4/12
Departed Martinique this afternoon. We came here from Dominica, where we finished strong with a big blowout at the Ruins Rock Cafe in Downtown Roseau. You can see Martinique from Dominica, so the passage was a short little day sail -- full sail of course -- and before you knew it, our hook was down in St. Pierre, Martinique.
The northern tip of Martinique
I have been here twice now, and it’s a distinctly, and pleasantly French town. At one point it was the hot culture spot in the
Caribbean -- the Paris of the West Indies, but a devastating volcanic eruption in 1902 leveled it. Ruins are scattered throughout, and a walk around town yields a glimpse of what used to be there. Tall, narrow buildings along the main roads, charred shells now, might have been general stores or cafes, but some have as many as four floors. The prison foundation still stands, which isn’t totally surprising as it was the sanctuary of the volcano’s only survivor, a prisoner locked in a cramped solitary confinement cell.
Right next door is the remaining skeleton of what was once a first class theatre. Surviving were the orchestra pit, the great staircase in the foyer, the yellow tiled fountain at the head of the staircase, and, ironically, a statue of a woman, seemingly writhing in pain, as if the sculptor realized the horrors she would weather. It’s a breathtaking place, the catastrophic scars merely heightening the wonder at what a place St. Pierre must have been, and this theatre being one of the cultural epicenters. What music must have been played there -- I imagine something like Edith Piaf fronting a classical island calypso band. I’d love to take a time machine.
These days the main attraction in St. Pierre, at least for Picton Castlers, is L’Escapade, a French cafe, and tattoo shop, run by a woman who, during the first world voyage, was so impressed by the crew’s polynesian tattoos, learned the art and open her own studio in the back of her restaurant. She works primarily in the Polynesian mode, but it’s well peppered with her own personal style, including fine lines and shading, and a distinct French flair. No one else does work like hers. Fifteen of our
crew were marked by her, and though I had hoped to get something done, she and I didn’t see eye to eye on what I wanted, so it didn’t work out. She was a bit too busy to try and adapt something from my drawings. Fine with me. There’s no point in rushing those kinds of things.
So today, Easter Sunday, we are headed north for the classic Yacht regatta in Antigua. It’s pouring rain, and we’re on a starboard tack, t’gallants set.
4/20
Antigua was great. Falmouth Bay was loaded with yachts of all sizes and rigs and insurance policies. The main focus of the week were the races. There were four, one single handed race and three crewed races. The object of coming here, besides showing off our barque, was to get our crew aboard some of the boats for the races. I participated in the Friday and Saturday races as crew of the Summer Cloud, one of the six Carriacou sloops in the race. These are the boats they’ve been making by hand on the windward side of Carriacou for many years now -- simple, seaworthy, fast, and totally unpretentious, which I guess in a way makes them a little pretentious, but who cares, it was a yacht regatta.
Stress free yacht racing was what I wanted and it’s what I got.
Stephanie, Geoff, Susie and I signed on and met the skipper, Charles, who was actually involved in the marine department of the Pirate Master production crew two years ago in Dominica. Small world. His tactician and Chief mate was a professional racer called Droopy, which is short for Andrew.
The first day went great, and we had a blast tacking back and forth, sailing around, drinking beers, eating sandwiches, and hanging out all the way to the finish line. When you have a skipper who knows his boat, and a crew who do their best, you can do these kinds of things. We didn’t win, but it was a fun day.
Steph and Susie catch a wave
The second day was fun too, though we were a bit slower. We rigged up a bamboo spar and went wing and wing in proper island form, with Droopy holding the spar together, and me sitting on the main boom as a preventer-weight.
Then, on another tack, the pin that holds the headstay to the stem gave out, and the whole rig fell down along with two-thirds of the mast. It was three seconds of terror, but thankfully everyone was on the windward side of the boat, and, the rig falling all to leeward, didn’t crush any of us. I jumped in the water and lashed all the dangly crap up out of the way, and we limped back under the crappy in-board motor.
My first, and hopefully my last dismasting. The rig failure was the exact same one that took out Pride of Baltimore II’s rig a few years ago. It’s a powerful lesson in keeping up with the details, because they can kill you if you don’t. At least we were all lucky enough to be able to laugh about it.
The yachts were spectacular. Big J-Boats, with sails priced around the same as an Ivy League diploma, and made out of crazy NASA fabric. The belle of the show, I thought, was Eleanora, a stunning schooner, massive, and rigged for speed without any sacrifice in opulence. I was also excited to see Juno and When and If in attendance. They’re Martha’s Vineyard schooners, built in Vineyard haven, and some of the finest looking wooden sailboats I’ve seen. Pretty quick too.
Eleanora
Today we are bound for the Isles des Saintes, Guadeloupe, quiet little French islands. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard very good things.
4/24
These little Islands are gorgeous. A small chain of islands, just south of the big island of Guadeloupe, they are the pearl necklace of the Caribbean. Quiet, but not overly, and plenty of amenities and opportunities for relaxing, good food, wine, and a fantastic gelato shop right in town. I think the French Islands are some of my favorite. They take all the low stress charm of the Caribbean, and all the fine palated joys of French culture, and meld them into a colorful, friendly paradise.
4/30
Arrived yesterday in the British Virgin Islands. Our first stop was Virgin Gorda and the famous Baths, one of the most spectacular natural wonders I’ve ever encountered. Mammoth boulders, flung from the sea in some ancient catastrophe, landed here, arranged with such lucky precision that the result is a labyrinth of grottos and caves, lit up by the sun’s glow on the water. Some of the piles are nearly forty feet high, and the rocks all sit together as if each one is the keystone to the whole thing.
5/5
Jost Van Dyke, BVI’s, our last day here. Jost is the cool kid’s party mecca of the Caribbean, and it makes a fitting farewell to the islands for us. We’ve been here for six days, and it’s been nothing but wasted time, which is precisely why anyone comes to Jost Van Dyke in the first place.
They’ve preserved the sleepy Caribbean atmosphere of Petite Martinique or Maryeau, and imbued it with modern conveniences and services for the yacht charters and cruisers who are so common here in the Virgin Islands. The downside of this is that the beaches are usually crowded with an American Spring break atmosphere, which is tiresome at two in the afternoon, and everything is expensive. For example, a chicken roti here is $15 US. In Grenada it’s $2. A half-mile cab ride is $5 per person. You’ve got to be kidding me. I think one of the reasons the locals are so friendly here is that they are on the good side of one of the best and most prolonged practical jokes this side of papal indulgences.
I hadn’t been ashore for three minutes when some drunk, peeling-nosed yokel from a charter boat stumbled to our table and shouted at us, “Hey! Are you guys from that Pirate Ship boat? That looks like a fun boat! Are you guys pirates? OK, bye! Yarr mates! Ha ha!”
The plus side is that there’s always a party, and fun is never far. Two of the coolest beach bars in the Caribbean are here, Foxy’s and Ivan's.
Foxy’s is possibly the most famous beach bar in all the West Indies. It’s huge. Two stories, three bars, a cigar bar, and a gift shop, but it’s completely concealed from view by palm trees. They grow out of the floor, through the roofs, between the tables; the bar is ensconced in palm trees. The only hint of it from the beach are the twinkling Christmas lights and the pulse of reggae. Foxy’s gigantic black lab, Taboo, is always around, and usually at the beach with Foxy’s grandkids, acting as babysitter and towing the kids around in the water with his tail.
Ivan’s Stress Free Bar is cool on it’s own, less auspicious merits. The bar runs on an honor system, though occasionally patrons will step in and play bartender when they feel like it. Last time I was here some pot-bellied English tranny was playing barman/maid. The walls of Ivan’s are tiled with shells, a tire swing and hammock hang under the giant tamarind tree outside, and the beach is pristine and separated from the rest of White Bay.
5/6
The anchor is stowed, sails set, and we’re off northbound for Bermuda, leaving behind the quasi yachtopia that is the BVI’s and heading into the open ocean. Seamen once more. The wind is whistling over our starboard rail and the crew are reacquainting themselves with the art of dodging waves.
5/9
Continuing north, into the same latitudes of Florida. The moonshine this morning was brilliant, lighting up the ocean, the ship resting in the glow like a silent obelisk on a plain, everything gilt in soft silver against the black depths beneath and above. It made splendid scenery for our 4-8 watch as we took the deck and slid into our regular routine of poop jokes, farting, and incoherent giggle-fests, proving that the greatest pleasures in life seem so often to come packaged with irony or shame.
5/13
Arrived in Bermuda. It’s getting colder. We are all excited to move on north.
