The slime that moves us

To the landlubber, cleaning your vehicle usually consists of a trip through an automated car wash or on a hot summer day, a bucket and sponge in the driveway.

For cruisers it’s a different story. The environment under a boat (big and small), especially standing relatively still at anchor is the perfect recipe for growth. Ugly growth. 

We do avoid the task for months when possible, but there comes a time in the life of every cruiser when they have to tip their transport over, and scrub the bottom. This is no small feat. It involves facing the growing swamp green beard of slime and  the finger-slicing sharp barnacles with an artillery of scrapers and eye watering vile cleaning fluids. Strong scrub brushes and sand are the second phase.

It’s not pretty, it’s not sexy and it’s not fun. But it has to be done.

So, while others sat in their cubicles this Wednesday afternoon, gazing out their windows if they are lucky enough to have one, awaiting a lunch break to wake them up, we stood on the beach, paradise surrounding us, and we faced our demons.

We disconnected the fuel tank and removed all the junk in the little ‘trunk’ including our fake ‘Crocs’, emergency flashlight, rain ponchos and anchor with it’s rusty chain. We brought out the strongest cleaning implements we had and we threw her over.

And there it was. A gooey, live, smelly mess.

The radio active toxic shade of dinghy bottom slime

Up close with the slime

Luckily for us there was a shallow sandy beach pool close by for frequent dips to cool off. The whole task took about two hours, but by the end, we had her shining.

It felt great to have her all clean. It is just one of the tiny daily accomplishments that keep your heart beating and a spring in your step. These are the things that were so missing in my past life. Expat existence means everything is done for you, and then you complain about how poorly it was done. But there is no motivation to do things for yourself. The house and the car belong to the company and there is a surplus of cheap labour. We lazed around or sat idle and decaying at our desks.

Only here, on our little boat, with it’s daily demands for attention, and constant chores, do I feel alive. Every sinew, muscle, synapse. It’s buzzing.

And we take the rewards for a day’s work as enthusiastically! After our hours sweating over the dinghy, we were treated to a potjie stew, complete with cold beers and warm crusty bread, on the beach with a group of cruisers. Thanks to the organizer Stewart, a South African who also makes boerwors and biltong (a nice treat for JW).

A few cruisers digesting with wine and beers of course!

Our view from the communal lunch table

 We motored back to the boat in our glowing dinghy, tipsy from the beer, full of homemade food and rested our sore arms with a sigh of pure satisfaction.

The Cult of Hash

We were ‘expats’ for over 10 years. It holds to reason that if you ever get ‘into hashing’ it will be during your stint as an expat. Afterall, hashing started out as a completely colonial endeavor, with British Colonial officers running and drinking beer and calling it a club in Malaysia all the way back to the 1930’s.

Ghana had a hash chapter – though I only knew this after witnessing a motley crew of local and expats in athletic gear, running past our little compound house alley during my volunteer days. I read their bright t-shirts and asked around. It was a running/drinking club called a hash. Oh, ok...

Never have been into running and I maintain I will only run if chased, and maybe not even then. So hashing has never been a club I sought out.

Then we came to the Caribbean and joined the loose subculture of ‘cruisers’ who float around the various bays of Grenada. And through the morning net announcements, we heard about the Inter-Caribbean hash event, spanning 5 days. It promised to be a great way to see the island – inland from our little bays – and get a bit of exercise. AND you didn’t have to run. There are everything from pansy trails to iron man ones. Great!

 We started our association with hashers the best way – at their after party on the first night. We are anchored off our favourite little island ‘Hog’ and the hash led the runners to our quaint beachfront. So the least we could do was hop in the dinghy and join the party.

I learned a lot more about the whole ‘hash thing’ at this event. The more I heard, the more it all reminded me of  a global cult where members had a secret connection, something that seems to bind them all. There are code words like “ON ON” and “ON IN” referring to the trails, and “ON ON ON” or “ON AFTER”, referring to the after parties.

Hashers have nicknames that they defend and cherish with a frightening passion. Some have these names displayed boldly around their necks in black and white beads. There is a hash master and there are hares (those who lead the trails),  and hounds, (who follow).

They call new hashers virgins, who must go through an initiation process that most likely involves being showered with beer.

There is something cute yet creepy about all this.

We met a Canadian from Edmonton who had flown in for the hash and she told us her hash name was Northern Exposure because she had pulled the pants of a hash master down, and the story went on... She explained that she and a few friends now base every holiday around global hashes. And they know that they will be welcomed, their ‘language’ will be understood and their hash names will be honoured.

All I wanted was a way to get some light exercise and a chance to see some of Grenada.

 By tonight, we’ll have completed our first hash and may or may not be covered in a sticky residue of barley and hops…

We will have seen the Annandale Falls and will have met some new friends for sure.

But will we be converted to the cult? On on to find out!