‘Allo ‘Allo from Les Saintes …

… a greeting that is somewhat belated, due to lack of wifi.

It is late in the evening, and I’m in sore need of some shuteye after being kept awake until 2.00 am last night by frenetic music (far too kindly a term, calling that miserable cacophony music) – that was blasted out from the shoreside into the bay here at the otherwise, gorgeously pretty Terre de Haut.  And you’re right – yes, I’m being a grump. Forgive me, but I get homicidal urges when subjected to insanely loud noise that you can’t escape or sleep through, hour after wretched hour. But that’s a beef for another day. So before I drop off my perch to restore some much needed sweetness, a quick update.

Just over a week ago, we filed out of the Simpson Bay bridge about 9.00 am, Monday morning. A bright, breezy, bonny day. Following behind the little tug, there, we stopped only briefly in the bay beyond, to raise the main, and then with our course set hard on the wind, we unfurled the jib and waved a cheery goodbye to Sint Maarten.

For the first few hours, it looked as if we might be able to make Antigua on one tack which was fine by us – Antigua is always a welcome destination. The wind and sky looked encouraging, too.

A little scrappy – but nothing really amiss there. And if the swell was uncomfortable being plum on the bows and of short period – only 6-7 secs between waves – then at least it was fairly modest in height, just 5-6 foot or so.

But here in the Caribbean, summer is approaching and, as the heat builds, so too the frequency of unstable weather. By midday, the skies were looking a little less jolly and a suggestion of a squall line began to form ahead.  As usual, it was a subtle change in the light that first alerted to trouble brewing, and that indefinable sense of latent energy in the air.  Not long then, before the indications were very obvious, not subtle at all, and the squall line began to look like this …

And flicking on the radar, a large pink blob decorated the chart plotter screen as confirmation …

Odd thing with squalls, however, is you can’t always predict how severe they will be. This one, despite having a decent mass, was a wuss – all bark and no bite. A few drops of rain, a little gusty wind that promptly ran out of puff in a few short minutes.  But it was the start of a pattern that lasted pretty much the whole day and for some of the night, too.  For as the wind backed then veered as each squall passed, our course for Antigua went slowly up in smoke.  Even sailing as tight on the wind as we could, we were now heading too far south. We decided therefore to carry on still making as much easting as we could, keeping the windward coast of Montserrat to starboard if possible, then to bear away a little to make Deshaies, on the north-western coast of Guadeloupe.  And once there, well we’d review the situation. Ha! I do so love this free-wheeling cruising!

For much of the day, between squalls, great banks of cumulus roiled across the sky – and despite the wind which was a light breezy 15-20 knots much of the time – the humidity was ripe and drippingly tangible.  One squall, however, threatened to bring us a refreshing rinsing; but although it brought gusts of 30-32 knots, even that passed so soon that within seconds  its cooling shower was nothing but a memory.

Very little traffic did we see, and it was one of the quietest sails we’ve experienced this season. But one strange event did occur as the sun began to sink that first day, and Butterfly was some distance off Nevis and St Kitts. The radio burst into life with a call on Channel 16 from a boat called Blue Voyage. A female voice urgently hailing the Nevis Coast Guard. For several minutes she filled the frequency with repeated callings, each calling being repeated many times. Then a break. After ten minutes or so, a male voice – same boat name, same request for the Nevis Coast Guard. Neither he, nor she, despite their dogged hailings, seemed to elicit a response.  Then the female began again.  So distressed did she sound, we were about to respond ourselves, and ask if they required help, when she began using the dreaded word ‘Mayday, Mayday’ in her callings. Then the guy came on frequency and followed suit.  Neither used a formal Mayday distress script, but just the word itself yelled now and then as they hailed the Coast Guard. Well, that did it, we grabbed the radio to respond, but before we could speak, it became clear  the crew of Blue Voyage now had the Coast Guard’s attention and were in conversation with them. We could only hear their side of the chatter, but – phew! – that was more than enough to reassure.

It transpired they were a couple on a charter boat, who had been sailing off the windward shore of Nevis when they’d fouled their prop with a fishing line.  They were, it also transpired, now amid several other lobster pot buoys. In order to untangle or cut the line free, they had dropped their hook to stop the boat travelling on. The line removed, they were now unable to retrieve their anchor. They were panicking, that much was clear, since they now found themselves on a lee shore, surrounded by lobster pot lines, and daylight beginning to fade. We gathered, by their comments, the Coast Guard  were advising them to detach their anchor chain from the boat, and leave the hook in the sea bed. Then make for a suitable mooring for the night – not too difficult since Nevis is mooring ball central!  Minutes later, a very much happier gent from Blue Voyage  radio’ed the Coast Guard once again to report he was now free of his anchor and was making for safe waters.

It is very easy to criticise, and one shouldn’t be uncharitable, for these were clearly charterers who were very novice in several senses – but to use the Mayday call for such a trivial incident, and not to have the nous yourself to abandon anchor if all else has failed is – well, rather scary. Anyway, after that little diversion, we continued sailing into the choppy-watered night, happy at least they were safe and no doubt enjoying a nerve-calming sundowner or several, being now firmly attached to a nice safe mooring ball well away from lobster pot lines and contrary anchors.

When on watch at night,  we keep a proper watch. No playing on computers or watching DVDs. Watch means watch. But sometimes there’s time and peace enough to read or do puzzles between keeping a regular check on what is going on around …

This was not the case that night. With the weather so fickle and the uncomfortably choppy action of short-period waves breaking first on the bows, then the hull, there was no scope for either. Nor much scope for sleep either when not on watch. Far too bumpy and noisy!

By morning we had Guadeloupe in our sights – and as the sun rose, so too the huge bank of cumulus towers that invariably crown Guadeloupe’s rainforested mountains and hills.

Deshaies, we decided, as we sailed by, looked too full (of yachts) to find comfortable swinging room. So on we sailed, our sights now firmly set on a group of islands that lie just off Guadeloupe’s south coast – Les Saintes. We have learned to love these French-owned bijou islets – imbued as they are with delightful Gallic charm and, as a bonus, providing some of the prettiest walking territory in the Caribbean. But before we arrived at Les Saintes, we first had to run the gauntlet of Guadeloupe’s lee shore, ducking and dodging the repeated squalls and deluges that quite whited out great sections of land and sea before they swept away to the west.

Somewhere along the way, however, I found the opportunity to take these two shots below – though I’m jinxed if I can remember exactly when – but both showing how Caribbean weather can turn on a sixpence within seconds.

We’ve spent the past few days enjoying the unspoiled rurality of Terre de Haut, practising our French, and cursing the invention of the PA system. A little way ahead of us, Moonshine, with friends Mike, Christie and Shane, and just round the corner at anchor off Pain du Sucre, pals, Rosie and Sim on Wandering Star. Come tomorrow, all three boats and crew will be making our way to Dominica for a few days.

Hopefully, we should have wifi available on the boat while there, so will update a little sooner if possible. Time, then, dearest chums, for me to cease rambling and bugger offski to bed -  and wish you a very peaceful, and restorative good night. (I’m certainly wishing me one, while I’m at it. Though the ghastly, grossly amplified ruckus ashore is still raging tonight and its just gone midnight … )

À bientôt, mes amies …

Waiting on the weather …

… is where we’re at.  And we’re doing our waiting here in Sint Maarten in the latrine – sorry, lagoon – no less. A few weeks back, I wrote a post about life in the lagoon, those who read it will understand my rather reserved enthusiasm for these murky, piss-rich waters.

After the peace, prettiness and sparkling cleanliness of St John’s bays, our return to Sint Maarten was something of a culture shock. A blunt and deafening assault on the senses. That arrival was now a whole week ago after a gloriously easy, relaxing night sail – (mentioned in my last post before I got swept away in a fug of philosophical musings. This post is a little more prosaic, you might be relieved to know!)

Having arrived, the intention as we filed in through the 11.30 am opening bridge from Simpson Bay into the lagoon was to stay as short a time as possible. All we needed to do was buy a few items – a new steaming light bulb, new starter battery, and some new flares – from one of the large chandleries here. Then to move swiftly on as soon as the weather allowed.

Well, weather is no respecter of itineraries or intentions. Accordingly, our wait must continue a little longer until Monday, first light, when we hope wind, sea and forecast are singing from the same hymn sheet. If so, then we’ll be sailing hard on the wind to make as much easting as we can and, depending on the exact angle and strength of that blow, we’ll either drop the hook in Antigua or St Lucia.

So, a last post from Sint Maarten – well, a last post for this season, at least:

The morning we arrived here, pulling into Simpson bay around 10.30 am in the morning, we laughed to see, yet again, our Butterfly Welcome Committee ready and waiting – in the familiar form of the Maltese Falcon.

This must have been the fourth or fifth time we’ve rolled up at a new island to find it there. An exotic and very impressive confection that is instantly familiar and unlike any other. We heard rumour that one family chartered this for the parents and adult friends, and another superyacht for their collective children, so the entire ensemble could cruise together without children or adult cramping the other’s space. This was rumour, mind – and fancy anecdotes do not a fact make!

One hour after our arrival at Sint Maarten, the Simpson Bay Bridge opened to allow entry into the lagoon. Given the choice  between staying outside in the clean uncrowded – but severely rolly – waters of the bay or filing into the filthy, crowded – but still – waters of the lagoon, the lagoon usually wins. Purely for reasons of convenience and motion comfort. However, this time, we pulled into the lagoon to find a dirty great cargo ship firmly plonked in the opening of the new causeway bridge – effectively blocking transit from the Dutch side of the lagoon to the French.

A ‘dirty great’ ship that, to be fair, was rather attractive and not dirty at all.  But blocking it most certainly was. Look closer and you’ll see it carries the new causeway swing bridge that will be in operation very, very soon.  This ship is also, very generously, offering to ship boats back across the pond to Europe for a shilling or several. Whether anyone here has taken them up on their offer or not, I don’t know.  What I do know is many have already left on their trans-Atlantic journeys, May being the favoured month for such things.

Consequently, we found sea space on the Dutch side just aft of that cargo ship. But the noise! The airport is just across the water, the flight path of super jets and light air-craft just overhead! I would bring you a wonderful detailed close-up of a super-jet to prove it, but I have both hands blocking my ears every time they pass low overhead. So loud are some, the boat vibrates beneath your feet and you can feel the air shudder.  Those that don’t quite deafen – well I got a shot of those (and jolly boring they are too). But you’ll get the idea, I’m sure.

That last photo above, taken from the boat – so you can imagine just how close the airport and runway are.

What with the constant cacophony overhead, the drill and scrape and wotnot of shoreside diggers, the roar of traffic and the whiz-putter-screech and odd scream of delight or terror of passing tourist rubber duckies, ferries and general to-ings and fro-ings of Uncle Tom Cobbley and All – it was auditory overload.

A few hours of that – and an oddly odious aroma from the lagoon waters themselves and we’d had enough. So out we went again the next morning, back into the Bay and peace was temporarily restored.

Few folk anchor out in Simpson Bay for long. When the swell curls round into the bay it brings new meaning to the word ‘roll.’ And it was only a matter of days before the swell did just that. As an added deterrent to staying, a forecast for high winds and squally conditions eventually saw us surrender clean water and open sea and peace for the boisterous rigours of the lagoon once more.  But before we left, I snapped a few shots of the local Optimist sailing school kids going through their paces with a patient and kindly instructor. The sea was building that day – and the little Oppie sailors had all on to keep control, but they did an impressively fine job.  If it looks like the youngster in that first photo is in the water – not the boat – well that gives some idea of how strong the swell that was running.

And waiting for the bridge to open to re-enter the lagoon the day before conditions were forecast to deteriorate, one little Optimist was so busy trying to tack his way back, he almost left his tack too late … a collision with Butterfly looking a sure-fire hit for a moment or two.

One of the largest cruise ships we’ve seen, also happened to be passing as we waited … and the juxtaposition between that goliath and one of our little friends in an Optimist made me laugh. Talk about the long and the short of things. And you know, I do wonder who has the most fun – the little guy in his simple boat out for a sail, or the cruiser with every luxury to hand?

Back in the lagoon things had quietened a little – thanks to a public holiday. But the bad weather did indeed kick in the following day. Strong gusts immediately claimed at least three victims – their boats dragging merrily towards shore or other boats. The guys below had followed us into the lagoon and we’d noticed then how sluggishly they fell behind in the queue to pass under the bridge.  Seems they only had use of one engine and by the time a distress call was placed on the morning Cruisers’ Net radio, their catamaran had impaled itself on the dock. Immediate help from other cruisers saw them right, and with assistance they managed to re-anchor.

For ourselves, the lively winds were much appreciated. Great for wind-genny amps and for personal comfort.  But then I love it when the wind blows hard at anchor – providing, of course, all around us are safely rooted to the seabed!

These past few days have, in fact, been lovely – lagoon or no lagoon. Not far from us bobs Magus, with pals Chris and Yani – so much chess-playing in the evening for Dick and Chris.  There is far less crowding than when we first arrived – now there is access through the new causeway bridge. We’ve caught up on some boat jobs that no longer clutter the To-Be-Fixed list, and a fair wind blows while the sun beams radiantly. Life, for the now, is very good.

It will, of course, be even gooderer – if the weather has read the forecast and holds true for Monday’s getaway.

Someone up there ..

… likes us.

The night sail from St John, US Virgin Islands to Simpson Bay, Sint Maarten turned out far better than we had hoped.  A gentle, easy sail with celestial bling a-plenty.

For a start, the feared ‘no-wind’ situation didn’t materialise. Instead, after 5 hours of steady motoring into flat seas, a playful, then increasingly steady breeze joined the party and Butterfly, being the light-wind galivant that she is, flitted nimbly along under full main and jib.  Even when the breeze skinnied down awhile to just 5 knots True, on she sailed without fuss; a little slower, yes, but smoothly efficient. And on water this calm, there was a lovely absence of snapping canvas or jolting boom to jangle the nerves, as can happen when light-airs sailing with a swell running. This was night sailing at its most relaxing and peaceful.

And perhaps that someone-up-there had even read my last post – for not only did we have stars a-million, a brief appearance from the moon but, for several hours extra-curricula razzle-dazzle – a dry-lightning storm that tore across the heavens, streaking bolts of flashing, pulsing brilliance through the dark.

Lightning at sea is an awesome phenomenon. With no buildings, trees or hills to obscure its reach, you are treated to a full-screen, uncropped, unabridged display of its muscle. An outrageously raw, yet utterly magnificent energy over which you have no control whatsoever. Not one iota or scrap.  That you and your boat are but a ridiculously tiny dot on the watery landscape and of no significance nor worth nor interest to the elements of nature is never made more clear.  That we had the luxury of simply watching that fabulous drama from a safe distance as it faithfully followed our course several miles removed, was pure luck. Had we set off an hour or two later, we might not have been so lucky. Life on land is not a certain business; life at sea less certain still.

But if you can forgive a little musing,  I think this liveaboard life, with its continual exposure to the sea and wind in their every whim – whether benignly beautiful or raging savagely – is no bad thing.  For Man has built himself such an all-absorbing artificial world of brick and concrete, tarmac, plastic, steel; and has so filled his head and heart with technology and gadgetry, cyber communications and commerce;  his stomach with labour-saving, pre-packaged, cosmetically-presented, processed food – he lives, to a large extent, in an altered reality.  A Man-reality, greatly removed from Mother Nature and one filled too much, perhaps, with quick easy entertainments – youtube, dvd, Facebook, Ipad, tv. Diversionary entertainments that not only gobble up precious, limited time, but which add to the cosy delusion that chatter is as good as action, that tomorrow is a certainty to take for granted. A false sense of man being master of his destiny. The truth, of course, is not so cosy.

Faced with nothing but a vast unbroken expanse of sea and sky -  the impermanence, brevity, and total uncertainty of life are made startlingly, uncompromisingly clear.  For the sea and sky that surround you everywhere you look, can not only destroy you, but were also the very origins of you. The raw materials that gave birth to life itself. They were there when man first fell out of the trees; and they will still be here when there are no trees, much less man. They, not us, are enduring reality writ large. Our man-world preoccupations – our religions, politics, fashions, philosophies – like us, come and go. Whole generations, whole civilisations, bloom and wilt and are no more. Yet thoughout it all, sea and sky roll seamlessly on day after day after day  … as they have throughout millenia.

And that, to me, is a graphic example of that much quoted phrase, ‘The Bigger Picture’. A picture that is so easily and frequently obscured in Man-world. But out at sea, The Bigger Picture is unavoidable. You don’t have to look for it; it finds you. A vigorous display of lightning searing through a night sky, and all around you nothing but sea and air and you – lucky little insignificant you – stay lucky … for today. Tomorrow, who knows?

So better that we spend our time wisely, m’dears – perhaps a little less laptop; a little more landscape. Less squabble and worry; more kindness towards fellow creatures, and not just the two-legged variety.  And while we’re at it,  why don’t we go for broke and pack in as much love and happiness and learning as we can. Absurdly easy to say, I know; damned bloody difficult to do, oh yes! But not quite so difficult, perhaps, when you let sea and sky show you just how big The Bigger Picture really is.

Besides, appreciating just how small and inconsequential you really are can be strangely liberating and joyful …

Blow, blow thou tropical wind …

… to paraphrase the Bard.  And not to be too pernickety, could you keep your puff several degrees north of east? Butterfly and crew would much appreciate it, that’s for sure.  Of course, 20-25 knots from the north-west would be absolutely perfect, but that would be asking for miracles.

Alas, the forecasters see no such miracles; nor for the next few days, much usable wind at all. The airs are not just light but non-bloody-existent.  And with so little air movement, the skies here are full of whimsy – odd puffballs of floating cumulus -

- or festooned with nebulous patchwork, as below.  It might be pure fancy, but it feels as if we’re caught in a very benign hiatus – a holding of the meteorological breath – before those south-east Trades muster force and rush back in to establish dominance.

Tonight, however, if forecast matches reality, the hiatus should be broken by a few hours of very light, variable winds that might just see us sail without assistance from our Lombardinis for at least a chunk of the passage back to Sint Maarten.  Fingers very crossed and throw in knotted toes, too – for neither Him nor Her Aboard care for motoring long stretches; canvas is just so much more peaceful  (and cheap!).

So … at about the same time as this was taken yesterday – and yes, those colours are the real McCoy – it will be goodbye lovely, gentle St John, and back into the open Caribbean sea once more. No moon to light our way, which is a pity, but a flat and kindly sea, which is always a plus.

The general idea is to make as much easting as we can while the seas are so  (extraordinarily) flat, so the journey south can then be sailed when further weather windows allow, in relative comfort, or at least with little need for motors.

This will be our fifth night sail of the season; our second without a moon. But stars? Here in the Caribbean, short of a tropical wave or hurricane, there are always stars.  And tonight, with precious little cloud and no moon to dull their brilliance, Butterfly and Them Aboard should have starshine all the way.

Woot! Bring on that celestial razzle dazzle!

 

Rock ‘n’ Roll …

… is what you do in pretty Caneel Bay. Rock ‘n’ Roll with capital Rs a-piece.

Pleasant though it is, and lovely the views – whether across to St Thomas or the shoreside beach and forest -  here in Caneel Bay, the wash from passing ferries is pretty monstrous. A regular mountainous wash that sets all the boats dancing on their mooring balls; and if not a ferry in sight, then speedboats and other commercial vessels which belt along in the channel will whip up a tossing wave too. And then there’s the rock ‘n’ roll you get from passing nobodies. Unseen hooligans who secretly, silently kick up a thug of a wave that comes tearing across the water till it finds a toy – you – to bounce around with relish, and slosh, wash, slurp and slide, boat and loose belongings break out into a sustained and outrageously violent toss and pitch. In one unforeseen mega-lurch session, we lost the best part of a bottle of wine. Sacrilege!

If this wave action is too much for catamarans, imagine the effect on monohulls. Friends, Chris and Yani on Magus, who joined us a few days ago, stoically stuck it out for several days and nights, but enough was enough.   Their suggestion to decamp to the scenically lyrical and far more stable Christmas Cove on St James Island, a short hop away, one we were thoroughly happy to take up. Before leaving Caneel, I took a shot of Magus in one of the very, very rare moments of stillness at Caneel.  This would be about the same time each night that the wind dies away to nothing.  A wonderful peaceful break from rolling and ferry wash, mercifully, but with no wind, the mooring balls get playful and come tap, tap, tapping on the sides of hulls. 

One night, trying to coax the mooring ball out from under Butterfly’s bridge, to shorten its rope, and stop the banging, to allow us some peace to sleep, I must have caught a sliver of shell or rope filament down the side of my thumb nail. Mooring ball ropes are inevitably home to a fecund and thriving community of marine life. Whatever it is – or was – that embedded into my thumb, soon set off a nasty little swelling and soon after that, throb, throb, throb.  Regular applications of Savlon cream which almost unfailingly sorts out minor mishaps like this haven’t, for once, done the trick. Reluctantly, I cracked open a packet of anti-biotics yesterday and given the speed with which the infection bubbled up, saw a medico ashore for good measure. Keep taking the tablets, was the verdict. 

Christmas Cove is a favourite of Chris’s and Yani’s.  It lies off the west coast of Great St James Island, and is divided into a north and south section, by Fish Cay, a small rocky outburst in the bay, home to gazillions of black-headed seagulls.  We picked up a ball just off the north side of Fish Cay. In fact, so close to the cay and those birds was it, we had but a very short swim to view them up close and personal.

The cove is an absolute delight. Hard to explain precisely why, but there is a great sense of peace and being surrounded by nature.  Pretty scenery unspoiled by man is, without question, one of its greatest assets. And after you get over their initial deafening raucousness, those gulls provide a huge degree of entertainment.  Why they squawk and shriek and caw and call to each other all day long and all night too, is a mystery. And how they ever manage to sleep with such a din going on all around them is an even bigger one.  Yet within a couple of days, we had started to tune out their ebullient racket for long periods of time, enough that the noise became enjoyable when we did tune back in.  There is something slightly comical about the behaviour of birds en masse, and watching the gulls scrabble and argue and woo and jostle for their favourite rock or landing perch, was fun. Alas, I have no photos to bring you since none of the shots I took were good enough, to be honest. (Note to self: Must do better, Karen!)

Nor, did I take any underwater shots, either. Which is a huge pity, because on one snorkel outing around Fish Cay, I chanced across a huge hawksbill turtle (Eretmochelys imbricata – for those who have their teeth in) – wrestling with a sponge he was trying to extricate from a crevice in an underwater rock.  With all four flippers braced against the rock face, he repeatedly tugged at the offering, in an attempt to tear it free.  An athletic and surprisingly aggressive performance from such a gentle creature.

Just as with Caneel, fish (and turtle) life here is unafraid of humans. Since fishing is banned in these marine park waters, so underwater life has little to fear from man.  Apparently unconcerned by my proximity, turtle and I swam together a while once he’d had his fill of sponge.  It’s a strangely satisfying feeling to be accepted by a creature, and not seen as a threat.  But then, if you’ll forgive the whimsy, I’ve always felt that most animals sense where your instincts lie – friend or foe.

There wasn’t a huge amount of big fish to see, which surprised, but a large number of  tiddler shoals – presumably the reason so many gulls hang around.  Other highlights, however, were 3 rays all grubbing in the sand, their graceful, but slightly sinister wings kicking up a storm to lay bare their tiny prey.  Between each pit-stop, those wings swooping in flowing undulating flight along the sea-bed, a motion that is all grace and silent, swift power.

However, the absolute highlight of this week has been chancing across an octopus – not snucked away in a rock crevice, but swimming.  His tentacles when in motion through the water, fat and fleshy, not long and sinewy as so often depicted. Odd. And yet again, not the slightest bit fazed by his human audience.  All of which has been a frustrating reminder to dig out my underwater camera and get the bally thing wet for once.

In lieu of underwater photography to garnish this post, I’m afraid I can only bring you a few shots of the views from Christmas Cove.  If it’s peace and Mother Nature you yearn for, as antidotes to the very un-natural nonsenses of modern life, then you could do worse than come here.

This last one, shows you Fish Cay (just to starboard of Butterfly) as night begins to fall.  A study in cool blue tranquility off-set by the ever-present and ever-enthusiastic seagull lullaby!

Alas, our time here in the US Virgin Islands is coming to a close.  Soon, we must begin the trek back  east and south.  As the law of Sod would have it, the very time when the SE trade winds begin to dominate.  The usual plan is to take advantage of any moments where there is a northerly element holding sway for a few hours, to beat back down the island chain heading, of course, to Grenada. One such window looks likely on Sunday, and in order to take advantage of it, we’ll probably be heading back to the British Virgin Islands at the end of the week. But as any cruiser will testify, all plans are subject to the fickle whim of wind and tide … so who knows.

Perhaps there might just be time to dust off that underwater camera before we leave …

 

 

 

 

Sopers Hole in Tortola …

… is a highly popular, maritime cul-de-sac.  A place where boats shuffle up, hugger-mugger and cosy, their moorings piled one on top of the other in an effort to accommodate all.  As one boat leaves, so another is already waiting to take its ball.  In, out, in out, file charterers and cruisers alike, all day long. The constant traffic of arrivals and departures making for little peace, until the early evening when almost all balls are taken and everyone has settled for the night. At US $30 per ball per day, an overnight stay here is not cheap. But 30 bucks a day for a mooring ball is the going rate in the BVIs and that’s that.

We stayed for 2 nights. And having no luck with wifi at Peter Island, we booked a day’s internet access with Sopers Hole Marina for good measure. The wifi was 20 bucks. Our 48 hour sojourn in that BVI cul-de-sac costing a pricey US $80. As luck would have it, come the second day when our Marina wifi was spent, we found a free shore source that was, if anything, a faster link. A sop to soothe the slightly-bruised Butterfly kitty.

Frankly, it’s slightly unnerving lashed to a Sopers Hole Mooring ball. We are so used to anchoring and being free to pick a spot with ample sea-room, that to find yourself so crowded, and with the constant stream of arriving and departing boats passing whisker close at times, well, it’s not exactly a Zen experience. The antics of some clearly unseasoned skippers and novice crew only exacerbate the sense of impending s-c-r-a-p-e !

One large Lagoon catamaran on the final day of charter, swinging off a ball just aft of Butterfly, was given a thorough going over with rubbing compound by her charter crew to remove the tell-tale scuffs of close encounters one could only guess at. Shit happens they say – that ghastly over-used verbal shrug – and it is, of course, true. But if most of us are honest,  we’d far rather the other guy’s shit happens well way from ours. There again, seeing how that same crew had attached their warps to the ball and the ensuing damage to the bows’ paintwork, some shit is entirely self-inflicted.

The odd thing was the striking contrast between the noisy, busy days and the prettiness and peace of the evenings there. All those boats, so many packed with holiday-charter guests, all enthusiastically enjoying a Caribbean yachty break and with camaraderie and cocktails in lush supply, and yet once the sun was down, so little noise.  The twinking lights ashore and in the harbour, a soothing eye-candy backdrop for the tranquil night.

Ashore, there’s a lively, bonny cluster of pastel-painted buildings, customs and immigration for clearing in and out, a range of marine services, and a collar of attractive shops and bars around the water’s edge to entice holidaymakers to open their wallets.  The scene is of successful yachting business ventures and genial (mostly) punters; the former busily making a buck; the latter busily spending it.

But two days of bobbing in a jolly, but very busy nautical parking lot, and 80 bucks the poorer, was quite enough: pretty lights or not we were out of there, and made the short hop across to St John.

See what I mean by ‘short’? Hardly worth getting the jib out, but out it came anyway. A good blow ensured it was kept fat and full and Butterfly rollicked along very nicely.

St John belongs to the US Virgin Islands group. It is, I think, perhaps the loveliest of the USVI. This based on what we’ve already discovered, and from hearing other cruisers’ recommendations. But since we have yet to visit St Croix and saw so little of St Thomas last year, my opinion is perhaps best ignored (feel free; I ignore it all the time).

That St John boasts some splendid beaches and is rich in woodland, and has some of the most carefully managed mooring fields in this corner of the Caribbean is, however, worth the saying. Keeping the balance between pleasing visitors and holidaymakers and the yachting fraternity, and maintaining a sound ecological programme to ensure healthy marine and woodland biospheres can’t be easy. But St John’s guardians apparently have a higher IQ than many similar authorities, and seem to have got the mix right, so well done them.

Certainly, the provision of good moorings, well spaced and well-maintained, and only US $15 per night helps, I think, to encourage willing co-operation from yachties. (As an aside, payment for your mooring ball is by means of an honesty box. You plop your money in one of the envelopes provided, fill out your details and pop it in the box.  Last year, when we were here, the honesty box at one of the bays was over-flowing with cash-containing envelopes.  A temptation, you would think, for light-fingered n’er-do-wells; yet there it all was safe and untouched -  a testimony to the honesty of most folk when treated sensibly).

If it’s peace and quiet and nary a tourist nor party boat to be seen you desire, then hie you to the south coast of St John, as we did last year.

Here at Caneel Bay on the western coast, shown in the photos above, the scenery is just as beguiling, but between the hours of 10 am to 4 pm you’ll be keeping company with day boats loaded to the gunnels with grockles (holidaymakers to us Brits). A cheery ensemble of camera-wielding, sun-lotioned tourists, here for a quick snorkel and paddle on the shore, before the horn sounds and all are counted in and shepherded back to Cruz Bay in a froth of wake and speakered musak.

Every day these same boats tootle in and out of the mooring field, some of them, twice a day. And if I were a tourist here, well, I’d probably pay my several-dollars fee (I have no idea of charges) – and join the spot-the-turtle grockle game too. They’re a jolly bunch, these boats. Their visits mercifully short and sweet. Grab the mooring, a quick animated lecture on the do’s and don’ts of snorkelling, jolly folk into the water, let ‘em ogle a fancy fin or several, a play on the sand and then whisk them back to the cruise ship or hotel.  And judging by the happy chatter and laughter of their patrons, it’s a pretty successful formula.

Today, after the last day boat had waked into the distance, I donned snorkel and flippers and went for a swim by the rocks near the shore. Yesterday, Dick had done the same and seen rays, turtles and barracuda. But I saw none of these. My company was far smaller fry – other than some very strapping Parrot fish who were far too busy nuzzling into rock and coral to give a stuff about me.

In fact it came as something of a surprise to find I was anything but a surprise to any of my scaley companions. Even the tiddlers were singularly unimpressed. Unfazed and unafraid, many finned directly towards their human intruder with no inclination, it seemed, to change course or avoid contact. A boldness borne of familiarity, I guess. Faced with the daily intrusion of flailing limbs from Adventurer, Adventuress and Champagne Cat- to name but a few – it clearly takes more than a solitary Karen, minding her own, to shiver their timbers.

For food and a little retail therapy (if that’s your schtick), when moored in Caneel Bay, you’ll need to dinghy back to Cruz Bay, and tie off at the Visitor Centre dock.

By far the most ‘artsy-fartsy’ shopping is to be found at Mongoose Junction, only a short schlep away from the above. We called in, not to replenish the wardrobe or even splash out on some funky accessories, but to enjoy a cup of java in the Mongoose Junction’s very pretty surroundings. Amazingly, no coffee could we find! Every fruit juice and smoothie ever invented, yes, but nowhere that wanted to sell us coffee. Odd.

Elsewhere, the local scenery is very much as you would expect – U S of A meets Caribbean. It’s pretty, pleasant, thriving and relaxing.

The only ‘negative’ was the shock of finding so many finger-wagging notices. Reminding you sharply that you are on First World Western turf here. For in the Eastern Caribbean, sights like these are far, far rarer.  That many of these signs are repeated over a short distance doesn’t thrill either.

The one that took the cake, however, was this:

The extended hand of welcome swiftly followed by a slap.  Heigh ho.

Dinking back to Butterfly, one of the Park Rangers kept us company a short way, both of us observing the no-wake zone rule. His ready smile and wave of greeting thankfully erased the slightly sour note from those rather unlovely signs. Once clear of the harbour, another cheery wave and he opened up the twin 250s and zoomed into the distance. Hooray for Park Rangers then and – over-aggressive finger-wagging aside – for St John itself.

It’s reet nice  ‘ere, m’dears!

And lastly, though very definitely not least, this last week has been a memorable one.  For not only did we celebrate our 31st Wedding Anniversary (no, it really doesn’t seem a day too long, honest guv!) – but Al, our youngest son, got engaged to the lovely Lucy, his wonderful girlfriend. News that thrilled us to pieces.

All in all – a bloody good month April … !

When a large motor vessel …

… sallies into the same bay as you, and its name flashed bright in a zigzaggy script reads Party Gal (well something very similar) – keep on sailing.  The bay ain’t big enough for the both of you, trust me.

When the crew of that same swank of multi-level chrome and dazzling white paint begin erecting a huge, vulgar yellow and purple plastic chute, a funfair confection that plunges from the top-most deck down to the sea, don’t just keep sailing, but hoist all the canvas you can and make for another island. I’m speaking from sore-eared and sleep-deprived experience here.

And as you beat hard into the wind, all thoughts of dropping anchor in that wonderful peaceful bay now abandoned due to its unwelcome occupant, console yourself with the thought at least you can escape, unlike the poor crew of Party Gal. For them, the party must go on until the paying guests, with their execrable taste in music and a deplorable absence of consideration for others, finally run out of charter time and bugger off back to shore.

Crew wages on chartered superyachts, whether motor or sail, are staggeringly handsome, but there is no wage on earth would compensate me for the grief of playing crew to Party Gal’s most recent charter guests. No fortune – however numerous the zeros – worth the gritted teeth and ear-plugs necessary to survive the experience and retain sanity. Had I been crew on Party Gal - I’d have murdered the gucking fuests in their sleep.

Am I exaggerating? Well, put it this way, when one of Party Gal’s other neighbours in Deadman’s Bay, Peter Island, a guy on a Sunsail charter yacht, pulled away the next morning, as he crossed astern of his tormentor, he bellowed loud, “Ya music sucks!”  It was an outburst borne of justifiable frustration and rage.

We almost applauded him. Inelegantly, but succinctly put, dear sir. For suck it ever-so-did.

But the deepest and unkindest cut of all was that having blasted out the bay for a couple of hours the previous evening with their choice of unlovely synthesised crapola noise all went blissfully quiet on Party Gal. And relieved charterers and cruiser neighbours alike tucked into their cabins assailed only by the gentle lapping of waves on hulls, the night wind’s lonely lullaby in the rigging; a peaceful scene watched over by a silent glittering of stars.

Oh, if only that rapturous state of affairs had continued, all would have been forgiven. But just after midnight, the guests of Party Gal, high on booze or ganja or simply a selfish regard only for themselves, kicked up a party night all of their own. And ON! went the ghastly tinny travesty they called music once more, and amid much hollering and shrieking they availed themselves of the pleasures of the monstrous slide, flinging themselves down from the top deck in a slithering ululating delirium that gave way to a monotonous piercing yell as they plunged into the cold splash of black sea at the bottom. Down they went, down and down and down. Screaming, hollering, cackling, shrieking. Over and over and over. Hell knows what time they finally packed it in, I had my headphones on by then and all the portholes shut – and we were well upwind of the buggers. Forgive me for being such a Bah Humbug, but hang ‘em all, I say. No gallows is high enough for such selfish bar stewards.

The next day, with no murmur or even sight of Party Gal’s guests, the sun shone brightly down on the yellow and purple slide and began to rise high in the sky.  The chute’s towering, shiny fat tubes, edging the slide, bobbed forlornly in clumsy syncopated rhythm to the motion of the bay’s swell. Alas poor, poor Party Gal … her lines, neither elegant nor sleek to begin with, ruined further by that monstrous carbuncle of gaudy plastic.

It was sometime after mid-day, Party Gal’s crew at last began to dismantle the yellow and purple slide. And shortly after that, the largest of her tenders headed out and waited at the edge of the bay to escort its mothership on to another island.

Oh the joyous fun awaiting those in whatever bay Party Gal and her guests assault next. And oh, what a long, long week this is going to be for her beleagured crew. The poor devils have my every sympathy.

But you have to hand it to her owners – by naming her as they did, they knew precisely the sort of guests they wanted to attract and how to keep them happy, gross purple and yellow chutes and all. And as another sleep-deprived  neighbour commented wryly the morning after , the boat’s name warns you of exactly what to expect. If you’re cruising in the BVIs, take my advice and heed that warning very, very seriously!

On to happier and less vulgar matters …

Deadman’s Bay on Peter Island is both quaintly pretty and deservedly popular.

It’s particularly popular with cruisers like ourselves because an excellent wifi signal can be picked up in the anchorage. No need to go ashore for internetting.  But alas, not this time, it seems. We could see the signal very clearly, but our laptops just wouldn’t connect up. And having spoken to other friends anchored here, it’s not a problem with our adapter, but with the shore wifi source itself. Which is why I’m several days late uploading this blog than intended, having had to wait till we fair flew (it’s been hellishly windy these past few days) over to Tortola’s Sopers Hole.

Rather a sobering message broadcast over Channel 16 on the jaunt to Tortola. A ship in distress, taking on water, somewhere near St Thomas, apparently. Serious enough that a helicopter was scrambled and an All Stations request for help. No further details known at present. This is the second distressed vessel message we’ve heard recently – the first off Ile Pinel in St Martin. A reminder that things can and do go badly wrong- even when the weather is relatively benign. Here’s hoping both crews had a safe and happy outcome.

On to sunnier matters …

If you like walking, then Peter Island is a great stop – as it boasts an excellent hiking trail. Nicely maintained by the resort staff here, it has enough strenuous UP quotient in it, to give your legs and lungs and heart a serious workout. Just follow the winding vertiginous path and you’ll come to signs marked “Sunset Loop” – keep on going, until you’ve completed the loop and most of the UP sections, then pink and sheened (oh alright, sweating like a pig, then) it’s Ahhhh, relief! And down, down, down you go … to the cooling waves lapping on the shore. I promise you can’t get lost and you’ll have a constant accompaniment of gorgeous birdsong to keep your heart trilling merrily throughout.

Along the way, you’ll find view-point benches for a breather, each prettily shaded by a palm-leaf roof. Also, water dispensers at each bench, and a garbage bin for the paper cup when you’ve finished.

To get ashore, first you’ll have to dinghy over to the east side of the bay, away from the resort and its swimming area, and drag your dinghy up the sand. Lock it off, or rope it to a tree. Those with large dinghies and heavy outboards might want to kayak or swim instead. There’s Him Aboard first down to Barnacle, after one of our walks. Her Aboard is w-a-a-a-y behind fussing with her camera, grabbing last shots of the bay.

Talking of cameras, on the first day we made for the trail, I realised I’d left my camera’s memory card back on the boat - doh! - so no pics taken at all. The second day I went armed with not one, but two memory cards and a full battery.  A walk without a fully-operational camera is only half a walk for me. I feel distinctly under-dressed without a shooter to point. A row of rainbow-painted chairs facing west for sunset-watchers is very hard to ignore, after all.

You’ll find, part way along, an odd noise ringing through the air – and you’ll no doubt discover the cause soon after. For amid all the rural loveliness of the island, there is a very odd anomaly – two wind turbines sited out on a cliff face, singing and whirring away in vibrant thrum.  Their incongruity with the landscape reminded me of that old, rather odd British TV series of the sixties, starring Patrick McGoohan, The Prisoner

Though I’m hard put to explain exactly why. Those who know the series would instantly understand the connection, however.  (And for those with nowt better to do who would like a trip down memory lane – or even newcomers who would like to savour the – well, sheer oddness of The Prisoner for themselves, then click here.

Back to terra firma …

Very soon our BVI cruising permit expires, so we are heading off to the US Virgin Islands in the next day or so. But as usual, there is far more we want to see here, so many bays and quiet anchorages away from charter central to explore, that we intend to return later. But for now, a last round up of shots taken in this gorgeous cruising playground.

See you when wifi next allows …