Pancakes not passports: southern hospitality for the maritime squatters

The captain’s lounge is an oasis. A sparsely furnished, brightly lit, air-conditioned haven, beyond which lies the wasteland of a boatyard.

Dust swirls down boat lined corridors in the furthest corners, where sailing dreams come to die. Up in the front where boats are in various stages of repair, muddy puddles create an obstacle course in the rough loose stone surface. Everything is a hazard. Multi-coloured extension cords criss-cross the ground like snakes playing Twister. Chemicals, paint fumes and fiberglass dust fill the stagnant humid air, mosquitos move in gangs, hiding in dark places and emerging as the sun sets. 

Our friend AlleyCat working on a new project in the yard

The only safe way to breathe in a boatyard!

Shiloh is here for some healing – replacement of her essential systems after the epic lightning strike. It takes time. There are insurance companies to deal with, surveyors, quotes, delays… For the crew it is not a pleasant visit. Nothing nice about clambering up and down a lean-to ladder to hobble across the yard for a shower or a pee. No fridge, no cooking in the mayhem of tools and wood shavings and the electronic graveyard strewn across all surfaces. By 7pm it’s 36 degrees celcius in the boat.

Shiloh's current mayhem

And this doesn't even consider the humidex factor!!!

But we are lucky. We are staying in a hotel by night. We can escape this industrial, miserable boat hospital and pretend we are tourists in St Augustine. Here to enjoy the history and the culture.

And culture we found. But not the type St Augustine hoped we’d find, with their upcoming 450^th year celebrations and connections to the king of Spain.

No, we found the meth ravaged pancake eaters and fall-down-drunk biker chicks of ‘Debby’s’. We just can't get our heads around it, but pancakes for supper? It's a thing. Actually it's a thaaaaang.

It’s attached to the hotel and after a long day ‘in the yard’ we couldn’t be bothered to venture further. Our friendly waitress seated us in a torn up forest green vinyl booth and presented us with menus. JW noted the hole in his seat and the cheap prices and asked me if this was perhaps a government subsidized place, “like a soup kitchen maybe?”

He ordered something smothered in pudding-brown gravy, with scoops of distinctly institutional looking mashed potato.  

I made the quintessential mistake in a restaurant where syrup is the condiment of choice… I ordered the healthy option. I was informed that salmon could only be ordered medium well due to health concerns. I should have known. A sad plate of fishy sawdust arrived with little rocky pebbles that passed for brown rice and a few barely formed, mushy broccoli florets.

But the food paled in comparison to the clientele and our waitress who endeared herself to us right away. Must have been JW’s accent. Exotic as it is…

In her lilting syrupy drawl, she told us her name – her mother so loved the southern belles. ‘Crimson O’Mara’ inserted between regular first and last names. JW asked if her passport had all those names on it, to which she grinned from ear to ear and exclaimed,

“Passport?! I ain’t so privileged to have a passport! Ain’t never been outta Florida!” For us maritime squatters who move fluidly through borders, it's unfathomable.

Crimson O’Mara with the beautiful green eyes and brown jagged teeth then shared with us her basic life story. Pregnant at 15, which led to 3 more of the same, so that now at 30 years old she is the mother of 4. Works 2 jobs, lives in a tiny 2 bdrm apartment with hubby, kids AND her mama. Mama gets $500 a month as pension and spends $300 of that on a storage unit. Mama has ‘champagne tastes and beer pockets’ though and once bought a block of brie cheese! Crimson was so angry she (insert drawl) “threw it clear across the room!”

She was real, raw, sliced open and served with grits. She was the stuff of fiction yet here she was in the flesh – red polyester uniform, hair net and all. When we were leaving she said she enjoyed us. I couldn’t tell her how much we cherished her. She was at once our entertainment, and she tugged at our heartstrings with her vulnerability.

Back at the hotel the next morning “housekeeping!” rang out in a low husky voice. Immediately after that, two scrawny sickly pale guys, backward caps and sagging pants, burst in the door. All bushy eyebrowed and surly scowls, they scurried back out as quickly. We weren’t being robbed, though even after a few days of meeting our housekeeping crew in the mornings, I’m convinced the hotel is part of some ex-convict rehabilitation program.

We’ve changed hotels now, and restaurants too. But the Americans we meet are the same. From the Walmartians and Home Depot greeters to the fellow sailors and boatyard staff, they are all open and genuine, helpful and kind.We were even invited to speak (at a bar of course!) about our recent lightning strike by the local cruising sailors.

JW giving his talk on lightning

We are entertained despite our predicament. We are overfed if not well fed. We are missing life at sea but we are living a whole new and unexpected adventure.

They say a hurricane is coming now. We will cross all our fingers and toes that it swings offshore, but we may find ourselves amongst our new Floridian family, watching it hit from the windows of our temporary oasis.

The waiting game

Well I’ve spilled chocolate cake mix into the holes of my beautiful brain coral, collected from some white sand beach… Who has these problems?!

And that is not the worst of it. Apparently boat ovens are a different breed, and the metal plate under the racks inside is an essential component for raising the temperature and distributing the heat. When I removed it, smelling with a burning oil, as I put in my chocolate cupcakes, it spelled baking disaster.

An hour later the batter, like thick soup at the top, and burnt to a shining rigid plate at the bottom of each doomed cake, I gave up. Maybe the fish enjoyed the congealed mess.

These are the activities that have filled my time during the week of waiting.

Our gasket has still not arrived, after being ordered from the US, sent to Grenada and now apparently on it’s way in the ferry, to Carriacou.

Yesterday after the awaited call from the shipping agent, we hopped on a local mini bus with our boat papers in hand and filled out forms at customs, then ‘mailed them’ aboard the ferry. The process was a hot and bureaucratic one. It seems we have spent far more in time and transport for this little item than it could ever be worth. But then without it we are stuck.

In one place, in a boat. Not what it’s all about really.

In the meantime, we’ve hiked the island in all it's glory, barbecued some pigtails, seen a dead cow face up, eyes bulging; had a chili party on Shiloh with 12 cruisers. Blessing, the entrepreneurial driver/tour guide/fast food delivery man showed us a fancy bar in a car wash and a jerk center in town. We tried mutton soup on the sidewalk, snorkeled on some great reefs and spent quite a few hours in the night hearing and watching the wind blow, it’s fierce force ripping ships from their safely nestled anchoring spots.

Car decor in the streets of Hillsborough

The dead cow

A view of Tyrell Bay from our hike

At Carriacou's southern tip - at Shell Bay

Our 'driveway' - the dinghies awaiting their captains

Kiosk in the streets of Hillsborough

Soursop for sale - apparently it fights cancer

The wind is supposed to die down and along with it, the 11 feet swells, by the weekend. By then we should have the awaited gasket as well, all installed and working. St. Lucia bound we shall be.

For now though, there’s Scrabble online,  Scrabble with sailors, suppers aboard, rum squalls and right now some more snorkeling!

About travelling in circles

Our head gasket is blown.

Sounds so dramatic. I envision cartoon explosions and resulting water fountains. But in reality we’ve lived with this for the past two weeks, making like all was well with our guests on board, filling the water in the one engine for each trip, then switching that engine off right after leaving the bay and back on again to assist with maneuvering on arrival at a new port.

Between this and our bulkhead coming away from the hull, causing an unsettling rubbing motion in a cupboard, (temporarily fixed by my captain with clothes pegs), we decided we had to head back down to Carriacou for the repair work. And due to timing, for Christmas too.

Some say we are going backwards. This makes me wonder about destinations and goals and ‘keeping up with the mariners’ in our newly chosen life of cruising. It is a phenomenon that cruisers congregate in ‘safe zones’ like Grenada in hurricane season, then head either north or west as soon as November rolls around. And they seem to head out FAST – skipping what are, in my opinion, a lot of great islands and adventures therein.

What direction is right, when we are surrounded by a tropical paradise on all sides and we are not living to anyone’s schedule? Is it human nature to set goals and linear directions, so as to strive toward achievement?

We have definitely tread backward over our blue tracks on the radar/GPS. But then we have done this for weeks, taking visiting guests to islands we loved, places we knew were worth sharing. Each time, through the eyes of someone else, we discovered something new and amazing. Is that backwards?

As we pulled around the jutting rock at the north end of Salt Whistle Bay on the quaint island of Mayreau for the third time in as many weeks, JW and I busied ourselves with the anchoring – searching for sandy patches in the clear water below, assessing the swell in the bay. And then I noticed our guest, like the one before her, standing up front, taking in the beauty before running for her camera. She was in awe. We had brought her to paradise. 

Salt Whistle Bay, Mayreau

 And though we booked lobster supper with Black Boy and Debbie on the beach each time, it was a new experience each time. We were seated at the two picnic tables with different diners from far off places – Sweden, France; new locals with quirky personalities and various techniques for their marriage proposals to our visiting single ladies. We were treated to a new musical serenade for our supper each visit. From Dolly Parton to Euro pop, to reggae Christmas numbers. Each time though, the buttery, garlicy lobster was divine – special to be feasting with our toes in the sand below.

In Canouan, an island run almost entirely by a mysterious company ‘CCA’ who’s vehicles line the dusty goat ridden streets, we discovered only on the third visit, a set of beaches on the windward side, and a little gem of a restaurant. Run by some young Italians, with separate menus for tourists and for workers of the omnipotent company, we managed to wedge our way into their hearts and cheaper set of menus. Surrounded by Romanian, Croatian and Italian men with hearty appetites and boisterous pool games underway, we felt transformed to a different galaxy. A glimpse of another world.

These experiences are what make cruising so intriguing. The smells and sounds of the newly discovered. The promise that you will meet someone new, try a different food, swim at a new beach.

Hiking through the centre of the mystical island of Mustique, I was transformed to a Canadian park in the summer. Acres of manicured park lawns, horse stables and children’s playgrounds. There is no other place in the Caribbean like this.

A tortoise we met on the roads of Mustique

 As we headed through the winding roads, met by many slow moving tortoises just roaming freely, we noticed one striking thing. These were our only friends along the way. Mustique was a ghost town of an island, created as a private retreat for the rich and famous, it doesn’t allow anyone residency unless they buy, or are working in one of the 54 mansions or few tiny exclusive hotels. The result is a spooky quiet that permeates. The houses are set far off the road, behind huge imposing gates.

The main strip, with it’s 4 shops – a bakery, 2 boutiques and a gourmet grocery remind me of a cottage town in Canada as well. Manicured and garbage free for the most part, it’s an example of what the Caribbean could look like with a few clean up crews on duty all the time!

The boutiques on Mustique

 We splurged and ate at Firefly at the top of the hill, Shiloh down below in the distance. I felt like a spoiled elitist, spending crazy money on Perrier and cute food, sitting at an opulent table where Tommy Hilfiger (a resident) and Alicia Keys had been dining a few days earlier.

But I had just as much fun in the streets of Union island at a free local festival celebrating the nine mornings before Christmas.

In a Roots shop on Union's main strip during the night festival

Last night, all the way ‘back’ in Carriacou we joined the barefoot gang of cruisers and a few locals, raising funds to build a new little house for ‘Slow’ – a local character who’d had a mishap with a mosquito coil…. We ate ‘oil down’ from a huge cauldron and washed it down with 5EC rum.

And so we’ve come full circle. From south to north and back south, from the exclusive to the down to earth venues, from one spot of paradise to another.

And no doubt we will head further north, but slowly! And if we decide to sail somewhere we’ve already been, I won’t consider it a backward move. Because our need for a new gasket head brought us back to a family of friends and fun for our first Christmas on Shiloh.

The good the bad and the ugly

The good news is that Shiloh is fixed! All her parts are working, or at least all those we know about until we get moving and test it all out.

The bad news is that it has taken a good two or three extra weeks as more and more ‘issues’ were discovered.

The discovery that we had an internal seal leaking AFTER the haul out, led to calling help onboard, moving our 300lb engine, through the bedroom hatch with a rope contraption, and another discovery, that a water pump had been leaking salt water and other bits and bobs were corroded….

Finally all the parts arrived and were installed, and all the goopy thick oil was pumped out from under our engine (and bed!), and we are ready to go!

The bad news is that this week, for the first time in a month or so, the winds have changed completely, to north/north east – which is exactly the opposite of what we need to sail north!

The good news though, is that some old cruising buddies have come back to Grenada and the cruising life, and we’ve had a blast with friends, new and old. 

 We've seen some epic sunsets and had some great get togethers. Our delays meant we were around for the great Halloween party this week at the fancy Port Louis Marina in a … yes it’s true…. Airconditioned bar! There were some amazing costumes and some unfortunate ones. Let's just say that orange blow up boobs are just not a good look on JW...

The mermaid and the squid

Our friends who won best costume - as California sushi rolls (yes the balloons are the caviar!)

 The bad news is that the infamous northerly swells have hit our anchorage, which means the boats are tossed violently about, lifting and plunging. Inside, the people and their belongings fall from side to side, bottles tip, hips smash on door frames, all while the horizon bobs in and out of view.

But luckily we have friends in fancy places (ie the marina) so we can come on land and take indulgent showers and sit on terra firma for sundowners. And there’s an awesome two mile white sandy beach just a dinghy ride away.

But the lure of new adventures calls. We now have plans… yes plans… to provision (with food and drink that is either unavailable up island or cheaper in Grenada), fill up propane tanks, and move. If only one or two anchorages north of here. Today!

By the end of the weekend we should be out in deeper waters, with the wind in our sails, or the sound of diesel motors as we beat against the wind on our nose.

Either way, windward islands, watch out! The *DEET fleet is heading to unsuspecting anchorages.

*DEET Fleet is a term of endearment coined by my friend Leslie on a vessel called Texas Two Step, given to a group of us party animal boats, who have travelled together, standing for ‘Definitely Entertaining Every Time’, and used as a play on the word DEET (which is actually an Acronym for a lethal anti-mosquito ingredient in bug spray, used in copious amounts while in rum squalls on the beach).

Days like these

Some days are lazy hazy lolling, where you are in tune with the waves that gently rock the boat. You doze and read, snack, sit out on the deck and observe the bay and your ever changing set of nautical neighbors. You match the sway of the palms on the beach... There is nothing to buy or organise or plan or attend, and the cleaning (which is always there), can wait.

 And then there are the other type of days. Where a calm day quickly evolves into something completely different. Where a simple engine check in the morning leads to a discovery, that changes all your plans and has you trying to organise an emergency haul out with a boatyard, because your sail drive seal is leaking and there is salt water seeping in.

These types of days are apt to disintegrate instantly, all preorganised travel and social plans, and will no doubt involve lots of tools, grease, paper towel, sweating and help from  boating buddies. Thanks be to our boating buddies who always have the tool we’re missing, the much needed second opinion on the technical issue at hand, and the words of encouragement when our faith in the boat and the lifestyle waver.

These days lead to the action days, where you wake early amidst black clouds and rabid squalls and start praying for a break in the weather so you can get around the island and anchor. And you do arrive, as a huge black cloud threatens, unleashing the heavens just as you come in to anchor. So, wet and chilly, you prepare for your haul out. Fenders are gathered and lines (ropes) set in all four corners of the boat, awaiting the hopefully smooth entry into the narrow concrete slip.

And the speed and depth meters need to be changed out with the dummies, which involves dismantling yet another cabin bed, throwing all the stored items aside and watching JW climb down in the cavity. Then each plug is swiftly removed, and for that brief instant the panic inside, as you see the sea below and it gushes into the cavity around JW, as he stuffs the dummy plug in with a determined twist. And repeat for the other. Sometimes a sea creature comes in as well so it’s not a boring job. This time, it involved a small purple slimy octopus who was quickly repatriated to his ocean home. All that’s left is sopping up the saltwater that got onto and into everything in the storage space during the swap-out.

 On these days your captain must be on his best form – manouevering the 20 ton mammoth beast called Shiloh into a narrow concrete parking bay of sorts. You throw the ropes to the guys onshore and captain JW does his thing – and we’re in.

 They force us off the boat and so we watch with the others ashore as the haul out machine heaves it’s massive slings under Shi, and lifts her up, up up.

On days like this, when your boat is swinging precariously above your head, you come face to face with the reality of the sea. It has basically claimed her from beneath. Creatures, shells, plants, all grow and thrive. The propellers are encrusted with layers of oysters and other shells. Then they are blown away by a team with power washers and metal scrapers. And the smell… you remember the smell.

The real work is to begin at that stage and as the boat administrator, you leave your able captain to deal with the technical job, and you head to the marina office to deal with the payments. And booking a hotel, and packing an overnight bag. And when he is done, you climb the hill with backpacks on, pay again at the hotel, climb further to the room, open the door and collapse with a sigh.

You each take one hour showers and wash the matting hair, twirl in all this frivolous space, set the early morning alarm for tomorrow’s ‘splash’ where you will reverse all that was done today.

And you lie down on the white expanse, falling hard into a still, non rocking sleep.

The evolution of a sailor

As I sit sipping my coffee, looking out into the bay, my little tube of lip balm rolls back and forth in a steady rhythm on the table beside me.

It’s 7am. It is a rolly anchorage and we had a bit of a bumpy night. But I slept well.

I’m realising two things – that gone are the nights of lying awake, terrified of the strange noises and constantly worrying about our anchor dragging, sending us out to sea, or into the boat behind us. Secondly, the rise and fall of a swell in the bay doesn’t affect me any longer. I’ve become used to my house pitching up and down, with the horizon peaking through my windows and disappearing just as fast, over and over.

It proves how adaptable the human brain is. There was a day when this movement would have had my tummy gripped in nausea.

Yesterday as we made our way from Union Island to Mayreau, with 21 kn winds on our nose and huge swells rocking Shiloh quite hard, both JW and I realised we’ve overcome seasickness. This journey a month ago would have warranted Gravol or Dramamine or Stugeron.

So many things have changed while they’ve stayed the same. There’s been a paradigm shift within me.

When we made all our plans to leave work, home, land life, I suffered from a deep seated fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what could go wrong, and of my complete inability to face whatever that might be.

But the longer we’ve been at sea, the more great experiences and things that have gone wrong, have made this life all that more believable, manageable, loveable.

A ‘boat boy’ has just motored up to Shiloh. I peek out and a blond blue-eyed rasta man is grinning at me. His big red wooden boat is called ‘Yellow’. He offers me fresh baked baguette. I tell him we’re fine, but thanks and he’s off. I love those moments.

I loved the moment a lot less a few days ago, when we found ourselves motoring forward in a crowded bay, only to hear the one engine fail completely. 

 As we started to drift dangerously back toward an old anchored boat, I flew down the stairs, to the port aft cabin, woke our friend and crew member from her nap, and threw all the bedding out into the hallway so JW could get into the engine compartment underneath and find out what was going on.

Meanwhile we called the friends on our ‘fleet’ (the boats we’ve been traveling with), to let them know what was happening. 

 We enlisted two dinghys to act as the port engine and JW motored forward on the starboard engine while I dropped anchor and we all crossed our fingers, hoping it would set. Once we were securely in place, the team dived down to have a look at our port propeller.

Turns out we had motored right over a dark grey, unmarked fishing rope. It had become completely entangled in the prop as it spun, bringing it to a halt. Hence the engine failing. It had even begun to melt into itself with the heat of the action.

As diving and holding my breath for long periods under water while prying melted rope from a propeller are not yet on my list of skills, I stood above, while members of our fleet spent the couple hours up and down, coming up with chunks of the offending rope.

 This experience was not pleasant. But it was not wracked with the horror it would have been, had we been alone or had we been a month younger at sea. But these things happen.

I’m realising that, just like the rest of life, sailing has it’s ups and downs. Things work out. Things work out much better without the fear and panic.

I now know why boats come so slowly into bays, with crew right on the front tip of the boat, surveying and scrutinizing the water below. I will follow suit.

It’s a learning curve. But now it’s a fun one. Some things will change the more I know, some will stay the same.

Apparently seasoned sailors get their dinghy painters (ropes) caught in their props, and even those who have crossed oceans have been known on occasion, when the winds are high or gusty, to spend sleepless nights, worried about dragging anchor…

How to make a boat a home

Is it human nature to want to mold your environment to reflect your presence? I find that even in the small confines of a boat, with the big beautiful world around us as an infinite yard/playground, we are still looking internally at what about the boat we can alter, change or add to.

We've been visiting lots of other boat-homes and I am inspired, amazed and surprised by what personal touches and innovative designs people have managed to create within a severely limited space.

We bought our boat out of charter. It's previous life was a week in week out transport of tourists, whose aim was to motor to as many beautiful places as possible in the shortest possible time. As chartering is expensive, the aim was always to get as many bodies on board as possible, to share costs.

So Shiloh hosted eight guests at any given time, fully utilising her 4 berths (beds) and 4 heads (bathrooms). She did her job well and made it through the constant turnaround for over 7 years fairly unscathed.

Now that we have moved aboard, we have completely different needs. 4 heads is almost ridiculous. Even in large suburban homes, 4 bathrooms is an overkill. We've got an ensuite for each bedroom, even though these bedrooms are smaller than the average walk-in closet!

We have no shelving, no knick knacks, no clutter. And though that is great, the boat is still looking less loved, less lived in than others.

We will definitely add things as we go, but there comes a point where boat owners have to decide how much to alter or change. Structurally speaking, removing bathrooms involves plumbing and throughhulls and can get complicated. Changing one of the berths into a storage or living space can also be quite complicated, not to mention expensive.

But this is our home and we plan to be with Shiloh for quite a while. So she is worth our best efforts.

The question is where to draw the line. Can we change the colour of the interior wood or even change the surfaces altogether? Should we recover the lounge suite cushions with leather?

The list gets longer, the longer we live aboard.

Installing the new dodger

 We have already added some practical things like a clear dodger above the cockpit so that we don't get soaked during rainstorms and high seas. We've added side panels as well for a cozier and less wet experience at anchor. We added nice white vinyl cushions on the outdoor seating area.

I'm sure we'll continue bit by bit over the months and years.

All around us the turquoise sea holds us afloat and captures our senses. Palm trees wave from the shore. But I guess that a home is always something we need to create, no matter how beautiful our surroundings nor how small the residence.

Pass the rum and the spanner...

 

Not every day can be all sandy beaches and pina coladas. At least not with a fair share of boat troubles and technical glitches.

When we decided to pursue the ‘boat life’, I remember JW stating that what it’s all about is ‘fixing your boat in paradise’.

This morning began as many others, the sun peeking over the edge of the hatch above us, kissing us with a warm ‘good morning’. Friendly voices on the cruisers net, letting us know about the weather, the waves and the social events of the week.

Eventually we got out of bed, fired up the kettle and decided that today we’d head for Prickly Bay, as we’ve been invited to Peking Duck Grenada style over that way this evening.

No problem, after a makeshift breaky of whatever’s left in our galley (thawed bacon and Raisin Bran, UHT milk and a couple slices of stale bread) – we completed the moving checklist of hatch closing, dishes away etc. and revved up the engines.

The trip was peaceful – a cornucopia of blues spilling from above and below from the sky to the reefs on either side of us. The sun on our backs, we came round Prickly Point into the busy bay.

All no problem so far. Should have known.

We headed toward a mooring ball that we’d anchored near before. There it was bobbing all pink and chubby in the choppy little waves. We headed for it, swung around and once we had it on our port side (that’s the left J), JW called up for me to drop the anchor. I pressed the right button – the ‘down’ on the windlass remote control. And down it went, fast. But when I removed my finger, the chain kept flying down into the murky water below.

“I’m not doing that!” I shouted and JW spun round with a big “Sh*t!”.

When this happens, the first rule is to stay away from it completely or risk losing a limb. The chain weighs tons and when the momentum begins, it can’t be stopped by a fleshy little human hand or foot!

So luckily it didn’t break the rope at it’s end and fly off the boat completely (which would have left us without an anchor altogether).

But as we were now focused on the chain, pooled somewhere on the ocean floor underneath, we had drifted toward the mooring ball and our neighboring boat was waving his arms to let us know that we should get away from it ASAP!

We eventually got most of the chain back up, and hooked on the bridle (to keep us steady and pointing correctly – and not swinging into the nearby boats), and then it dawned on us that the chain might just be tangled around the base of the mooring ball. Which would not be good. At all.

Our neighbor seeing us just standing on the front of our boat, looking concerned, came by and asked if all was ok. He had a look at the windlass with JW to see if there was something wrong or loose on the clutch. We’re still not 100% sure it won’t happen again, the next time we anchor. Which incidentally will be tomorrow! That is, if we’re not stuck to a mooring….

JW donned his big new blue flippers and neon goggles and tipped into the water like an eager dolphin, to see if he could eyeball the chain. He couldn’t. Too murky. But he looked adorable in a slightly comical way. Unfortunately that won’t help tomorrow when we try to head out again.

So, at this stage I needed a beer, and we decided to head over to the beach we could see in the distance, just to walk along, unwind and have that beer!

But as we neared the beach and JW tried to tip up the dinghy motor, it became apparent it was going nowhere and we would most likely end up with the propeller deep in the sand and stuck in the mossy seagrass. He fiddled and we bobbed and the poor holiday makers trying to read their Kindles in peace and sip their rum punches with an unfettered view of the beach and bay beyond, were instead treated to our bouncing dinghy and frustrated fumbling. Two local guys, fixing a boat motor nearby noticed us and came wading in to help. As the one guy tinkered and banged and time lolled along like molasses, I realised there we were, standing on a pristine beach, palm trees swaying above us, sun glistening on the water. In paradise, fixing our boat.