12:53.5N 61:12.0W

Mustique

We set sail from Bequia with a 25 knot (why can’t it be 10 knots just once) wind with reefed main, full mizzen and fully rolled out jib. We waved goodbye to Adolf and noted that he was considerably closer to a fuel barge than he had been on our arrival. Had he dragged perhaps? A real everyday problem here with some of the poor holding areas and the strong winds, as the trades gear up to sixes and sevens. We reached out of Admiralty Bay leaving Port Elizabeth behind and headed for the rounding point at West Cay. Just as we were about to round the Cay a 100 foot racing super yacht came creaming past us on the inside doing about 18-20 knots. The paid crew gave us a wave as they surged past; both the boat and sails were beautiful. As we rounded and hardened up behind him we found that the sail to Mustique was going to be a hard beat. Meanwhile, the crew of the super yacht were on the foredeck fighting to bring down a huge No. 1 headsail, which was by now flogging itself to pieces. We again handed the mizzen and ground in the jib hard. Swiftwing again surged on at 7 knots with the azure seas (deep water) and 10 foot waves causing her to dip her bow taking water in lumps. We sailed on between Pigeon Island and Isle De Quatre. Mustique appeared only four miles away and we could quite clearly see yachts moored in Britannia Bay, but first we had to negotiate the Montezuma Shoal, which lies about half a mile west of the bay and square in the path between Pigeon Island and Britannia Bay. Luckily the Raymarine chart plotter guided us in, as despite everyone on board searching with binoculars, we couldn’t find the Isolated Danger pole that marks it.

There is no anchoring allowed in Mustique so we picked up one of the Mustique Company Moorings and had a late lunch in the cockpit. We immediately noticed a lack of cars on the island, most people driving about in petrol golf buggies, or “Mules” to give them their proper name.

So, after lunch we rowed ashore… Whoooaaaa! Welcome to the Mustique, or as Bev described it, Mustique Country Park Estate.

The island is not in itself stunningly beautiful like Dominica or even St. Lucia; it’s rather a low lying island with a covering of rough bush rather than rainforest. However the infrastructure is quite something as Caribbean islands go. The roads, the ones that are metalled , are snooker table smooth and from the amount of work that is going on, the remaining roads will be the same before the year is out. On the day of our arrival I spoke to Rod the Harbourmaster (the resemblance between him and our good friend Rod Hughes was just spooky) and tried to pay the mooring fee of £5 per night. In a laid back fashion he said, “Hey mon, don’t sweat it, you’re in paradise now and I don’t have my receipt book, I’ll get it tomorrow” We then took a walk along the main street lined with colourful flags past Basils Restaurant and Bar, world famous because it hosts the fifth best blues festival in the world, and guess what, there was two nights remaining of this years festival. We carried on along the main street, bought some fruit from the least pushy vendor we have come across, then walked along the beach for a swim.

2030 hours saw us fed, washed and dressed in our best going ashore duds for the blues at Basil’s. We had looked up the pilot book and there at a previous festival was a picture of Mick Jagger giving it big licks on stage. The festival was just the best. The music was just amazing - blues lovers look out for a guy called Carl Gustaf- you’ll hear of him again.

Despite his youth John was really taken with the music (see, my influence on him isn’t all bad) and went on to buy a festival T shirt. I bought Carl’s latest CD which is excellent. It reminded me of a night I had in Poland when Spizek, Andre’ and I went to a blues festival at the Mazuri Lakes. In fact I’m listening to that CD at the moment as I type this.

Next day saw us hiring a Mule from Basil’s and touring the island. There are no signposts anywhere so you have to more or less guess where you are going by the position of the sun (seaman’s instinct). However, we found what is probably one of the best beaches, if not the most exclusive beach, in the world, Macaroni Beach - I kid you not, that is what it is called. The pictures on the blog just do not do it justice. It is stunning. The sea is turquoise, shallow water (I’m sorry dear reader that my vocab is so limited that I keep using that description) over the coral sand with big Atlantic rollers giving great surf. John was a bit peeved as he had left the surf board on board the boat. We spent most of the day there, got sunburnt, then toured the island at 10 mph on our mule. We had on occasion to swerve violently for tortoises which ran out in front of the speeding mule, again I kid you not, there are tortoises walking about the roads.

The large stately homes and their grounds are manicured to the nth degree with an abundance of brightly coloured flowers, trees and hedges maintained in far better condition than any botanical gardens at home. There is no unemployment here, in fact workers come over from St. Vincent, work for a month then get four days off. They all seem happy with this arrangement so I can only assume that the wages here are substantially better than on St. Vincent. They are provided with good accommodation here but none of them are allowed to, or can afford to, buy here. Even the police come across from St. Vincent for four weeks on then get one week off. They stay in barracks and are in the same position as the other workers.

Final night at Basil’s beckoned and at 2100 hrs sharp, washed, fed and in the best run- ashore threads we paid the exorbitant entry fee of £5 per head. Another great night of blues was had by all and at mid-day the following day we slipped the mooring for Canouan some eight miles away, and thankfully downwind.