Distributing the Caribbean Compass.
photos by Lorraine Seatle, except ent by Irene Beston.
24 May. Caribbean Compass is reliably published at the beginning of the month, has been for hundreds of consecutive issues. That’s when you can read it online. As for the hard copy, which I wait for, Carriacou is the end of the line. The printer ships from Trinidad to Grenada, where it clears customs, then a ferry brings it to Carriacou, with assorted vagaries along the way. The April issue didn’t make it at all, the ship it was on sank – with loss of life.
On time for us, as for some other delightful Compass destinations, is mid-month. If one has a device and a signal, they can read it on cyber time — instant. Or one can wait for the actual magazine and read it on island time – as things unfold In these parts.
I carry the current issue in my backpack for reading in restaurants or when waiting in line at Customs, Immigration, the clinic or wherever. But mostly, I read it at home – which used to be the well-shaded and breezy cockpit of my little yacht. Nowadays it’s the well shaded and breezy deck of my apartment up among the treetops. The hard copy has better aesthetics… or am I just being sentimental?
In addition to being a Caribbean Compass reader and occasional contributor, I recently became Compass’s distributor on Carriacou. It’s a volunteer position – less expenses. Being a filthy rich retired American (on a Social Security check that would barely pay the rent “back home“), I can afford it. Moreover, I delegate the job to my assistant, who, with a friend that has a car, delivers it around the island — their monthly island tour. They do all the work, I pick up the tab and take a bow.
March got distributed on time, a couple of weeks late. April, as mentioned, went to the bottom. May is also June this month, the first combined issue since… ’96?, which arrived on time, several weeks late. We (the team) could have picked it up Saturday but it wound up being Tuesday. (We do good work but we don’t stress ourselves – dis be de islands, mon.)
This time, however, Lorraine, my assistant, is on vacation. She’s hanging in a Fangorn Forest full of ents somewhere in Scotland. She sent photos to prove it.
So It’s me and Gallery Sally this time, Lorraine’s helper, who has a car. (Gallery Sally, creator of the Carriacou Gallery Cafe, where I called her the Salad Queen.)
Sally gets the bundles off the ferry and distributes Harvey Vale on her way to Las Iguanas, at the other end of the bay, near where I live, where we meet for coffee and confab. Despite a little island-time glitch at the port gate, we are ahead of our plan.
We hit the road, doing Budget, Paradise Beach and that big green store, Super Center, at the foot of the road to the brother Ikia’s farm in Brunswick, on our way to town — Hillsborough, the island’s tiny city, which is packed with cars.
Sally has Hillsborough wired. I don’t have to pretend to be the boss even though I am. She finds a parking place – right on the main drag of Hillsborough! – and gives the assignments. I do Osprey and the Museum, she does Kim’s, Matheson, Ade’s Dream and The Family Store.
We rendezvous at the Kayak Kafe for smoothies. The Kayak is my standing reward for doing bank, doctor, pharmacy, and/or immigration runs to Hillsborough. We also decide on breakfast. Breakfast with Gallery Sally at Kayak Sally’s, having delivered Compass Sally’s latest issue.
Hutch listens to Sally and Sally while pretending to read Sally’s latest.
The little Kayak Kafe perches out over the beach, open to the view on two sides. To the south, a pinnacled peninsula extends out to Cistern Point. Across a channel to the right is bluff little Mabouya Island, lying behind long, low, iconic Sandy Island. To the west lies strange little Jack Adam, marking the outer reaches of Hillsborough Bay. Looming above the horizon to the north is rugged Union Island. The Kayak is a nice place for a smoothie and a Spanish omelet. If I’m going to do a day of work, let this be the model.
Kayak Sally gets a break from the kitchen and joins us. The Kayak is Sally’s last restaurant. She’s going to sell and retire… to the extent that Kayak Sally can retire — she’s already got plans of making deserts at home for other restaurants. And, hopefully, her rye bread, my personal favorite.
Let’s see now, how did this part go? Oh, we were doing the one-way loop through town to head out towards Windward, to the north, when Sally noticed that the Anglican Thrift Shop was open. She had been trying to catch them open for some time. I haven’t been in a thrift shop for decades – I didn’t known there was one on island. So I browse through books and nick-knacks as she looks at fabrics and such. Then she helps my old eyes and out-of-touch mind to identify stuff on the tables. One gadget is an electric can opener the size of my e-bike’s battery – capable of the job my Swiss Army Knife’s thumbnail-size can opener does… in case I want another electric device.
Sally takes some photos of the shop to post on the Carriacou Cruisers facebook page, so that others might know. This might be a good place to drop off things I’m trying to get rid of… stuff to recycle, not trash.
We climb out of town on a road far too steep for places where it snows, climbing across the face of the island’s central ridge to a saddle where the principle roads on the north of the island meet. The view expands as we climb. Some of the views I mention are picture postcard stuff. At the saddle, the view changes from the leeward side of the island to its windward side, down a valley to Watering Bay, its colorful shallows enclosed by a continuous breaking reef. Beyond lies deep water that shallows as it approaches cone-shaped Petite Martinique and its scattering of small islands. The land is dry and drab, this being the end of dry season. Check it out a month form now, once “growing season“ (“hurricane season“ to us yachties) settles in.
Windward has two drop-offs, the Corner Shop and Pizza Meh Heart.
I look for Lesley, but she’s not there. Lesley has re-started Carriacou’s kids sailing program at Windward. I support kids sailing and Lesley’s reincarnation of the club is off to a good start. Kirsann, a coach at the L’Esterre Bay incarnation of the program whom I worked with, is in charge of the sailing. They have equipment support from GSA and Budget but could use a base of small donors to cover operating expenses.
Our distribution isn’t quite finished. Cassada Bay Resort has opened again, at the other end of the island, the south end. I haven’t been there for years… I haven’t been much of anywhere lately. Carriacou used to be my walking island… I was younger then.
Sally drives us back via the scenic ridge road. Then we plunge back down into Hillsborough, then up again to Six Roads, the island’s southern saddle in the ridge. There, she takes the windward-side road to Belmont, what I call “the scenic route“.
A side road runs down from Belmont then climbs the hill atop which Cassada Bay Resort sits.
Cassada Bay gets a pile of Compass and we take a Stag and Ting break overlooking one of the best views in the Grenadines, — albeit on a cloudy, misty day. Scattered on the waters before us lie the islands, White, Saline, Large, Frigate, One Tree, Mushroom, Little Mushroom and Cassada Rocks. Rocky Southwest Point frames the scene to the right. Grenada, normally visible on the horizon, is lost to low visibility.
Sally and I compare sailing and snorkeling adventures among the islands in our view. She and Paul used to bring Stillus around to get away on weekends. I’ve sailed these islands many times on Ambia, along with some dinghy adventures in Fran.
We talked about everything and everyone along the way, from way back when to present, me and Sally as we drove and me listening to Sally and Sally at the Kayak.
The variety of excellent views were somewhat muted by today’s mistiness. We do not, however, complain about rain in the Grenadines. And when wet season gets serious, soon, the island gets green and lush in weeks.
I reckon two or more birds with one stone for this mission. Compass is distributed, I had an island tour and I got my exercise. The day had been a pretty good workout for an old man, fairly brisk walking and even a flight of stairs. Since I was carrying Pusherman (my “smart phone“), I can even tell you my score: 2,152.
Home again, home again.
The activities of the day behind me, I settle in on my well-shaded and breezy veranda with a coffee and whatever. I begin to read my new print copy of Compass.
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Global warming, climate change, is real. One hears the growing toll daily on the world news — heat waves, floods, droughts, wildfires, tornados and 2020 was the record North Atlantic hurricane season (the previous record was 2005). Some years back I heard someone say that global warming should be mentioned in every conversation between reasoning human beings.
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