Fierce winds and following seas

It’s 2:30am. Of course it is. Because I am up and there is something dramatic going on outside. Tonight it is gale force winds. As I stand in the relative protection of our cockpit, other boats in the bay come in and out of view. The wind and rain beat the boat and the water’s surface, and we are swinging wildly from side to side on our mooring ball. Thank heaven for the mooring ball.

Earlier we headed out of Mustique, intent on never looking back after two days and nights of a swell that came into the bay and hit us side long, with force. It had been like anchoring out in the middle of the ocean. Our guest gagged while JW and I puttered around with flashlights, holding on so as not to fall over, or off the boat completely. We checked the mooring ball and the lines (ropes) for chaffing. The squeaking sound of the ropes, fighting an uphill battle with the forces of nature were more than unnerving.

The decadent evening at Firefly earlier in the night, where we had snuck into the fold of well-to-do landlubbers, dining on rare beef and banana flambee, had dissolved into a haze of erratic motion and whipping winds. We could no longer imagine sipping after supper liquers and retreating to stable, large, soft, four poster beds.

 Instead, I steadied myself against cupboards, walls, poles and prayed for morning to come quickly.

After one last visit to the civilized strip of shops on Mustique, chocolate croissant crumbs at the edge of our lips, we had to face the reality of getting out.

Once out of the bay, waves piled up behind us, pushing us along in huge navy mountains of water. We put up a reefed mainsail and cut the engines. The wind, directly behind us at 20 knots, rendered our autopilot useless for the first time, and we manned the helm in turns.

As my arms tensed against the force on the steering and the waves gathered and grew to walls, coming up behind us in 3 to 4 meter swells, I peered around for any sign of other boats. But no one had been silly enough to head out in these winds, these waves.

The overwhelming feeling that we had no control over our boat and our surroundings kept me in a mild state of unchecked panic. JW, my calm and able captain took it all in stride and kept up small talk with our guest. All I wanted was to reach the other side, have a few straight shots of rum and climb down into a deep non-rolling sleep.

Just then, between waves, appeared another Lagoon cat, coming diagonal to us, beating directly against wind and waves. Each undulation of wave sent one hull completely up and out of the water altogether. It was at once beautiful and frightening. And as they came closer, the 4 crew came into view and we waved madly, a sense of crazy camaraderie overtaking us all. And then they were gone. Disappeared in the distance, behind the mass of waves.

And eventually we came into the lee of Canouan and the huge Charlestown bay.

But my dreams of leaving behind the wind and tucking in to the safety of land disappeared as the gusts continually hit 22 to 25 knots, deep in the bay.

We followed the small crowd of boats, tucked in as close to land as possible, to avoid the swells. Dropped anchor and let out a lot of chain. But the strength of the wind didn’t allow us to switch off engines and relax. I donned my snorkel gear and jumped in to assess our holding.

The surface of the ocean, slapped by wind, slapped me in turn and with my snorkel continually full of salt water, I could only see that our anchor was dragging slowly, puffs of sandy dust billowing up below me. JW tried again and once again until the local guys from the charter company in their little speed boat came to warn of more serious winds in the night and offered us a mooring ball, if we agreed to put our anchor down as well. Double protection.

If only all the ‘protection’ against dragging meant a peaceful night’s sleep.

If only the wind, determined and powerful wouldn’t target our anchorage, and when I peer out my cabin porthole I didn’t see a huge Lagoon charter boat, dragged or lost it’s mooring, trying desperately against the storm to re-anchor.

If only this life in paradise didn’t come with the unpredictable chaos of weather.

But then, with only turquoise seas and rum punches to look forward to, we might get bored.

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:

Water water everywhere...

  What kind of person would complain about temporary bowel problems when they are sitting in paradise? Crystal clear waters, swimming pool blue, navy patches in the distance, fluffy clouds in the robin’s egg blue sky beyond. Turtles bob up and down past the boat, along with elegant sting rays, smoothly cutting through the water with their black slick cape wings.

 Well yesterday was a write off. There I lay, in a wooden cabin, turquoise bedsheets no substitute for what beckoned through the cabin window. Watching old episodes of House at noon as the sun swapped with tiny rain squalls through the hatch above my head.

I couldn’t move more than a few feet from the head (toilet).

Last night, as JW and I both leapt up and headed to a head each, we figured we better deduce the cause of our suffering.

Boat life involves a lot of conservation and compromise. One of the taken for granted amenities is water. Not the endless ocean around us, but the safe potable kind.

A few bays ago, (well bays and days ago) in a place aptly called Saline Bay, we found a cheap source of water to fill our jugs. Precisely it was free. An abandoned dock had a hose and water pressure. We couldn’t believe our luck. We hauled all our 20 and 25 litre jugs back and forth a few times and replenished our onboard tank.

But then we realised that it was somewhat contaminated. It tasted a bit salty. We decided to use it only for washing bodies, clothes, dishes.

And then days went by, and in the Tobago Cays, an uninhabited paradise that is also a nature reserve, where you must store your rubbish bags onboard and really dig into your stored foods (had you provisioned properly), we forgot the golden water rule.

I was making tea, coffee, boiling noodles and potatoes all in the contaminated water.

And then it all caught up to me. And then JW.

So a day of cream crackers, flat coke, gingerale, teaspoons of honey, plain yogurt (all suggestions courtesy of Google results), and we’re both up and ready once more.

Ready to acknowledge both how fragile we are as humans, and how lucky we are as individuals. Lucky to be experiencing a little patch of this earth that has kept it’s beauty intact. Where flounder fish with both eyes on one side of their bodies, line the white sand, a testament to evolution, and iguanas prowl the little islands, their armour reminiscent of prehistoric ages.

 Where the children today have decided to make floating rafts on the beach with only natural materials, and there is not a television or video game in sight or mind.

I am off to witness turtles with their kaleidoscope shells, snacking on bits of seagrass on the shallow seabed and then gliding swiftly up for air, unbothered by the clunky goggled swimmers around them. 

 I will handwash the laundry and dump our disturbingly accumulating garbage bags another day, in another place.

And I will respect the water in all it’s forms and acknowledge what it does for us every day.