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.. Or, a better title, perhaps, the Kindness of Strangers.
Out for an evening stroll, here at St David’s, to take advantage of the (slightly) cooler evening temperatures, Dick and I stopped to play with some puppies frolicking in the street. And that’s how we met the wonderful Marina. A Grenadian lady, who, thinking we somehow knew the pups (we did, see below), began chatting away – and within minutes was presenting us with a bag full of plump ripe mangoes from her garden.
Here in the Windward Isles, we’ve grown very used to locals selling fruit and vegetables in the street – but only after much convivial banter; it’s just the way it goes here. Grenadians are by and large utterly charming, even with the vendors, there’s always a lot of easy chatter to break the ice; always a deal to be brokered eventually. So when Marina proffered her gift and made it absolutely clear she merely wanted to be kind, it left us feeling – well, slightly fazed and not a little humbled. That someone – a complete stranger – should be so bounteous within minutes of meeting new folk like us, well, what to say? I don’t think we handled it very well, to be honest. Having assumed she would expect payment, we immediately asked her how much she wanted for the mangoes – clunk! The look of surprise and slight dismay on her face was fleeting, but it was there. She didn’t want payment; she wanted only to make us welcome. After the initial confusion, we wanted only to say how wonderful we thought she was. I only hope she believed us. It was the truth.
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Well, we’re into our fourth day here at St David’s. It’s quiet – very - and absolutely none the worse for that. Just a handful of other yachts bobbing in the bay; just sky and surf and horizon for a view from the back of the boat. Just so very laid back. Just the way we like it! The estimable Nicholas, from Grenada Marine, has been out to size up the warranty work list, and has promised us a quote some time this coming week. Grenada Marine are a busy outfit – their yard completely chocka with boats hauled out for the hurricane season – a spaghetti of stout straps pinning them firmly to the ground. For hurricane dodgers, there’s absolutely no room at the inn here. Even the A&E and maintenance berths are pretty full – so they couldn’t start on our warranty work for some time. But their reputation is good and we’re fortunate in that Butterfly’s problems, while they must be fixed, don’t impinge too much on day to day living or sailing – unlike the poor guy whose lovely new Lagoon 500 recently crashed onto a reef – ouch! – and will need a lot of remedial TLC before he and his family can resume their cruising. I say this again, but with fingers firmly crossed, to date, we really have been very, very lucky that we can still sail and live fairly comfortably on Butterfly. Walking round the casualties on the hard here is a sharp reminder that many are not so fortunate. In fact, a stroll around the yard produces a mix of emotions. For some here are boats whose owners we have got to know – and know too, the problems they are facing. It’s of no consolation at all, but we’re not the only ones with warranty issues a-plenty, believe me. It’s only when you “join the club” so to speak, you learn of the less-than-successful models and makes of boat. The common issues many have; the battle owners face getting their builders to pay for the boatyard’s mistakes. News travels fast once you have a boat of your own. Not surprisingly, since most folk want to protect their investment, it’s not news you find easily on the internet.
Back to haul out yards for a moment: it seems to me with hulls and keel laid bare for all to see, a boat loses much grace of line. In particular, the catamarans as a breed look ungainly and ill designed. The nonsense of their twin noses jutting bulbously before, webbed and fettered with slumping anchors and chain, are not a pretty sight. Out of the water they are anything but sleek and lovely. Odd then, to know how striking they can look once at sea. Monohulls out of water, fare a little better, I think. There is an obvious logic to their design that’s easy to appreciate, Their shape is cohesively compact and the contours flow as one unit. It’s long been a gentle pastime of ours to wander around boatyards, among the forest of doughty keels and raw-bellied hulls, a fascinating browse through the seldom seen gubbins vital for a vessel’s movement and direction. A strangely satisfying voyage of quiet discovery. But then boats, I’m firmly convinced, speak in a silent, secret language of their own … but only if you care to listen.
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A little less romantically, and a lot more pragmatically, will you take a look at this:
This, my dears, is Prickly Bay chain syndrome. And a very malodorous syndrome it is too. The day after arriving here in St David’s, a very unpleasant stale fishy smell began to hang around the saloon. Bafflingly, in the centre of the saloon to be exact. We’d dined on fish a couple of nights before, but long since disposed of the remains at the local garbage dump. It took me about two hours to finally suss the cause: chain crud rapidly rotting in the heat of the anchor locker. The wind blowing the delightful aroma through crevices into the saloon lockers and out into the saloon itself. Our mistake, of course. Leaving Prickly Bay, we tried to wash the chain, but our pressure washer in the bows didn’t even tickle it. This is crud with a capital C. Shoot us, but out of sight is out of mind, and so our intentions to clean the chain later after mooring at St David’s somehow got forgotten – until the evil whiff began in earnest. It is not a mistake we will make again.
Oh the joys of cleaning it all off – especially when the rotting process is in full swing! Nothing short of gallons of soapy water and stiff scrubbing brushes and a huge amount of elbow grease made any impression at all. See those bonsai trees growing there – they have rooted on to the chain with a tenacity that belies their tiny size. Verily, forsooth, gentle reader, twas a just and terrible punishment. Give me your mugger, your granny-basher, your joyrider, your football hooligan, your pirates and your bolshy customs officials – and we will reform them in a jiffy! After an enforced long afternoon in full Caribbean sun, scrubbing putrid chain, link after encrusted stinking link, I guarantee you, they will never err again!
And just for the record, here’s a shot to prove we’ve done our time and won’t err again, either.
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Last night, we had ourselves a swell time. Pootered over to the bar-cum-restaurant (I don’t know its name) that lies in front of The Plantation hotel resort. The surroundings, right by the shore, are delightful. Under rustling palms and with the hiss of waves lapping the waterside, it’s a relaxing, ambient-rich spot to enjoy the evening air. The added attraction was live music – provided by a wonderful singer, billed only as, Janice, who had the lungs and vocal chords to out Turner, Tina. All night, she belted out classic rock and rhythm and blues standards with able backing from a pair of poneytailed-to-the-bum mature, hippy-and-holding musicians, one who joined us for a bevvy and a chat and who proved excellent company too. Very little PA needed as her fabulous voice needed none – they probably heard her in Carriacou – and possessed a musicality that is rare. She’s the real deal, is Janice – so if you’re in these parts and Janice is billing somewhere – go see. You’ll rock till you drop and love every minute of it.
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And lastly, just in case you need an ahhhhh moment – here’s a shot of those pups I mentioned earlier. This taken when we first came across them when we motored round to St David’s to check out the Grenada Marine facilities. They were gamboling in the sand, one with a nasty gash below his right eye. The hand belongs to a young lad whose family was living on their boat, hauled out in the yard at the time. He had been shooting at them with a small water pistol. Little boys will be little boys and all that. But he got a lot more fun when shown how to make a cupped drinking bowl for them outof his hands – and how to put the pistol to far kinder use by filling his hands with water. How long that pleasure lasted, before the urge to resume target practice reasserted itself, I have no idea. Heigh-ho. We can but try … !
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