On the days we must be mad...

... (because what would a blog look like all full of pristine beaches, turquoise seas and rum punches?!)

 2 am as we lay panting in our tiny mosquito occupied chow-zone of a cabin in the stifling heat, not a breath of wind, sweat trickling down our necks and pooling on the dampened pillows beneath us, the random slapping of limbs breaks the relative silence of the dull hum of a useless fan. I thought ‘this couldn’t get worse’. (Note to self – never say those words, even in your head).

After weeks of prepping for our friend’s visitors in perfect Bahamian weather, they have arrived. And since then the whole climate’s gone for a ‘sh*t’.

They brought booze!

The visitors on arrival day

2:30 am the distant rumbles of thunder have caught up with us two lonely little catamarans in Cherokee Point, the vulnerable bay, exposed to all the oncoming fun and games. The sky lights up to the brightness of day in shocking zaps and we are up.

It’s like a colossal game of electrified ten pin bowling right over our heads and everywhere around us. The lesser gods are on a bender and they are at the lanes, drunken and disorderly. The ball rumbles along above us, barreling through the great black clouds and then the crescendo – a teeth clenching, boat-shattering smash as the thunderous ball hits the pins. Over and over again, as I wince and squeal. JW has turned off the main power to the boat, knowing we are at the mercy of these lesser gods as to whether we’ll take a direct hit and potentially lose all the electronics on board. 

They are obviously in the mood to have some fun with us. They’ve stirred up the ocean as well, so the boat spins and bobs madly in this rain drenched mayhem.

I retreat inside, brushing aside the mosquitos who are just as frightened I’m sure. They’ve taken such a back seat as the bad guys, they might as well retreat completely and come back with their blood sucking intentions another day.

And here I sit – making sure not to hold on to anything metallic just in case – and I focus on JW’s silhouette in the door, lit up like a photo negative in the lightning show. I know he is worried, and that the soul crushing feeling of being helpless in a situation furrows his brow.  I squeeze my eyes closed after each bolt snaps down from the clouds and see the jagged designs behind my eyelids over and over.

The truth is that we are in the vicinity of some serious danger. Boats are lightning attraction devices with their tall masts, and we’ve come to a bay where there is nothing around us but surface rocks, beach sand and a tiny settlement of one story homes nearby. So we are IT if it comes down to the wire. Worst case scenario the lightning passes through the boat, leaving a gaping hole below the water line and we sink. Total loss.

I think of the storms we’ve slept through on land, the light and noise a mere inconvenience with the secure feeling of insulated and sturdy walls protecting us. Out here it’s all raw and real. We have no mosquito nets, we have no lightning protection. It’s yang to the ying of the paradise we live in. It’s the other side of the coin. It’s real and it’s 5am and we’ve been up for hours.

As I rub my red sore eyes I realise this lifestyle has no middle ground. There is no ‘mildly amusing’ or ‘slightly annoying’ in our vocabulary. It’s all ‘OMG!’ or ‘WTF!’ Extreme beauty, extreme fun, extreme danger. Big joy, big problems.

On the boat next to us, a family has flown thousands of miles to see what we see. Experience what we call normal life. This is their vacation. They swat at mosquitos, wince at the storms and hopefully will experience some of the big joys over the next few days.

As the storm passes, the game has moved on and left us with some big winds and big seas. That means ‘anchor watch’ (to keep an eye that we don’t drag into the rocks behind us), so no sleeping yet. Until the sun rises and the benign morning negates the heightened fears of the night and promises a new day of extreme beauty and yet another adventure. Zzzzzzzz

 

A little bump and grind with a single captain

As we sat on the warm sand, squinting against the setting sun, a perfect day coming to a peaceful close, the last catamaran before sunset was arriving in the reef protected Tobago Cays.

View from the beach in the channel - Tobago Cays

 We watched with amusement and a few sharp gasps, as the captain pulled the charter boat in quite close to the beach and rocky underwater reefs, and glided by the few anchored boats.

The Dutch speedo clad elderly guy on a small old monohull was not amused by the cowboy moves, and his gestures didn’t leave any doubt. Well, this catamaran, by now identified by it’s French flag, was not about to anchor right there. So, he pulled forward, and edged closer and closer to Shiloh.

My amusement dissolved into anger and worry pretty quickly and I turned to my captain to complain.

“He can’t stay there?! Is he dropping anchor?! No way! He’s like RIGHT beside us!”

We both remember our earlier experience in this very anchorage a few months back, where we awoke in the night to find our boat caught in a strange current pool, spinning in unnerving circles. I reminded JW of this, and how it would be more than slightly unnerving, should it happen with another 15 ton catamaran within arm’s reach of us.

As usual, my captain calmed my ragged nerves. Meanwhile, our perfect guest sat grinning, mounding a belly out of sand and patting the Buddha shaped hill. She by now, knows all about our banter.

Moments later, the passengers of the offending cat, pile into an ill-equipt little dinghy in their matching ‘60^th Birthday’ t-shirts, and the tiny, wiry little captain hops aboard, only to discover the dinghy motor dead. Luckily they were anchored a few feet from the beach, as they eventually had to row across, all manual style.

They beached, and lumbered out, one by one. The little captain heaved his dinghy onto the sand and headed directly for us.

In the glaring sun,we made out his small features, a match for his little frame, as he spoke; in broken English he told us he was a paid charter captain, he had come from Martinique, he lived like a monk in his little cabin and might be looking for a little action. In the night. We could only laugh.

JW asked him what the Dutch guy had said to him as he slid past and he only shrugged,

“I don’t know, he was somehow angry”.

Then he excused himself to meet Romeo, a local on the beach to organise supper for the guests, who were gathered by now, downing champagne from the bottle.

We got back to the boat, my anger waning after meeting the strange little captain, but went to sleep with one eye open. From our cabin porthole, his boat loomed too close, the hull blocking our view of the beach. And we slept.

The last photo at dusk, of our too close neighbor

 At 12 JW leaned over me to look out and within seconds he had leapt over me and was up the stairs. In that instant I knew this was going to be ‘one of those nights’.

Up on deck we stood in that alternate universe, moonlit, bright grey light, boats swirling, sailing back and forth across the channel on their anchor chains.

Our neighbor was up, all lights on, engines revving up. He’d realised he was practically on the beach and still moving in unpredictable directions.

He was so close to us, not fully in control, and the proximity of these two huge fiberglass beasts had me hopping.

“Hols, bring the torch” (flashlight for us North Americans) I hopped, dashed, adrenaline pulsing.

“What now? What is he going to do? What is he doing? Is he on the reef? Is he lifting anchor?!” These came out of my mouth in frantic stream. No answers came and that was fine. I just needed to express my concern and mounting panic.

We could only watch and stand ready. Ready for what?

Seconds later, with full engines, he plowed through the water directly toward Shiloh. My eyes, like saucers, trying to will him away by their very size. OMG!

“What is he doing?!!!!”

“Holdsworth, calm down. Get the fenders.”

I knew that command was not a good sign.

The French cat swung just past us into the channel, but his anchor chain was still in the water. JW headed to the front of the boat to watch him closely, while I scratched around in the front hatch for the fenders.

I looked up once, only to see his lights and that ominous white hull, moving not away but toward us. JW called out to him to reverse. Nothing. Something was wrong or he hadn’t heard.

As I struggled on my knees with the pile of junk that held our fenders captive below, my butt high in the air, I felt the crack thud.

Oh my God! He hit us!!!!!!!

My mind swam with visions of Shiloh’s front cabin filling with gushing seawater, as the ugly crack groaned against the force.

I finally got a fender free and threw it at JW who was trying to push away the other boat and wedge the fender between us. I was simply incredulous. Full of fear and rage. How could he have anchored right there?! Why didn’t we stop him earlier?

Finally, with captain and a couple of the male passengers on deck, they managed to maneuver away. Still, the boat hovered, and Shiloh moved around as well, with these strange currents.

JW peered over our side with the flashlight. No damage!

But then the captain called over, so calmly, politely:

“Excuse me, my friend, I’m sorry, but can you lift your anchor? It seems ours is caught in your chain”.

WHAT?! He cannot be serious. This sent my mind into another tyrade of hideous possible outcomes. Tangled chains means boats getting even closer and bumping inevitable. Disaster.

I ran down into the perfect guest’s cabin where our anchor windlass trip is, and found her awake, peering out at the action of the night. Not the type of action our captain had expected.

I quickly explained our dilemma and she followed me up to witness the fun and games.

For an eternity thereafter (or most likely 15 minutes), we stood with fenders in hand, engines on and ready, pacing back and forth on deck, watching this boat move in snaking circles around us, trying to get his tangled anchor chain up. I held my breath for more than half of those adrenaline soaked minutes.

And as the chain grinded and jerked, the noise finally came, followed by his visible anchor. He was free, and he had not been caught on Shiloh. For that instant I was filled with joy. I actually jumped up and pumped my hands in the air, giving him a victory symbol across the water. He nodded, pleased with himself, and headed out of the channel, to safer waters – where he should have anchored in the first place.

I looked around as we were propelled back and forth in the channel, now free to move, and noticed the lights were on in all our neighbors’ boats. No one slept as they watched powerless how mother nature toyed and played with them. By morning the channel was calm, we floated in a regular wind pattern, anchor in tact. Ready for another day in paradise.

A few days later, over one of Black Boy’s famous rum punches at Salt Water Bay’s gorgeous beach, a local captain explained that the tides do this for three days before and after every full moon. Over the years he had seen many boats smash and tangle in that very channel during those few days.

It had been a coincidence that we’d been there once before, and it had been sheer luck that we didn’t have more than a harmless bump with our neighboring clueless captain.

Near maydays, mooring from hell and a great holiday

Yesterday as JW and I stood on the bow of Shiloh, discussing the disaster that was our attempt at picking up a mooring ball at Sandy Island, we heard a faint but strained call,

“John?!”

JW’s sister, hubby and kids, visiting for a week, were piled in the dinghy, looking a bit lost as it drifted quickly backward with the wind and current.

“We can’t get the motor down”

They had decided to head in to the beach at this gorgeous deserted island, after our angst ridden arrival with the mooring ball incident, and most likely they thought they’d leave us to our ‘after lesson in what-not-to-do in a mooring situation’.

JW looked at the situation with the dinghy blowing further and further out of reach, muttered “sh*t” under his breath, and jumped in the water. He struggled to catch up but managed to swim out to the dinghy and heave himself up. All the while, I stood at the back step biting my nails and knowing there wasn’t much I could do. Here we were on a deserted island, our visitors being blown swiftly out to sea.

JW got the motor down and it started after a few revs and all was well. He motored back to the boat and I reached out to grab the dinghy painter (rope). But just short of the boat he cut the engine and I missed the rope. And they started floating backward again. But this time JW pulled the choke over and over and it wouldn’t start. It had flooded.

Now I stood once again watching them all drift away, but this time JW, my all-knowing captain was with them.

Luckily for us, there was one other little sail boat at Sandy Island and I ran to the front of our boat, waving my hands wildly in their general direction, hoping they’d see me and then see the dinghy as it disappeared.

The man jumped in his tiny dinghy and headed toward them. But his motor was very small, and in the endless time it took for him to reach them and grab a rope to tow them back, they discovered he couldn’t pull the weight of the bigger dinghy and group of ‘flounderlings’.

I felt a pit in my stomach, stabbing now. What could I do? In this boating life, I’m finding that I really struggle with the sense of helplessness. Mostly it is my lack of knowledge that renders me useless in critical situations. But this time it was the fact that there was nothing I could do, barring calling out a mayday on the radio. And I had to decide at what moment that should be done?

Just then, JW pulled the choke for the umpteenth time, and this time it worked! They let go of the struggling man in his well-meaning little would-be rescue boat, waved a big thanks and headed back finally to Shiloh.

Crisis averted. Again.

JW the ever calm and able captain of SV Shiloh

 Just an hour before, I had been up at the bow of the boat trying to catch a mooring ball and feed two ropes through it, pulling them each back to a hull and tying them off. After a few tries, where JW motored forward and his brother-in-law and I directed him, got hold of the mooring ball and then failed dismally to get the ropes the right way round, eventually Shiloh was blown back by the strong winds and the ropes came flinging along, as we let go. But in my panic-mode, during one attempt, I tried to hold one of the ropes so we wouldn’t drift away from it. I, me, tried to hold a 20 ton boat, against 20knt winds, with a little rope. Not smart. I ended up almost losing my legs as the rope pulled swiftly, and I was trapped between it and the front stay. JW was livid. I was shaken by the experience and hotly embarrassed by my inadequacy, not to mention the burning on my thighs where the rope had whipped past. It was ‘all bad’, especially with our guests as the innocent victims, just trying to have a relaxing holiday.

We did eventually get ourselves hooked on the mooring ball. They did eventually have a great swim over the corals and with all the multicoloured reef fish. And hopefully all was forgotten.

They had all survived the day before, as we made the 6 hour journey from St. Georges in Grenada, up to Carriacou, with the wind on our nose and 12 ft (4m) swells. We had at least one seasick moment, with breakfast being offered up to the sea below, but all in all, the crew handled all those salty, shaking, jarring, jolting hours quite well.

We spent the night in a deserted anchorage on the north coast of Carriacou, called Anse La Roche, which only attracted a single sentence in the most popular guide book. It advised that the place was great for a lunch break but not for an overnight due to the big northerly swells. We stayed anyway. Right about now, you are thinking,

‘That probably wasn’t a good idea.’

Well, after putting out a second anchor manually from the side of the boat (a first for us), we did have a great swim and a walk on the beach, a peaceful supper and cocktails, then retired early. All good, right?

Forward to 3am when we awoke to our anchor drag alarm, and realised that the second anchor had come slack and the current was busy trying to beach us completely. The back of the boat was swinging toward the shallow sand at a fast pace. JW had to use the winch and bring the second anchor in, then heave the rusted chain and anchor up by hand. That done, we motored forward, lifted anchor and tried again further out in the bay.

It held, though the northerly swell had us in a rolling stomach churning motion pattern for the rest of the night, and though my eyes did close, I didn’t manage to get any more actual sleep. Luckily, the kids, exhausted from swimming, diving and snorkeling, slept through it all.

We were all good and ready to up anchor at 8am and head toward Union Island of the Grenadines.

After a peaceful stroll through the sleepy dusty main road and immigration sorted, nurse sharks visited by the dinghy dock, we headed out to our main destination – Tobago Cays.

And we did arrive alive, but not before we encountered some 15ft (5m) waves that lifted and dropped us, toying with the 20 ton boat like a mouse in the paws of a cruel giant cat.

I braced myself in those moments and apparently I made ‘the face’ – which is the face of panic and terror that JW claims he sees wash across my face when I sense danger (real or because of my lack of experience).

In response, I got The Look, and that one says,

‘Holdsworth, don’t you dare go into panic mode, we have guests and if you look all worried, they will get worried and it’s our job to be the calm and controlled, gracious hosts.’

Just then a wave blindsided us and all the wine, whisky, rum and vodka bottles on display went flying with an ear jarring slam and resounding clangs.

Luckily they all made it through in tact. Less cleaning for me on arrival, and more for us to ingest later. In fact, there’s a party on the beach, the kids are swimming happily around the boat, the afternoon sun is coming down to a burnt orange warm, I’ve got butternut and broccoli with chicken ready to bake, and it’s time for a rum n’ coke now.

We've moved!

Weeks ago, a gang of semi-inebriated cruisers, rums and beers in hand, decided we should take a trip out of Grenada. The idea was to head up to Carriacou – the island with over a hundred rum shops and only one gas station - then further up to the Grenadines.

And finally on Tuesday, three boats and their crews lifted anchor from southern Grenada and headed to sea.

For JW and I, this was the maiden voyage away from Grenada’s shores, since we picked up Shiloh in April. And, we had crew!

I have belaboured this – but I will say again that we have met a disproportionate number of amazing people since we arrived in the Caribbean, and this group is no exception. Our crew is Leslie, who has her own Cat, but who’s husband is a helicopter pilot and is away on a contract. She naively accepted the offer to join the gang aboard Shiloh. She may not have believed me when I told her of my complete lack of experience.

Needless to say, she’s been a godsend as far as her sailing experience goes, and it has come in handy a few times. She’s also a great cook and she plays Scrabble! Basically she rocks.

And so we headed off, three cats in a row, out into the lumpy bumpy seas. 

SV Chaotic Harmony embarking on the journey

One of our 'fleet' SV Avatar arriving at Tyrrell Bay

 We played with our sails, tried the jib first and then the main, but had to motor as well, since the wind was not cooperating, and was hitting us straight on the nose the whole way. (I realise this all sounds like I know what I’m talking about or at least the lingo, which is great. The truth is that I obeyed a few orders about which rope to pull or loosen, and watched the sails go up or down. Still not sure how it all works with the wind and angles and sails… But it seems I have actually picked up some of the terms of the trade!)

The whole journey took just less than 8 hours, and we spent that time doing sail adjustments, listening to music, reading, holding on through the bigger waves and basically enjoying the ocean, the sun and the huge cloud patches around and above us. 

Our first evening - sunset on the beach with rum punches!

 We’re three days in now, and Tyrrell Bay in Carriacou has been a great host, despite 30 knot winds and a bit of rain. We’ve had barbeques on the beach and on our boats, and we took a group walk up through her lush forests, and glimpsed the windward side of the island, with it’s crashing waves, from high above. Of course this was followed by an impromptu beer party on the beach.

A view of Shiloh in the centre of the bay, from Slipway restaurant on the beach - Tyrrell Bay

We toured the mangroves, a waterway lined with thick salt water trees, whose stems are laden with oysters. The shallow inlet apparently holds over 200 boats during hurricanes. As we calmly motored through, it seemed surreal that a place like this could be the home to so many huge boats, tied up close to the oyster clumped roots, bashing about in waves and wind, waiting out mother nature’s most ruthless storms.

A look at the mangroves up close

A view of the mangroves from our hike up the hill

A Carriacou school girl we met on our walk

Simon a local entrepreneur (who charged us a hefty amount to fill our water jugs), on his boat

 We are planning to move to Sandy Island and White Island (each less than an hour sail) and then back to Carriacou’s capital Hillsborough to ‘check out’ of the country before heading to Union Island and beyond.

But the wind has other ideas for now. And so we play Scrabble, test the famous (or infamous) pizza at the Lazy Turtle on the beach, do some laundry, swim around with eels, lobsters and sea urchins, and perhaps check out one or two of the 135 or so rum shops. 

Still haven’t seen the one gas station.

Boats do float

As I sat on Shiloh’s back step this morning, looking out at the unbelievably turquoise water on the sand patches in the reef nearby, my face buried in a bright orange mango, juice poured down to my elbows and onto the bright white gel coat surface. I actually smiled while contemplating our anchoring experiences.

After being released from the mosquito infested boat-hammock-on-the-hard on Tuesday night, we decided to try to find a less rolly spot out in Prickly Bay to anchor, which meant finding somewhere tucked in, close to shore.

So we found a spot where some monohulls were nestled in behind, swung Shiloh around and dropped the anchor. Only the depth metre started reading freakishly low numbers. It claimed we were in less than a foot of water!

We played around a bit – letting out more chain and watching the boats behind us, but wondering how they had managed to get in there with their deep keels.

Finally we had moved behind the most shallow section and were in a few feet of water.

I was at the back of the boat taking a GPS reading so we could determine whether we were stuck in on the anchor when JW shouted from the front,

“If anyone’s going to run aground, it’s this guy!”

And just as soon as he’d said it, I ran up to the front to see a monohull, motoring at full speed, right in front of us, heading into shore on the wrong side of the concrete bouy marking the channel.

Seconds later as we locked eyes with the couple on board, their boat went from speed to stationary with a tremendous jolt. The boat and it’s occupants were shocked and the couple nearly lost their footing, sunglasses flying, hair blown forward from the swift reversal of movement.

“Oh my God!” I shouted.

“I can’t believe they did that!” I probably spoke loud enough for them to hear me, as I’m known for that, but they didn’t seem to notice as they had a boat keel smashed into a shoal and were busy hitting reverse gear with gusto.

The water churned wildly below them as they sped backward, dangerously close to some moored boats.

JW calmly motioned for them to go around the concrete marker in the safe channel.

They waved and seemingly unphased, they went past and headed toward the slip we had been hoisted in the night before.

It taught me a few things right away.

1.     We are not the only ones who find ourselves in dangerous and embarrassing situations on the water.

2.     We were definitely anchored on or near a really shallow something. Was it a sand bank or coral or a wreck?

3.     Boats are much stronger than I imagined – having watched that boat hit at such speed and managed to get away unscathed.

We left the boat and headed to town. Later that night, after a great night and winning the trivia challenge with our cruiser team over at the Tiki Bar, we dinghied back to Shiloh and turned in. Only as I lay in bed with my book I kept hearing what sounded like bubble wrap being popped. It was subtle yet constant. I altered JW who was just about to dive into a deep and well deserved sleep.

We moved around the boat listening until we isolated it’s source. Under the floor boards, the sound was quite loud. We were definitely sitting on something and the popping noise was very unsettling.

We turned on the depth metre and discovered we were in less than 1ft of water. Judging by the noises, we were in no feet of water!

We were both exhausted and didn’t relish the idea of heading out into the rough bay in the dark, but in the end that’s just what we did. Luckily we moved easily from our shallow patch and headed way out into the channel. JW was determined that I relax about the depth, so he wanted to find somewhere with at least 20 ft depth.

It was really dark and our super flashlight barely helped. The wind was whipping and mooring bouys plus fishing nets lurked around us like a mine field.

I ran around the front of the boat, bouncing over the trampoline from corner to corner, on the look out.

We found an empty spot and dropped the anchor. We swung back and found a spot with exactly 20ft depth!

So after 30 minutes of GPS readings and eyeballing our position, we retired to bed. Rolling and bouncing, the rains came all night and I never fell into a deep sleep.

But by morning we were in the same position and no barnacles or wrecks were damaging our under side.

There are many trade offs with sailing and I’m learning it  applies to the whole anchoring experience as well.

 Last night after a rough trip through 8ft waves and sea spray over us, we were back in our favourite spot at Hog island. We had trouble getting the anchor to hold and motored forward raising it and dropping again until we held. And the depth metre read about 1 ft of water! But there was no crackling noise and there were no rolly waves throwing us around. And I decided to relax, and accept the payoff.

Lessons and Blessings and wind in our sails

Things are getting exciting for us. Finally after the years of planning and our arrival in Grenada to ‘collect’ our dear Shiloh, after a couple weeks of boat maintenance and systems testing and a few trial visits to the bays of southern Grenada over the last two weeks, (all within a few nautical miles of each other), we are now planning our maiden voyage from Grenada’s shores.

Our destination is still less than 50 nautical miles away, and technically we will be within the same set of islands (Grenada, Carriacou and Petite Martinique), but it will be our first sail as a couple alone, our first departure from land as liveaboard cruisers, and a chance to learn anew, the face of a new land. We will also be sailing in tandem with another Cat and a great couple of seasoned sailors we met in Grenada.

Carriacou here we come! 

 In the meantime, today is an engineering day. A day of preparation and of fixing all the things that would otherwise go wrong at the very wrong moment out at sea.

After heaving out both aft cabin beds (despite my having laid fresh clean sheets last night!), Doctor/Captain John spent most of the day under the engine boards. In yogic configurations, his body twisted, sweat poured off his brow, showering down over batteries and carburetors, he worked his magic with voltage metres and cable ties, engines on then off then on again, while I stood by, passing spanners and cutters and the occasional glass of fruit juice. 

 We had a German engineer on board as well in the morning and the two of them ran test after test and commiserated on the mess of wires around the engine.

We have finally decided that a wind generator is not a good idea for us and we have no room for another solar panel (besides, we’d need double the battery capacity we already have and there’s nowhere else under our beds to store them!). So a little portable (and hopefully not too loud) 2KVA generator it is. Captain JW has this and only this in mind now, so that will be tomorrow morning’s first mission. Into town on the bus, buy the outrageously overpriced genset, lumber along in the heat to bring it back home. Theoretically, this will keep our power situation in check on the boat.

I have never had to, wanted to, or been remotely inclined to know this much about power, water, weather, wind. But these things are critical to a life at sea. Things which you must learn and understand and ‘get a feel for’, as JW puts it. Needless to say, there is a learning curve for me that’s exponential.

But the flip side of this, is a feeling of gratefulness and appreciation.

When the boat is hot and humid, the air sticking to everything and itself after a rain storm, we open the hatches and the cool breeze flows in and through. It is delicious.

When we arrive back at a marina after weeks out in the bay on anchor, and I’m dreaming of the hot shower that awaits us – to get under that pressurized flow, to feel truly clean and cleansed. It’s decadent.

To sit in the warm yellow light of our porch or cockpit in the evening, all the other lights off to save power, the quaint romantic glow is special. It is an oasis in the dark and a place to hold only us. Cozy in the tropics.

After a long day of hiking or biking through town or working below deck in the boat, the welcome opulence of an ice cold beer is like nothing else. The ice sliding down a brown bottle, the first bitter taste on the tongue and the exhilaration of that first swallow…. Ahhh. Nothing can truly describe it. Beer as blessing, oh yes.

All of these lessons and blessings overwhelm me, and we are only one month and one country in, on a journey that will hold so many more of both. Count me in - I’m onboard for all of it!

Checklist for the practical cruiser

“Have you got the headlamp?”

“Yes, have you got the VHF radio?”

“Yep. You got the camera?”

“Affirmative. Have you got our waterproof phone?”

“Let me check. Yep. Is the mast light on?”

“Just doing that. Let’s turn the freezer off while we’re gone.”

Ok, and did you close all the windows? Hatches? Bring in the outdoor cushions and our shoes?

“Ok, done. Did you bring a towel in case we get soaked?”

“Got it. Pull up the dinghy, let’s go.”

This is the routine each evening as we head out for one social event or another. I barely remember the days when we would be heading out in a car, not worried about rain or seaspray. Days where you didn’t need a radio in case your dinghy motor doesn’t start and you drift off somewhere… Days where you didn’t need to find a way to save some energy to give the batteries a break…

But those days didn’t allow for massive rainbows and black ominous storms so beautiful you can barely pry yourself away to get the camera out.

Those days didn’t include new adventures, to Nimrod’s roti shop for some local grub and a walk in the hills. But today includes that and I can’t wait. I think I’m salivating. We’re on our way now. Roti post to follow.

Boat designer?

I wish I could design a boat. Let me clarify, by confirming that I know absolutely nothing about boat design. But thanks to my mom, I know a tiny bit about interior design.

I definitely know what doesn’t work when I see it.

Let me clarify further. Shiloh is a Lagoon 410. A beautiful boat, designed and hand crafted in France. She sails well and is quite spacious, all things considered.

My issues are purely in terms of living functionality.

In 2004, Lagoon designers thought it was a good idea to position the engine under the aft cabin beds. This means that if there is any trouble with an engine, everything in that cabin needs to be quickly evacuated. Clothes, bedsheets, pillows and mattresses. Yes, mattresses. Not easy nor user friendly.

This is our bed when the engine needs attention.

Mattresses tossed in the hallway

 A few years after our model was built, Lagoon came up with a brilliant idea. The engines were moved to the back of the boat, accessed through the sugar scoop steps. No need to move beds, no filling the sleeping cabins with diesel fumes and oil stains.

Ah, the genius. Wasn’t this an obvious? I truly believe boat design has been wrongly placed solely in the hands of men. This is just a wild guess. I’m allowed some of those.

Open any cupboard and see that the insides have been left as unfinished rough fiberglass. This is where you store clothing, food, valuables. Would a woman have approved that design? I think not.

But then I am a newbie, a landlubber just converted, a learner. I will try not to complain. I am living on the ocean in paradise and I don’t have a boss. I think I might work on some ideas to send to boat manufacturers…

Anticipation

As we do laundry at the marina, we watch other boats coming and going...

It’s been a week of firsts. Yet a week of longing for more. Despite all our hard work, new friendships, places visited and discovered, foods savoured, drinks sipped and sunshine soaked up – we still haven’t sailed. I know that we will have months and years of sailing ahead, but there comes a point, a day when you just feel like you haven’t really ‘joined the club’ til you’ve left the safe harbor and raised the sails.

We are contemplating at least leaving True Blue Bay and heading around the south of Grenada, past Prickly Bay to Hog Island. It promises less rolling waves, swimmable water and a little beach bar on the island to scoot over to, by dinghy of course.

JW has managed to get the newly installed radar system functional, we’ve treated the galley and saloon floor with teak oil, installed lights above the outdoor table near the nav station, and I have done some nesting. Managed to put up some bits of nautical artwork around the boat, and it’s feeling both like home, and ready to move.

A few Ghana masks have made it across with me!

A mosaic fish all the way from Hermanus flea market in South Africa now in Shiloh's master bath!

We’ve yet to hoist the sails and check out that everything is in order, but the clock is ticking closer!

Meanwhile we’ve settled into the ‘cruisers life’ here in Grenada, starting each day listening to the 7:30am broadcast of cruisers net –where you hear weather and wind info, social events, ‘treasures of the bilge’ classified ads, and info about local goods and services.

We’ve been to a Trivia night – arrived by dinghy after motoring directly through a mini rain storm in the bay – spent the evening dripping through our chairs. My team came in second and I was given our team prize – a bottle of questionably cloudy peach coloured rum punch. Haven’t ventured to test that out yet!

Serving up fried and battered plantain - Esther and Omega's class

 I attended a local cuisine cooking class, and learned that Grenadians like fried foods. Which was great because we got to taste the food and I was in the mood for some grease and carbs. We made fish cakes, battered plantain and sweet potato pone for dessert. Sat a bit heavy later!

The bicycles continue to serve us well, and have taken us on a south west tour of the island, from the University to the airport, to the 2mile long Grand Anse beach.

Basically, it’s been great, but we’re getting that nagging feeling – it’s time to move! Stay tuned.

day 2

Reggae oldies blend into Calypso over the speakers as the baking hours lilt past.

Finally the live steel drum player arrives and assaults his instrument with his fresh energy. The throngs of brightly dressed tourists make their way between the stalls, selling everything from fresh nutmeg oil to cheese trays made from salvaged roof tiles. It’s the Easter bazaar at True Blue Bay, and as Shiloh is docked a few metres from all the activity, we feel a part of it all.

Our life for the first week into our ‘chosen lifestyle’ has been at once full of hectic manual labour and like living at the edge of a perpetual holiday. Both elements are so strong. We’ve been living off Carib beers (so good when the they are cold and the weather is HOT), and the patties Jamaica made famous. Yum. Of course I get the spicy ones and JW sticks to the mild.

We’ve acquired the bronzest of suntans without a minute on a lounge chair, just the necessities of crossing town in the middle of the day for marine supplies and groceries.

But the evenings allow us to join in the festivities at the Dodgy Dock bar – Latin night, wing night, Calypso night, happy hours, curry night etc., or just live vicariously through the smells and sounds that waft their way over to Shiloh’s deck.

I’ve been learning all about hand washing and dishes without a dishwasher. No microwave, no toaster, no motivation to cook gourmet meals in the heat and limited space. But we have eaten every day. And each night we fall into bed in the saloon in a satisfied heap of sun kissed exhaustion.

Who knows what next week will hold?