The drama of daily life - Glad we're home!

This is not a post about suburbia. It’s not about months of overeating and staring at CNN, frying brain cells while waiting the inevitable weeks and months for a back injury to heal.  

It’s not about visits with family, everything-you-could-ever-want availability shopping, barbeques in the backyard or long hot showers and in-house laundry…

How quickly it all falls back into place. The sweating. The water conservation, the mold. The rain in the hatches, the portable generator grunting and chugging away, the forests that have grown under the boat, making it more an ecosystem than a moving vessel...

What our propellers looked like on our arrival

We’ve only been back onboard a few days but the usual routine proves itself to have stood the test of time.

Sundowners every second night with new friends that last until way past ‘cruisers midnight’ have proved the social side of our lifestyle hasn’t waned either (as is discernible from the evidence, I mean photos below). We’ve been invited over to yet another boat tonight to meet some more cruising friends and try a new island rum…

A rum squall evening, full swing

However just when you think life on a boat is all about predictability, your dinghy about throws you and your crew overboard.

Well not exactly.

As the laundry pile did not disappear during our absence, we had to face the monster a couple days in. We headed to shore in the dinghy, weighted down with garbage bags and an overflowing laundry bag, in between the rain squalls.

DJW, our new ‘captain in training’, JW’s son, was at the ‘helm’. As soon as we got started, the wind and waves decided to give us a seawater shower and we were getting soaked. JW suggested that DJW move to the other side of the dingy, so as ‘not to get so wet’. Ha!

He also suggested DJW let go of the throttle, which resulted in the dinghy swinging us wildly in circles in the choppy waters. The balance was gone; water came flooding in from the front of the boat where I was perched, holding on for dear life. Ah, to have had an aerial view. It would have been quite a sight. Me with bulging eyes, crouched in disbelief, DJW flailing from side to side, barely balancing, and our captain laughing so hard he was red in the face.

The dinghy wanted us all overboard, spinning in increasingly tighter and wobblier circles, but DJW jumped back into place and managed to get us under control again. We resumed our forward motion, the boat steadied, the water stopped flowing by the bucketful. However, our laundry bag was now a 100lb salt water weight, sloshing around between our feet. 

Our captain in training was sopping head to toe, and had to change into some of his dirty but less soaking clothes right there at the dinghy dock by the laundry. I heaved the sopping back to the Laundromat, leaving my salt water trail. I ignored the disapproving look from the proprietress as she chomped a pile of fried rice, watching our laundry bag leak water all over the floor, and simply dumped that problem onto them. 

Lighter yet still salty and wet, we started the dinghy again and headed to the garbage drop off area, and to do some shopping. But the dinghy spluttered and farted and then the motor just died. That’s when JW lifted the fuel tank and exclaimed,

“There’s no fuel in here!”.

Well what do you know. We’d run out of gas. We started paddling. Luckily we were not far from the fuel dock. We made it but then had to buy 2 stroke oil right there and mix it into the tank directly. It was a bit messy, adding blue grease to the salt water we were covered in. But then the dinghy worked! And so it was that we survived that harrowing adventure to do laundry and dump garbage. But just barely.

Since then things have gone quite smoothly, except yesterday morning when our dinghy refused to budge as we tried to lower her into the water. The ropes on the pulley system were twisted and completely jammed.

I ended up balanced precariously out on the hanging dinghy while my men used a block and tackle set up, hanging from the boom to maneuver me. And we did get it all sorted out.

Predictable? Well you can count on the sea to be blue but beyond that, as soon as you think things are too routine, too comfortable, the cruising life throws you a dinghy drama or something far worse. It’s nothing like the suburbs here, but we call it home! 

Un docteur s'il vous plait?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My battle with the underworld

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Cleaning house takes on new meanings on a boat. Especially when you’ve been away. Inside the mold monsters have been creeping, clinging, happy they’ve been left to grow and propagate in dark, damp corners. They even have the nerve to spread openly across ceilings and cupboard doors. Bastards. The cleaning is tedious but not difficult.

The outside however, the underbelly as it were, is a different story altogether. You get back, air out the boat, clean the mold, inhale the slightly clinical smell of soaps and sprays. You restock the deep fridge and you ease back into life. You try to ignore the dark, hidden secret of what hides, mossy and green, growing, encrusting your bottom below.

But then a day arrives where you have drank enough rum, abandoned the boat to shop, walk on the beach and generally avoid the task at hand, and you decide to dive in, literally, to brave the crusty forest below.

What the underbelly looks like when out of water

Sweating is the default state of being, and so it was the other day, I found myself drenched and ready for a swim. And on a whim I decided to take my trusty plastic scraper and attack the barnacles and seaweed that had taken hold of Shiloh.

Only I hadn’t imagined how intense the growth had been. On my third thrust across the hull, underwater, my red scraper crunched on something huge and hard. I tried again to free it but my scraper came up, shredded. The offending barnacle had taken a chunk out of plastic. It was as if the sea and her creatures were laughing, as I realised my only tool was rendered useless. And I vowed to get some stronger ammunition and revisit this battle.

And so, after a visit to the marine shops, and a sturdy, shining, angled metal paint scraper in hand, I resolved on another day, to escape the heat, slip into the sea, and fight my demons.

It started out well. I kicked the water and treaded with one hand, while scraping vigorously with the other. There is a primal satisfaction in the removal of each barnacle, with a determined push, the resistance replaced by a swoosh and the bastards crumble away and sink downward…

But Shiloh had been left in a very fertile environment. There was a hula skirt of long green grass at the water line, various fan shaped coralesque plants and generally a foul smelling brownish green forest that pooled around me as I went, temporarily enveloping me in a swamp at each interval, before floating down and leaving me in the blue blue sea again.

It was satisfying but yet more revolting than I remembered. All this organic matter, in my hair, my face, my body and suit. I soldiered on, up one hull and down it’s other side.

I noticed at the water line as I went, some small beige bits, which at first I took no notice of. Just scraped and swam, scraped and swam. Until I was done. And JW joined me in the water (at that convenient time – the work being done!). And we floated leisurely a bit behind the boat, me proud of my accomplishment for the afternoon, JW just happy to be out of the heat above.

But then I was itching, and to be honest, still a little queasy from the gunk I’d been in for the past hour or so. And the itching continued until I needed to jump out and rinse off. And as I climbed the ladder JW asked,

“What’s all over you?”

“What?!” I responded with rising panic… my fingers passing over what felt like brail on every surface of my skin. And when I tried to brush or roll this stuff off, it wasn’t budging.

I started the water and continued, daring now to look – only to discover I was covered in tiny, writhing, alive and kicking creatures. OMG!

“What is it?! What are they?!” I demanded from JW, but the hysteria in my voice sent JW into a fit of laughter. It’s sea lice or something… relax, just wash it all off.

And then I remembered the beige bits that I’d been scraping off the whole boat. It seemed they had migrated directly onto my body and that was too disgusting to accept. I threw my swim suit off, in broad daylight, with a myriad of boats around. There is no modesty in panic mode.

And that is when I discovered, the inside of my black suit top was literally heaving with motion as the tiny shrimp-like gools climbed each over the other, trying to survive. It was like something from a horror movie, and a second ago it had been nestled tightly under my bosom.

I scrubbed my body in a frantic dance, wasting far too much water, just trying to clean off and help cleanse my mind and wounded psyche.

I survived. I lived to tell the tale. And to discover this is one of the realities of scrubbing boat bottoms. Another one of the hurdles that boat life presents. Now I know why they call it anti-fouling. Foul it is...

In this case I vote JW as the official boat cleaner on the outside forever. I will be grateful and will make chocolate brownies as his reward. I will never ever complain about a cluster of mold again.

(The photo below is not me - even though I haven't shaved in a while, it hasn't gotten this bad - this is another sailor who was calm enough to take a photo of what HE looked like after cleaning his hull and was covered in these shrimpy hooligans. I, on the other hand, had to lie down for a good hour to avoid vomiting from my trauma and was nowhere near thinking of getting photo evidence for my blog!).

 

The cultures we straddle - Cruising the Caribbean

I am in an overcrowded minibus, the windshield proudly displaying the glittered moniker ‘GOD GREAT’, sandwiched between a huge woman with tight round, putty like arms and a sea of children, like minnows, heading home from school. My sunglasses are swimming on my face, the perspiration escaping in fast running salty streams, slipping into my mouth, pooling in my cleavage, my elbows, my spine. I have no room to wipe or scratch and I am under extreme scrutiny besides.

My fellow passengers, most uniformed children, are wide eyed and twig limbed, clambering to get a view of the straw haired white lady, who is pink and sweating and disheveled, various shopping bags, piled on her lap.

They are on their regular route home, oblivious to the wild winding speed with which our driver cuts the corners of the hills and valleys. Wind, so welcome in the sweltering heat, whistles through the grimy windows (those that will open), while local reggae serenades us, the bass distorted and deafening.

I can see JW up in the front, squished between the driver and various passengers who climb on and off at impromptu stops along the road. His head bounces dangerously close to the roof as the bus flies over speed bumps and pot holes.

The ‘mate’ who takes our coins seems to know where each small child should get off, and he patiently opens the clunky sliding door for each one, as the rest reshuffle inside, he walks the tiny passengers across the road to their gates.

This is the unofficial public transport system of Grenada. Where children can take a bus across town, from what seems like 3 years old alone, and the community takes care. Ladies call out from the roadside to each other, discussing relatives, events, naughty children.

And random backpacked, flip-flopped, canvas hatted cruisers can get all the way across town to run errands and buy groceries, for the price of a Coke.

This is the cultural experience that comes before and after the cruiser get together at the South African run bakery, where burgers are cheap on Fridays and the liveaboards gather for a good deal and a good gab. 

10EC burger Fridays at The Merry Baker, St. Georges, Grenada

 This is the journey that takes us from the heart of the city back out to our various bays, where the floating neighborhood awaits.

Where yachtees organise cricket matches and dinghy concerts.

JW, injured at the Friday cricket match

 This is the life of a cruiser in the Caribbean; living on the outskirts, weaving an experience from the beauty of the islands, the comraderie of the like-minded wanderers, and the culture that makes these places tick.

Hangin' with some adorable school kids.

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! 

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.

Motors, Mud, Meat - doing with and without

It’s been an eventful week (sort of), since the departure of our guests and our return back to Hog Island.

We survived the dinghy impeller malfunction, made it across to Le Phare Bleu marina, across the epic waves.  We arrived safe but sopped and salty, and then had the dinghy motor lifted and carried away in the wheelbarrow to the engine hospital. An hour later, she was as good as new. The impeller turned out to be a little star shaped black rubber thingy… amazing that it could make or break a motor!

We are just crazy enough to have volunteered for another hash – read mud, mud and more mud. It didn’t help that the skies opened unabashedly for the first time in weeks just as we boarded the bus, en route to Cabier Lodge where the Bastille Day hash was being hosted.  We worried about getting there alive as the windows fogged up, and our driver swerved and overtook cars in washed out roads, while the cruisers inside gasped and held on. We also worried about Shiloh out in the bay, left alone to face the rain and possibly some strong winds. (Secretly I was happy that I’d set up my little rain catcher and was dying to prove to JW that we could in fact catch a meaningful amount if it really rained.)

It really rained. But it was over an hour later when we arrived and it left behind mountains of mud and slime on the trails, for the huge turn out that set off and a couple hours later, completed the hike. 

The crowd heading off on the hike (notice my French colours!)

 The highlight of the day were the crepes on offer back at the lodge. What a reward!

Our boat neighbors and blogger friends at Zero to Cruising, who are definitely the fittest couple we know, took the French theme of the day to another level, sewed up some great costumes, proceeded to run 8km in them, and then deservedly won the prize for best costume!

The after party with Mike and Rebecca from Zero to Cruising

 And all of that led to today. The day we have been leading up to for so long, that we denied and many times lost piles of meat…. The day where we admitted that the freezer was more trouble than it’s worth.

This morning as we listened to the continuing pitter patter of rain on the newly waterproofed bimini, I decided it would be a ‘cooking’ day and headed over to the freezer to pick out some chicken to thaw. But alas all the chicken was already thawed. Along with the steaks and the sausages and the soggy buns I was trying to keep fresh.

A quick sniff told me that most of them had tipped the scale between ok and might kill you in a violent and painful way. So we had to toss everything. Again.

I had that deep down GRRRRRRR anger again, and really it’s just not worth the long lasting effects of stress. I left the world of traffic jams and work deadlines for a reason. No more GRRRRRR.

So after I chewed out JW on learning he’d turned the freezer down ‘ever so slightly’ as it was drawing too much power and necessitating we run the generator for hours every evening, I resigned myself to the loss of meat.

We realised we don’t eat that much meat anyway and if we do want to make something, we’ll buy it that day, cook it up and for dessert we’ll savour the sweet display on our inverter/battery charger, showing such low current draw. We might only have to run the noisy little red generator once every two days!

Boating life takes some adjustments.  Today we are at the second Laundromat, as the first we tried had a power outage.

It’s either hunt around or handwash everything, using up our precious limited water supply on the boat and hope the things will dry, hung along the sides of the boat, as the rain squalls come over one by one…

On the bright side, this marina has fast wi-fi, cold Coke Zeros, and we have left the rolling swells back on the boat for a couple hours.

A beach scene in Bonaire... more adventure awaits!

Our friends on Chaotic Harmony meanwhile, have headed off today on a three day straight sail to Bonaire, and it has me dreaming of all the places we have yet to see. The sailing we’ve yet to do. The plans we're starting to formulate. But those are other blog posts and for now, all the little hassles melt away.

Laundry in paradise

I’m sitting at Tanty Lizzy’s Seaside Fountain. Only there’s no fountain. There is a Tanty Lizzy though, and she’s not someone to mess with.

Yesterday while waiting for our laundry at the friendly Laundromat on the main strip (only street) of Tyrell Bay, sipping beers and playing Scrabble at a cute red picnic table under some cool shade, Tanty herself came trundling out of a dark establishment across the road and rained on our parade, big time. She explained in a few not-so-friendly words, that we were on her property and we had better buy our drinks from her or get the *bleep* out.

We had no idea of course, that the bus shelter/game centre belonged to any bar or restaurant, and apologised profusely, in fear of a beating or worse. By the end of the afternoon, a few beers later (bought from Tanty Lizzy of course), and a couple questionable plates of lambi (conch) stew later, we were all friends. Hence I’m back, but this time I’m blogging.

Blogging at Tanty Lizzy's while waiting for laundry

 What a sight I must be – in a tropical paradise, my little Macbook, camera and iPhone on display, plugging away at the keys, while local fishermen, school children and fellow yachties in their well worn crocs saunter by, going about their day.

I feel the days slipping by, undocumented, one turquoise, salty, sun-soaked day melting into the next. It’s deliciously warm and relaxing and even the exciting moments anchoring, running aground on sand, finding eels in the waves and sailing in ‘perfect conditions’ with our mainsail up in 20knts wind, are all just part of the life.

We've now taken the journey from Grenada up through the southern Grenadines and we are heading very slowly back.

Tonight will be a potluck on the beach with some new and known friends. Last night’s miniature rum squall involved a gang of us on the beach, rum and beer of course, and some snacks that soon became sandy when a little wind gust threw our blanket up and over the fresh guacamole and my second attempt at corn bread. These were the casualties of the night.

The life of a cruiser has in it, all the normal things like laundry, cooking, cleaning (mostly getting rid of sand, salt and mold from the boat). In fact, it has some added frustrations, like EVERYTHING turns to mold if left unattended for longer than a week. JW's last remnant of his 'corporate self', his leather belt was dug out this morning and looked like this:

 But there is the benefit of the constant journey, discovery, conquest. It involves facing your insignificance out there at sea, as a tiny floating blip. The adrenaline flow as you play with the formidable forces of the wind and the massive ocean. 

The arrival at each new bay, like discoverers, I stand up on the bow while JW leads us valiantly in, dodging rocks, fishing lines, mooring balls and other boats, finding our ‘spot’ for the night or week.

It’s all exciting, invigorating, inspiring.

And you get to do your chores in places like this:

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.

Holiday on a sailboat

I knew that once we moved aboard our boat in the Caribbean, more friends would visit us from Canada than had ever visited me in my 16 years in Ghana. That wasn’t difficult, as precisely zero friends ever came to visit.

Between the distance, travel costs and immunizations needed from a tropical disease clinic, I’m not surprised we had so few visitors. Ghana was too exotic.

We’ve been on the boat in Grenada now for just over a month. And we’ve had our first visitor.

I knew that it would be fun. Grenada is a beautiful country. But I was nervous that our ‘boat life’ would be strange and the living quarters would be small and awkward for a landlubber. And I now believe it.

Everything about life aboard that was and is new for us, we embrace as a choice, but as a visitor, it’s not always the case.

We’ve already started to take for granted the dinghy rides at night, out around a peak. From the perspective of a newcomer, straight off an airplane, this ride can be terrifying. Pitch dark, rolling, rough as we head directly into what looks like the abyss. The imagination goes wild.

“Are there sharks?!”

“Are there life jackets on this dinghy?!”

No. And no. But is this the welcome our guests are looking for? We see Shiloh in the distance, but it’s a journey across an ocean to a newcomer. And when we finally motor up to the sugar scoops that serve as a landing point, Shiloh rocks and shakes us as we hand the luggage up the steps.

We sit and chat, but the friend is slightly green and hot and the tour of the boat and rum punches will have to wait. The only solution is drugs (Gravol tablets) and their accompanying thick molasses sleep.

Each day has been an adventure and we’ve had some great times. Grenada has not disappointed. But has our new lifestyle?

Everyone from afar thinks we’re ‘living the life’, that we are lucky and a bit crazy, but when it comes down to the day in/day out, the reality of dinghy-as-car, being at the mercy of the weather, filling water tanks ashore just to shower, running the generator daily to have light, reading while the horizon pitches in and out of view, well … that’s a different story.

Now that I’ve seen it all from the eyes of someone else, someone who hasn’t dreamed of this life and planned toward it for years, I realise it might not be most people’s dream. It requires sacrifice of routine and comforts. It requires a passion and patience and a love of the unconventional.

This is not a warning to those who would and will come to join us. It is a reality check for me. I promise to seek out and share the best of the islands where we make our temporary home. They are idyllic and there are glimpses of paradise all around.

What I can’t promise is that you will love the boat life; that sailing will charm and lure you.

It’s a lifestyle option that rewards us and brings the world to those who make that choice.  For those who aren't sailors and are on holiday from their own daily grind, maybe it’s too exotic. Definitely hotels promise a much more stable breakfast table!

Boat style... or not

The closest I get to fashion these days is picking through discarded Marie Claire mags at the cruisers book exchange in the marinas. Their pages show exotic locations and safely fake bronzed waifs in flowing sundresses, not a hint of perspiration. I flip through the pages and marvel at a world that’s so far removed from mine.

I have never been much of a fashionista, but even I, have to admit that boat life does not lend itself to high style or anything beyond basic hygiene for that matter.

The last pedicure I had, a distant memory on land. My toenails are now a chipped and scuffed mess of decaying polish and scars from tripping over hatches and off of dinghys. Not to mention the blisters spotted around my feet from hikes...

Shaving is another casualty of the ‘lifestyle’. Whether and when it happens is now dictated by a convergence of all of the following: time, energy, availability of water and razors. It is a rare occurrence.

Make up… ha! Not that I’ve ever been one for much of it, here it just seems frivolous and not on the ‘getting ready routine’. Stops in the head (washroom) on the way out are for confirming the hatches are closed and the pump toilet is set to ‘drain’ instead of ‘fill’.  The mascara and blush are melting slowly in a dollar store case I bought before we arrived. Just the thought of it makes me think salt splash on dinghy, burning eyes, rubbing messy black goo… far from a vision of loveliness.

And that cute summer set of wedge heels with the leather flower in front that I imagined wearing with little summer dresses – well they would probably lead to a broken ankle or a near death experience – now that I know the terrain of life on a boat.  I’ve given them up, dumped in a rough fiberglass ‘cupboard’, replaced by flip flops, crocs and my soleless boat shoes (little beaded foot necklace).

 I am amazed and in awe when we arrive at an evening venue here and some ladies arrive with shiny clean hair, fresh faces and against all odds, smooth clean clothes.

I don’t own an iron (not that we could afford the energy to run one if we did), and the act of washing is a mission in itself. Get all the dirties in a laundry bag, then cover it with a waterproof bag, dinghy to a marina, get tokens, wait through both cycles, roughly fold and haul it all back to the boat without getting wet and salty again. Most of the time our clothes are hanging around the edges of the boat, airing or drying, pinched by pegs and as wrinkled as an elephant’s skin. If we manage to find something semi-clean to throw on then we’re peachy.

Both JW and I have our pseudo-safari retirement holiday floppy hats to avoid the piercing sun, and the last time my hair was clean enough and not knotted or salt caked, was weeks ago when we had marina hot showers. It spends most of it’s time wound up, clipped up or tied up. Away from my hot shoulders and not blowing in the unforgiving wind. 

 We have definitely sacrificed fashion for function. And in a way, I haven’t felt more fresh and alive, and therefore beautiful in ages.

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.