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Thursday,
March 5, 2009, Out by 07:45, we had to motor
the first hour or so to find some wind out of the lee of the island. What we found when we entered the
channel was fluky, changing speed and direction like a fickle teenage
girl. Mostly it was in the
mid teens, except when a squall would bluster through with its additional
5 or 10 knots. They created a
vacuum when passing by, sucking with them all the ambient wind, leaving a
dead hole. Slowly the wind
speed would pick back up to normal.
Musetta can move at 10 knots
of wind, but only if she’s already underway; she can’t start up in that
low speed. But she had fun
today. We had beam seas and
hobby horsing again, but not as severe as yesterday; she rode those waves
like a graceful dancer, and the squalls gave her refreshing showers. They were a little cool for me;
even with my windbreaker on, I was shivering from cold toward the end of
the day. We were able to sail
until about a mile from our destination. 
Only one boat boy came out to
greet us, Desmond from Sea Cat Tours. Most boats take mooring balls
here, and there were only a few open ones left; Desmond helped us snag
one. When we were settled, he
let Jeff know the price of the ball was $10US per night, and he didn’t ask
for a tip, but wanted to know how long we would be staying. “At least two nights” Jeff
replied. “Well, you get
yourself settled, go ahead and relax; you’ll be around, I’ll come by later
to collect and I’ll bring Octavius (Sea Cat) out to meet you. We don’t want to hassle the
boaters.” WOW! What a concept. Jeff dinghied to the customs
office in town, about a mile away from the anchorage, to check us into the
country. We are now
officially in the True to his word, Desmond came
by in the evening with his boss, Octavius, who invited us to join his tour
tomorrow. He’s got a group
going to Friday, March 6, 2009,
Sea Cat was waiting for us at
the head of his dock, along with his associate, Stowe. We had a group of twelve, and Sea
Cat knew the river was running high today so he wanted to be sure to have
plenty of help. Why they
didn’t save fuel and pile us all into one van, I don’t know, but as it
was, we had plenty of room to stretch out along the way. We rode with Stowe – real name
Cuthbert Armstrong – who started us off right away with facts about “The
Nature Island.” Twenty-nine
miles long and 60 miles wide, it has 34 beaches, all of them black sand
and 365 rivers, one for every day of the year; 60% of the island is rain
forest. It has a population
of 69,000, of whom roughly 75% are Catholic. The 3,000 Caribs living on the
island are direct descendants of the Indian population that was living
here when 
Like many of the islands, sugar
cane and the plantation life-style ruled, though now most of the
plantations have been abandoned; only seven large estate plantations
remain, but every village except one now has wild pineapple growing along
the roads. An interesting
side note: Up until six years ago, the oldest living person in the world
lived on a working plantation here.
She was a cook at the plantation home, and retired at age 95; she
was 128 years old when she died! Descendents of the bamboo and
breadfruit trees brought by Captain Bligh are flourishing everywhere. Ferns – 186 different species –
fill in the landscape; pretty pink impatiens grow wild along the roadside;
profusions of wild lemongrass scent the air and keep mosquitoes at bay;
dense trees and vines tower over each side of the road, creating a tunnel
effect. Working our way up
the hill in dense, lush countryside, the cool air – sweet scented and
refreshing - is, according to Stowe, the same year-round. No wonder it’s “The Nature Isle,”
exotically beautiful and unspoiled, like Nature should
be. 
At one road-side stop, Sea Cat
climbed a tree and shook out guavas for us to snack on. When they’re ripe like that, you
can eat the skin of the fruit; in fact, it has more flavor than the pulp,
which is typically used only for juice. Further down the road, he cut the
husks off fresh coconuts and poked holes in the “eyes” at the top. We placed our lips around the
holes and knocked it back, letting the cool, refreshing, sweet juice
dribble down our throat.
Juice drained, he cracked open the shell and used a piece of the
hull to scoop out the “jelly,” the thin layer around the shell with a
sorbet appearance and pudding-like texture; it was delicately flavored,
seductively addictive. As the
coconut matures, the jelly thickens and becomes the hard flesh that we’re
most familiar with. Sea Cat
said they have four varieties of coconuts on the island, but I’d be hard
pressed to tell the difference.
They also have 20 species of mangoes – who knew there were so many? 
Passing through a town on the
east side, I noticed lots of the homes had gardens on their roofs. Stowe said they grow a lot of
“herb” here; indeed, groups of men sat on their door steps right alongside
the road, smoking whopper-sized joints. Stowe said there’s no threat of
them being arrested here - this is the only village that has more guns
than the police do. We
actually stopped here to visit one of Sea Cat’s friends, who makes
miniature doll houses; they were crudely constructed, but he clearly had
great pride in his work, though I wonder how many he actually sells. Sea Cat bought us each a roasted
plantain from a street vendor – no seasoning on it, just a peeled green
plantain turned over and over on a grill; the smokey-sweet-potatoish
flavor was delicious. We had a bathroom break at
another of his friends’ home, this one a nice B&B run by an American
woman, the Zandoli Inn. She
had beautiful views and individual cottages in this quiet, quaint,
secluded hideaway, but NO guests.
She said she hadn’t had any for two weeks, and only has four
bookings in the next month.
How can she survive I wonder?
Stowe said the tourism industry is way off this year, though the
business from cruisers is still going strong. All morning long, Sea Cat would
stop the van along the road, in seemingly nowhere; we would all pile out
with “Okay, why are we here?” expressions on our faces, peering around
clueless. Invariably, he
would climb into a tree or shrub and pull out something we should see:
castor beans perhaps; sour cherries; tamarind-type globes; fresh bay
leaves. He climbed under one
scraggly tree and pulled off plump, yellow carambolas – star fruit – and
cut them up for us. They were
incredibly juicy, exquisitely astringent and sweet simultaneously. We tasted our way all the way to
the Falls. Near the town of
Finally, we reached our
destination, the trail head for Getting to the Falls was a
blast! We couldn’t take
cameras or any gear unless they were in dry bags, because we were definitely going to get wet. Besides scrambling up boulders and
hiking steep trails, we had to cross the river five times. It was a good thing Sea Cat had
Stowe along because they definitely needed two people to help us get
across; in some areas it was chest high on me, and running swiftly; we had
to stepping carefully across along slippery rocks on the riverbed, but one
mis-step and we’d be down-river in a flash. Sea Cat and Stowe, both big,
strong guys, were like stanchions on the down-current side, and we would
gingerly make our way in front of them, going hand-to-hand to the other
side.  
At the top, the water fall was
magnificent! With a drop of
perhaps 175 feet or more, the force of the water pounding into the deep
pool below was so loud, we had to shout into each others’ ears to be
heard. This is what we had
come for - to swim in the
pool. The chill, fresh water
was exhilarating, the spray shooting out so powerfully, it felt as if my
eyelids would peel back. Sea
Cat and Stowe stood as human chains again and helped the more adventurous
of our group across to the opposite side of the pool. Fighting the current, we had to
make our way, one at a time, along these massive, slippery boulders to a
small grotto just near the base of the Falls. There were only a few of us; when
it came time for the woman in front of me to traverse the boulders, her
arms clutched around the boulders with fingers trying to dig in so firmly
that her knuckles shone white, her eyes were scrunched tightly; I expected
to see tears trickle out at any moment. She poised there for the longest
time, I’m sure fighting back the fear, talking herself into it. I debated whether to say anything
to try to encourage her, but decided to let her work it out herself. She finally made the passage, no
doubt relieved when she reached the other shore. For me, not being much of a
swimmer, the crossing was scary, but nothing compared to the fear I’d
experienced at the  
We paddled around in the pool
awhile; our thirst for adventure temporarily sated, it was our stomachs
calling to us now. The trip
back down is a blur in my memory, always easier to back track than when
going into the unknown. At
the vans, we changed into dry clothing and Moses had our lunch ready –
“ITAL” food, like “vital,” ITAL being the Rastafarian vegan food. It was a stew of plantain,
dasheen, green banana, papaya, spinach, curry, basil, and what else I
don’t know, all picked from Moses’ garden around the shack – and it was delicious! Sea Cat scooped portions into
calabash bowls while Moses, his work done, relaxed with a big, fat,
doobie. We sat at long,
wooden tables in the shack, hungrily scooping up the tasty meal with
calabash spoons. Ravenous, we
each had two servings. When I
asked for water, Moses wiped out a cracked, old coffee mug and sent one of
his children with it down to the river to fill it. A la naturál. Moses had bundles of herbs drying
on one of the tables, and I wanted to ask him about them, but by that
time, he was too far gone; he likes the ganja. Though we took a different road,
our drive back to the capital city of At one appalling place we
stopped was the arrowroot “factory.”
It was a roadside shack, edged with giant sacks of knobby roots,
fronted with rusting barrels brimming with vile-smelling, scum-covered
liquid. These were the
arrowroots and the fermenting necessary to remove the “bad stuff” to make
it edible. Three heavy women
showed us around, though their accents were so strong we couldn’t decipher
a word they were saying. The
grater, the press, the storage barrels, the floors, the shack, even the
women – everything was rusty and filthy. There was also a towering pile of
green leaves waiting to be distilled into Bay Rum, used in aftershave and
colognes. I could tell
everyone was put off by this place; when we got back in the van, we were
all quiet. David, a Welsh guy
on Twice Eleven said in subtle
British humor, “So, I’m never going to have arrowroot again.” It was pretty funny; you had to be
there. Rounding a particularly sharp
curve, we came upon a cluster of cute little school girls in their
uniforms. They all stared
raptly as our vans rolled by, and one little girl excitedly jumped up and
down shouting, “Hello white people!
Hello, white people!”
We all chuckled at that; seems she doesn’t see too many white
people at that end of the island.
When I asked Sea Cat about it, he said there are very few Caucasian
residents on the island.
Actually, he looked at me curiously and said, “We don’t have any
white people here,” with the implied sentence “What’s wrong with
you?” I noticed how clean the roads are – there’s not a hint
of trash anywhere. Stowe said
there’s a very heavy fine for littering. Bravo! I wish it was the same way in
Our day ended at the dock about
2030; we’d had twelve hours of scenery, exercise, adventure, gustatory
derring-do; we were all exhausted.
But what a day! Musetta pitched violently starting
around 2100 hours, throwing us from our berth. She didn’t stop. All night long she wallowed so
badly I thought surely her spreaders must be dipping in the sea. Drawers started opening, cupboard
contents banging, things falling from shelves. Tired as we were, there was no
sleep to be had this night, and no way we could stay in this anchorage any
longer. At first light, we
slipped our mooring ball and headed for It was a short distance, but the
conditions were ugly, with enhanced wind from steady squalls. About five miles outside the bay,
a boat boy motored up to us, clad in a yellow rain slicker, clinging
tightly to his outboard tiller.
We couldn’t believe he’d be out here this far in these conditions –
this guy has to be crazy! On the side of his boat, the
name Ravioli Lover was crudely
painted in red. Crazy name,
too. “My name’s Raymond. I’ll see you when you get
in.”
Okay. Here in this bay, a bunch of the
tour guides got together and formed an association. There had been some problems with
theft on boats in the past, but now they patrol the bay at night and the
crime has diminished. They
also have to be certified, and paying members of the association. Once one guide “claims” you, none
of the other boat boys will bother you; that’s why Raymond was so far out
– he wanted to be the first to get us. When we got the hook settled,
Raymond motored up to chat with us about a tour of In the meantime, we called Sea
Cat by phone; we’d left Sunday, March 8, 2009,
 
The The shore line in this bay is
virtually littered with DOZENS of wrecks, one even blocking the mouth of
the That afternoon, a guy came
around the boats in the anchorage selling tickets for a BBQ that the River Guides
Association was putting on.
It’s an all-you-can-eat-and drink chicken or fish dinner and dance
that they hold each Sunday to raise money to buy a new dinghy for
patrol. We thought it was for
a good cause – ultimately benefiting the cruisers, and the price was
reasonable, so, why not? Monday, March 9, 2009,
What a night! What a day! What an island!!! We didn’t leave the barbeque
until after 1:00 am, and even then, I wasn’t ready to quit. Fueled by the most incredible rum
punches, I danced all night long.
The music just seemed a part of me, the rhythm so natural. I think Jeff danced with a few
women too, but mostly stood on the sidelines watching over me, moving some
guy’s hands if they strayed a little too far down my backside.
J Cobra was there, and we
danced. He apologized for
what happened the other day, and said it was his fault for not showing up
on time; he’d been on a tour with some people who were just limin’ and he
didn’t want to gather them up to leave. We had some interesting
conversation, I’ll tell ya. I’ve noticed that most of the
men on these islands – particularly here in With all that sugar in my
system, my body just wouldn’t shut down to sleep mode; needless to say,
our 8:00 am pick-up tour time came much too early for
me.  
Our guide was Paul, a tall,
lanky native who’d spent 15 years in
There were eight in our group,
too much weight for the van to make it over the rutted road to the
Chaudiere Pool. We hiked
about an hour in, Paul stopping to show us vanilla vines, sweet potatoes,
coconuts, cinnamon, grapefruit, dasheen, avocadoes, mangoes, and
more. There is food growing
everywhere on this island!
Much of it is trees and plants on former plantations that have been
abandoned and now gone wild; in other words, free for the taking. There is no reason for anyone on
this island to go hungry, other than perhaps laziness. Even coffee plants are wild; we
saw numerous homes with cardboard sheets of coffee beans along the
roadside, spread out to dry in the sun. Finally we reached the
round-bound river and the deep water pool into which tumbled the white
rushing waters of    
Taking a different route out
from the falls, we stopped at the Carib cassava bread bakery. The name brings to mind the usual
squeaky-clean building with glass-front cases filled with crusty breads
and yeast aroma filling the air, right? This was as far from this image as
you could possibly get!
Basically, it was an open-air shack; concrete floor, slender
timbers propping up a rickety roof of more slender timbers and sheets of
corrugated metal. At one end
was a foot-pump press for grinding the cassava tubers (also called
manioc); at the other was a rock-lined open wood fire with a crack-off
section of a rusting iron vat resting on concrete blocks over the
fire. The barefoot baker had
a single table, on which stood a large bowl to mix the cassava pulp with
coconut flakes and water.
With his hands, he would dig up a scoop of the pulp, pat it into
large cakes, and lay them on the grill, firmly patting them down with a
flimsy, household slotted spatula.
As the cakes browned, he would turn them, continuing this process
over and over, until they reached the correct texture. While they were cooking, I
strolled next door to the little shack of Carib crafts; the lady of the
house came out to graciously welcome me. She had carved calabash lovely
woven baskets, which she said her brother made. At about $10 US, they were a
bargain. If I’d had more
room, I would have purchased a bunch of baskets! I strolled back to the bakery just
in time for the “bread.” To me, they seemed more like griddle cakes, but
hot as they were, and hungry as I was, I could care less what you called
them; I called them “delicious!” Lunch was at a restaurant in the
back of a small grocery store in the town of 
After lunch we traversed up the
Horseback Ridge in Descending the ridge, we made
our final stop at the Kalinago Barana Aute village. Here a tour guide of Carib descent
took us through this reproduction of a Kalinago village, touching a bit on
native life. They used the
ubiquitous heliconia plant to make baskets; one particular tree-I can’t
remember the name – to brush their teeth; the juice of the bloodwood tree
to paint their faces; the sap of the gommier tree mixed with the
man-better-man plant for soap, and the trunk of that same tree to make
dug-out canoes. It was the
men’s job not only to make the canoes but also to weave the baskets and
get food. They used the fruit
of the Barbara Tree, which they crushed and fed to the fish in the stream;
the fish would get drunk on it, and the Caribes would simply scoop them up
with their baskets. Clever,
huh? The women cooked, wove
hammocks and spun cotton for thread, among other things. I found it interesting that, like
the old Creole tradition in Now clear on the opposite side
of the island, we had a long, windy drive back to Tuesday, March 10, 2009,
Pooped out from our big day
yesterday, we did a few simple chores, and discussed our options for the
day. I had originally thought
we might take a bus to the middle of the western coast to tour the
Macoucherie rum factory, but we were so burned out on long bus rides, we
decided to forgo that option.
We ended up dingying over to At one time, this section of
  
When the British built and occupied the fort, they completed denuded the terrain. With none of the beautiful flora, blazing tropical heat, and misery-inducing mosquitoes, this must have been hellish duty for the troops stationed here. With the exception of one restored building that appears to serve as an event center, all the structures are now being reclaimed by nature. Trees and vines are growing through walls, embedding limestone blocks, decaying iron cannons. Jeff even found a decaying cannon ball along side one of the cannons at the battery, and in one room of the former Commandant’s quarters was a massive pile of iron shot. We walk through the quiet forest, listening to birds calling and lizards scurrying through brush, marveling at the power of nature – slowly, silently, she wipes away traces of the destruction the fort represented, leaving only raw, sad beauty. I don’t know what it is: I’m not
Republican, I’m not pro-military, yet there’s something about poking
around old forts that I find utterly fascinating. Wednesday, March 11, 2009, We’re getting so spoiled with
all this sailing! Another
easy sailing passage brought us to this cluster of tiny French
islands. We’re back to
“Bonjour, Madam” and “merci.”
There’s only one town here, on the largest island, which supposedly
survives on tourism, with lots of boutiques and restaurants. I’d like to tour the town
tomorrow, and am hoping no swell will come up tonight because this is not
a very well-protected anchorage.
We’ll see……. Jeff scouted out the town while
he went to customs to check us into the country. He said there was a shop that I
would REALLY like. We’ll see
about that too……. He said
they guy is really nice, speaks excellent English, and broadcasts the
HOTSPOT wifi signal from his shop.
He told Jeff he’s “the cruising guide” for the island; ask him
anything you want to know. J Thursday, March 12, 2009, Terre-De-Haut, Iles Des
Saintes, 15˚52.033N,
61˚35.127W I’ve digested more butter and
cream in this day alone than I have in the entire cruising season. My stomach is signaling “ENOUGH
ALREADY” But I’m getting ahead of my self. Let met start back at the
beginning. 
We spent all day in this
adorable little town; I must have shot over a hundred photos. There’s not a speck of trash
anywhere, it’s full of colorful little buildings, the people are friendly,
and there are no cars – everyone gets around on scooters – which makes for
a much more relaxed atmosphere. Though the workers strike is now
officially over, the grocery store shelves here are still decimated; a few
places had butter, whipping cream, and we were able to buy a baguette
without having to wait in line, but I’m sure it will take time to get
everything back to normal. Our cruising guide mentioned
there are lots of boutiques here, but clearly the author’s idea of
“boutique” is much different than mine. When I hear that word, I imagine
high quality, up-scale clothing, décor items, accessories, etc. Though certainly plentiful, the
shops here have all the typical touristy stuff, with chintzy clothing and
trinkets. One shop is the
rare exception – the shop that Jeff spotted yesterday.   
I stepped one foot inside
Maogony and immediately fell in love with it. Displayed outside was a row of
beautifully dyed batik cottons – softly flowing scarves, dresses, and
pants – many in the variegated colors of the sea. Inside, a whole wall was devoted
to the blues and greens that I love to wear on the boat. The owner/artist dyes the garments
himself, and often paints boating images on them. In fact, you can bring him a photo
of your boat and he’ll paint it on any garment you’d like. His clothing is absolutely
gorgeous – unique, high quality, and comfortable. We spent about two hours in there,
trying things on and trying to narrow down our purchases. Jeff bought a shirt and clam
diggers; I bought about six pieces, and loved them so much I even wore one
of the shirts out of the shop.
His website is www.maogony.com if you want to see his work for
yourself.
Purchases in hand and on back,
we strolled the quaint main street, making our way to the police
station/customs office because they were closed yesterday when Jeff arrived. Along the way we purchased a
crunchy baguette, a buttery croissant which we ravenously devoured, and
some interesting tidbits from a street vendor. She had what appeared to be
fritters, stuffed with crab or lambi (conch), four for five Euros so I got
two of each, and boudins, both noir and poussin (black and fish), one Euro
each, which I also purchased.
I stowed them in my cooler-bag to try out
later. 
For lunch, the guy at Maogony
had recommended Colores du Monde on the
wharf. This was an amazingly
animated place, jam packed with brightly-colored décor, art, and
tableware. The food was
good, and since we had to now wait for the customs office to re-open after
the lunch period, we ended up whiling away at least three hours over wine,
entrees, desserts, and cappuccinos – the whole
catastrophe. 
Once we were cleared with
customs, we went back to the boat for dinner, and more rich food – our
street vendor’s vittles, the baguette, green salad and wine. The fritters were actually layers
of butter-drenched puff pastry with the highly seasoned seafood mousse
line stuffed in the center.
The boudins looked like little sausages, but the texture was just
like pudding, incredibly silky and rich. They were tasty, but by the time
we got to them, our stomachs, unaccustomed to so much rich food, were now
in revolt. A couple bites
were all we could manage. How
can French people eat this stuff every day? And by the way; you’ve heard that
saying “French women don’t get fat.”
Maybe in Friday,
March 13, 2009, Terre-De-Haut, Iles Des Saintes to
Deshaies, We left just before 0900 hours this morning, arriving about 1400 hours. The winds were fluky the whole way, and it’s howling in this small bay, but there seems to be little swell, thank goodness. We’re anchored right next to Tilly Whim, the boat that dragged anchor in Trois Islet. There’s just a fishing village here, dilapidated buildings lining the waterfront, an old wrecked boat washed ashore, the docks have clearly been washed out long ago, and there’s no wifi signal; it doesn’t look promising. The weather report we looked at earlier this week showed Sunday as a good day to leave, but now it’s looking like the weather won’t clear until later. I hope we don’t have to hang here too long. Well wonders never cease! This little town actually turned
out to be a goldmine!
You’d never know it by looking at it; maybe that’s why it houses
such riches, like the plain
lead box in The Merchant of Venice . Our discovery started when we
dinghied up the river that opens onto the bay; with all the docks washed
out, it’s the only place to tie up your dink, and people don’t seem to do
beach landings here. I
usually carry at least two shopping bags with me whenever we go to town
because I never know what I’ll find.
But every time in the French islands I ended up lugging the bags
around for nothing, so this time I left them on the boat. We were only going to make a quick
cruise through town before walking up the hill to the botanical
gardens.
Throughout this trip, people
have been telling us how wonderful the French islands are because of the
great, inexpensive cheeses, pates, wines, and bread. Of course, all that has been
stymied by the strike. But
this little town seems to have already recovered. The produce market was loaded with
BEAUTIFUL goods – including my favorites, haricots verts. We loaded up the one all-purpose
bag I was toting. Across the
street, there were a couple guys cutting up fish on the bed of their
pick-up. They had a huge
Mahi-mahi that they were chopping into steaks. There were a couple little mini
grocery stores on the main street, but when we walked the back street, we
saw a large grocery, with a few tiny push carts and everything. Never being one to pass a grocery
store without checking out the goods, I stepped in. Low and behold, just to my right,
in a sparkling white deli case, there they were – the infamous French
cheeses. VOILA! Oh lordy, I struck it rich! I bought huge chunks of bleu
d’auvergne, port salut, silky soft mozzarella, chevre, all for a
pittance. AND the piece
d’resistance: Salakis, or Feta as we know it – sheep’s milk feta, my
absolute favorite. There was
a half package of the feta, and underneath it an unopened package, just
under 2 kilos (about 4 pounds).
When I pointed to the lady that I wanted the whole un-opened
package she started laughing – she couldn’t believe it. For each selection she would
tear off a sheaf of pink and white checked paper from this huge roll
behind the counter. On the
back side, the paper is waxed.
She would fold the paper over the cheese, then put the package into
a u-shaped press, weight down the arm, and the press would melt the wax on
the paper, effectively sealing it, just like big ravioli. I had a basket-full of these
pretty packages. The other side of the deli case
had salami, pates, boudins, and various hams; I only opted for the dry
Genoa-type salami; the rich pates we can do without. Of course, the cheeses we can do
without too, but hey, life’s short; don’t want to cut out too much. In the tiny bakery section, there
were all kinds of breads, but I got the last true baguette, as well as
some little twisted hor s’doeuvre type crisps. While I was raiding the cheese
counter, Jeff hit the wine aisle, which was one of the longest in the
store. He selected about
eight promising-looking bottles, all under $10 US. Our cart was now full. We stood in line, waiting to check
out; as we watched the customers ahead of us, we realized, the store
doesn’t have bags.
Uh-oh. Jeff’s all
worried, how the heck are we going to get all this booty back to the
boat? After 30 years of
marriage, he should know by now, I’m not a Prima Pack Rat for
nothing! I’ve learned a thing or two about how
to pack things, ya know!
Between the all-purpose carry-all, and the dry bag that I use for
my camera when going ashore, I was able to get everything packed. It’s a good thing we didn’t have
far to walk back to the dink, though. Since we were going back to the
boat, we decided to stop and buy some fish from the guy on the main
street. Now he was cutting
WAHOO – Jeff’s favorite fish!
What a score! Back on the boat to stow the
goods, we figured we’d better each lunch before going to the botanical
gardens – we’ll need energy for that walk up the hill, right? What better than fresh bread,
cheese, and a lovely 
The botanical gardens were the
lovely topping on the cake – five acres of intensely manicured, highly
sculpted gardens with every imaginable tropical flower in full glory,
orchids sprouting on trees like fungus. Our grilled Wahoo was exquisite,
the sunset beautiful. I even
cast new eyes on Deshaies, like looking at an older woman – she looks
better in the soft light of evening than in the harsh sun of mid-day. J
Sunday, March 15, 2009, Deshaies, Guadaloupe, 16˚18.445N,
61˚47.8951W Lazy day today. We slept late,
fixed a late brunch, enjoyed the quiet. Lots of boats are coming in, but
not too many are leaving; I think on Tuesday there will be a mass exodus
from this anchorage. Monday,
March 16, 2009, Deshaies,
Guadeloupe to We still don’t see much sea
life, other than lots of flying fish. My how those little guys scurry –
like a flock of birds skimming low across the surface of the water. I’m told they only do that when a
big fish is after them. What
a great escape mechanism – just fly away! I‘ll bet there are lots of people
who would love to possess that skill; just fly away when things get scary.
Wouldn’t that make a great children’s story – Freddy the Flying
Fish! We arrived at our destination by
1400, but took an hour and three tries to get the anchor to set snugly –
better that than dragging. We
were hoping to catch up with our friends Harrison and Katy on Circe¸ and sure enough,
I’ve stopped counting the number
of boats in the anchorages; they’re all like parking lots. Rare are those secluded spots
where just one or two boats hang out. Jeff and I were talking, comparing
the pros and cons of cruising the Pacific side versus the Tuesday, March 17, 2009, Projects today. It’s been EXTREMELY frustrating
because none of the wifi connections are working – just sporadic blips of
service. I’ll have to lug my
computer to an internet café to get any of the important transactions done
– I HATE THAT! I’m so spoiled – I want to have internet service in the
comfort of my own boat. J Jeff went ashore to check in, a
laborious, frustrating process involving three trips each to Customs and
Immigration, and one to Port Authority. You have to get some stamp at
Customs to take to Immigration, go back to Customs with a stamp from
Immigration, back and forth three times. Ridiculous. Today is Wednesday, March 18, 2009, Spent all day plugged in at the
Mad Mongoose, trying to catch up with internet stuff. Walked over to the adjacent
This island doesn’t seem to have
the beauty of its southern neighbors - lower in elevation, drier, much
more commercialized. There
are even teenage boys running around with their pants sliding down their
ass, that ridiculous style migrating from the States, which I haven’t seen
since we left there. In
short, this lacks all the charm that I’ve fallen in love with on the other
islands. We’re only staying
here to be assured of internet connection because I’m hoping to be able to
participate in a conference call this Sunday. If for some reason there will be no computer at the
meeting to connect with, we’ll be out of here. Thursday, March 19, 2009, Jeff got his toilet parts in and
installed them yesterday, although the dang thing still doesn’t work as
well as it used to. I worked
on my log today while Jeff cleaned the boat bottom and Mimi, the dink; she’s nice and
shiny now. Friday, March 20, 2009, The Mad Mongoose has two large,
round tables outside set up with electrical outlets so you can plug in
your computer, and the wifi is broadcast 24/7. Nice. Right next to it is a tiny
holistic healing place – massage, aromatherapy, chiropractic, etc. With the pain in my groin area now
causing me to limp, I’d booked an appointment here. Boy, what a release! Turns out it wasn’t a sprained
groin after all, but my hip
was out of place, causing the muscles in the groin, hip flexors, gluteus,
back, etc. to pull and spasm.
I must have done that jumping the Seven Sisters Falls in
We haven’t had any squalls for
about three days now, but last night I actually needed a blanket. Can you believe
it??? Both of us hated the Falmouth
Harbor/English Harbor area.
Too many boats, too commercialized. I was concerned about having
internet access for a conference call I needed to do on Sunday, and the
only reason we were staying there was because of the Mad Mongoose internet
access. But we found out
there’s a mall in We’re not actually IN the
marina, we’re on a mooring ball inside the lagoon area (the next to last
one available) instead of
anchored out because there’s a strong NW swell running and we have more
protection from it inside the lagoon; we just don’t like rolling! The only wifi here is HotSpot,
which isn’t working. The lady
at the The grocery store at the marina
is awesome – just like a store in the states. But the prices – OH MY WORD
– at least double if not triple what we would pay at home! I found pretty much everything I
wanted and more, but just didn’t have time to stow everything. There’s always
tomorrow. Sunday, March 22, 2009, 
I spent the afternoon in the
internet café on a family conference call, and finalized stowing
provisions. We’ll leave
tomorrow morning for Monday, March
23, 2009, Today was a “ 
We saw only two other boats on
the sea today, and in fact, on all our passages in the Leewards, there
have been very few boats out.
I don’t know why – they seem to be all in the anchorages instead of
traveling between the islands like in the Our six-year-old cruising guide
is proving to be almost useless, as things have changed so in that amount
of time. On our 1530 arrival
into the bay here, we saw scores of mooring balls spread along the
bay. We made a quick radio
call to Tilly Whim (there they are
again!) who said they thought the mooring balls are now mandatory, though
I’m not sure this is true since we saw another boat come in and anchor
outside the balls later in the evening. Customs office would be closed by
the time we put the motor down and dinked to town, so we just hoisted the
quarantine flag, figuring we’d check in tomorrow morning first
thing. We’re right at the base of the
mountain, a lovely green peak reaching into the clouds. Shortly after we anchored, a brief
squall passed through and left in its wake a giant, full rainbow. We could see both ends, one
hitting the southern part of the island, the other equal distant on the
northern end, the center perfectly arched over the mountain top. What a glorious sight! Along the shore, what I originally
thought were cacti are actually palm trees with their frond tops blown
off. There is also a
good-sized commercial vessel wrecked on the shore, so I suspect this
island was pretty well hit in named storms past. It’s a little rolly with the
northerly swell, which is supposed to subside tomorrow, then start up
again on Thursday. Jeff
wasn’t feeling so hot with the rolling, which surprised me because usually
I’m the one who gets sick. Maybe it’s because of fatigue and
he had a beer and I didn’t.
He took a stugeron and rallied around by the time dinner was
ready. It was pretty warm
below since we ran the engine all day, and warm/pleasant enough to dine in
the cockpit. Jeff put up this
cool little LED light he found that looks like a miniature version of the
spaceship in Close Encounter of the
Third Kind; I wrapped a scarf around it to soften the light. He also found a local radio
station that was playing 70’s R&B, pop, soul love songs – boy, did
THAT bring back memories. We
grooved all night long. J Tuesday, March 24, 2009,
Yup. Mooring balls are mandatory. The customs officer told us so;
said he already told the other boats that had anchored to pick up a
ball. He was very friendly,
as were the security guard who directed us where to park Mimi, and the guy at
Immigration, though there was a long wait at that office because four
other boats were ahead of us waiting to extend their 1 week stay on the
island. Our final stop to
stay in the country legally was at the police station down at the other
end of town. While Jeff stood
in line at the counter, I waited out side, watching – of all things – a
chicken and her baby clucking around the yard in front of the police
station. The chicken would
fly up to the rim of a trash can, then jump down inside, vigorously
rooting around for scraps.
She was noisy as all getout; you wouldn’t think a small chicken
would have enough strength to make such a racket!  
I got a kick out of the
country life colliding with city life here. The town’s museum is in a
reconstructed version on the original foundation Alexander Hamilton’s
birthplace – yes, that
Alexander Hamilton, our first treasurer, the guy on our ten dollar
bills. He emigrated to the
The other museum, which our
entrance ticket entitled us to get into, was closed for renovations. Such is our luck. One for the price of
one. They are really trying to
promote tourism here – everyone says “Welcome to Wednesday, March 25, 2009, Nevis to 
We hiked over steep, rocky
trails, scrambled up boulders, shinnied along rope stays, scaled meters of
ancient stone steps, pressed against walls of tree ferns, sidled along
narrow ledges on top of steep canyons, straddled fallen trees and rusted
water pipes, hurried beyond the “Beware! The trail is dangerous from here
up; Pass at your own risk” sign, through the rain forest almost to the top
of the mountain, in search of
“The Source.” That’s what
they called it at the Golden Rock Eco Resort, “The Source.” It sounds like a quest for the
Holy Grail or the written proof of god’s word or something, but it’s just
where their water comes from.
It should have been a clue when they didn’t mention “water FALL.” The lady in the office
suggested we take one of the walking sticks propped in a bin outside her
office, and handed me a photo-copied hand-drawn trail map, with lots of
cryptic drawings on it; I
felt like we were ciphering a treasure map. The actual “source” was a bit
anti-climactic when we reached it, only a short trickle of water into a
4-inch deep pool, but the hike was fun, and the sturdy walking sticks came
in handy as a brake, brace, or third leg. It took a full four hours round
trip, and we still had to hike down the hill to catch a bus back to
town. By the time we got back
to the boat, we were both starting to stiffen up. These old bones just aint what
they use’ta be. We received an email from our
friends, Michael & Ann, with whom we were supposed to meet in the
Thursday, March 26, 2009, Nevis
to We’d seen a banner in town
advertising the Agricultural Expo, so decided to stick around for some
“local flavor.” I think this
would have been a more interesting event in the evening, when all the
speeches from the politicians were done, and more people were on the fair
grounds. As it was, we got
there right after opening, and some of the food vendors weren’t ready to
sell food; we did, though, pick up some nice
produce. It was just a short sail to St.
Kitts; this anchorage in town is rather rolly. Even though we’re on a mooring
ball, we took the time to put out our stern anchor, pointing Musetta’s bow into the swell,
making it much more comfortable. Last night, we both had amazing
dreams: in mine, I was flying – soaring through rooms and over glorious
countryside; Jeff said he was floating. It’s my belief that we both had
such great dreams because we’re inwardly happy about not having to go
north. We both really love
the Eastern Caribbean, and there’s still so much we want to see and do; it
just makes sense to stay longer, because to come back down from the
Friday, March 27, 2009,
Jeff and I had chartered a boat
about 15 years ago, and sailed the We walked around the town of
At the Office of Tourism, we
were told to contact “Percy” for an island tour – he caters to the
cruisers. We reached Percy on
the VHF, booked a 10:00 meeting time for the tour, but Percy pawned us off
on another driver, “Mr. Mills.”
We climbed into Mr. Mills’ van, me riding shot-gun so I can ask all
the questions, and slowly headed out of town, and I mean S-L-O-W-L-Y! Mr. Mills was a cautious driver,
but a bit slow on the brake for my comfort, as if he didn’t see what was
ahead. When I asked how old
he is, he hesitated for a bit, then answered, “Well, I’m in my
eighties.” I’m SURE! He’s probably on the back end of the eighties. He was a sweet enough guy, even
sang to me – all seven verses of a gospel tune that asked God to watch
over all sailors plying the seas; he used to sing for the choir at his
church. But as a tour guide,
poor old Mr. Mills – whom EVERYONE called Mr. Mills – just couldn’t cut
it; he had a few lines of
history that he still remembered, but to almost every question I asked, he
honestly answered, “I just don’t know.” So our tour was pretty much a
bust, made all the worse because we had to pay extra for two places I
wanted to go that were not the usual stops but were closed when we
arrived. We rolled through
villages with funny names like There were two highlights that
were definitely worth a stop, the Caribelle Batik and  
When we’d come here 15 years
ago, Caribelle Batik was just a tiny dark shack on the side of a hill,
with a couple women creating batik clothing. I’d purchased a pair of shorts
then, and I STILL wear them when on the boat, so I was looking forward to
buying more. Well, things
have changed! Caribelle Batik
is now in a three-room cottage in an exquisite botanical garden on the
historic Romney Manor Estate.
The estate at one time was owned by Sam Jefferson, the great-great
grandfather of Thomas Jefferson, who sold it to Lord Romney in the late
17th century, whose descendents kept it for over 200
years. The shop was bursting
with color - luscious designs, racks and racks of lovely soft cotton
clothing. There was also a
display area where one woman would demonstrate the batik process, but we
never really got to see much – too many cruise ship tourists in the way.
But this entire season, I’ve
been looking for the “perfect” dress to kick around the boat in, and I
found it here! Score one for
me! Brimstone Hill Fortress was
awesome. It got its name from
the rock upon which its built, and the “fortress” part because after
losing in a siege, the British learned how to fortify the fort, to the
point that it became unconquerable, like 
Every night since we’ve been
here, there’s been some sort of revival meeting at the stadium near the
anchorage. We can hear
boisterous gospel music well into the late hours. If my friend, Francie, were here,
she’d be right there with them, amening and hallelujahing right up to the
end. Sunday, March 29, 2009, Town
I wanted to hit Jeff over the
head today!!! I was SO ANGRY
I could spit nails! And
I didn’t even get the satisfaction of yelling at him! He did the stupidest thing – and
he KNEW it – but he didn’t want to hear any lip from ME on it, so there it
sat, like a big white elephant in the middle of the room that everyone
knows is there but doesn’t want to talk about. It was a nice, sunny morning; I
figured since we had the opportunity, let’s air out the mattress – yes, THAT mattress - THE mattress; the mattress that
we had custom made to fit our berth out of natural fibers because I’m
chemically sensitive; the mattress that we lugged across the country, lost
on the freeway, and rescued from a passerby’s trunk; the mattress that we
bundled up in makeshift boxes and shipped to Panama; the mattress which
prompted an “investigation” into the marina’s shipping policy and
ultimately exposed a fraudulent scam; yes, THAT MATTRESS!!! Are you wondering what Jeff
could have possibly done with THE MATTRESS? It’s in two parts – the four-inch
latex foam layer, and a wool/latex topper. I asked Jeff to take the topper up
so it could air out, fully expecting he would drape it over the boom as
we’ve done in the past. But
no. He decided to lay it on
top of the biminy, why, I don’t know. But here’s the thing: he didn’t
secure it in any fashion – just laid it up there. A few hours later, I heard him
cussing up a storm; it took me a few minutes to decipher what the problem
was: the mattress was GONE! Vanished! No trace! The wind had picked it up and sent
it flying. I made Jeff get in
the water with his mask and fins to search around the arc of the boat
swing, to see if he could spot it on the seabed; if he could at least find
it, we could figure out a way to haul it up, then get it cleaned. He searched for awhile, even went
out in the dink and looked further, all to no avail. Our traveling mattress was on the
move again, probably floated for a time, drifting down with the current
before it finally sank only god knows where. So now we’re down to the
hard-as-a-rock base. I’ve put
two layers of fleece bed-liners under the mattress cover to try to give
some “ Monday, March
30, 2009, St. Kitts to Oranje Baai, St. Eustatia, 17˚28.8980N,
62˚59.3982W Our reservation for dry storage
at Spice Island Marine, It was just a short sail today
to St. Eustatia, a.k.a. Statia, a tiny Dutch island with a marine park, so
we’re on a mooring ball again.
Another of Christopher Columbus’s discoveries, this island changed
hands at least 22 times before finally settling into Dutch
possession. Rather than fight
and risk loss of life and livelihood, in many cases the island was just
surrendered without a single shot being fired. Too steep and rocky to
maintain crops of any sizeable substance for export, Statia became a major
trading center instead, creating a link between Tuesday, March 31, 2009, St.
Eustatia, 17˚28.8980N, 62˚59.3982W We’re moving to We’ve been on the go so much, I
haven’t had time to keep up on my log and my Quicken stuff, let alone
relax with a book or snorkel.
The water and air this far north is a bit cooler, but the diving is
supposed to be spectacular.
I’d like to get re-certified and do some diving – it’s been about
20 years since we last went down, but Jeff’s not keen on it. Ah well, can’t do it
all. Jeff was sick last night, some
kind of intestinal bug, so we just strolled around the town today. There are about 30 nationalities
here, including a large population of Chinese; indeed, we had a terrific
lunch at a Chinese restaurant in town.  
At the fully restored Fort
Oranje, though there’s not much information on the fort as it was used (it
probably didn’t see much real action), we were given a packet of brochures
and a CD at the Office of Tourism; they’re trying so hard to boost tourism, but there
is only one good road and it doesn’t go all the way around the island, so
there’s not much to see.
Tourists here have to be content with diving and relaxing – not a
bad deal in my book, but not
sufficient for most, though you can hike to the now-extinct Quill
volcano. At the
Wednesday, April 1, 2009, St. Eustatia to Jeff is feeling better, but now
I have a bit of upset stomach and intestinal stuff. Hopefully I won’t have it as bad
as he did. I’m thinking we
may have gotten something from some fish we ate at a restaurant in
With just a three hour passage,
we had plenty of time to check in and see some sights. This island is unlike any
It was up this first cement road
that we started our ascent to the town of Our walk down the road
was certainly much easier than up, though still slow-going because it’s
so steep you have to be extremely careful when stepping. The goats, though, don’t seem to
have a problem. There are
goats all OVER this island; they scale the steep rock face, nipping at
bushes and grass here and there, and perch majestically high above the
roadside looking for all the world like the rightful owners of the
land. It reminded me of
Greece when we’d trudge up a one-donkey cart lane to some tiny
white-washed village nestled on the side of some steep mountain. I could hear the babies bleating,
calling for their mammas, but couldn’t always see them, they blended in so
well with the terrain.
Slender, long-tailed white birds soared overhead, their calls
lilting through the ravines.
Following their graceful flight with my eyes, the dry slopes
transformed into lush, green tropical forest with clouds gliding over the
tops of the peaks. What a
unique beauty this island is! Thursday, April 2,
2009, Today we took an island tour
with “George,” though being only five miles square, there’s not a whole
lot to see. The thing is,
it’s so steep, just walking up the roads is a workout, let alone trying to
walk from one town to the next.
One of my first questions for George was about the goats that roam
the island. According to him,
they are all descendants of the breed that was brought with the original
European settlers in 1640.
Supposedly each goat “belongs” to someone on the island, but since
they run free, there’s no way to tell who’s is whose. When people want meat, they just
shoot one. In fact, two years
ago, the goat population had grown so large, they were destroying people’s
precious few garden plots, so the government authorized a big
shoot-out. The islanders
killed a bunch of the goats and exported the meat. With only 1400 residents, George
knows just about everybody on the island. As he explained, “you don’t
misbehave cause somebody’s gonna know your business.” That’s just a mite small for me –
not that I misbehave, you understand. He showed me a letter he’d
received from the government asking for a copy of his “Life
Certificate.” Seems when
you’re on a pension, you have to be certified every year that you’re still
alive; if you don’t show your certification, your pension gets cut
off. Makes
sense. George took us through the
  
There are numerous well-marked
trails leading up the hillsides into the rainforest. In fact, when we checked in at the
Marine Park Office, she gave us each an orange plastic whistle; “Just keep
blowing on it if you get lost, and someone will come and get you.” The diving is supposed to be
superb – steep underwater pinnacles, ship wrecks, abundant sea life. Though it’s difficult to stay here
on a boat because there are NO protected anchorages around the island,
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