… of St Lucia’s jazz festival – but being too preoccupied to take much interest, have learned nothing definitive. Then yesterday, Dick overheard a couple talking about it at the marina and Amy Winehouse’s name bandied about – something about a concert here. Tonight, we think we have formed part of her unwitting, unwilling audience – out here in the bay, as the speakers from Sandals resort blast into the warm night air. What the heck she is wailing about, if indeed it is she, we have no idea, the sound reproduction being of such dubious quality and given to so much waxing and waning and echo-bouncing, it is an auditory blur much of it.
I don’t know if I’d like her music anyway, even on a good system, because I must be one of the few people who have never heard her. At least, I don’t think I have. Back home, the British press were so full of her alleged drug and drink excesses (‘alleged’ – I guess, however redundant that word is in her case, I still ought to use it to show an open mind – ha!) that I got sick of seeing those crudely lined poppy eyes and that sad woolly beehive toppling in disarray above that poor, (allegedly) abused, emaciated body, plastered across the tabloid front pages day after day, that it felt like Winehouse overload. For just like Elizabeth Hurley and Princess Di when she was alive (and even when dead) – Winehouse has suffered from over-exposure on a crass scale. Few have talent enough to survive the irritation factor induced by such relentless hype and hysteria. If last night’s wailings and warblings were the product of Winehouse’s larynx and lungs – and if they weren’t then why was the sound so very amplified and so great an influx of yachts mooring in the bay yesterday, we presume in anticipation of her concert? – then alas, she is not among that rarefied number. Or … I’ve just maligned the poor lass unfairly and she should boycott Sandals for crucifying her artistry with poor electronics.
Of much finer entertainment is watching the other boats around us. Anchoring techniques are particularly fascinating. A lot of charter boats here and a couple of flotillas by the looks of things – so a complete mix of sailing abilities – everything from the enthusiastic amateur to the skillfully experienced. One small monohull arrived this morning, but despite the friendly anchorage its crew seemed to have trouble knowing where to feed the anchor rode. For an hour or more the party of four battled away trying to feed a frighteningly short length of rope with an even shorter length of chain over the pulpit – over the top of the pulpit that is. An “interesting” approach, if not a conventional one. Eventually, they decided to copy everbody else and put the anchor roller to good use. That the prevailing wind is offshore and that they are downwind of us is of great consolation. By contrast, a catamaran, a Catana, sailed into the bay yesterday at great speed, stopped short, popped the hook overboard and were neatly secured within minutes.
And on the subject of mixed abilities, Sandals guests can rent these diddy little play cats – cheerful, splashy-sunshine yellow things, light as the proverbial feather – with a dinky little flotation buoy on the top of the mast to prevent turtling. Watching the staff handle these proves how much fun and zippiness can be had with very little effort. One guy even sailed out of the bay and back into it – not a small distance for such a little toy – and all the while sprawled on his side, head propped on a lazy elbow. Cool dude-ness as an art form. But in the hands of the beginner and not-so-cool dude, these play cats come stubbornly to windward, get locked in irons, throw their nervous operators in the drink, and generally behave comically badly and erratically. Which might put those suffering the spills and indignities of boat-handling ineptitude off sailing for life, but certainly keeps the rescue guys busy – especially on days like today when the wind is full of bluster and sudden sharp sallies and equally sharp lulls.
There is also a fair number of power boats, ski boats and all manner of little and large, sophisticated and gauche putt-putts busily belting across the bay for much of the day, but thankfully, very few jet-skis. I loathe those things with a vengeance – zim, zim, zim – all that mindless swooping and swerving and all too often the pea-brained, untrained, inconsiderate oik in the driving seat makes himself a bloody nuisance to swimmers, surfers and the more peaceful of water users. But here in the bay, generally, the comings and goings of most craft, sailing or motorized, are of a peaceful friendly nature. The usual habit of waving to one another as you pass honoured with a genuine friendly smile to boot.
Every day, there is a particular chug-chug sound that heralds the slow arrival of the floating fruit and veg vendor. He and his tiny, tired and knackered boat are almost hidden beneath a forest of various national flags. These banners, as tired as the boat, yet anything but tiny, flap in grubbily cheerful, clustered unison, and provide a canopy of shade and refuge for their owner from the sun and rain. The produce he offers is small both in range and in size and under-ripe tomatoes, and cucumbers the shape of a comma and not much bigger, can be bought for a haggled sum. Don’t reckon the coconut he’s lined up for you is worth $5.00? It probably isn’t and he doesn’t expect you to pay that anyway – so between you a compromise is achieved and you get two coconuts and a Tom Thumb tomato for the same price and the world goes round quite happily.
Oooh. Everything now gone quiet. No more Amy – or at least – no more frantic muzzy wailings whoever their source. But no, that’s not entirely accurate. It’s not quiet – yes the PA systems have been silenced it’s true, but that’s only because the rain is now falling in delirious, deafening deluges. Thundering, drumming, artillery-fire stuff. And you know what, compared to the manmade noise it’s seen off, it’s just sooooooooo perfectly peaceful.
Ah well, goodnight Amy wherever you are. Have an early night off, and who knows, maybe take time away from all that ripe ol’ living to listen to the rain. To paraphrase that old well-known lager slogan, “it refreshes parts other drugs cannot reach.” … Allegedly.
Footnote: this post written last night, in case you’re wondering. This morning, many of the yachts have left, presumably all replete with Amy-ness. There is, however, a huge power boat – an expensive floating gin palace type in sleekest midnight blue that remains moored to our starboard side. The boat sports a crew smartly attired in natty white naval suits, epaulettes, the whole rig. If this is Ms Winehouse’s temporary abode, it wouldn’t be out of place as a rockstar hideaway – albeit a very conspicuous one. But hey, it’ll make great background material for those pap shots.
