We were nervous. All yachties have their bags searched. Grenada has no income tax but its import tax is through the roof and it’s well known that yachties are fair game for this too. We only had four large pieces of baggage. Our stuff, including 5 too many damn jumpers and stuff for our friends, Phil and Ben and their two girls. All Xmas pressies completely unpacked. ‘This? This is not new!’ we’ve been practising saying for weeks. 

First stop: immigration. A yachtie couple next to us were having to dig into their bags for their boat papers. Meanwhile, our immigration officer turned our passports over. He asked us if we’d gone home for pleasure. ‘We had a family bereavement,’ Jack said. We didn’t elaborate but he stopped and said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ All our eyes filled up unexpectedly. How strangely powerful is the compassionate stranger…and always a surprise! ‘Thanks,’ we murmured. 

He let us through. Without boat papers or any other hassle. Next step; customs. We found our bags and joined the snaking queue. Our trolley looked like a soft bag pyramid. How am I going to explain the two tiny pairs of Clarks Doodles for Phil’s kids, I suddenly wondered? Sandals for dolly feet? We inched forwards and watched all the people with large amounts of baggage, like us, being directed to the red zone. Their bags to be searched for importable, new and taxable stuff. We swallowed and Lulu practised her most charming smile. It didn’t look natural. Delphine had the edge since she just about owns effortlessly cheeky. 

Finally we were called to the customs desk by a Grenadian lady with long nails and complicated hair. No smile. ‘What do you have in your bags?’ she asked without beating around any kind of bush. ‘We went home unexpectedly,’ I croaked, ‘so we picked up some of our personal belongings.’ After a few more questions and no sign of whether we were to be directed to the red zone, she looked at the girls. ‘So they’re not in school?’ ‘Oh yes,’ we exclaimed, ‘they do internet school and boat school!’ She looked down at Delphine, her long nails raking her desk. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Delphine smiled shyly. ‘Maybe own a toy shop.’ The customs lady looked up. ‘You can go through.’ 

We ran out of there at a hundred-miles-an-hour! Hi Grenada. 

Love from Quest and her crew xx