A lifetime in a year - lessons in doing without and gaining so much more

The things I’ve learned in one year:

I can live without toasters – if we really need some dried crispy bread, we can throw it under the broiler for a few seconds on each side… sigh too much work. So as I said, I can live without toast. Plus, there's french toast which involves a frying pan and butter... I can DO that!

I can live without a microwave – though reheating leftovers is more of a challenge and more incentive to eat everything on the first night!

I can live without long hot showers – this just makes me appreciate any visit to a marina or trip to visit family. Not sure I could live without a long hot shower FOREVER….

I can live without ironed clothes – if someone hadn’t ironed our clothes for us in Ghana, I’d have discovered this much earlier. Ironing is NOT an essential in my life! Bring on the wrinkles and creases.

I can live without high-heeled shoes – I could barely walk in these on land, now imagine wobbling and crawling in and out of a moving dinghy onto a moving boat or a non-moving jetty. That spells broken ankle. I’ll take flip flops any day. Wouldn’t mind if I never saw a close-toed shoe of any description again in my life. Plus since I spend lots of time on beaches and boats, I can wear my sole-less bead shoes!

I can live without cable TV – provided I can download some good movies from time to time using a good wifi, for those rare quiet evenings on board.

I can live without air-conditioning in 32 degree weather and 90 percent humidity – this is only because I have no choice. But let me tell you, I gasp with pleasure on every shopping trip when we step inside a crisp cool store… ahhhhhh

I love games! – we’ve become hooked on playing a domino game called Mexican Train. I could gather a group every day and play and play. I lose every game which might be why I need to keep playing. Statistically I’d have to win at least once if I kept playing, right? We’ve also been doing a weekly trivia quiz which I love, even though the prize is a bottle of toxic rum punch – made with 70 proof blindness-inducing pure alcohol. Yikes

I need to learn how to provision – It’s impossible for me to hit the grocery store less than twice a week. I can’t imagine buying kilos of rice or flour at once. I buy the small size of everything and wonder why the hell I did that when I wake up to an empty coffee jar and I’m floating out in a bay, that’s a dinghy and bus ride away from any store…

Cruising is a real lifestyle. All around me are people who don’t work in the classical sense – as in, they do not get paid – but whose days are filled from morning to night with chores, jobs, projects. But the upsides are infinite. They travel, they party, they try new things. They sacrifice and compromise on stuff. Things. Irrelevant really, in the big scheme of things. They swim with turtles and sting rays and lie in hammocks under swaying palm trees any day of the week. They might have had no sleep on an overnight passage or a windy, stormy night in the anchorage, but by morning they’ve arrived in a new bay or wake up to a bright warm sunshine.

You DO NOT need a lot of money to be a cruiser. There are boats out here that cost anywhere from USD$20,000 to $2,000,000. People live on budgets of USD$500 to $5,000 a month!!!

What you need to become a cruiser is a leap of faith, a willingness to ‘let go’ – of things and of the everyday ties of family and friends. You need to love freedom and adventure and a few challenges around every corner. The lifestyle gives you lots of pleasure and a fair helping of frustration. Oh, and lots of rum. In the Caribbean that is.

You must not be a planner, as every plan we have, from when to do laundry, to which country to travel to next and when, CHANGES. On a whim. Or during a chat with other cruisers over a game of Mexican Train and a rum punch.

But contrary to what my blog would have you believe, you do NOT have to be an extrovert or big socializer. In fact, many cruisers keep completely to themselves. Some prefer the lapping of the waves to the company of boisterous boaties, and that is perfectly acceptable. Some of us partiers appreciate the down days too!

I never knew how important the weather could be. To be a cruiser, you must be obsessed with the weather. Or at least it helps. Cruisers discuss storms and wind and tropical waves daily. Many times a day. 

We look at this site... alot.

 But if the weather is right, you can find yourself on the full moon, in the evening, rafted up in your dinghy, with 6 or more others, with snacks and drinks, drifting through the anchorage, cajoling the boats as you go, and marveling at the bright glowing orb in the sky. It beats sitting in front of reruns on cable TV, I’ve realised. 

There's the full moon! Just right of the beer...

It’s better than coming home after a stressful day in an office, with recirculated air, feelin frustrated and stagnated… even if you do get caught in the rain or soaked in salt water on your little journey.

I’ve realized I’m in exactly the right spot, even if that spot moves constantly, and knowing there are a million spots to anchor that could take us the rest of our days to discover, I’m in!!!!! 

One of our favourite uninhabited anchorages - Anse La Roche, Carriacou

Holli's random number of signs you've been away from your boat for too long:

Those telltale signs you’ve been away too long:

1.   1. You’re pale

2.     Your feet are actually getting used to close-toed shoes

3.     You plan your trips around road traffic instead of wind patterns

4.     You are starting to take running water for granted - hot water for dishes, tap running during teeth brushing, longer and longer showers – shame!

5.     You start thinking it’s normal to blow dry your hair

6.     You find yourself shopping and thinking of buying plug-in appliances!

7.     You’re actually noticing fashion trends – that don’t involve Crocs.

8.     You’re actually getting used to TV – with commercials!

9.     You haven’t seen a hand tool in months

10. You forget what it feels like to sweat

11. You’ve migrated from rum punch to red wine as your drink of choice

12. The regal sunset, hidden behind the highrises of the city, has faded away and no longer plays a role in happy hour, or indeed your lives. 

13. Sundowners? What?

13.5 You (I) really miss that connection with the sunset…. sigh

No zzz's at sea

I roll the name over and over on my tongue until it sounds absurd,

“Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe”

as the dark knobbly form of the island blurs in the distance.  Smoke billows from the volcanic peak of the grey, dusty remains of Monserrat off to our left. In the distance ahead, the promise of new adventures in Antigua. In between, just hours of blue ocean.

Today was supposed to be a short sail, just ‘around the corner’ from Deshaies where we’ve been ‘stranded’ for more days than planned, due to high winds and huge swells. But as sailors plans are apt to change with the wind, we discovered an hour out, that conditions were not going to allow us to safely enter the shallow channel, peppered with pesky coral heads. The waves were just too big still, so an instant decision was made, to soldier on to Antigua. A 2 hour journey just became a 9 hour journey.

After sails were set and the swell and wind settled a bit, there wasn’t much to do, and both the captain and I, after a night of little sleep, decided to take turns ‘napping’ en route.

I retired first. Headed down to our bed, and cozied into the undulating berth. But it raised and fell, there were squeaks and creaks and groans and bangs. The normal sounds of sailing. Only as I tried to free up my brain and relax into at least a semblance of sleep, my nerves and overactive imagination got the better of me. I lay there, imagining all the worst scenarios.

‘What if my captain gets knocked overboard and I come up later to a ghost boat?’

‘What was THAT noise? Not normal! Did something snap, crack?’

and on and on and on… and sleep eluded me completely. I made my way back up the galley steps looking defeated. Everything was of course fine. JW jumped at the opportunity to take his turn.

The captain in a hazy blue slumber en route...

 And there I found myself, wave watching, counting the peaks on the surrounding islands, singing aloud to my tunes, recalling names over and over in my head til they sounded silly. The wind was low, the waves moderate. No emergencies, perfect conditions for a nap.

My lack of ‘long passage’ experience will now become evident if it hasn’t before. I have just never been able to sleep while sailing. I wonder what will happen to me on a journey longer than 24 hours, when our night watches are doled out in 4 hour intervals and I lie there overthinking, anticipating when my time will be up and just how tired I’ll be and on and on…

Cruising friends say they love the long passages, weeks at a time at sea. They say you develop a routine, make meals, take turns on watches. Still can’t quite get my green little mind around it. Firstly, unless the sea is VERY smooth, you have to hold on just to walk from one area of the boat to the other. Cooking?! I suppose you get hungry enough and sick of quick snacks scoffed down while holding a railing or table edge with one hand… After all, there is a gimbled stove/oven (that swivels and compensates for the motion of the sea) on board for a reason!

But it’s the sleeping that worries me most. I’m liable to be a zombie a few days in.

I haven’t even begun to ask myself whether I’d go stir crazy out at sea for days and weeks.

My first two or three ‘dayer’ is coming up in a month or so. I’m looking forward to the new experience. Maybe before then I’ll learn a meditation technique or get used to chamomile tea or warm milk… whatever works.

We’ve arrived in Antigua! Yawn…

Un docteur s'il vous plait?

Like a mini sweat parade, donning the signature 'yachtie uniform' of flip flops and backpacks, , I lead my captain through the bustling slightly urine scented streets of Fort de France from doctor’s office to doctor’s office. 

Each time, we find a small inconspicuous door, painted black with a small sign. We open and climb sets and sets of stairs – dusty, dirty stairwells in ancient buildings. Each time we arrive to another disappointment. The office is closed or there are 30 sick people squished into the inadequate seats, the afternoon sun throwing dust over the coughing lot. We leave and trudge back  down into the bright city streets.

The day began like many others of late, with my ailing captain on his daily dose of Voltaren, waiting for the drug to activate so he can get up and move.

He really needs a cortisone injection or weeks of physio for his aggravated sciatic nerve, or both, but as vagabonds on the sea, moving from port to port, he will likely receive neither.

Life on a boat is hard. Well it’s hard work at times – which is what caused the captain’s injury, but it’s also hard when it comes to the things we all take for granted on land. These are the days when living without a home, a community, a structured society as a catchment are more difficult than others.

We were out of water when the carnival was over the other day, so as the regular Martiniquans headed back to work and school and general café lounging, we had to get our tanks refilled or face not bathing… again.

And then there is the issue of finding medical treatment when you need it. We are actually in quite a modern, civilized port. Probably the most likely chance here of finding a rheumatologist or efficient medical care in general. Or so you’d think. But considering our limited time in each place, and the bogged down French medical system here, not to mention our language barrier…  it has proved to be an insurmountable task.

So, drenched in sweat, hungry, grumpy and completely disheartened with the medical community in Martinique, we found ourselves once again in the cool fried world of McDonalds. Free wifi. Familiarity. Food (sort of).

Caribbean contrasts

This is my first year cruising. In a couple months we’ll have spent a full 12 months living onboard our boat. To landlubbers it sounds like an eternity, but to seasoned cruisers, we are mere infants, barely initiated to the lifestyle.

I have to side with the sailors on this one. I can’t believe we’ve been living on the ocean for 300 days. And in this time, not including our flight back to Canada and some sailing trips up and down the same islands with visitors, we’ve only sailed the distance between Grenada and St Lucia, or in quantitative terms, about 150 miles.

150 miles. In 10 months. OMG! Good thing I was not expecting a fast paced lifestyle. It’s hard to imagine how we’ve managed to fill the time, for a good 7 months, waiting out the hurricane season in Grenada, and a bit of island hopping for the rest of the time. But it ‘sailed’ by really. Time flies when you’re having fun.

Having fun takes many forms. It’s the contrasts I love best.

Today, headed into the marina on Shiloh’s side kick, the I LOVE SHILOH dinghy, we were hailed by the gang of local fishermen at the entrance to the lagoon. Arms waving, conch shells piled high, the frantic group got our attention and we spun around to see what it was all about.

The old wooden boats, bashing together as the guys unraveled gunky nets, all rippling muscles, sharp knives and fish blood, provided the backdrop. They needed a favour.

A fishing boat - St Lucia

Minutes later we had a stocky, rough looking, local fisherman called Allison (no joke!) on board with his daily catch, dripping fishy juices out of the once white sack, between our toes, onto the dinghy floor. He lived in Gros Islet, the poor seaside town just on the other side. He needed a lift across the lagoon entrance with today’s bounty. 100ft later, we had him docked at his destination and we were on our way.

Minutes after that, dinghy ‘parked’ we’d walked across the boardwalk of the well manicured marina, stopped off among the 10 stylish patios, choosing the Italian pizzeria, and I was sipping the foam off my cappuccino, downloading programs on the free wifi.

Contrasts.

From islands where goats rule the dusty roads, to others with cars spewing fumes down the highway strips.

From paint chipped, open gutter villages to the fanciest of marinas...

A local game of dominoes - Castries town, St Lucia

The fancy marina at Rodney Bay - St Lucia

A private residence on Rodney Bay Lagoon

We spent a month over the holiday season in Carriacou, where finding carrots or potatoes was hit and miss. Where the tiny local shops would wait with shelves emptying, for the promise of new stock brought over by the ferries. Christmas lunch was a hodgepodge of what we could find, five or six boats banding together to create a great day despite the lack of availability of much. Tomatoes were a scarce commodity, turkey brought in from Grenada – what a treat!, while tropical avocados were nowhere to be found.

Abundance in St Lucia after the droughts of supply in Carriacou

A few miles north, after a challenging sail, I am speeding through the aisles of a massive supermarket, where gluten-free has it’s own section and imported organic chocolates are prominently displayed. I can barely choose in this place. It’s sensory overload after months of living ‘island-style’ and making due.

Do I have enough room in my tiny impractical boat fridge for sour cream, yogurts, sliced hams, cheeses, corn on the cob, steaks, three types of apples, kiwis, chocolate milk (captain’s favourite) etc etc etc….

One thing is sure, I am going to gain weight over the next few months, judging by our (roughly) scheduled island stops. Martinique and Guadeloupe, still owned and well stocked by France promise great wine, cheeses, baguettes.

Maybe we should stop for longer in Dominica. There they’ve got more hills and forests to hike, and less restaurants and stores to indulge.

For now, I’ve got to get out of this café, walk off my lunch en route to buy ingredients for supper and maybe squeeze in a swim.

Oh, and some sailing might be scheduled for the near future as well!

From suburbia to the deep blue sea

It’s times like these that I know I’m crazy. Completely off the rails. When will I wake up and realise I’m a little suburban girl from Canada, raised on shopping malls and bike rides through paved parks. Raised on safety handles and guard rails. Keeping me away from trouble and adventure.

When? Today? As my knuckles ache from the tight grip I keep on tables, counters, poles, jostled and thrown from side to side by the relentless waves of the ocean, my captain and partner at the helm, navigating through the swell.

As he shimmies along the smooth fiberglass surface, out of the relative safety of the cockpit to adjust lines and sails and other sailor-type-things, I start to contemplate my fate, should he be thrown overboard.

About all I know is the tiny man with his arms raised on our chart plotter – push that! – it’s the ‘man overboard’ button and it takes the GPS coordinates of where the ‘man’ was lost. Then what?! Our sails are up. Engines off. We are zipping along through huge waves. Turn the boat around? And what would happen to the sails? The boom would swing violently over… then I realise I don’t know how to take them down. Not really. I’ve seen JW a hundred times, I know the lines, the nicely labeled cleats, the winches and the rest, but doing all this myself? It seems I am a goldfish student as far as all of this goes, I get my command, I do the deed as best I can, and then I’ve forgotten.

As I watch him edging away, each moment a potential sea surge could throw him 10 feet, I start to think I should have taken sailing lessons. I should have spent more time practising knots and sails and less time slamming dominoes and beer! Less rum, more learning.

An hour earlier I did my ‘panic dance’, as JW likes to call it. Headed out of the calm bay, anchor up, and full sails rigged. The wind was 4 knots, then 12, then as we rounded the cliff it hit 25 knots in an instant. My eyes became saucers and every muscle clenched. 20 tons of boat jolted up, tilting with the full force of the wind in the sails. JW jumped to the ready, asked me to hold a line on the winch I think, but it’s all a blur, he had to ask me to move aside as my hands started to shake.

“Relax!”

When, on this 9 hour journey, he needed to go down below for a bit of rest, having tethered me onto the boat with a bright yellow line, I took over the helm on watch. 5 minutes in I heard a snap bang. Looked around but couldn’t see much. After a while I noticed one of the ropes (lines) hanging down from the mast, looking broken and loose. I looked behind me and there was the same colour rope hanging out behind us in the water. Oh shit! This can’t be good. I had to wake the captain. Turns out the topping lift line had snapped and nothing was holding up the boom. I had no clue!

The day before we’d had a smooth sail – steady winds, calm seas, sun shining. Engines off, sails up, the wind carried us along confidently. We listened to music en route, sat on the bow, checked e-mails and facebook. Basically the kind of sailing I can handle. On days like those I think I’m really getting a grip on this sailing thing, that I’ve learned a lot and that I’m pretty cool. What a life! Carefree. 

 And then SLAM! The ocean gives me a face slap and I find myself trembling and of not much use to anyone in a situation where knowledge and experience are king. Where panic is superfluous and calm is necessary. Thank god for my captain.

My skills in blogging and Scrabbling have no use out here on the ocean. I realise my past lives have ill prepared me for this one.

But like I got used to 6 months with no power in Ghana all those years ago, sleeping on the floor and fending off malaria infested mosquitos for a good 5 years, I will also face up to the less-than-easy side of life on a boat.

I vow to pay more attention to words like halyard, rigging, topping lift, hove to. I promise to learn and practice some nautical knots and watch how the engines are maintained.

As long as I can soak up the beauty of a sunkissed mountain jutting out of the ocean on our arrival at a new island, try the bright pungent local fruits in the many bustling markets once we’ve arrived, and swim with the mind boggling number of wild and wonderful fish living just under us on this journey.

 And as long as I can find a good cappuccino, a bagel and cream cheese (dare I say with smoked salmon?!) here and there along the way, I wouldn’t trade it back for the safety of suburbia at all. 

A pirate's life

It’s my birthday so I can be a pirate, right? 

Well actually my birthday is not until Monday but that’s never a good night to hit the town, so we decided to celebrate tonight with Elvis and Mrs. Scissorhands, our new pals. The plan is to do supper at The Devil’s Table, a pirate themed waterfront joint, run by Swedes. In Bequia. Go figure.

 Meantime, I sit in idyllic surroundings, a fig tree overhead, the turquoise water of the bay just beyond my reach. We’re using the free wifi, but the restaurant isn’t actually open as it’s still technically low season.  I don't mind at all. Though I hear that December brings with it alot of holiday celebration on this little island, and hopefully some of our yachtie buddies as well. There could be many rum squalls ahead. So for now, the calm is blissful.

 We’re nursing sore backs and wrist muscles from yesterday’s three hour cleaning and boat job marathon. Followed by a couple hours of amazing snorkeling. The work is always balanced by the wonderment. The dinghy breaks down, we get towed. JW fixes it ably, and we head to the beach for an intimate little barbeque as the sun sets with friends.... it goes on.

Life is sweet. Every day is a celebration really – no difference in a birthday. I celebrate the freedom to move independently from island to island, and I celebrate the privilege of waking to a beautiful sun and fresh blue sea every morning.

Shiloh at full sail between Tobago Cays and Bequia

 I celebrate the miracle of sharing every day with my best friend and lover, exploring the world together.

I am open to the newness of brightly painted wooden houses, and a little blond rasta boy, playing wire cars by his mother’s brightly coloured jewelry stand. I soak in the smells of fish on a grill, bright local flowers like perfume hanging heavy in the heat of the afternoon. I am like a child with eyes and ears peaked – the rooster crowing, the clothes blowing on the lines. Everything welcomes me and dares me to look further, walk more, taste everything, be more alive. 

So it’s my birthday (soon) and I will celebrate by acknowledging and absorbing, and feeling it all.

And tonight I may get at least one sheet to th' wind ;) 

The last few weeks of hurricane season - biding time in style

The hurricane season is coming to an end, which means that boats are on the move. Creeping out from Grenada’s safe bays, as if from hibernation, winches grind, anchor chains creak into motion, up up up against the sludgy layers of sea growth and months of stasis. And they’re off. Trinidad to haul out before heading to distant shores, or westward to Bonaire. Some are heading north.

But the season isn’t quite over, and that means some will be caught in the last tropical storms that ravage the region before quieting for another six months.

We lived in a state of limbo this week – all eyes and ears on the weather as a huge tropical storm developed out in the Atlantic ocean. Grenada  is wonderful but we have been feeling that urge to stretch our legs in new surroundings and the movement around us is infectious. So we planned to head north, to Carriacou for a start. But each day the wind and wave forecasts have delayed our departure. 

Hard to believe such rough weather was heading our way with this view from Secret Harbour marina!

 But as it is, cruiser life continues unabated as the days and hours and angry clouds move along.

I busied myself with beading and sudokus, after cabin cleaning and the continuous removal of mold. I combed the crumbling heat soaked streets of St. Georges with a friend, in search of a rubber spatula and shoes for her little girl. In and out of stores, each piled high with Chinese wares, junk junk junk. I spotted with glee, punk rock Halloween wigs and Hello Kitty sneakers.

Back on Shiloh there were chores to be done. While JW dug into the task of replacing a broken hatch, I learned that black silicone paste on a white boat is a nightmare. And once the messy, hot and dirty job was complete, I happened to spot from inside, that I could see the sun through the edge of the newly installed hatch.

 I’d wished that I hadn’t mentioned it when I found us pulling out the gloopy screws and reapplying thick layers of the black-paste-from-hell. As a result, JW has the signature hands of a working man, with black rimmed fingernails, mechanic-esque lines, worn deep in the grooves. But the hatch is watertight and this is apparently how we must view the project’s success.

 We spent some time on the Internet at our ‘secret’ high speed marina, Secret Harbour, and on jumping back in the dinghy to head back to the boat with 4 heavy jerry cans full of water, the starter motor handle came right off in JW’s hand. We stared at it dumbfounded for a moment but then my handyman ‘made a plan’ and took off the motor cover, reset the remaining part of the severed rope and it worked once more. 

 We ate a lot this week as well – delicious suppers on our friend’s yacht Khaya Moya, barbeques on the beach and even a roast pork feast at Taffy’s Welsh bar in Clarke’s Court Bay.

 So it’s a rough life, this living in limbo. The storm swung north and though we braced ourselves for whipping winds and torrential downpours last night, we were treated with a cool breeze for sleeping and a light rain that provided some water for dishwashing this morning.

And tomorrow we’ll head off, like many others, in search of new bays, new trails to hike, shops, beaches, wifi hot spots.

And some friends ask us if we get bored out here?!