St Martin to Virgin Islands

10th to 22nd April

Track to BVI

Not sure if I told you already but I’m now a member of two different boat-related clubs. This is pretty extraordinary for someone who is very much non-clubby. (Clubs for the most part seem contrary to the spirit of independence and self-reliance that are surely among the attractions of sailing. Clubs too can become exclusive, cliquey and self-important, even sinister or threatening to outsiders. They should I suppose be approached with caution.)

Whatever my opinion, I’m now a member of both the Cruising Association and the Ocean Cruising Club. Impulsive decisions perhaps, but I’ll give them a try. A good-natured fellow sailor (in fact more than one) persuaded me I was missing out by not joining; they’re a very good way of meeting fellow sailors and learning lots of useful stuff of course. And sure enough I have now met many experienced and knowledgeable sailor folk, and delightful people, through these groups. Furthermore I have two additional colourful burgees to flutter from aloft.

This is all by way of telling you that I’d been sailing northwards to attend a Cruising Association gathering in the British Virgin Islands (BVIs in local parlance). When, a month ago, I sent an email saying I’d like to be there, I had a reply to say I shouldn’t expect too much: last year only two boats turned up, and one of them was a day late. I thought this sounded like my sort of low profile club.

Anyway, after a long slow overnight sail from St Martin, I reached Virgin Gorda to find lots and lots of Cruising Association boats loosely gathered at the agreed anchorage. There followed an unprecedented few days of sociability. With at least six different nationalities, and I guess over 25 friendly sailors on about a dozen boats, with an age span of four or five decades, I’ve delighted in two delicious meals ashore, a party on the beach and final on-board gathering, at three different anchorages on three different islands, over about three or four days. We’ve now pretty much scattered to go our own ways; but for me, it’s always heartening to rediscover that I like people; I really do – I’m just a loner by circumstance not inclination, I suppose.

I’ve now moved from BVI to USVI. The stars and stripes courtesy flag is a bit small but it’s up there, dangling limp from the starboard spreader. I am surrounded with Americans of all shapes and sizes, but almost universally warm, friendly and approachable. (Americans want to be liked. For the most part, they seem likeable.)

What to make of the Virgin Islands? Well, I suppose unless you have visited them, they all look more-or-less the same. Like a herd of dairy cows, from a distance they appear roughly similar. But again like dairy cows, once you get close and look carefully and wander round them, they are very different from one another, each with its own identity and colour and idiosyncrasies.

So far, it’s St Croix in the USVI that seems the most idiosyncratic so I’ll tell you a bit about it. St Croix used to be Danish until the Americans bought it. It’s 40 miles south of the other Virgins and my pilot book says it’s the biggest Virgin, twice the size of ones you may have heard of like Tortola and St Thomas, which makes it nearly as big as the Isle of Wight. And it is surrounded by the largest island barrier reef system in the Caribbean, and thus has fantastic diving and snorkelling – and some challenging navigation. (Incidentally, they pronounce it St Croy (with American accent) not St Kwa (with French accent). “Christiansted”, the capital, is apparently “considered by many the most beautiful town in the Caribbean”; though that seems crazy to me. It’s not that amazing.

You may have known, but I didn’t, that the USVI are American Territory; in contrast the BVI are of course independent. I had even needed my US visa to visit. I like it here in St Croix because it’s quite empty, a bit artyfarty (St Ives crossed with Palm Beach), very friendly even by Caribbean standards, and it seems to cheerfully blend the USA with the island’s history. There are some really fine Danish colonial buildings: shaded colonnades and courtyards, pastel coloured half-timbered houses, open spaces. All now overlain with American efficiency, shopping malls and eating places and big cars…..though they drive on the left but keeping their left-hand drives.

For some reason there don’t seem to be any charter boats and the big catamarans that dash about elsewhere in the Virgins are absent. Instead, as I write this a horse has just swum past with its owner, snorting as it goes – we’re anchored at least 100 metres offshore. Horse swimming seems to be very popular here. Horses not catamarans!

Rambling on a bit again so I’ll stop…

NO! First I’ll tell you about the cockroaches. (Trouble with single-handed sailors is they don’t have people to talk to all the time, so some of us drivel on with the blog – and our personal diaries – quite a lot. Hence, you’re going to hear the start of the cockroach saga.)

Cockroaches. It started a few days ago when one came out of the bag with potatoes and miscellaneous vegetables. I reacted quickly I thought, grabbed spray and sprayed, slapped briskly, smacked wildly, lashed out with weapons at hand etc. But not quick enough for the little beastie, who disappeared, scurrying ever so fast into a cupboard. Next night I had Spanish friends aboard for a meal; and el cockroach was spotted again, lurking furtively by the sink. Quickly and with the combined energy of English and Spanish forces, the intruder was ruthlessly despatched and buried at sea (thrown overboard). European unity can deal with any problem.

Is that the end? Trouble is, I do not know the reproductive system of cockroaches. Might that dead one have needed a mate to give me baby cockroaches, in which case that may be the last chapter of the saga? Or, do cockroaches come preloaded with millions of fertile eggs, in which case Henrietta will be overrun, and I just await the patter of tiny excited insect feet? Meanwhile, a friend has advised a bait of boric acid and milk, so we’ll try it. Anyway, I don’t really know why I’m making such a fuss. These are tiny cockroaches, not a bit like the brontosauraroaches that used to invade Javanese bathrooms. I’m not a wimp; I just don’t want uninvited visitors.

That’s it for now. I’ll give an update if it’s needed.

Dominica to St Martin

25th March to 9th April

Life on board Henrietta has become busy, after a few slow weeks. It’s worn me out a bit so not much time to update you. The itinerary, south to north, has been Dominica, Les Saintes, Guadeloupe, Antigua, St Barth, and now, St Martin.

Summarising – Dominica: delightful, thanks to warm friendly people and wild unspoilt lush mountain scenery. It’s a poorer island still rebuilding after the havoc of last year’s storm (12 inches of rain in six hours had washed away roads, bridges, homes and more). Fellow sailors included three other singlehanders (and I’ve not so far met very many). One, a young and quiet ‘retired’ USAF man, ex Afghanistan, whom I asked, “Have you ever broken the sound barrier?” gently said “Yes, F15s do that. A few broken windows here and there”, and I felt I shouldn’t ask more questions. He volunteered that he liked the slower pace of his boat with minutes to react to hazards, not milliseconds; and also that Mr Trump was not his cup of tea. Another, a dignified Swiss gentleman, a retired lawyer singlehanding a vast yacht, speaker of numerous languages, tidily dressed and a good looking vegetarian was trying to find his girl Friday – fascinating stuff! My neighbours when I returned  after a day out were the Chandlers on Lynn Rival. With their unwanted celebrity status following Somali kidnapping I did not acknowledge recognising them, only noting that we’d both joined the Cruising Association. I could go on and on, but (a) this is meant to be a summary, and (b) you don’t really want a diary of everything I did and everyone I met. Suffice to say, I liked almost everything about Portsmouth (the main anchorage) and the island of Dominica. Indeed, it was so active with walking, touring and viewing and so sociable with colorful, generous, interesting fellow sailors that I sought solitary respite and moved on to Les Saintes, a few miles north.

Iles des Saintes includes Bourg des Saintes, which is a busy colourful thriving French town with anchorage, chic boutiques, quality restaurants and crowds of day-trippers. It also includes Ilet a Cabrit, a tiny island unoccupied except for happy healthy goats. It used to have a few forts to keep away the unruly and aggressive English, but now they’re just crumbled ruins covered in goat droppings (the forts, not the English)

Then, north again for a couple of windy days and nights swinging wildly in the popular Guadeloupe anchorage of Deshaie. (It was the fourth time I’d been there, but it’s convenient for customs clearance – an ever-present chore with entry/exit in all these new countries.)

On next to Antigua and the unexpected pleasure of meeting up again with crews of both ‘Tern’ and ‘Tudor Rose’. The former I first met in the Canaries, and they kindly have me aboard for rare treat of a truly exceptional veggie supper. The latter, not seen since Portugal, includes Simon and Holly and Scrumpy (their wonderful spirited Jack Russell); they’re refreshingly young, indomitable and enterprising – though plans a bit modified now Holly’s pregnant. Click here for a link to their blog.

Next stop, St Barth. (About 80 miles north of Antigua, it was further than I can sail in daylight, so crept out of Jolly Harbour, Antigua in middle of night so as to arrive at St Barth in daylight.) To suggest, as does one of the tourist brochures, that St Barth may be”…hip and sophisticated or…discreet and laid back” seems to miss the main point. I reckon it’s just plain super-rich. It oozes wealth and quality, pure platinum. There’s a yacht size limit in the harbour of 60 metres and that keeps out the vulgar giga zillionaires – who might be Russian I suppose. Anyway, St Barth makes St Tropez look shabby. And if you’re one of those people who think labels matter, this is for you. Personally, I only wanted coffee, a baguette and a new pair of swimming trunks. And sure enough, I enjoyed my coffee and then saw a lovely pair of trunks, azure blue and patterned with many colourful fish, I asked, “Combien pour ces pantalon?” (which is schoolboy French, I know), “185 euro, Monsieur”. At which point I smiled and must have looked weak and pale, as Madam added in English “ah! but they are very fine,.Monsieur”. I’ll wait for Marks and Spencer’s, I think.

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St Barth has that delicious peaceful hush about it that comes with great wealth. I think it’s because very rich people get others to do the shouting for them. It would be undignified for billionaires to raise their voices.

St Barth also has a lot of ‘bespoke’ places that can do ‘bespoke’ things for you – if you are rich enough, that is.

Trouble is, I’ve always had a problem with ‘bespoke’. It reminds me of a childhood spent living next to a big housing estate where a young lout named John B. used to live. He and his gang of fellow louts used to follow me on their bicycles as I cycled down Victoria Road, Wargrave. They’d then overtake, shout insults and hurl sticks and things into the wheels of my bike, trying thus to ‘despoke’ me. And in my mind, ‘despoke’ and ‘bespoke’ have forever been intertwined.

You, of course, may choose ‘bespoke’ because you have a big wallet and impeccable good taste. To me on the other hand, you may simply be yob, slob or snob.

And now, after an overnight stop at the uninhabited little island, Ile Fourchue, I’m in St Martin, near the top of this chain of islands. St Martin is part French and part Dutch (St Maarten). I’m anchored in the French bit (better bread) but was advised to go to the Dutch bit for a haircut (better/cheaper haircuts). Therefore caught bus to Philipsburg, found very much a back-street barber….very friendly and with three foot dreadlocks that he’d taken 14 years to grow. He was from Dominican Republic and spoke lots of Spanish, little English, no French. I speak no Spanish. Upshot was I’ve now got virtually no hair: most vigorous haircut of my life. (No photo to follow.)

My father’s birthday

Today is 9th April, my father’s birthday. He’d have been 100 today, but he died more than 42 years ago, when he was only 57.

I think of him often as I sail around as I know how much he’d have loved some of these adventures. He never had my good fortune though. For a start he was born in 1916 when his father (my grandfather) was in the First World War trenches. When my grandfather received a telegram telling him of the new arrival, his fellow officers said it was a shame he’d not see the new baby son – casualties were so high at the time – though in fact my grandfather did survive – until he was 96.

And then, my father grew up through the 1920s and 30s with the traditions, conventions and constraints of the British middle classes at the time; hence he was almost bound to enter the army. That’s what men like him were expected to do. There weren’t the many choices open to my generation. Not that he disliked army life; he probably enjoyed much of it. After all, it gave him wonderful opportunities for cricket and hockey, both of which he played very well. It’s just that I think he was at heart a pacifist. He was fully involved with the British Legion after he retired from the army, so he believed in that; and I know he was always solicitous of his men’s well-being; and he kept many friends from his army days. In those days too, before, during and after the Second World War, you did travel the world, (I know for example that I was conceived in Pakistan, borne in Singapore, and lived I think in Germany, Egypt and London – all before I was five).

But army life can’t have suited him very well as, apart from his peace-loving nature, he was never keen on senseless obedience and unchallenged conformity and, after attending a War Office colonel’s tea party in the early 1950s, he impulsively announced he’d leave as soon as he could; “….otherwise” he told my mother, “we’ll become like them” (N.B. I like to think the modern army has done away with the ritual aloofness that he’d so disliked). He and my mother were, I’m sure, devoted to one another and had been married in 1945; she accepted without question his decision to leave the army.

Unqualified for civilian life, but using his knowledge and interest in sport, he tried work as a sales rep for Slazenger or Dunlop, before acknowledging he couldn’t sell anything. ‘Sales’ was clearly a dead-end for someone with his qualities of honest generosity and openness. Instead he became a driving examiner, commuting for many years on his little Lambretta motor scooter into Reading. It must have been soul-destroying work, but for five and half days a week, he persevered year after year with patient good humour.

At that time, we were all introduced to the idea of owning and sailing boats. An early heart attack meant my father was advised to give up cricket. He took up sailing, instead – I believe it was deemed less stressful. We had a little all-purpose dinghy, Henrietta II, that we used on the River Thames, or trailed down for holidays in Chichester Harbour or Lyme Regis. Just imagine: five of us, plus dog, tent and camping gear in a 13ft dinghy, with temperamental Seagull outboard and inefficient gunter rigged sail, for weekends in a tent on some sand dunes at East Head, Chichester (National Trust own it now and camping’s not allowed.)

Eventually my father stopped being a driving examiner; and we moved to the South Coast (after a brief and dismal year near Bedford); where he started a driving school. We had a mooring on the river at Lymington in Hampshire (home for our 17ft Silhouette, “Henrietta III”). Then, a few years later, I’m sure with a happier and more comfortable life than ever, he died. I was a 23 year old engineer in Africa at the time and never knew until long after the funeral was over.

I’ve always felt sorry that I knew him so little. Partly that’s because, as a typically self-absorbed teenager I was insensitive to the qualities and needs of parents, but also because he was by nature a quiet and modest man, and didn’t talk much of his childhood or early adulthood; he wouldn’t have wanted to bore you with his own thoughts and concerns. I think too he was essentially shy, unambitious, and reserved. He never wanted to make a fuss or boast about anything.

Whatever his abilities and limitations, when I think of my father now, I know two things for certain. I inherited his joy of sailing; and I’ve been a million times luckier than him in being able to indulge my passion. (He would never have dreamed that one day, one of his sons might have a yacht like the current ‘Henrietta’. I’d never have dreamed it either.)

Martinique to Dominica

16th to 24th March

(Only writing this update because it’s pouring with cats-and-dogs type tropical rain. Being a bit whimpy, I’ve decided to stay aboard and not wander the mountains of Dominica.)

First just look at this photo:

It is the most amazing little bug, a fabulous tiny bit of beatle nature – even if the photo is not too good. Why amazing? Because it has a flashing light on its bottom. It really does. A bright and insistent little beacon on its bum! I was sitting peacefully in the cockpit the other night, sipping rum and admiring the stars and watching peaceful boats rocking on their moorings, when suddenly I spotted a little flashing light right in front of me. I blinked and blinked again, thinking I might have overdone the rum….. then realised it was some sort of lightning bug (they’re not that unusual!). Took this photo.

Leaving science aside, it is exciting beyond words to come across such gems of nature when they’re not expected. To meet a turtle in the sea in a popular turtle-watching spot is one thing, but it’s so much more marvellous when you come across one unexpectedly, in a place where they’re not talked of – as happened off St Pierre a few days ago, where one lingered swimming with me for ages – magic moments!

Thinking of lights, I want to tell you about a cruise ship which passed the other night, when I was sailing from Trinidad towards Martinique. (Cruise ships are forever scurrying back and forth overnight, ensuring their passengers reach the next Caribbean port-of-call around breakfast time.) This particular one, “Celebrity Summit”, on its way to Barbados, about two o’clock in the morning, was going to pass a mile or so away and I’d not have been concerned except it seemed to be flashing search lights at the sea and sky (and me). I called them on the radio to ask if there was a problem….”No problem, sir; they are having a party.” I gather it was a laser light display, stabbing bright coloured beams into the sky and everywhere else, presumably while night-owl passengers bopped away on the outside top deck. It does add variety to the night watch to have such incidents. But Nelson would have turned in his grave.

Days pass quickly. I’ve enjoyed Martinique and can’t think where the time went. It’s been good, as ever, to meet new sailing folk on the way, especially, at last, the crew of Baloo, another yacht from SW England. (I guess four out of every five British boats are from Devon or Cornwall. No wonder those counties are so sparsely populated. Everyone’s away on a boat.)…it’s still pouring with rain…..

Here are some pictures of local sailing racing off Fort de France (Martinique’s capital). It’s clearly a dramatic business with crew leaping in and out on loglike ‘sliding’ seats, frequent capsizes etc. We had our hearts in our mouths as they raced through our anchorage.

Just as the unexpected gems of the natural world are the most exciting, so too the gems of the man-made world. Anyway, the little new town of St Pierre on Martinique was, for me, a bit special and exciting. It’s the rebuilt town, now quite small, that replaces the ‘Paris of the Caribbean’ town, pop. 30,000, which was incinerated in a volcanic fireball in 1902, killing almost everyone and sinking the ships at anchor offshore. (A tiny museum recounts the event with a series of appalling photos). St Pierre nowadays has a charming sea frontage where luxuriant jungle foliage blends with higgledy-piggledy buildings bordering a dark grey sandy beach. There’s an appealing mix of French chic and Caribbean shabby. It was there I met my friendly turtle. And also spoilt myself with fine 15 euro plat du jour in a little restaurant (tablecloth and two wine glasses each). The couple who owned and ran it had met here and have settled. He cooked like a Michelin chef; she waited with friendly charm and the husky French accent of the inveterate smoker.

From St Pierre, it was about 50 miles north here to Portsmouth, Dominica – another day, another country, another new courtesy flag. I arrived a couple of days ago, did the Indian River trip yesterday – a standard tourist outing, but very worthwhile and enriched for me more by the French couple who were with me and our guide, ‘James Bond’ (more to do with his girl reputation rather than daring-do), than by the knowledge that Johnny Depp and Keira Knightly were here too (filming one or other of the Pirates of the Caribbean films). Here are some photos.

I’ll cut this short as the rain has stopped and I’ll head off and go to be a tourist .

Trinidad to Martinique

1st to 15th March

At last I have a visa to visit the United States of America. What a palaver! It took 11 days from submission of application to interview, then another eight days to get passport back (info. just in case you’re a ‘yottie’ who might want to know how long it takes. Allow at least three weeks, despite what the website says.)  The ‘Interview’, which was in a large open plan office on a sidestreet in Port of Spain, took a bit more than 30 seconds. It went like this: Immigration officer (a bright neat courteous young American behind a glass screen) says, “Good day and how are you today, sir?”; (I dislike being called ‘Sir’ but don’t say so). I say, “Fine thank you”; he says “..and what are your plans when you visit the States?”; me (vaguely), “Oh, I plan to sail up the East Coast “; …”OK, your visa is approved.” That’s it! No searching questions, nothing. I try to plea for speed with actually issuing the visa, because US is meanwhile keeping my passport and I’m a bit stuck without it. I cannot believe it’ll take another week……but noone questions Homeland Security. I waste my breath.

‘Anyway, I enjoyed most of my spell in Trinidad, the longest stop by far since Devon last July. “Henrietta” had a week ashore in Power Boats huge boatyard, and almost every single item on a lengthy “things to do” list was done, giving a rarely experienced – but short-lived – feeling of satisfaction. The yard was a friendly sort of place with that happy boatyard atmosphere you find all over the world (at least the bits of world I’ve seen). Various skills and lots of amateurs muddle along helping one another fix their loved and cursed vessels; polishing, hammering, grinding, paint and varnish and resin, chatter, mutter and curse…and sometimes the roar of the powerful hoist raising another boat from the water. It’ll be really busy in a couple of months I’m told, when many come out of the water for hurricane season, but quite tame whilst I was there.

You’d need to spend years in Trinidad to appreciate the island’s diversity and beauty, its raw green scenery, the vivid colours and characters. When not elbow-deep in boat chores, I chatted to many fellow sailors, predominantly long or short-term liveaboards (1 – 30 years or more), or holiday liveaboards, who come mainly from Europe or North America for the winter.

‘Liveaboards’ present a very broad church. (Incidently, the opposite of the liveaboard is the ‘dirt-dweller’. That’s you, and the six billion or so normal human beings who live on land!). Liveaboards come in many shapes and sizes and it would be silly to talk of the typical liveaboard. Generally speaking they are helpful, self-sufficient, self-reliant and ‘interesting’. By ‘interesting’ I mean there’s often the hint of a dark or overcolourful past, or unconventional background. The ‘interest’ I find is as much in what’s not said as in what you’re told. I sense that Somerset Maugham would have had a field day. There must be a wealth of black sheep, happy sheep, mischievous sheep among the floating community, that he’d have unearthed and brought to life.

…….rambling on a bit now…so back to life in Trinidad…. I learnt to play Mexican Dominoes (Trinidad variant) whilst there. It’s apparently ‘sweeping the world’ but had passed me by till now. It’s played with dominoes like the ones you know, except numbers up to 12 not six. It has heaps of ‘rules’ that are simple enough but need more concentration than I usually find on a Sunday afternoon. Fun all the same. (Sorry I forgot to take a photo.)  Otherwise I went out and about and sweated a lot on some hilly walks (it’s over 30 deg C) …..till getting lost one day, I frightened myself and realised I should have a guide before any more impulsive hilly walks.  Then there were early Saturday morning ‘market’ trips to Port of Spain fish/veg/meat market – always rewarding and educational …and supply fresh stuff for the week. (More photos somewhere)

Finally excitement …last Friday my passport was returned from US Consulate; so I quickly checked out with immigration and customs, and left early Saturday, sailing just over 200 miles to here, Martinique. (For geography buffs, Martinique is a Windward Isle, and when you sail north for two days and nights, very close-hauled all the way into bumpy waves and northerly swell, you appreciate the origin of the name ‘Windward’), but…. I was really glad to be away from Trinidad. I’d had enough. Henrietta had had enough too. The oily, murky, rubbish-laden waters of the anchorage in Chaguaramas were foul and deterred me from swimming more than once; and left an oily skummy line on Henrietta’s pristine hull. Electrical SSB stuff was not properly fixed on Henrietta (despite the bills). Finally, unhelpful customs officials seemed hell-bent on extracting ‘overtime’ payments (even when in their offices within office hours). My grumpy-old-man gripes left an unpleasant taste, so it was delightful and a real joy to be at sea once more.

Martinique is a fine French antidote. Tidy streets, colourful fashion shops, and of course a baguette and some Bordeaux plonk! (For sailor folk, customs/immigration stuff here cost two euros, not the 253 TT dollars extorted in Trinidad!). I’ll stay a few days before slowly heading further north.

Finally, this from a concerned American friend: “Americans think there’s an election coming up. The rest of the world thinks it’s an IQ test. And America’s not looking too bright!”

Trinidad

22nd to 29th February

Track Antigua to Trinidad

The last post said I’d go north. I’ve come south. Why? (Apart from this being “…The unreliable journal of a sailing boat…”)
Ah well, the reason ‘why’ could become a fairly long story,but, briefly, the fact is that after hours of failed attempts to submit an online US Visa Application, stubborn perseverence paid off and I finally succeeded. (Magic trick was to submit a passport type photo from my camera, not the iphone ‘selfie’ that I’d started off with [US Homeland Security clearly rejects the iphone ‘selfie’]….better method: rig up Henrietta’s saloon as photo studio, subdue lighting, white bed sheet for portrait backdrop; set off camera shutter with 10 second timer; dash round saloon table; sit and smile…oops, DON’T smile…this is a USA visa photo…) Edit photo…Find wifi hotspot. Try submitting again. Done! It worked; success!
….Alas! that’s just the first stage. Payment, interview, approval (or not) comes next. Furthermore, I was in Grenada at photo shoot stage, where none of the next stages were possible. In East Caribbean, if you want a US visa, there’s the choice of Barbados or Trinidad for next bits, ie. to pay the fee and attend interview. Futher hurdles to jump: Barbados was about 130 miles east and straight into wind, waves and current; Trinidad about 80 miles south, more favourable winds but with recent yacht bordings by Venezuelan robbers a concern. (I researched this robber trouble a bit and find all will be ok if I send ‘float plan’ to Trinidad Coastguard, choose a course well east and away from Venezuela and choose a fairly rough windy night – pirate types apparently don’t like choppy seas.) In a bit of a rush then, and as forecast was promising, I quickly exited Grenada customs/immigration, sent email to Trinidad coastguard, upped anchor and was off….delightful overnight sail, albeit a hard beat for the first 40 miles or so, out and round a brightly lit gas field…..(I always feel a thrill heading off-shore, out into the open wave-swept spaces and away from the workaday bothersomeness of life on land). As promised and before dawn, Trinidad Coastguard called me on VHF – checking all ok.
A few hours later on a clear bright morning, Tobago-Trinidad high speed ferry growled/roared past (memories of the Condor craft entering Poole Harbour – you hear them from miles away!).. … we head on and arrive at Chaguaramas, in the north of Trinidad. It’s the yachting mecca of Trinidad, if not the Caribbean – at least for maintenance work. Being far enough south to be out of main hurricane belt it’s a popular place for fixing, storing, and living on boats while hurricanes threaten more northerly islands. (Not sure how long this historic popularity will last given more competition from Grenada, plus some strange unfriendly immigration folk, and appalling arrival dock, and higher prices! But for now there are around a thousand spaces on land and every conceivable yacht skill on offer.)

Henrietta is out of the water, as, waiting for local US Embassy interview, I’ll work on her. On land in a giant boat yard I have a waterside spot . There’s a medium length list of chores and checks before relaunching, including anti-fouling, anodes, radio, rigging, solar panels, deck, ………… Oh! The 16 year old and heavily stained and beholed genoa finally had to go (delaminating) and a pristine new white one is up at last. We’d brought it all the way from England.

With time ashore to meet people and see more (and despite my negative views of immigration service), I come
to like Trinidad more and more. Totally different from other Caribbean islands (did you know it is relatively wealthy with oil/gas, half population is of Indian extraction, around one and a half million people live here, and the local English comes with a pronounced Welsh accent?) It has a high murder rate too -per capita, I’m told, more than Jamaica – but not a problem if troubled gangland spots in Port of Spain, the capital, are avoided. There are many boats and yachtie folk in the yard and anchored off, so social life is as full as you like. Most of us work on boats much of the day or take trips to Trinidad’s interior (more about that another time). It’s not really a touristy sort of place though; there seems a more businesslike and serious-minded approach to life. (The Carnival, earlier in February, with its liberal dose of music, sensuality and all-round hedonism, being an exception to the general way of life.)

Ashore in Trinidad

Port-of-Spain is a traffic-plagued, overheated and bustling city, with gems of Colonial architecture and an occasional cruise ship, and good shops and exceptional market. I’ve visited twice so far. Traffic congestion thankfully keeps mini-buses (locally called ‘maxi-taxis’) to a less terrifying pace than elsewhere in the Caribbean!

St Lucia to Grenada
11th February to 21st February

(With Henrietta having given up writing for the time being and my son, Johnny back in London, I’ll have to scribble this myself.)
What to say?….After more than a month with crew, plus too many hot sunny days (plus some rum and beer), it’s all been a bit of a blur. I guess we’ve visited a dozen or so islands. But, like a cruise ship passenger who sees a new port each day and finds it hard to distinguish between one duty free ‘bargain’ and the next, or between one sweaty market-place and the next, I’ve ceased to appreciate clearly the distinction between one rather busy anchorage and the next, between one shimmering beach and another, between one terrifying mini-bus journey and another. (On the subject of mini-buses, it always troubles me to see windsreen labels like, “In God We Trust” when it isn’t actually God who’s doing the driving! Does everyone change gear only when engine screams and the tachometer is well into the red?)

(Not having absorbed as much Caribbean as I might have liked, I’ll digress: I’d say that one of the merits of travelling alone is that you observe, note and think more than when in company. And you make more effort to meet and talk to others. It’s often harder and occasionally lonesome to be single-handed, but there are many compensations and it can be rewarding. And to avoid further doubt, I’ll add that I have greatly enjoyed the company of my crew mates and family, and stress that sailing with a compatible lover is any man’s dream – of course!)

Back to the story…The Windward Islands stretch south from the Leeward Islands and cover about 200 miles. Big ones include St Lucia, St Vincent and here, Grenada (and Martinique, which is part of France). Smaller ones include Mustique, Carriacou, Union Island and Bequia; and there are lots more much smaller than them. My temperament is better suited to the less developed, gentler and emptier places. Going north from here in a few days (which is my current plan), I’ll spend much more time in Carriacou and the Grenadines. (I’m cross with myself for not taking more note of what has happened … turtles; mooring buoy that drifted off just before bedtime with us on it; generous help restocking from Johnny and Adrian; first shower since before Christmas; re-meeting friends last seen in Canaries and Cape Verde; sweaty rambles up a few hills; et al)
Overall, I have to ask the unthinkable question, “Is sailing in the Caribbean grossly overrated?”. Or, is it just the case that we hear and read so much about how wonderful it is, expectations are driven sky high (fuelled too by the hyperbole of Lonely Planet, Doyle and others). We are bound to be somewhat underwhelmed with the reality when we arrive? Perhaps I’ve just experienced the Caribbean equivalent of St Mark’s Square in Venice (impressive ok but also a touristy tacky rip-off), I need to wander more in the Caribbean equivalent of Venice’s charming back alleyways. For now, I’ll say that the winds and weather are generally magical (where else will you sail clear blue waters, on endless close and broad reaches, in hot sunshine?), but the islands are expensive, there are ‘security concerns’ that mean locking up your boat and bits, and many anchorages are far too busy. There is hassle too, which can quickly dampen my enthusiasm. All this is of course countered by the laid-back friendliness (bordering on careless indifference) of most good-natured folk.
I shan’t go on with these initial views of these tropical isles. The balance pans have not yet settled. I need to head north slowly reviewing the initial blur.

Plans? A month ago, I considered Panama, Pacific etc. A week ago it was USA. Now, I think Azores and Europe. Neither Henrietta nor I are ready for prolonged spell away from Europe; we both need treatments of one sort or another…and I’d like a vote on 23rd June. The US visa application process (ie. my inability to complete online application form and reluctance to sail to Barbados or Trinidad for interview, plus luke-warm feelings about a nation that takes Mr Trump seriously) deters me (N.B. if you might sail to USA, do get a visa before leaving home!) For one year, I think this Atlantic round-trip will be a good start and taster of an open floating future.

Antigua to St Lucia

27th January to 10th February

(by Johnny, unedited by his father – who thinks this post may show lots of imagination, and is happily unfettered by too many facts)

M (Dad) has kindly/lazily invited me to pen his next blog post. So… to the delight of my lungs, I had finally organised two weeks of escape from the grey particulate rich atmosphere of dreary London and had decided to have a couple of weeks onboard Henrietta. My flight out to Antigua was full of heady anticipation and a little trepidation as I’m a nervous flyer. I aussaged my terror with as many complimentary tiny wines as I could get my little hands on and found myself spending a pleasantly tipsy hour and a half queuing through immigration. I managed not to accidentally tick the ‘Yes’ box on the declaration asking if I had any ammunition or illegal drugs on me: a tip for any aspiring drug or arms smugglers (doutless the wiley people at Antigua’s Customs office catch hundereds of villains a year using this foolproof method of inquiry). I was united with Dad and Anna and we got a taxi back to the boat.

Now most of my knowledge of the Caribbean comes from ‘The Pirates of the Caribbean’ franchise and poorly recollected memories of watching ‘Roots’ for Year 9 history lessons. Thusly I imagined a great sweeping archipelago of small idyllic islands inhabited by primitive but peaceful tribes slowly being exterminated through susceptibility to Western disease. I imagined great tall masted ships riding the trade winds, full of drunk people many of whom didn’t want to be there. Diverse and richly historied towns with names like Tortuga and English Harbour, where you could find every petty crook and criminal this side of Saigon. Sailors carrying guns to fend off pirates, navy types using words like ‘tosh’ to describe things like nonsense and of course lots and lots of rum. It was exactly as I had imagined.
The first of the so called leeward islands in my short tour was Antigua. It takes its name from the word ‘antique’ meaning ‘someone else’s old crap that you were gullible enough to buy’. Don’t be put off by the name, it’s actually alright, though like many developing economies it seems like a lot of people have been left out. Next to the relative affluence of the marina at Jolly Harbour, with its luxury yachts and well-heeled leisure class, the austerity of the surrounding villages is abrupt. It seems the Antiguan government has chosen to focus on attracting a smaller number of the exceptionally wealthy rather than the mere holidaying middleclasses. As such, there are almost no high-rise pack-em-in apartment complexes, but plenty of rustic looking thatched beachfront huts that can be yours for a mere $2000 US a night.

We began my stay with a sail out to ‘Great Bird Island’ about two miles off the coast of the Antiguan mainland. It’s totally uninhabited save for a mother and daughter who arrive each morning to sell fruit and beer to the occasional visitors. I am intrigued by how places get their names, but I also can’t really be bothered to find out. This leaves me with only pure fabrication to satiate my thirst for answers. I imagine Great Bird Island gets its name because it was once home to vast numbers of birds, millions I would suspect. Now however the name seems a little insincere. ‘Some Birds Occasionally Island’ would lack the draw for tourists though. We do spot a few birds, Frigatebirds, tropicbirds, a seahawk skims by briefly and a friendly turtle pops up for breath. According to a sign on the beach the BBC sponsors the island. It’s good to see our colonial influence is still strong. We hike up onto the whale-spine back of the island, facing out east across 3000 miles or so of unbroken Atlantic ocean and feeling the strength of the trade winds. I watch a Frigatebird balanced perfectly on the updraft where the wind hits the cliff. I watch it playing the air like a skilled pianist and I think a bit about evolution and how amazing it is and then I see that someone has dumped a load of old beer cans and taken a crap and I feel a bit sad.
We get a bit hemmed in at Bird Island due to the weather; entering and exiting the area requires navigating between dozens of coral reefs and atolls. With most of the chart data having been surveyed well over a hundered years ago using lead weighted lines by men with names like Forester and Barnaby who probably had scurvy, it becomes critically important to be able to see into the water. After a couple of false starts and an extra night there, we finally exit and head on to Falmouth Harbour.
Entering Falmouth Harbour we cut across some sort of mega-yacht race. 120 foot long pleasure palaces sizzle past. Crewed by dozens of smartly uniformed young shiny people scurrying about raising sails and pulling halliards by day and raising champagne and pulling each other by night. Falmouth Harbour is the first port of call for many boats coming from Europe and seems to attract the most outrageously ostentatious yachts in the world. These are the kinds of yachts that have smaller yachts inside and room for helicopters to land and have sauna rooms and swimming pools and gyms inside. Their owners, inbetween the hard work of gagging down pound upon pound of air freighted fresh caviar flown in by private jet, like to go diamond shopping and invent and then participate in sports that get them ‘back in touch with nature’. Examples include paddling around on long boards like Hawaiean fishermen and using water powered jet packs so they can feel like Bond villains. In short they’ve managed to design lifestyles that cannot be satirized because they’re just too absurd already.

It’s to the point where if you found out some of the local volcanoes had been hollowed out to make room for a super laser so they could evaporate the moon to celebrate one of their childrens ‘sweet-sixteens’ your brain would probably just go ‘yeah, that sounds about right’.
I’m being a bit unfair, undoubtedly the leisured classes create jobs and return much of their wealth to the economies of places. Without them we couldn’t have jobs like ‘dog massage therapist’ or ‘food-wine matcher’ or people who pretend to be celebrities at parties. And what would we do with all the vol-aux-vins?

At this point you’re probably thinking I’m a bit down on the Caribbean, and in some respects you’re right. Fortunately the next port of call is Guadeloupe. Guadeloupe has remained a part of France and it seems to have had a significant impact. Independence sounds like a lovely romantic idea- relinquishing the shackles of imperialism and so forth, but the reality seems to be more complex. Without a doubt Guadeloupe has benefitted enormously from remaining a French department. We land in Deshaies on the north west of the island and are immediately struck by how civilised everything seems. The great municipal charm of France is alive and well- Boule courts and a public library, a clean little school, a relative absence of obvious christianity and even a Spar! There is Heineken and proper cheese and the old women have that shrivelled walnutty sort of beauty that comes from an elegant refusal to relinquish their youth and get fat. The postcards have plenty of nudity but it’s in a sort of rennaisance-sideboob tasteful way. They drive on the right and smoke like it’s going out of fashion (which it is). There seems to be far less of the extreme wealth divide of Antigua and you could well be in a little town in Southern France.
On the second day, I visit the amazing Jardin Boutanique a twenty minute walk up a nearby hill. Speaking no french I quickly realise I have failed to note the correct direction to walk around the gardens, but press on inspite. Vive le contraflow! There are preserved an amazing array of flora and fauna from throughout the tropics. From enormous cacti and the almost artificial looking travellers palm with its perfectly symmetrical fronds to several species of hummingbird that zip around precisely on their nectar vectors. There is a small aviary where you can watch people feeding Parakeets and getting shat on. They provide you with an I-pad that gives you a virtual tour, but I accidentally hibernate mine, try a few different pin numbers and get locked out. I spend much of my time sitting and watching people; young lovers pretending to have an interest in botany and old lovers pretending to still have an interest in each other. A coach load of wrinklies appears and off they totter. Everyone has to have a picture under the boughs of a magnificent Banyan tree that looks out across the bay and I have a think about how many hundereds of thousands of the same photo there are. A different smiling face under the gentle shadow of that big old celebritree. I get that funny warm feeling about how we’re all just swanning about doing a bunch of stuff until we die. Which is nice.

To be honest the best part of this trip for me has been the chance to just spend time with my Dad, we don’t see much of each other these days, but I think we get on better than ever. No pressure to talk but the conversation spins out into the evenings easily enough. During the days there’s a quiet uncluttered sort of busyness. Constant checks, little repairs here and there, returning things to their place. Making ready to sail, not to mention the sailing itself. There are the little dramas that add some spice- a snarled anchor or a moderate gale. Little puzzles to be solved and a general sort of confidence that comes from being self reliant. I think he’s really onto something with this trip. Once you realise you just can’t even begin to visit everywhere in a human life, you become more peaceful about the whole thing and let go of always wanting to be somewhere else.

(Johnny left from St Lucia yesterday, Anna having left a week earlier. With time running out before his flight home, we’d had a 24-hour sail south from Les Saintes – an invigourating/tiring trip with winds between islands of over 30 knots, and all over the place downwind of Dominica and Martinique. I’m in Rodney Bay marina, my first marina this side of the Atlantic – first shower too – but such places need a bigger budget than mine – and different temperament too, so once Adrian arrives later today, we’ll be off.)

Antigua, Guadeloupe, Iles des Saintes
6th January to 26th January

Anchored near some of the world’s grandest mega-yachts in English Harbour, Antigua (early January), I felt a bit out of my league. So I moved round to Falmouth Harbour. Alas! There seemed to be even more and even grander mega-yachts there, but many normal yachts too.
I’ve met some lovely folk on normal yachts. Indeed even the crew I’ve met from said mega-yachts have been delightful: mostly young, highly competent, hard-working, friendly and, of course beautiful – exceedingly beautiful. (Incidentally I gather you can charter some of these yachts from around 150,000 dollars a week – though Paul Getty’s isn’t for rent).

The picture above, which features in many tourist brochures, shows English and Falmouth Harbours. We’ve walked up to Shirley Heights a couple of times; it’s where you take the photo from and there’s a stream of cruise ship passengers who visit to take the same shot.

Before Anna arrived I was invited to a couple of gatherings of the Royal Naval Tot Club. This may sound like a joke. It isn’t. The club was apparently started by a couple of ex Royal Navy seamen when the Navy’s rum tots were stopped. Every evening its members meet. There’s a tot of rum and toast to the Queen as well as a different daily toast for other worthy causes (including the traditional “To wives and sweet hearts….may they never meet!”), plus reading from naval history from duty ‘rum bosun’. Seems to be a charming blend of traditional charitable virtue and harmless sociable fun, and though by inclination I am rather anti-establishment, I found this gathering of sailors and interest to be delightful. I am grateful to the welcoming Cornish couple who took me along. Click here for a bit more about the club.

After a week on Antigua and with Anna aboard, we sailed 45 miles south to the island of Guadeloupe . It’s a wonderful island: from a distance, just high mountains cloaked in green trees; once ashore, a well organised French department in the tropics, complete with boulangerie, Bordeaux wine and the euro…and about 300,000 French citizens. From Guadeloupe on south to Les Saintes and its delightful anchorage at Pain de Sucre. Then, a few days ago, back north to Antigua.

Highlights for us? Lots and lots:
– swimming/snorkelling anywhere, in clear and turquoise sea (at least till sea stirred up by current high winds/swell);
– coral (finger, staghorn, common brain and sea fan), fish and green turtles (Johnny has kindly brought out a book so we’ll learn more)
– birds (we knew the frigate, pelican, green heron, humming birds but, with book, will learn more)
– bus trips (St John’s and Pointe a Pitre) and walking ashore (Doyle’s guide led us on an especially taxing riverbed boulder walk  – “…readers have complained this hike is difficult…”(but not us!) at Deshaies. Doyle being the favoured local sailor’s guide to these islands, is best taken diluted with a good pinch of sceptical salt, we find)
– meeting delightful and knowledgable fellow sailors
– markets, music, other nationalites, unusual food….
Now, with Anna and Johnny aboard, we swing at anchor 150 metres off a very smart beach resort which has such good wi-fi that I can quickly update the blog.

Atlantic Crossing
21st December to 5th January 2016

We’ve arrived at English Harbour, Antigua and I’m anchored next to mangroves in Tank Bay near Nelson’s Dockyard. There’a host of fabulous, exquisite and shining mega-yachts up the road.

Since leaving Mindelo in Cape Verde, it’s been me, Henrietta, doing the real work – that’s over 2,100 miles of rolling ocean. Seems to me, M has been doing a lot of sitting about contemplating the nature of the universe, reading books, singing, day-dreaming or peeling onions, or whatever humans do when they don’t have a proper job. In fact this will be the last blog post I’ll write myself, at least for a while, as I’ve decided M can write it himself from here on. He needs something constructive to do.

First though, and before I sign off, I’ll tell you about crossing the Atlantic. (Don’t you dare call it “The Pond” ever again. It’s a very long way and it’s not clever to call ‘Oceans’ ‘Ponds’ – just silly. Even in an aeroplane, it’s hardly a ‘Pond’). For me, if you want to know, it was 2,116 rolling miles in 15 days and 4 hours. My engine was on for two hours – mainly while M faffed about trying to find a place to anchor when we got here.
Most of the time, I have sailed downwind on a beautiful bustling blue sparkling sea. That’s how M would see it anyway. But for me, without a human’s appreciation of the finer artistic points and emotional nature of sailing, I should say I have rolled and lurched and twisted my way along with a rather awkward two or three metre swell up my backside most of the time, and with salty spray and baking hot sun on my deck by day – as well as flying fish that come aboard, crash landing on my deck at night. The wind has been fairly steady astern or on my starboard quarter, around 20 knots – just an occasional 30-35 knot squall to keep me from complacency. People call this the Northeast Trades, even though it’s been from the east most of the time. Ever since people have sailed across the Atlantic, they’ve rolled along this same road. It’s quite inspiring to think of the great sailors, explorers and ships that have followed this route through past centuries; and give a thought too to the horrors of slave ships that came the same way.

For the first three days I only wore my genoa and a scrap of mainsail, managing around 6 knots. For Christmas Day, it was calmer; then good breeze again all the way. It’s been unfailingly sunny by day and moonlit for much of the night. At dawn, there are dead flying fish scattered on my deck – at least there were in the first week – and one of M’s first jobs is clearing them before they get stinky. (One got stuck in a drain and wasn’t spotted till pretty poofy a few days later!) It does of course test a boat to be forever sailing; my bits chafe and wear and creak and squeak. Ropes and wires have to be checked; shackles watched; course forever noted and Hydrovane tweaked; sails trimmed, added, reefed, furled or dropped. We haven’t seen many other boats. In fact, apart from the first and last days, near land, we saw only one fishing boat and one tanker the whole way (there’s a picture somewhere). There’s not a lot of peace though; and Henrietta is one boat that did not have a Christmas or New Year holiday! (Mind you, it’s a lot better than freezing my bilges off in a Devon boatyard I suppose.)

And, as M will testify, I have performed perfectly: nothing has broken, been damaged or lost, and I’m as beautiful as ever (just need to get some of this salt off.) M has I think enjoyed himself, but I never quite know what he thinks. Humans are so contradictory. He seems to find it easier to deal with me than some human beings (which is pretty troublesome if you happen to be human). I think other humans love their dogs and pets for the same reason. Us boats and animals respond happily when we’re treated well and appreciated. Human beings need to sort themselves out.
M can add a few comments now, and, as I’ve said, he can write this blog himself from now on – I’m going to rest at anchor for a day or two…..
Despite Henrietta’s suggestion that I’ve just been sitting about doing next to nothing, I assure you I have been busy and am now pretty tired. The days’ chores are endless and, with never more than an hour or two of sleep, you become a bit frazzled and sore-eyed. (I cannot imagine how those professional sailors manage when they race round the world alone for months on end.) Those Atlantic rowers, I told you about, are coming to this same place too, but I think they still have three or four or more weeks rowing ahead of them. What a way to spend the winter!
The 15 days have passed extraordinarily quickly. What do I do? A typical day? (I’m interested in this myself since I find it hard to account for the time! It’s gone so fast.): at dawn, check boat and gear, clear fish on deck, pot of tea, wash self, do log book…through the day…learn a bit more of hf radio, chartplotter, sextant (sensible sailors know all this stuff before they leave!)…frequently adjust sail trim/change sails/course/Hydrovane….check for rotten stores, clean cabin, decide what to eat, cook, clear up, siesta, clip toenails, whip a rope or two, read novels, tune in SSB radio, charge up electronic gadgets…and, finally, Henrietta’s right, quite a bit of day-dreaming, watching the ocean and contemplating infinity…you wouldn’t be interested in all the ideas and wisdom, and peace and calm, that come to the solitary sailor – at least until you get a bit too tired. Life is honed to pure simplicity; eat, sleep, wash and think. If you’ve done it yourself, or (I expect) climbed remote mountains or tramped empty deserts or polar wilderness alone, you’ll maybe know. Trouble is that as you grow more tired, it becomes harder to think and use the brain coherently…and I soon abandoned grandiose schemes like learning the tropical night sky and advanced meteorology, and instead, in moments of leisure, just read some of the many cruising books on board or enjoyed straightforward novels.
Remember too that, given the incessant rolling and occasional unheralded lurch, everything is done very slowly. A ten minute task can take an hour. Preparing a meal can take ages. Sailing tasks too: one day, for example, with a force 5/6 from behind and heavy rolling, it took over an hour simply to rig the spinnaker pole for genoa and gybe the much reduced mainsail. I then needed a break to wipe away the sweat before hanking on and hoisting the staysail in lieu of main. Then taking it down again and securing it to wave-sprayed foredeck before nightfall. (Those racing sailors must be amazingly organised, better balanced and much stronger than me! But then they don’t have Bus Passes do they?.)

I’m now enjoying the novel joy of a calm anchorage and stable walks ashore, and meeting other people. I note I have owned Henrietta for six months now; she’s been a delight and after 6,000 miles I begin to see how she works!
Finally, Henrietta’s first and last stab at feeling like a human:-
Right now, …..I’m Rolling West
Rolling West o’r broad bold untamed sea, awed by scale and power and might,
Rolling West ‘neath milk blue sky, warmed by sun and soothed by breeze,
Rolling West, the sounds of hush and rush and shush, of flapping sail, of gurgle, splosh and rattle,
Rolling West, there really is no chance of rest!
[Subsequent bits remain unpublished]