After a light breakfast of a bagel toasted in our propane stove and then topped with cream cheese and “pawpaw” (locally made papaya jam), my third day “soloing” in the Grenadines
began as most seem to in this climate – warm and breezy. I’m convinced that the wind just always blows in Bequia, and while that’s great for keeping away the mosquitoes and no-see-ums, it can also create a bit of excitement for the ¼ mile dinghy trip from our boat to the town dock when I go to work at the Sunshine School in the mornings.View of lower Bequia harbor from Sacajawea
It seems Murphy’s Law is in action some days – the winds are calm and the waves around the boat are small and placid -- until I climb off the swim platform on the stern of our boat and step into the dinghy, pull the cord to start the engine (perhaps after a few tries), and untie the painter from Sacajawea to free the dinghy and head into town. Then suddenly it’s like the wind and wave gods (and sometimes the rain gods) wake up and decide to make my trip eventful by kicking up a 30-knot blow that threatens to flip the dinghy over backwards if I’m not careful, and which whips up a foot or so of chop in the water that splashes into the dinghy, leaving me hunkering down in the middle of the boat to try and keep my school skirt dry until I make it to the dinghy dock.
And then there are those days when I forget to watch out for the following wake of another boat that has just passed, and wait for the passing of the rock-and-roll-and-splash that always follows. One day I had just climbed down into the dinghy to head to school in a new inexpensive skirt I’d bought on sale in town so I’d have the appropriate clothes to wear – the female students wear uniform skirts and dresses here, so it hardly seems fair for me to show up in my boat shorts and t-shirt. One of the water taxis had just zipped by and he wasn’t one of the more polite ones who slows down when near other boats. I saw him go by just as I was about to reach down under the bow of the dinghy to grab the dinghy painter line so I could haul myself forward to untie the dinghy from the big boat, and I forgot to wait for his following wake first. Ooops. Just as I reached down this one-foot wave hit the bottom of Sacajawea’s stern and splashed straight up – right into my face and all over my clothes. Again, oops. It was my own fault for not paying attention, and once I shook off my stunned expression – I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open in shock as water dripped off my face and hair – I considered going back aboard and changing, but decided instead to dry myself off as best I could and carry on. That kind of things is just one of life’s little challenges when your “car” lives and travels on water – but then, I still prefer that to sitting at a traffic light somewhere. It’s all in our choice eh?
On this particular morning I hadn’t started my daily work at the school yet, so my trip into town this morning was to buy supplies. We had discovered there were no first aid supplies on the boat, so I was in search of a pharmacy (I think there’s maybe one on the island) where I could put together a basic first aid kit. Apparently
that two-day Wilderness First Aid course Tim and I took together last November did its job, because it got me thinking about what kinds of things I might need if someone got hurt while onboard. Since being on the water is sometimes a bit like being in the wilderness - because if you’re sailing offshore there isn’t exactly a doctor or hospital a few miles away (and even in some harbors that’s also the case) – that’s why most sailors take some type of “survival” training over time.View of our small galley from front cabin
The course we took was taught by a lady EMT and it was terrific – she ran scenarios where each of us took turns being the “victim” whom the rest of us “stumbled upon” while out for a hike. She would send us out to walk through the woods to simulate hiking after she had placed a victim or two here or there in our path (using makeup and props to simulate really goring looking injuries). And since she had asked us to pack our backpacks with exactly what we’d take for a day hike – that and what we could find around us was all we had available to stop bleeding, cover wounds, splint broken bones, and whatever other first aid the victim needed to keep them from going into shock or bleeding to death. It makes you think, especially about what I put in that pack in addition to my water and snacks. Perhaps that’s why it made me think about getting these supplies for the boat BEFORE we actually needed it, which is always a good thing; so I’m grateful for her training because it conditioned me to think proactively instead of reactively.
While there was only one pharmacy ashore, it was actually pretty well stocked with bandages, waterproof tape, gauze, iodine and alcohol – so in the end I was pretty pleased with the emergency kit I was able to assemble. I stopped by the post office to mail a card to one of our nieces and also to find some locally made cards to send later. Then I stopped by the bank to use my ATM card because my cash was starting to run low. ATM cards are great because when you use them in foreign countries, the cash is dispursed in the local currency - eliminating the need to find an open bank or pricey currency exchange location.
When I was ready to leave town I returned to our dinghy which I had parked at the dinghy dock near the Rasta market, and by that I mean a fresh produce market that is run by gentlemen (because I’ve never seen any women in this market) of the Rastafari (or Rasta) faith. I gather
most people think Rasta is simply a manner of dress or hairstyle, and while the dreadlocks and the multi-striped head coverings are typically part of the dress often seen by Rastas, it’s actually a religion which originated in Jamaica among the working class and peasant blacks in the 1930’s. (I knew about the dress and religion part, but the rest of this comes courtesy of research with Wikipedia). Singer Bob Marley made the movement famous when his Reggae music began became synonymous with Rasta. The Rastas I’ve met are typically friendly when you’re in the market and I hear a lot of “pretty lady” and such if I’m about to buy something, but outside of that as a woman, while I don’t exactly feel threatened by them, I can’t say my experiences with most Rastas have been especially comforting either. The faith is not exactly known for putting women on a very equal footing.Today was no exception, because as I walked along the dock toward our dinghy, I noticed the dock was pretty crowded with boats of all sizes, and apparently a Rasta guy who’d just arrived in his boat was not happy about that, and seeing me using the dock didn’t seem to improve his mood. It was only he and I on the dock, which perhaps gave him a bit more courage - since most bullies do their best work when they’ve got you alone, or when the only people around are those they know are too weak or too afraid of them to intervene on someone else’s behalf.
Funny how bullies always seem to just know who they can intimidate and who they can't, in the same way they know which people will sit by and just watch it happen to someone else, and who won't. Strangely enough, it seems the rest of the world always knows who each of those people are too.
This particular one today didn’t do anything that made me afraid, but rather it was more of an arrogant posturing designed to intimidate. As I approached my dinghy he started mouthing off about leaving the dinghy there so long and how there wasn’t enough room – of course leaving out the part that this was a public dock and there were no time limits on its use for him or anyone else. My response was simply to look him square in the eye and listen as he talked to me, but I said nothing. Sometimes things just don’t deserve a response – especially that kind of intimidation tactic.
Like most people out there I’ve known a few “intimidators” in my life. From what I gather the types are universal out there in the world. There are the obvious ones who say things to people in private (when there are no witnesses) that they'd never say in public. And then there are the more subtle ones who sit by and let something bad happen to someone else while they support it with their silence, and then who try to “silence” others who do speak up by implying they should “let it go” and be more forgiving or accepting like they are. It’s strange the “silencers” of the world never seem to realize that what they think should be “let go” is ALWAYS something that happened to someone else, never to them (and the world sees them run away fast enough to be darn sure it never happens to them). Bullies come in all
forms, and compared to some of the bullies and silencers I’ve known, this poor guy doesn’t even come close.View of town from our anchorage. The dinghy trip is aobut 1/4 mile and takes about 5-10 minutes if the weather is good (sometimes more in biegger wind or waves).
I listened to what he had to say and then just looked at him for a moment without making any faces or changing my expression at all, and then I simply turned toward my dinghy and took my usual time going about my business. It seemed to take the wind out of his sails a bit (pun intended!), because he sort of turned away mumbling under his breath (which made it hard for me not to be amused) and then went about his business and didn’t bother me again. Most people here are very nice, but like most places in the world, there’s always a few out there who seem to bring chaos and discord wherever they go.
Personally I think the secret of life is to be as responsible and friendly and cooperative as I can with everyone else, and then to surround myself with other people who share that philosophy. And then leave the bullies, intimidators, and the “passive” ones who also “pass along” all the hard parts of life to someone else – leave them to their own devices to fight that out among themselves. We all live in the world we create for ourselves, and if we just sit there and do nothing when someone else comes in and mucks it up, then we probably deserve that outcome. So there you go, the world according to Carla eh?
The one unpleasant experience with this guy at this dock contradicts dozens of many really nice experiences I had at docks and in town and lots of other places during my 6 weeks in SVG. In fact, during my almost two months in SVG I had far fewer unhappy experiences than I can recall on any day of the week on a US highway or in many office settings, even less unhappiness than what you might find in many family gatherings. As I post this in March and look back on the time I spent in the Grenadines this trip, I can only remember two or three times when I was unhappy with something going on, compared to pretty much the rest of the time when I was really enjoying myself and the people around me. How many of us can say that about our daily life, wherever we live or work?
Dock at the Gingerbread Restaurant where we often park while we're ashore using the Internet or running errands. The dock is sort of a gathering place. Locals often fish from the dock and kids play and swim there after school (both are captured in this photo). There's a group of older local ladies that come to the beach just before dark for a late evening swim in the cool water.
Like another experience later in the day when I arrived at the dinghy dock near the Gingerbread Hotel and Restaurant where I was coming in to use the wireless Internet and charge my laptop for free (I gather you can’t even do that in Starbucks anymore, even if you buy their $4 coffee). On my way in I was fighting a headwind and had goosed the engine enough to give me enough forward momentum to carry me to the dock as I slipped the throttle back to neutral (like life, when it comes to operating dinghies -- timing is everything). I was aiming for a slot between 2 larger dinghies near the steps, and just as I got there a wave sloshed the dinghy to port into my path and sort of turned me around – fortunately I was able to grab the dinghy on my starboard side with my hand and used their line to pull my dinghy up to the dock. A local guy was just walking out to the dock and he asked for my bowline and held it while I shut down the engine, and then offered to help me out. This mirrors many pleasant experiences I had just like that when the dinghy didn’t want to start and people asked if I needed help, or when people on the dock saw me alone and offered to take my line and tie me up (oops, I mean tie the dinghy up) as I dealt with the engine, and many other instances of nice and helpful people everywhere.
After grabbing my gear from the red Haroun beer crate we keep in the dinghy to keep things off the bottom which tends to accumulate water and gas, I left the dock and walked up the sandy slope past the large almond tree, and up the green steps into the 2nd floor of the Gingerbread where the restaurant is located. The Internet working area is located off to the side, under these 2 great ceiling fans and near 5 open air windows that let in the breeze and provide a great view of the harbor and dinghy dock. As I sit at the table checking emails and paying bills back home, I can hear the buzz of dinghies outside and see the sailboats in the anchorage nearer to town, and I can hear the hum of voices behind me as a few people are having a late lunch or working in the restaurant. Every now and again a small bird or two will fly in and land on the windowsill and glance at us for a bit, sometimes treating us to their sing-song voice. When Tim and I are chatting long distance using Skype, he always comments that he hears birds in the background and how nice that is to hear, especially since Maine is still in the throes of a cold and snowy winter. There is only one other person in the work area today, and I can hear her rattle off in German as she uses Skype to contact someone in Europe (I later got to know her and found out she was contacting Switzerland). I love how multi-cultural Bequia is – filled with a transient population of both visitors and locals, many who are expats who immigrated from other places all over the world, and who are resourceful at what they do for a living and now live part or all of the year in Bequia or elsewhere in the Caribbean. Perhaps it’s an unusual way of life, but I think I could learn to like it pretty quickly.
Mariann is one of the friends I got to know while volunteering at the Sunshine School. This photo was taken at the school as we sorted items for the Jumble Sale fundraiser in early March.
This comes to mind again at the board meeting for the Sunshine School when they asked if I had “Bequia fever” yet, and when I said yes their next question was to ask how many biminis we had on the boat. A bimini is a covering over the cockpit which offers shelter from rain and sun, similar to a covered porch on a house. Apparently the number of biminis indicates how “settled” some of the cruisers become in Bequia, because as they decide to stay here longer, they tend to add more coverings over the boat – first a bimini, then a dodger, then perhaps a tarp to cover the bow area to add another shaded spot for sitting. Ahah! I get it. We have one bimini. But just the other day I was thinking, we really need a dodger for those windy days. That fever is contagious!
Later in the day I rode along with Mariann (originally from Norway) in her colorful Citroen car up to her rental house in Pleasant Hill high along the Bequia ridge with a great view of Admiralty Bay. Mariann won my admiration when I learned she rescues and finds good homes for dogs and cats in need in the islands. She raises money used to promote spaying and neutering in nearby islands, teaching responsible pet ownership that is still relatively unknown in the Caribbean (and from the millions of cats and dogs destroyed in the US every year, perhaps not so well learned “at home” either). Dinner was a scrumptious local menu of salad w/fresh tomatoes, toast w/herb butter, potatoes and sausages, and cullaloo soup (cullaloo is like spinach, and the soup adds a spicey broth base and is often accompanied with shrimp or other seafood). We ate only after she had fed the 4 dogs and 2 cats that currently live with her while awaiting a safe permanent home.
Mariann has lived a very adventurous life. She was born in Sweden and moved to Norway when she married, then later in life she and partner Peter built Fredag, a 50-foot Colin Archer double-ended, gaff-rigged ketch and sailed it to the Caribbean. They eventually lost the boat after experiencing steering problems and running aground near Union Island (just south of Bequia). That was back in 1985, and after having lost everything aboard the Fredag when she went down, they started over in Bequia where Peter became known locally as “Fixman” after starting a repair business where he “fixed” things marine and otherwise. Peter has since moved elsewhere but Mariann remains, and in addition to her animal work she is also known as the “Whyknot Lady”, named after her business of making clothes and household items from knotted sailing line.
View of Admiralty Harbor from Mariann's house near the top of Pleasant Hill. Our boat is one of those little dots in the water down there.
After dinner I decided to get some exercise by walking back into town. Mariann accompanied me part of the way and walked her dogs at the same time, and then I continued the remaining mile or so from there by flashlight (they call it a torch) down the concrete road until it led to a narrow dirt path to the beach and the lower part of the Belmont Walkway. Then I stepped onto the concrete walkway and walked along the concrete pathway at water’s edge past the Auberge where we had our meeting today, past Mac’s pizza, and soon coming to the dinghy dock at Gingerbread which was closed for the night.
I walked down the dock where a few men were standing talking and bent to unlock the dinghy, placed my laptop and beach bag inside in the Haroun crate, and then tried to start the engine. No luck. It had been starting great so I had gotten complacent. I waited a few seconds and tried again. No luck. Again. Same result. Then I tried the choke and pulled again, no luck. Then I waited again, this time a while longer and tried again, then tried the choke again. This time she sputtered for a second before cutting out. Ahah. I pushed the choke back in and it pulled the cord again and she started right up. As with many things in life, the right combination of persistence and patience had paid off.
The dinghy trip back to the boat was a bit daunting as there weren’t many boats in the harbor tonight which meant less light and more empty mooring balls to watch out for. The moon was full, but as luck goes, a large cloud was covering it and as I got further away from town it got pretty dark, so I tried to stay in the beams of light reflecting down from each sailboat’s mast and worked my way slowly and carefully from one boat to another. I had expected it to be windy, but on the contrary, the wind and the waves were both eerily calm. Soon I was back at the boat and as I swung the dinghy around to approach the boat into the wind, the clouds parted and the light from the moon shown on the boat like a spotlight. Very cool, although I could have used that spotlight a few minutes earlier, but such is life. It took me two tries to successfully land the dinghy to the side of the boat where I could grab the ladder with my free hand, but the second time around she cozied up nicely and I had soon transferred myself and gear safely aboard in the dark.
After locking the dinghy for the night, then unlocking the boat and going below to open up the hatches for ventilation, I took Tim’s headlamp and went topside again and walked to the bow to check the anchor and snubber line. This was my nightly routine before turning in – lock up the dinghy, flip over the captains seat to close up the swim platform (Tim and I call that pulling up the welcome mat), and making the anchor check to be sure the lines and our position is secure for the night.
A rainbow I captured one day off the tip of Bequi at Devil's Table late one afternoon.
As I climbed into the forward bunk about 10pm I could hear a squeaking noise that seemed to be constant but that grew louder when the boat rocked. One thing about learning to live, eat and sleep on a boat – the boat contains so much standing rigging (spars, mast, boom, stanchions, forestay, backstay – and all the other metal fittings that run up and down the boat which allow it to sail) – that there are a lot of things to make noise in the night. Eventually you learn that some noises you just can’t do anything about but others you can, like when the boom swings back and forth a few inches up top, even after the mainsheet is hauled in as close as she’ll go. That was the noise I was hearing tonight, and as I laid there I realized the line (rope) I had tied from the boom to the starboard side grab rail up top to squelch this common noise had worked its way lose. So I swung my legs over the side and climbed back out of the bunk, went through the saloon and climbed up the companionway steps – fortunately remembering to slide back the hatch cover so I didn’t whack my head on it (that happens sometimes when we forget we’ve closed it to keep out the rain overnight). Once up top, I hoisted myself over the companionway entrance to the deck above and retied the line to keep the boom tight, all the while remembering the “one hand for the boat” rule which means I remembered to hang on so that the inevitable movement of the boat didn’t set me off balance and throw me over the side. One of the things about being alone on the boat is that if I fall in, there’s no one on board to hear it and check out that I’m okay. I think of that at home often as well, since Tim travels so much I’m often home alone at night of course after friends have left and it’s just the dogs and I. I’ve often wondered what I’d do if I fell down the steps and couldn’t get to a phone (which clumsy me who’s always rushing to and fro for something has already done that twice, once netting a broken foot). Fortunately Tim was home both times I fell, but I admit it crosses my mind sometimes about what I’d do if something happened sometime and I either couldn’t get to the phone or was knocked out or something. Perhaps Samantha would howl enough in the night that someone would come and check it out. Perhaps I’m just more careful when I’m home alone in ways I don’t even realize. If that’s so, then perhaps that translates to being even more careful here, because of course falling can mean landing in the ocean which can be a rude awakening in the middle of the night. But I digress…..
This lovely yacht was anchored "next door" to my port side for several days. She's a beauty and appeared to have a full-time crew of two for 4 adult guests and 2 kids.
Anyway, I’m glad the boom was lose, because while I was up top retying the complex knot to keep it still, I happened to look up in time to see the eclipse of the moon. Marianne had mentioned the eclipse was happening around 11pm, but I had forgotten. When I looked up the moon was about 4/5’s covered, and it looked as if someone had pulled a shade over the moon in the same way we’d pull a shade over a window to keep down the glare, the resulting light dimmed. I watched for a few moments before climbing back down to the cockpit and then back down the companionway steps, once again securing the boat for the night.
I was tired tonight from all the walking and other activities I’d done during the warm day, and with the lighter winds and gentler roll this evening I was looking forward to a peaceful night’s sleep for a change. Another boat arrived quietly later as I was reading before going to sleep. I noticed him only after I heard his anchor chain to my port beam as he dropped the anchor to the sandy bottom about 20 feet below. I turned off the light in the forward cabin in the bow so I could see better outside, and I noticed him about 50 feet off my port bean, shining a torch on the water ahead to watch for mooring balls or other hazards. I could also see the green glow of his navigation lights indicating he was underway.
Night approaches into a harbor are somewhat dangerous because of the risk of running aground and hitting the reef, other boats or other hazards. We’ve made a few night approaches so we understand the importance of taking positions, imperative at night, so you know where you are, and checking the charts and visually scanning the perimeter with a spotlight to light up whatever is around to avoid hitting it. I remember well entering the Carriacou harbor (just north of Grenada) a few years back around 11pm. My job was to stand on the bow and sweep the spotlight back and forth for obstacles ahead, while Tim checked the charts and GPS below to track our position carefully, and our one other crew member, Kevin Parsons who is an
experienced skipper, manned the helm since he had made night approaches before. Kevin had this incredible night vision, and as I flashed the light to starboard he asked me to go back and sweep that area again. As I arched the beam of light back and forth slowly in that direction as we slowly moved forward, I saw a flash of something white above waterline to starboard positioned about 2:00. I returned the light to that position, and as we grew closer the white thing grew larger, and it keep going up and up. As we approached and the light could reach more of the object, it soon came into dim view as a large container ship, several stories high and hundreds of feet long – which just happened to be abandoned in the harbor and with not a single light on it. We were in no danger of hitting it because we were vigilant and careful, but even so, just seeing that massive thing suddenly appear in the dark like that sort of gave my heart a leap all the same.Coming in at night is not for the faint of heart, and I remembered that feeling as I watched this boat come into our anchorage while I was already safely anchored and in my bed. Soon the new arrival had settled back on his anchor and it must have held, because soon I heard the rattle of the chain again as he let out proper scope and set his snubber line, and soon after that the lights went out and all was quiet again. I think I was asleep very soon after in the peaceful and quite harbor.
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