less than 10 nM apart.  For those of you without a map of this area in your head, here it is:

The lower section of the Windward Islands.  The red triangle is Shanti on the island of Mayreau.

Leaving Hog Island, it was a very pleasant 3 hour sail, just round the corner to the capital of Grenada, St George’s Bay.  The next day called for an earlier start for the longer haul of 35 nM to the island of Carriacou.

With 4 boats heading in the same direction, it’s always a bit of an unspoken race, and the conditions were ideal for Shanti to shine. We haven’t done much windward sailing on this circumnavigation, so it was a novelty to be punching into a stiff breeze at a perfect angle off the bow. It’s also a rare bonus to get photos of one’s own boat shot from outside of one’s own boat.

Our fearless leader, Wolfgang, on “Rosine” led from the rear, (bit like Peter Dransfield round Tassie), but he had already given us the benefit of his previous years’ spent in this area and directed us to the less densely populated spots. 

Sandy Island is just as the brochure promises, with the crystal clear turquoise waters and white sandy cays heralding the true arrival into the heart of the Caribbean. Time to enjoy my first underwater splashabout, marvelling at the abundance of colourfully curious reef fishies.

Christoph off "Leonora" enjoying a tow.

A downside to the exciting windward sail was that I lost most of my fresh water en route.  It took me a while to figure the origin of all the water that was sloshing about where it shouldn’t be, but I finally sussed it.  It was the same problem I had when first leaving Melbourne, beating to windward down Port Phillip bay – the inspection panels on the top of the water tanks leak when the tanks are full and Shanti is heeled right over on her ear. After several hours of bailing and mopping, the offending panel was once again removed, cleaned and re-siliconed, hopefully to stay watertight for a bit longer.

Strange as it may seem, many of the Windward Islands are independent countries, and it is necessary to go through all the formalities of checking out, clearing customs and immigration, getting passports stamped, etc, only to sail 6 miles or so to the next check in. Carriacou is part of Grenada; Union Island is the start of St Vincent & the Grenadines. Luckily the islands of this country continue up as far as St Lucia (British), before Martinique (French).  All rather confusing, but fortunate in that the SIM card bought for my phone in Grenada still works here in the Grenadines.

From Union Island, we anchored out near the fringing reef of Tobago Cays, which is kind of like being in the open sea, especially at high tide, when it can get a bit rolly poly. There are reefs everywhere in this area, which I discovered later to my peril.

Happy Island bar. Very cool.

Even cooler - dedicated dinghy dock.

But let me tell you first about last night. We had sailed round to the leeward side of Mayreau Island, (also part of Tobago Cays) where at first it seemed a bit more sheltered, especially in close to the cliffs. But later the rebounding swell made it unpleasant, so I moved in closer to the beach, perhaps a bit too close to the ferry wharf, which Wolfgang assured me only saw a daily bread delivery by a smallish vessel. Wrong!!

Just after 9 pm a loud horn blast announced the arrival of the not insignificant inter-island vehicular ferry. The wind had swung Shanti even closer to where she should not be. With lights splitting the pitch black night, the ferry was doing one of those ten-point turns, with engines in reverse, lining up the vehicle-loading ramp with the wharf -  but as we know, “operating astern propulsion” does not necessarily mean going backwards.  For heart-stopping moments it loomed nearer and nearer until I almost wondered if I should do something to fend off.  It was a terrifying thing to be in the billion candle-power spotlight like a stunned rabbit as the sheer metal cliff-face of this monster’s bow came within metres of running into me.

A more benign view of the ferry in the morning.

I could practically see the whites of the captain’s eyes, who was no doubt wondering what on earth this little insect was that was sitting directly in his path. But these ferry- drivers are highly skilled operators and so no paint was lost. The moment he had docked, I leapt into action, fired up my engine, lifted anchor and reversed blindly through the darkness, amongst mooring buoys and other boats to get as far away as possible, without courting further coronary. That was last night. This morning .... close encounters with the hard stuff ....

The view to the front. Glorious!

The view to the back. Not so nice.

 

Hey Alex Hall and Ronnie and other SYC’s – we are now in "Salt Whistle Bay", which will forever be known for the loss of Shanti’s virginity to going on a reef. Ouch!  That is such a painful experience.

“Janis”, Shanti’s trusty Yanmar engine has developed this nasty little idiosyncrasy of stalling during, or just after lifting the anchor. I have read it could be due to old age, low compression, being a bit “cokey”, or any number of other possibilities, most of which fit the bill. I have learnt certain tricks to get round this, such as putting her into slow reverse gear first, which mostly works, but sometimes not.

This morning was a NOT. And with the reef only metres away, the timing could not have been worse.  I had gotten myself into a tight corner and dropped the pick in weed, too close to the reef behind, so had to re-anchor. But half way through the first hoist, I heard the high pitched squeal of the engine alarm, telling me she had stalled. I ran back to the cockpit and started her up again but once the anchor was free, again, no power, and we were drifting reefward.  I watched in horror as the depth sounder showed 0.5, 0.3, 0.1, 0.0. Bump, bump!!  Aaargghh!

Convoluted tracks of panic.

Luckily the wind was not strong, and with a local boat and Wolfgang’s dinghy to the rescue we managed to quickly get back into floating depth.  I dove straight after and couldn’t see any damage - just a few inches near the bottom with slightly less slime on the antifoul, and perhaps a few more ripples in the cast iron sole. So it could have been worse, but it’s still a very distressing thing to have happen. Such is the price of trying to edge into a calmer corner of the bay.

How does this sailing thing go again?

17/10/18 Grenada

The colour of one’s urine is always a good indication of one’s state of hydration and on the morning of my arrival in Grenada, mine was dark orange. I hastily downed 3 cups of water and 10 minutes later promptly regurgitated them, for no apparent reason, other than perhaps shock to the system or a delayed reaction to the calamitous overnight sail here. 

I certainly should have been seasick on that testing sail, but was pleasantly surprised, believing that the ginger root drink I had prepared had staved it off.

Being the first sail after months on the hardstand in Trinidad, things were bound to go wrong. I could list them:

1. Casting off the mooring, one of my thongs went overboard. (I was wearing them to keep the bandage on my sprained ankle dry).
2. Retrieving the deeply buried boathook from the cockpit locker (in semi panic as Shanti drifts back toward the boat behind), the hook catches on fridge wiring and pulls it out.
3. “Tilly”, the tiller pilot, notices the shiny new red ropes on “Min”, the wind pilot, and decides to retire. This is a critical piece of equipment, which is why I carry a spare.
4. Ripping into the sub-bunk black hole, (in semi panic as we become a “vessel not under command”), hauling out everything that’s so neatly stowed there, I unearth the large bubble-wrapped, unopened box, housing who? -  “Tilly 2?”
5. “Tilly 2” is a darker-skinned version of her forebear, and untested.  Now, I ask you, who in their right mind, doesn’t pre-test?
6. Recalcitrant, petulant, obstinate, or perhaps just comically whimsical, “Tilly 2” wants to steer Shanti round in circles. That’s OK, I have known such things to be necessary with new autopilots. It's called “swinging the compass”, so the inbuilt fluxgate compass can get its bearings. Just annoying right at this moment, with all the large steel vessels moored nearby.
7. After 3 more circles, I say, “enough already!  Let’s just get going”, but she won’t oblige. (Not her fault; I haven’t given the instructions more than a glazed glance, and later discover she needs an extension push rod). So I toss her back down below, grab a can of WD40, spray “Tilly 1”’s connection points and give her another chance.  This yields a last gasp of about half an hour before all function lights finally fade into autopilot oblivion.

The sea-state outside of the Bocas is lumpy in the breathless afternoon, so “Janis”, the trusty Yanmar “steel spinnaker” must pitch and roll us through this slop. “At least she’s working,” I think, followed quickly by, “Don’t tempt fate!”

The current is pushing strongly West, so we must push against it to avoid ending up in Venezuela. I try not to clench my jaw, my neck, or anything else, contemplating this precarious situation of no wind and a long-idle engine, whose every variance in pitch causes me alarm.

One of the 6 worst things of single-handing is enforced steering, with no autopilot. Being stuck at the helm is said by some to be the maritime version of wearing a ball and chain. There’s probably more of a psychological aspect to this than the physical restraint warrants, but I certainly felt uncomfortably fettered, being harnessed to the jerking tiller as each wave tried to yank it from my hand. Of course it’s possible to lash it momentarily or simply abandon it in order to dash below to check the course.

8.  It was on one of such frantic forays below that I discovered failure  #8: the usual icon of a little red boat on the electronic chart was conspicuously absent. I still had the iPad running Navionics, so all was not completely lost; but the computer has other important functions, such as showing the AIS positions of other vessels that might be on an imminent collision course. After jiggling the USB hub that brings information from 4 sources into the laptop, switching things off and on again, and so forth, I suddenly remembered the new barge board which had been unceremoniously shoved aboard just prior to launching.  Its impenetrable lumber thickness now sat lashed to the cabin-top handrails, practically directly above the GPS mouse below. “Voila!” I thought and scrambled up on deck to reposition it. But alas, brilliant as that deduction might have been, the little red ship icon continued to be AWOL.
9.  No problem, I thought. The hefty, first-response, emergency, field-service “Toughbook” computer that had crashed somewhere mid-Indian ocean had since been revived, so I fired that up. Yes! Ship’s position on chart registered; course and AIS lacking.  A bit more downstairs time required. Please stop rollering round in circles Shanti - and heading back from whence we came is not helpful.

10. And so we motored on, until eventually, just after a scarlet sunset, a mirage-like rainbow and a brief deluge, a thick curtain of darkness wrapped the world up and packed it away out of sight. The wind came and “Janis” was hushed - always a peaceful moment - except at this time, for “Blewy”, who was whirling like a turbo-charged demented dervish, making, or so I believed, mega-amps of wonderful power. However, on checking the digital readout on the charge controller, I discovered, zilch, zip, zero input. Why??

11.  Screaming like a banshee, or jet engine, or wind-generator, there went “Blewy”, making all that unconscionable commotion for no power production. The battery monitor showed 12.2 volts and draining.  Somehow her wires had let go.

12.  And then, as if becoming suddenly aware of her disgraceful performance, “Blewy” did an Isadora Duncan, wrapping the hobbling-string round her neck and thwacking to a strangled halt. Ah, peace at last.

Now it was “Min’s” turn to shine. It would have been preferable to test the rebuilt Fleming self-steering wind vane in daylight, and there was not even the sliverest sliver or a shimmering shaving of the outermost rim of a new moon to prick the clouds. Nonetheless, with the breeze building and veering north-east, for the first time, something untested seemed to be playing the game.

Tired as I was, the most I could trust leaving everything to its own devices at this stage was only 10 minutes.  There were interesting distractions. A pod of dolphins sheered up some sparkling luminescence in their wake and before long, the brilliant stella-nova-lights of the gas drilling pods lit the horizon. I aimed to sail between them, holding my Easting as much as possible, but an American service ship was directly in my path, moving at 2 knots to the East, and it seemed prudent to pass behind it.

            13. This was a big mistake, which I didn’t realize until later. At around 0500, my course over ground showed the full extent of the current, which had practically swept me beyond making any possible landfall on Grenada. At the same time, the ebb tide added a further 2 knots to the West, and the wind went to the Northeast.  All of which meant that even with “Janis” fully roused and roaring, the headway was scarcely 2-3 knots, punching into a short, sharp 2 metre chop and once again tied to the “wheel”.



The black line is the intended course; the yellow line is my actual track.

This circus ride went on for about another 9 hours, until finally the reef-bound pass into the anchorage at Hog Island was breasted. It’s been a long while since I felt such a tremendous sense of relief at reaching a safe harbour, reminding me of the struggle up the east coast of Australia and other coastal passages, where time and tide wait for no-one.

Hog Island and the encircling reefs make this a very secure hurricane hole, and definitely not a place to enter in the dark.  There are literally dozens of boats packed cheek to jowl, rather like the crowded “Bum’s Bay” at Southport, Queensland, only multiplied tenfold. More than 80% of the vessels on moorings here are unoccupied, some, like the one that gave me a scary nudge early one morning, are semi-abandoned wrecks.

As in Trinidad, there’s plenty to do here - local farmers’ markets, cheap meals at the Rum bar, arts and crafts markets, live music beach parties.  A funny sight was a group of cruisers cooling off with a circle of seats in waist-deep water.

Yesterday, a few of us arranged a private bus tour of the island, with a very informative local guide by the name of Cutty. This filled in some of the gaping gaps in my knowledge of Grenada, as well as taking in the spectacular scenery of the interior, that we yachties seldom see.

Feeling cool-ish for the first time in ages.

The highlights were the Annandale waterfalls, the Rivers rum distillery and the boutique Grenada organic chocolate factory. Not quite to the same scale as Bundaberg or the Cadbury’s factory but impressive in their hand-crafted quality.

Hand-wrapping 7,000 blocks of chocolate a day.

Sugar-free and bitter.

The Rivers Rum factory has 80 employees and is operating pretty much as it did 170 years ago, using the original paddle wheel from England,. This is turned by the powerful cascade of river water, which is fed by the mountains' 140" annual rainfall. Their big claim to fame is the natural fermentation process which guarantees no hangover. Hmmmm. Somehow I doubt that would be the case for me.

Vats of sugar cane juice being heated.

We had an excellent young Venezuelan guide, extolling the hangover free virtues of Rivers rum.  We had a few free shots, but I would need a little more  asbestos lining to my palate to tolerate the burn.

While I'm yet to acquire the taste for the local tipple, the tiny sip I had seemed smooth enough and I bought a couple of bottles of the 73% proof firewater for gifts.

 I’ll stick to the occasional spritzer - cool white wine with soda water.  

The greatest thrill after getting settled here was finding a resident yachtie who was able to re-gas my fridge in less than 5 minutes. Yay! The small pleasures of life.

Full praise also to my German friends, Wolfgang and Klaus, who resurrected “Blewy”, the wind-generator. As suspected, the cables had come adrift, so an easy fix. She’s humming away to my favourite amp-loading tune, keeping the fridge going day and night.  Fridge and power! What more could you ask for?

Happy hour with iced wine and freshly baked cheese and coconut oil scones on board Shanti.

Klaus sailing away to meet up with his girlfriend in Martinique

Splash

4/10/2018, Trinidad

Exactly one month after returning to Shanti, she was ready to “splash”, as they call it.

The jobs’ list spread itself into the available time, as per usual, with “Island time” and the rainy season contributing to delays. A typical tropical pattern saw generally sunny mornings, dense clouds building ominously behind the eastern hills toward midday, a torrential outburst followed by soaring humidity - with a possible repeat performance later in the day.

Temperatures in the mid to high 30’s with relative humidity around 90%, are more conducive to snoozing than working. Most of the liveaboards have hired an air-conditioning unit to make life “on the hard” more bearable. No such luxury on board Shanti, but a couple of excellent Caframo fans ran 24/7.

The first task after my arrival was to affix the new tricolour and anchor light fitting on top of the mast. German friends, Wolfgang and Klaus, took on this challenge.

Klaus, at 82 years old, nimble and strong as a 30 year old, was the perfect choice to go aloft. I've been told that the German language is not rich in expletives, but it seemed that Klaus used them all. We could sense his frustration as he called down for yet another "shraubenziher" or “schlappenwoofa” (or some such tool), which luckily Wolfgang was able to interpret.

Corrosion had solidified the old bolts, but in the end they gave way to German, not-so-gentle-persuasion. Klaus was rewarded for his efforts with a thorough drenching when the heavens opened up, leaving him hanging like a soggy bratwurst, while Wolfgang and I sheltered quietly in the cockpit. It was decided to resume the job the next day.

Meanwhile, in between downpours, local painter, Nigel Barker, was attempting to spray paint the sides and antifoul the bottom, assuring me it would all be done by Monday. Of course, he didn’t specify which Monday. 

A month later, I couldn’t be more pleased with the end result.  Shanti looks brand spanking new!!

There were other jobs I was waiting on anyway, which also had their own share of frustrations. Here in Chaguaramus, local workers invariably bite off far more than they can chew, promise deadlines they can’t keep, seldom turn up when they say they will and are quite arbitrary in their pricing. 

I didn’t think it was such a big ask - just a 5’ long stainless steel pipe with a small plate welded onto the base - yet it took weeks longer than planned. But in the end, after many gentle reminders and waving around that magic phrase, “booked to go in the water tomorrow”, I am happy to introduce the latest addition to crew: “Blewy”.

(You may recall this nautical tendency to name everything that has a slightly less inanimate function, such as wind pilot, “Min”, tiller pilot, “Tilly”, and now “Blewy”).

A second-hand ‘Silentwind’ wind generator, (painted blue), coupled with a new charge controller, which I bought from Portugal and had it shipped to me in France in only one day, now augments my power bank.

Close to schedule, Shanti splashed on Wednesday 3^rd October. Blewy sang her heart out as we motored down to the nearby anchorage of Scotland bay, putting in 0.155kw of power overnight, whatever that means – but it sounds impressive. Several times the automatic brake came on, to avoid cooking the batteries.  The sad thing is that after 4 months of disuse, the fridge appears to need re-gassing, so all that wonderfully abundant power was wasted.

I can’t say that Chaguaramus has been without its entertainment. A well-organised group of cruisers from all over the world seamlessly conspire to ensure there’s always plenty to do. At 0800 each day there’s the Cruisers’ Net on the VHF radio, with excellent weather reports and a wealth of other information, from “treasures of the bilge” to shopping trips and social events. There are a couple of “pot luck” dinners a week, Mexican train dominoes, “noodling” in the pool.

My favourite, of course, being the Friday night jam session, where I get a microphone stuck in front of my face and get to sing loudly to my heart’s content, while rows of Congos and Jimbos and Tambos and other drums keep the beat.

I would like to say that it was at one of those riotous events that I damaged my ankle, but no, there wasn’t even any dancing or alcohol involved. I simply slipped off the edge of a wobbly wooden step, rolled the ankle to the accompaniment of a loud cracking sound, and fell down, rather dramatically. It was the kindness of others that got me home and up the ladder, where I felt somewhat trapped for the next week, unable to do much more than RICE – (Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation) and French. Luckily I still had plenty of the magical homeopathic remedy Arnica on board, which really speeds up healing immensely.

The following Friday I was driven to the gig, which was held on board "El Zorro", a super yacht (power boat), with several tiers of decks and apartment-sized accommodation, all gleaming with mirror finish high gloss timberwork. Still not sure why the owner chose to let this rabble on board and take us all for a night cruise.

Here's a photo I took of the boat (ship) last night as it did its usual charter trip to Scotland bay, canned music blaring.

After launching, it seemed prudent to spend a few days alone in this bay, resting (sure), getting ship-shape, checking systems and rediscovering my sea legs. The continuing tasks of cleaning mould from decks and dinghy, etc. were made easier with a peaceful seascape and cooling breeze. I love being back out on the water again, enjoying that gentle motion of fluidity beneath. As friends have told me, “the land is dangerous”.  It's also great to be using my body again, rediscovering all the muscles that have been land-bound.

The time spent as a French student in Montpellier was a classic case of idle atrophy, just sitting on my backside for most of the day with arms hanging like limp noodles, or perhaps pushing a pen about in tiny, cramped wristmotions. Good to be winching and schlepping, twisting and turning, balancing and wriggling again. However do people survive desk jobs?

Tomorrow (Monday 8^th October) I clear out at Customs and Immigration, then an overnight sail to Grenada, where large numbers of cruisers are already beginning their northern jaunt up the Windward Isles, pending the end of hurricane season next month. This is a seasonally dictated digression for me, a chance to “smell the roses” of the Caribbean islands before turning south and heading toward the Panama Canal next year.