Carnival at Carriacou. Got ashore today with Kolin and Weronika. We were anchored just outside Hillsborough, the biggest town on the island. The streets were packed with people covered in paint and mud, little clothing, dancing to the throbbing soca beat coming from the two-storey tall speakers. It was 0800. Holy crap were we in for a time here! The party in the street ended a couple hours later. I had to push my way through the crowd to get to the ATM and get some cash, but I wasn’t quite up to the level of raging that was already taking place, so I found a quiet spot on a beach and worked at my second life as a writer.
That night, as the Carnival recommenced, Donald and I sat out in front of a little rum shack sipping cold beer, talking and observing the crowd, until the sun went down and the parades started. He and Swiss Chris, our engineer, and I ate dinner at a little cafe with a balcony, and watched the parade start. Big feathery costumes, bright colors, satin angel wings, and for every beautiful girl in parade garb there were two older, mango shaped women who, though they exceeded no one in beauty, made up for it in lack of clothing and vigor. An A for effort, as they say, I guess.
And there was even a floatilla of Obama celebrators. It was remarkable. They may have been the most excited of all the paraders, though their costume was little more than pants, and Obama t-shirts. It’s been fascinating to see much of the world’s great enthusiasm for our new president. Everywhere, from England to Denmark and France, and especially in Morocco, Senegal, Cape Verde. In these places, where the language and culture barriers were strongest, a friendly outburst of “OBAMA!” was usually all it took to establish friendly relations.
Then, after the parade, came the steel drum bands. They were, without a doubt, the highlight of Carnival. Music from a skilled drum band doesn’t so much resonate as it glows. It’s a warm glow of sound -- melody and rhythm. And they played some old Culture Club, and Elvis too. Buddy and Donald and I just stood, enraptured.
2/28
My first day ashore in Grenada yesterday. We’re here for a while, but I wanted to get the tourist in me sated, so I hired a bus with WT, Bill, Sophie, Charlotte, Corey, and Sara. Larry, our driver, was a really friendly guy, and made for good company and a good guide. Our first mission of the day was waterfalls. The first waterfall was a literal tourist trap, and we didn’t stay long. The second waterfall was on private property, and required a two mile trek down muddy paths and under giant tree roots before we reached it. It was fantastic. A quick dip, and we hiked back up and got some lunch. The afternoon was spent on touring an ancient rum distillery, and then lazing on a beach on the northeast part of the Island.
The fish fry was spectacular. I had fried red snapper, fried plantains, cold beer, rum punch, and the best fish-cakes I’ve ever had, and for only $1 EC, too. We had to leave early, since our time with Larry was up, and as we were going another steel drum band was setting up. If I lived in Grenada (which I wouldn’t mind at all) I would be here every week.
2/29
Little South African Nick always seems to be on eggshells with Kolin -- he’s right afraid of him, actually -- and today it was fun for everyone. Nick was driving Kolin crazy, in his own special way, while we were painting the bow of the ship, Susie sitting on the anchor flukes, Nick sitting on the whisker stay, Kolin in the net, and I hanging from the bobstay and painting the stem. Susie was painting away at the waterline there from the anchor flukes, and Kolin was getting as much as he could reach, alternating from paint brush to a roller on an eight foot pole. Little Nick was Kolin’s assistant, and everything he did seemed in some way to be the opposite of what Kolin wanted, and Kolin was generally pissed at him, and Nick had become a mighty rushing river of apologies.
Kolin handed Nick his paintbrush and asked for the long roller. Nick handed him up the roller.
“Sorry.” He said as Kolin took the roller.
“Sorry for what?” Kolin snapped.
“Sorry, I mean, that took--I hesitated for a second before I handed you the roller there.”
“Nick,” Kolin said as he painted, calming his exasperation. “I want you to stop saying sorry. Just erase it from your vocabulary completely. Got it?”
“Yes, Kolin,” Nick said. “Right. I will.”
“Good.” Kolin said. He handed the roller back to Nick and gestured for the brush. Nick took the roller and as he turned to reach for the brush he swung the pole and whacked poor Susie square in the skull.
“Sorry Susie!”
We all just about fell into the harbor laughing. We love that kid. He’s a good one, and one of the sweetest, if not snarkiest, guys you’ll ever meet.
3/5
Donald hosted a party at his house last night. He barbecued chicken, the calypso was loud, and we hung out with him and his family all night. The best part of this job are the friends you make who come from all around the world, so no matter where you are, you can have that feeling of home, even if just for a little while.
3/7
I got these new boxer-briefs in Cape Verde, and they are way too small for me. I wore them all day yesterday, and was in a perpetual state of almost coughing.
3/10
Petit Martinique, a small Island just north of Grenada. It’s very quiet here. I sat in a little rasta
bar all morning with Mike, Sophie, South African Nick, Buddy and Flemming, one of Captain’s friends, and a Danish master mariner, and we watched a sleepy cricket game that Nick assured us was already going to end in a draw (with six hour to go still!), and waited for the ferry that would bring fresh bread to the island. It was supposed to come at 11, but it never did. I ended up waiting there until 1:30 in the afternoon, when the local baker-woman up the road finished her first loaf. It was worth the wait. Warm, moist, and delicious, I could’ve eaten nothing but that loaf all day and been happy.
Though I didn’t have to.
Joe and Queen, shipmates and friends of ours from Grenada, were stewing fish over a fire on the beach. It was absolutely delicious, and we all ate and talked, and were joined by local kids who dug into the ample leftovers. Captain made his way down to the beach, and the kids were instantly fascinated by his tattoos -- he’s covered in Polynesian artwork, up both his arms and across his chest. The kids, ooh’d and aah’d as they followed the ink up his arm to his shoulder. “That’s all you’re getting,” he teased, and then handed out business cards with pictures of the ship to the kids.
I left the crowd and found a quiet little beach, nestled under a tree, and snoozed for a while. Then I ate my fresh bread, scribbled in my notebook for a couple hours, and sat on the beach with Buddy and watched the sun go down and the stars blink into life. I took the skiff back to the ship and Joe was on his guitar, singing Caribbean folk songs. Eric, our new doctor, added his skills with the mandolin. We laughed and sang and told stories in between; the moon was full, and the breeze was cool. I’ve had worse days.
3/15
Back at Carriacou. We had a fantastic daysail here from Petite Martinique. We’ve had to move the ship around a few times, and went on probably the shortest day sail in the ship’s history, taking it around the point to Tyrrell bay, with royals set, barely a mile away. It was fun anyway.
3/18
Arrived yesterday in Bequia. The ship has taken on a different rhythm since we’ve arrived in the Caribbean. There’s still lots of good work going on, and the ship is being babied as much as ever, but most of our time is in port, as opposed to the sea-passages we’d become used to. We had an overnight passage here from Grenada, which was a fun tease, everyone falling very easily back into the sea-watch schedule.
We had gone to Grenada from Carriacou because a few of our crew had stayed behind there to find wood for a boat-building project in Lunenburg. Paul and Matt, our two resident carpenters, took a small platoon of bushwhackers into the Grenadian jungle: Corey, Sam, Susie, Jackie, Marie, Job, and Rory. With the help of local guys, they cut down a tree, cut it into sections, each weighing 3000 lbs, and dragged them a mile-and-a-half through the jungle with block and tackles, a three-day endeavour.
The bushwhacking crew came back to the ship weary and mud-covered, but buzzing
nevertheless in the glow of their efforts. We towed the logs out to our anchorage, and then, in a very cool exercise in seamanship, we lifted the massive logs out of the water and onto our deck -- safely.
The bushwhackers were right in their ecstasy; not many people these days can claim to do what they did. It was a rare and unforgettable experience for them, and now we have a frigging tree in our port breezeway.
Paul and Job rig up the strops and tackles...
The capstain crew heaves up the tree...
