In the central Bahamas, I met Lynn and John, fellow single-handers, all of us aspiring writers. We had nice little adventures. One day they dropped out of sight for a week or so then resurfaced with the news that they were sailing to Puerto Rico to get married. I decided to follow.
While in Puerto Rico I got a letter from good friend Al who was in the US Virgins, so I sailed there. By the time I’d cruised three months in the Virgins it was well into hurricane season, so I started south, intending to go all the way to Trinidad or Venezuela, south of the hurricane belt. I broke down in the Windward Islands, which resulted in my discovery of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, wherein lies the island of Bequia.
A soft chorus of assorted birdsong, background to crowing roosters, barking dogs, and an occasional vehicle drifts across the rippled harbor on a light breeze as morning twilight fades the stars. Pastels begin to tint the sky, stationary high clouds in wisps and layers transition from dull pinks and reds to golds and yellows. Low-level cumulous clouds rushing on the trade wind color in turn as Sun breaches their horizon.
Several seagulls already patrol the harbor. Fishermen in double-ended rowing boats work here and there.
The clouds become a multitude of grays, whites, and silver linings. The yellow-tinted scene brightens as the Sun finally tops the high hills of Bequia. The steep hills around us are highlighted in long shadows.
06:30. The Sand Island begins her run; the clattering roar of her lightly muffled diesels fills the bay. Already over hull speed as she passes, she can’t go much faster – a final blast of power is added anyway. Her wake spreads through the harbor, the morning stowage shakedown. Minutes later the Admiral II departs, confident and stately, muffled power held in check, her wake somewhat less. The third ferry, Admiral I, will depart in an hour.
A splash is heard, distinct from a jumping fish, a brown booby diving for a fish. Soon they will be squabbling aloft over masthead perches and “snorkeling” on the surface. The first magnificent frigate birds soar over the scene.
A church bell sounds. A morning shower passes down the harbor, a rainbow in its wake. A conch horn is heard, fish for sale. Yacht departures are underway, diesels idle, anchor chain rattles, there is an occasional angry order or frustrated reply, rising sails luff, sunlit sails depart.
Pattree, a handsome Vincentian ship, chugs out with dignity.
The anchorage crowd varies daily. It is early hurricane season, cruisers are migrating south, a good assortment of yachts. A fine British sloop lies off our bow, and equally fine Swiss ketch father to starboard, a “tricked out” US boat abeam, a ruggedly capable looking German boat on our quarter. Abeam to port, a stately Belgium schooner. Chartered bareboats are easily identified here and there, go-faster sailboats without cruising apparatus. Following hurricane season, overlapping fleets fleeing European winter begin to gather and disperse: Norwegians, Swedes, Danes, Germans and so on, few Spanish, quite a few Austrian, South African, and Caribbean flags, migrating US boats, occasional Pacific flags.
Yankee Clipper, a three-mast schooner arrives and anchors. Her sister ship Mandalay departed yesterday. Both are sailing ships of a somewhat traditional look. Not the floating hotel cruise ships that also sail, which come a-plenty in season, along with “entire Caribbean in a week” monsters with stern mounted marinas and full compliment of toys (jet skis, thank you, are forbidden in St. Vincent and the Grenadines).
Morning commerce begins in the anchorage, water taxis idle among the boats, a local business hands out leaflets, the harbor photographer delivers arrival photos to departing boats, a boy on a windsurfer paddles bareboat to bareboat, Bequia Tender (water, fuel, ice, and laundry) begins her morning rounds.
The retired mailboat Friendship Rose, a gaff schooner still earning her way in day charter, makes a leisurely departure.
A woman sunning on a US flagged bareboat contorts to fasten her top before rising. Nearby, women dive naked from a French flagged bareboat.
It’s warming to midmorning, time for a swim.
Caribbean Compass, May ’96