Caribbean beaches, pristine white sand framed by regal
swaying palms and shallow turquoise waters, welcome sailors daily, and provide the
backdrop for engine repair and general boat maintenance.
On many occasions though, boat work abandoned, spanners and
hammers and grimy rags tossed aside, cruisers are enticed to drop their
dinghies and head toward that beckoning shore. Promises of warm sand through
the toes and wading in the tepid blue waters make the prospect irresistible.
But there is an enemy lurking. A vicious and relentless monster – but you won’t
see ‘um!
Our little flotilla of sailboats, mostly South African
cruisers arrived in Tank Bay, Vieques the other day, after quite a bashing sail
in high seas from mainland Puerto Rico. One of the boats is waiting on a boat
part to be delivered (surprise surprise!) so we have a week to bide time – so
why not visit all of Vieques’ beaches?!
After we’d settled and had a swim it was decided – we’d have
a beach braai! Everyone busied themselves thawing sausages and chops, packing a
lovely little picnic and putting the rum and cokes on ice.
The men, chests puffed up in anticipation of the age old
testosterone building ritual of fire making. They rushed to the beach, secured
the dinghies and went about searching for suitable firewood, and a protected
spot for the fire pit, out of the wind.
One by one all the dinghies were on the beach and the
evening was looking promising. What could be better than hanging with good
friends on a post card pretty beach, cocktail in hand, meat on the fire.
But then, as quickly as if they’d known, there was the total
onslaught. A take over to rival any rebel army. It was the 'no-see-ums' , affectionately known by scientists as ceratopogonidae.
We all began to jump and scratch and yelp uncontrollably. It
was a spectacle of limbs flailing, rum splashing, cocktails tossed aside for
the protection of ‘Off’. Cans were sprayed wildly as the people bounced around,
but it was no use, the little invisible vermin were immune to chemical sprays
and slaps and pleadings to cease. They ignored swearing and were not remotely
bothered by smoke as we formed a tight cluster there, hoping it would flush
them away. Instead, there we were a huddled mass of miserable bitten sods, eyes
watering from chemical sprays and smoke fumes, still smacking and slapping
ourselves silly.
Getting settled - already one friend is covering her head from incessant bites |
And another on the right is shaking out her hair |
The last photo taken - itching in full effect - Off bottle empty. Soon, mass exodus! |
A rumour began, that they would all go away and this hell
would end, as soon as the sun went down. So we braved on, we tried to withstand
the attack in hopes of an end in sight. It was a miracle we lasted over an hour
in the midst of the invisible war. The beach terrorists showed no mercy though.
The sun dropped as it does, beyond the edge of the world but we were still
under attack. The troops suddenly cracked. We could stand it no longer. Once
the meat was cooked, it was thrown onto paper plates, stuffed into sandy bags,
and the crowds made a mad dash for the water and for the safety of our
respective boats.
We arrived back out of breath, as if we’d outrun a frightful
enemy. I sat on the sugar scoop (back step) of Shiloh, still rubbing my scalp
where they’d managed to burrow and bite, causing a lingering itch and
eventually I poured myself over the side into the cool and welcoming water.
For some reason, these tiny no-see-ums are limited to one
area of attack. They can’t get to us over the couple hundred meters of sea
across the bay. It is the one stroke of luck we have. One thing the terrorists
cannot penetrate.
I sighed a huge sigh of relief as I climbed out of the water
and peered over at the moonlit beach. So, this is why we have ‘sun downers’ on
our boats in these beautiful bays. It’s what preserves our image of such
wonderful places. If we had to spend even one more evening on a beach, I think
we’d all give up sailing completely.
No comments:
Post a Comment