December Blues

It’s 6:23am, the obstinate deep honking of our anchor drag alarm has awoken us abruptly. John slides over me, bleary eyed, and trips up the stairs to check out the situation. And though the wind has been howling all night, we are not dragging. The anchor is holding well, buried deep in the sand no doubt. Just a 6am false alarm to remind us we are not in Kansas. Or anywhere in a secure land home for that matter. We are on a boat. And I’m up now…

Up in the galley/salon, my feeble efforts at Christmas decorations have been thwarted in the night. The beaded white anchor ornament that serves as our ‘tree’ which I hung with care on our mast has fallen, along with the little Christmassy animals… adhesives are no match for salty sea air. Ah well. I open the hatch for some breeze and the silver and white ‘Christmas flowers’ I had stuffed strategically into my bowl of seashells are blown out and around the floor. This is a boat. And it just doesn’t feel like December anyway.

The water all around us turquoise blue. 

However, it’s colder than I remember. We’ve never been in the Bahamas in November or December before. We have been welcomed back by disturbed skies and intermittent squalls. And chilly waters.

Three weeks ago we arrived back on the boat after a three month road trip. She was tucked into a safe hurricane hole but she was all closed up and the heat and humidity took their toll. As I cursed and scrubbed stubborn black mold from the ceilings, I was worried. Would the weather hold up for my boy’s visit? Would the water be warm enough? Would it all be perfect for him and his girlfriend?

And as usual I had to learn a life lesson the only way possible. By discovering for myself that it’s not the water temperature or consistency of the sand on the beach that makes a great family reunion/holiday. It’s the people. It’s the overwhelming, heart crushing love a mama feels for her baby. Her ‘all-growed-up’ focused, talented, gorgeous, charming, mature, well adjusted boy. The boy she sees no more than once a year if she’s lucky.

And it’s the bittersweet satisfaction of witnessing that he has made it out there on his own and has found love. True, honest, beautiful young love.

We had some amazing days together. Barbecues on the beach with the other boats in the bay. Walks on the beach, collecting shells, marveling at the power of the ocean. They swam with sharks, fed the sting rays, got more than their fair share of mosquito and no-see-um bites. Bahamas wildlife couldn’t get enough of them. Neither could I. And yet 10 days was over nearly before it began. Another dinghy ride with luggage in tow. The reality of the cruising lifestyle. Family is far away and the visits are too short.

Seems like five minutes ago I was a 27 year old idealist, headed from suburbia to West Africa; a single mom with her three year old boy headed into the unknown. Hoping the world would stretch out and embrace them both. Off to learn and live and love him as best she could. 

Time is a gift. Time is a gift and it’s slipping away. 

Swim in the chilly water. Hug your boy. Call your mom. Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s just stuff. Let the ocean carry you. Let life be the adventure it’s meant to be.

Miss people. Then smile for having known them. Kiss the sky.

Happy December.

New Years and warm tears

This morning when I woke, there was a magical transition going on between night and day. A handover from darkness to light. The full moon, weary from his long night shift, sat at the water’s edge, sagging ever so slightly, ready to slip in. And when he slipped away so quietly, the sun called my attention to the other side of the sky, bringing up the new day. I felt a tingle, the privilege of the early riser, to witness something grand and divine that happens every day.

Of course I was not awake of my own accord, in normal circumstances I think it’s obscene and unnatural to be up before the sun! But this morning my mother left the building. Or the boat to be more accurate. We barreled along to shore in the dinghy with her luggage in tow, and handed her over into a pink car, and a tired looking cabbie who was getting off night shift. She has begun the day long journey on buses and planes, back to the bitter cold of home.

A few days ago I stood by a shuttle bus, choking back the inevitable hot tears as we also said goodbye to my son.

These are the realities of living ‘somewhere else’. We live hundreds and at times thousands of miles from family, but the moments we have together are special. They are held together in a finite number of days, a holiday, a visit. They can be calculated on a calendar but not in our hearts. There is no earthly definition for that kind of love. 

And love it, we did. Great holiday. We’ve been living on Shiloh for three years and finally at least some of the family have seen our home and experienced a snapshot of our lifestyle. I really hope it was fun. I know we’re not going to create any converts in my land lubbing family, but at least they had fun. No seasickness, no problems with the quirks of boat life (limited water supply, must dinghy to shore, wakes from boats, side on swells). Go family! 

We’ve made it down to Key West and it’s the kind of place everyone loves. You just gotta. It’s a milestone as the Southernmost (is that even a word?) point in America. Of course as we cycled around the town yesterday we saw the Southernmost café, the Southernmost bar, the Southernmost hotel and even the Southernmost beach hotel. So everyone is milking that for what it’s worth. Key West has a million restaurants, bars, café’s, drag shows, beaches, busker shows, and people. It’s the people. Weird and wonderful sums it up. Everyone should come here at least once. Preferably during their FantasyFest!

It’s the end of a season, of a lot of bucket list visits under our keels, and a finale with family. Couldn’t have asked for a more amazing 2014.

And 2015 is a blank canvas with so many adventures to be written. We have graduations and new babies in the family and in the meantime, sailing adventures to places and countries new and old.

So my tears today are joyful though sad. We’ve chosen a life far away, a life of new and scary and exciting and fun, but a life without mom and boy nearby. A life where my niece and nephew grow in leaps and bounds in our absence. Where babies are born and life goes on ‘at home’.

We’ve untied the bow lines and left the sight of our shores and I don’t regret it for a second, but when I have the chance to see my Mom’s green eyes light up, hold my boy tight, hear their laughter, those precious memories fill me up and I cherish them, I see them in every sunset and sunrise we are away.

I'm not scared anymore...

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Weeks and months have passed. I spent them in the bubble.

Today I sit once again in the lap of paradise, palm trees swaying, this is Grenada; serenaded by cool jazz as the sweat pours down between my shoulder blades, tickling it’s path down to my waist.

It’s Monday. I proclaimed it laundry day and headed solo in the dinghy, over to Whisper Cove Marina to blog and wash. And so it is.

I am slowly finding my sea legs again and easing into the sore muscles, random bruises and blisters from rope pulling.

I am back home.

But the bubble consumed me for quite a while, lulling me with it’s ease and comforts. Long hot showers, air-conditioned rental car, restaurants of every description and a glut of shopping venues. But for the first time I was more excited in Home Depot and Canadian Tire than clothes stores. Solar lights caught my eye, instead of cute shoes. My boating self did come with me to the bubble.

It is tempting to feel at home, with family and old friends near by, barbecues by the pool, and everything so accessible. We took the opportunities around us, on road trips, ferries out to Toronto Island, the vibrancy of the city is wonderful...

Yet I found myself getting lazy, hazy minded. I lost the will to write, nothing happened that scared me or amazed me or kicked my creative butt. I craved the return to the boat, to take on new challenges, to conquer more fears.

But something strange happened on our arrival.

Despite the downright aggravations of the first 48 hours – flooded, flat dinghy, rolling dock, musty, moldy boat interior, mountains of unpacking, tools, laundry, dead batteries, sweat, sweat and more sweating, there was a paradigm shift within me.

I am not scared anymore.

Anchoring, pulling the boat up alongside a dock, heading out of a bay into the unknown sea; I’ve experienced all of these in the last 3 days and I took them all in stride. This is what I’ve been wanting for so long. No changes in my breathing, no squeezing my palms and shaking and fearing the worst. Dare I say I am now a cruiser?

Up to now, my fear has kept me from feeling genuine. Like a fraud, I’ve been chatting on the beach with real sailors, wondering what it was that made them who they were, and why I couldn’t be like them.

It is a life lesson. We are who we want to be. Act it, do it, and be it. Time is a wonderful teacher, healer, friend.

I’ve come back from my first long break, ready to visit new places, sail, feel the sea and the wind.

I don’t need the bubble. I know it’s there but I am ready to push the envelope. I’m looking forward to a nightsail. A solo watch, just the moon, the waves and me.

I’m going to try making some jewellery. I am going to buzz around in the dinghy alone. I’m going to write more. Write for the sake of it, to flex the muscles of the mind alongside my arms and legs.

I’m alive! 

Canada's ugly secret and their annual celebrations

Shiloh along with all the other yachts in Grenada, have survived a few hurricane scares, as the storms dissipated or swung north.

Meanwhile I have been learning some shocking realities about the country of my birth.

Canada enjoys a great reputation in the world. Canadians are seen as friendly, non-aggressive, neutral. We encourage immigration from around the world and offer free education and healthcare. No one delves deeper. No one wants to know about the disease that plagues her. No one looks at the open wounds she carries. The ugly legacy of the Indian treaties and the modern day aboriginal dilemma.

But one only needs to drive outside the suburban numbness of southern Ontario. Something I never did when I lived here. Something most people don’t take the time to do.

It’s uncomfortable because there is no easy answer. Blame is useless. Children suffer.

Indian/Aboriginal Reserves are everywhere, dotted across the countryside. They have their own tribal councils and are exempt from many of the laws of Canada. They are a legacy of colonialism and they are not working. Poverty is rife. Education and healthcare is non-existent. Drug abuse is rampant. Child abuse and sexual assault statistics are disproportionately high.

Our native population has not fit into the puzzle of society. Residential schools took the children from their families and prevented the learning of traditional languages. Land was taken and treaties were signed. Today the people are looking for their land and welfare and a way to remember their history. They are dealing with alcoholism, poverty, depression. Casinos are not the answer, tax free cigarettes or ‘smokes’ are also not helping. The government and the chiefs have let their people down. The government looks at overcompensation in the wrong way, and the chiefs take the financial reparations and hoard it. Nothing trickles down to the reserves.

But there is one tradition that persists in native communities across the country. The Powwow.

These alcohol-free events are annual celebrations in aboriginal communities that follow a general structure, with the focus on dance and costume as well as traditional music, speaking of native languages (though only spoken by less than 25% of aboriginal people). There are spiritual speeches and prayers and gathering around a fire. And of course there is food and lemonade and vendors of t-shirts and dream catchers and miscellany.

And when we pass the many First Nation signs on the road all through Ontario, my curiousity is always peeked. Visiting a powwow is a way to see the people at their best and learn a bit about a lost culture and every time I visit now, I make sure a powwow is on our list.

This year, after the family reunion, and the sad stories around Fort Frances about the land that is being reclaimed by native communities and then falling into disrepair, it was time for some positives.

We headed to Serpent River and their annual event.

Welcome sign written in Ojibway and English

Many were camping, some in traditional teepees

Some of the costumes and dancers

A community elder who spoke at length in Ojibway and English about the importance of women

One of the leaders of the traditional bands, deep in song

This was the 'shrine' of a medicine man who danced in a trance around the centre

Among the spectators - an adorable little boy

And another...

When we saw this vendor first, I wondered what such a name meant, what it's significance was. I thought it might be a south American name. But then it dawned on me, as I saw many cool young guys in these hoodies. It was the youth, embracing their community and making it their own. It stood for 'on - the - reserve' or On da rez!!! Gotta love it!

I learned alot that day. Firstly, that Indian/Native/Aboriginal doesn't have one face. Doesn't mean only one thing. There are positives. There is a ray of hope. But things as they are, do not work. The pow wows are thriving in spite of every other aspect of their lives and the way the treaties are being dealt with. Should the reserves be abolished? If not, how will they assimilate and prosper in Canada as a whole? How can we/they improve healthcare and education? The faces of the kids got to me. They are caught up in the mess that carries on between our government and their leaders. It needs to change.Just can't think how.

JW was amazed and appalled at the secret Apartheid Canada harbours. He was shocked that the local and global media does not highlight the problems. How is Canada able to live with the problems we've created? Meanwhile the doors are open to thousands of others from around the world who come here for a better life and opportunities to prosper. Yet the very people who settled this land so many centuries ago, we cannot figure out how to ensure this future for them.

Family Vacation - part 2

I’m ravenously downloading movies using the high speed Internet at Secret Harbour marina. I’ve got a cappuccino in hand and an afternoon of relaxation ahead, after the busy weeks we’ve had.

We might currently be stranded here, in this bay, while Shiloh sits on anchor around the corner at Hog island. Our dinghy motor is not behaving, stopped spitting water and instead gasped out a lot of smoke as we arrived here a while ago. Not sure she’ll make it back as it seems we have a clogged filter/impeller. But that is another story, for another day. I’m confident it will pan out into a blog post in the next few days.

For now, I’m looking back on the week that was, with our enthusiastic guests onboard, and lots of fun and games with mother nature out at sea.

We arrived in Tobago Cays through a washing machine of waves and were finally able to make good on our promise to JW’s neice, that she would swim with turtles. She devoured every minute of what the aqua wonderland had to offer and we barely saw her little face without a snorkel suctioned to it. She collected shells, marveled at the iguanas and played with starfish.

Swimming with the turtles

 As for her big brother, he named himself dinghy captain from day one, and if he was not pranking us with mayday calls on the two way radio, he was buzzing around on the rubber speed machine, or taxiing us around. Dad, the avid fisherman tried his best and caught a few small ones but the big dorados and albacore tunas evaded us. 

 Luckily there was local rum to soothe the disappointment. Mom took some well deserved moments of quiet reading time and joined in for some great snorkeling as well. Basically a fun time was had by all.

On the other hand, captain JW and I faced some weather phenomenon that led to at least a couple of sleepless nights. On the first, I awoke in our normally protected anchorage in the Cays, to find Shiloh facing away from the anchor and getting dangerously close to the beach. I woke JW and we observed the swirling pool we found the boat in. The current was pushing us toward the wind and the result was a spinning boat. We upped the anchor and let it settle just outside the strange area, but alas we were almost touching the stony reef behind us and at midnight we tried anchoring again. This time we moved a bit further into the channel and fought the current for a while until we gave up and went back down to bed.

When we left the Cays and checked out of St. Vincent and the Grenadines at Union Island, we decided to skip checking in at Carriacou and find a desolate bay for the night, before heading straight back to Grenada. We rounded the southern tip of Carriacou and found White Island, a gorgeous sand bank lined with palm trees, but as we came closer, it became obvious that the waves were far to rough to anchor. Just behind, there was a small island called Saline, with a slightly more protected bay, and we decided to check it out before heading further south to Isle de Ronde. A French catamaran was out there in the waves with us, and they headed in right in front of us. There was room for a boat and a half in the tiny bay, but it was calmer. As we decided whether to move on or stay the night, our fisherman realised his eager line had caught something big alright – our propeller! So, we had to hold still in the swell, now realising how close we were to the reefs, while he dived down to get it all untangled. The boat moved further out into the waves and he struggled, coming up looking like a punk rocker with our blue anti-fouling paint all over his head. He had also gotten a few scrapes from the increasing barnacle population under the boat, and we decided we should get back into the relative protection of the bay and anchor so he could work at it properly.

So, with one engine we motored toward the French Cat and dropped anchor in the clear shallow water, falling back in crystal blue water, mindful of the coral, and rocks that lined the beach and the edge of the island behind us.

A view of Shiloh from the Saline Island beach, dinghy captain in the foreground, French Cat further ahead

 The fishing line was removed and we all agreed the island was too quaint to leave. We explored the water, finding a wealth of bright coloured fish below the surface. And along the beach, an old fort, an abandoned wooden cottage, the marked grave of Patrick John who died in 1959, surrounded by conch shells, and a tipped over sign saying NO TRESPASSING.

Patrick John's tombstone

 We retreated to the boat, but JW kept looking back at that reef, so close. He rigged up a system to mark the danger point in the water, something involving a lifejacket, a waterproof light and a rope with a big rock attached. The whole thing was eventually abandoned and we had a relaxed drink and supper and headed to bed early. The plan was that the two men would get up early and we’d start back toward Grenada at 5 am.

But as it goes, the wind picked up considerably about 11pm, and JW was up, monitoring. Our anchor drag alarm is not a precise tool, and it would warn us we had moved about the time we would be upon the reef. And so it was that JW stayed up the whole night, as the wind beat us harshly.

The anchor did hold though, and luckily it was the same for the French Cat in front of us, or we’d have had them upon us in seconds as well.

I guess JW was tired of watching and upped anchor at 4am. We then faced a mean current and slamming side-on waves for a good 2.5 hours. I lie awake in the cabin below, wasting my chance to sleep in, with the violent slapping Shiloh was enduring.

I emerged at 7am as we were reaching the top tip of Grenada and one sight of my captain pulled at my heartstrings. He was beyond exhausted.

He asked me to take over at the helm (now that we were in calm seas, protected in the lee of the island), and stumbled by me to get an hour or two of sleep.

A little while later his sis came up from her cabin with a dry mouth full of toothpaste and managed to explain that there was no water. But we had done so well with water conservation?! Everyone had barely showered?! But we checked a few taps and indeed it was dry.

Turns out the shower pipe at the back of the boat had burst and we’d lost over 300 litres of water, directly into our bilges. So, Shiloh made the final leg of the trip waterlogged, and with a crew of morning breath.

And somewhere around 10am we woke our captain and made a smooth entry to Port Louis marina, pulled up alongside, desperate for hot showers, a swim in the pool and some cool cocktails.

And by the next morning our guests had gone, and we made loose plans to do this again. Then we set to the task of cleaning. Luckily the mountains of salty towels and sheets were laundered by the marina and we pumped out all the water.

By 5pm we’d done everything and collapsed into the pool.

Are we ready for chartering? I decided if we ever did it, we’d only offer one week a month, the other three would be for turn over and recooperation!

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.

Chocolate and rum - touring like a tourist in Grenada

It's been a hectic week - lots of cappuccinos, island tours and beach cafes. Rough rough.

Art Fabrik - a sensory delight and store I wanted to live in. All hand made in house batiks.

This has been a 'get to know Grenada' through the eyes of a tourist week. We visited quaint, delicious little curio and clothing shops.  I tried to take more photos, breathe in the colours, the rich emeralds and shocking fuschias. My senses were sharp, raw.

We finally made it to the organic chocolate factory. The universe willed it to happen and we easily gathered a group of cruisers, hired a driver and a van, and set off on a chocolate/rum road trip.

Our driver Cosmus is 78. He's been driving on the island forever. He is pretty much the only driver who takes the sharp mountain turns at a reasonable speed. He doesn't have a death wish, and we don't either, so it worked out well. It took us two hours of hills and valleys, clouds and sun patches, close calls around bends to arrive, but we made it to the Belmont Estate in one piece.

We pre-empted the whole tour protocol by visiting, buying and eating the treats from the gift shop before taking the tour, but it was worth the sin. Dark chocolate cashew clusters, melted in our mouths, on our fingers, and down our chins as we were called over to learn the process.

Sadly, like most agricultural industry in the Caribbean, the Belmont Estate first ran on the sweat of slavery. The big tree at the entrance was a gathering point, where slaves were called using the huge bell that still sits on the bottom branches. For punishment, slaves were hung from it's branches.

After this eery and unsettling story, we are led into the huge barn to see how the chocolate is made, as it has been for centuries.

Chocolate starts as beans inside the white fruit of these cocoa pods:

The beans are dried for seven days and then are laid out in the sun, where they are trampled on from time to time, to spread and turn them.

Walking on the beans.

The beans begin to lose the smell of fermentation and feet as they dry, and begin to take on the rich smell of chocolate.

Cocoa cocoa everywhere! Beans drying in the sun.

The Belmont Estate is fully certified organic and all product is processed completely in-house, no beans are sold or exported before they become cocoa powder or chocolate.

Some of the cocoa beans, ready to be sent down the road to the chocolate factory.

When the dried beans are cracked open, the little nibs inside can be eaten raw or roasted. The Grenada Chocolate Company makes a bar with the crunchy roasted nibs - it's absolutely amazing.

Needless to say, we bought and munched a few of these.

The Estate has recently stopped tours from visiting the actual chocolate factory, so we couldn't see the beans being roasted and blanded into the paste that makes the rich dark chocolate that I've fallen head over heels in love with. Maybe it's better. I might have wanted to stay forever.

Instead, we bought more chocolate and visited their restaurant on the hill above the estate. We watched the magnificent sky turn in seconds from sunny and hot to windy and grey and then open the taps from above. I was actually chilly for one of the first times since arriving in Grenada.

From Belmont we headed to the oldest, traditional method rum factory in the Western hemisphere - at River Rums.

The wheel that crushes the sugar cane has been in operation since the 1700's and was imported from Scotland (JW loved that little piece of trivia).

Sugar cane being fed up the wheel where the liquid is removed.

The waste material is then used for the fire to boil the rum.

Workers moving the sugar cane waste into wagons to be brought down below.

We were led through ancient stinking rooms, where vats of a brownish red muddy looking liquid is hand spooned along, boiling like a giant witches brew. Spiders and cockroach carcasses lie drunk and dead around the vats. I wondered how it was possible that I loved the end product of this filthy process!

From here, the distillation and purification process began.

The end product, a clear white elixir, was offered to us in tiny quarter ounce cups. I still remember the simultaneous burn internally and shiver on my extremities. We were asked if we'd like to buy a bottle but we all declined. I don't think any of us could have survived a whole shot of that!

We ended the tour with an impromptu visit to a roadside fruit and veggie seller. The place called to us as we drove past, and Cosmus happily stopped for us to snap a few photos and buy some fresh fragrant fruit.

Cosmus and Andrea

We arrived back at the marina exhausted and full of chocolate and bananas. Our eyes dozed from sensory overload. Our noses sensing the familiar water life smells, leaving all the tropical red earth and the pungency of it's fruits behind.

We closed our tourist eyes and rum-lined nerves calmed. We slept well, rocked by the waves and wind of spring time in Grenada.