13:08N 061:12W Young Island, St Vincent

Wind Charger
Bob and Elizabeth Frearson
Wed 16 Jan 2013 22:27
We set off bright and early, Bob being the bright, with the intention of seeing if we could make it straight to Bequia by going along the ocean side of St Vincent thereby getting super sailing winds straight from across the Atlantic.  It started off very calm and without a breath of wind.  While still under motor we tucked into breakfast.  What better for breakfast than chocolate and pear upside down cake?  We couldn’t manage it last night for supper and it seems a shame for it to go to waste. 
Unfortunately it continued to be very calm with a very small whisper of wind and despite trying to sail in the sluggish 8 to 10 knot winds we gave up, and irritated by the flappy sails and looking as if we weren’t even going to make it to the other end of St Vincent before sunset, we motor sailed.  There wasn’t a soul in sight and we had a very relaxing day doddling along under a blue,  blue sky.  In the absence of the kaput Kindle I finished a real, printed, paperback book, Cloud Atlas, recommended by Francesca and a definite must read.   I have turned to the front and started to read it all over again. Riveting.
We arrived at Young Island and decided to enter via the nice, inviting open end rather than risking the sneaky passageway through the reef and were escorted by Sam to a mooring buoy. It is so much easier, calmer and so much more relaxing when there is a helpful man waiting to take the ropes rather than Bob using his lassoing technique which usually ends up with much shouting and panicking as Bob runs out of arms to point to the buoy and I have absolutely no idea where it is in relation to the boat. 
It is a lovely spot.  We can see Bequia and Mustique in the distance, the sea surfing over the reef, the decorative hump of Young island itself.  We pottered ashore for a stroll along the beach, hunted down our preferred spot for supper later, supped a beer, chatted to a local lad who played a season for Bolton Wanderers (actually it was rather one way because we hadn’t a clue who all the so called famous footballers he had played with and against but he seemed to enjoy reliving it all), tried a delicious piping hot, veggie samosa type thing delivered by a Rasta man with a great basketful on his arm.
We are back on Windy relaxing, blogging, freshening up and making water (powered by a bright and breezy, cheerfully humming Jerry) before putting out Roxanne, our red light, and heading back ashore.  It is a hard life.