Now that is what we call a beach barbecue!  Juicy lobster, rice and pigeon peas, spicy potatoes and unidentified veg slurped down with many a Hairoun, finishing with a plate of ripe and juicy local fruit, sitting at a picnic table (rather strange proportions, felt like small children at a grown up table), with jolly plastic cloth held down with a rock or two, lighting in the form of a string of lights, of which only every fourth one worked, and old water bottles filled with sand with doors cut out of them to make lanterns.  A quite fabulous setting and the most delectable food.  And a final touch, a handy swing, a proper one with really long ropes.  (Of course I tried it even though Bob brought to my attention the ominous creaking sounds). 

There was a bit of a kerfuffle getting the dinghy off the beach, there are no dinghy docks in the Cays.  It requires athleticism to leap into a moving dinghy which I sadly do not possess and tend to alight like a line caught tuna fish having done the splits with one leg over the bulging rubber side.  Not very elegant.  Bob then frantically tried to start the outboard before we were tossed back on to the beach with the next wave and it just wouldn’t start.  When this happens, he goes at it like a dervish, hilarious to watch.  He suddenly twigged that he had not put on the kill cord.  Much panicking later, the kill cord was attached, the motor started and we were off.  Every moment of this entertainment had been studied in detail by a large party dining ashore.  I am surprised they didn’t applaud. We returned satiated and satisfied (no sand in our teeth and only slightly bruised by dinghy boarding cock up) and celebrated with a glass or two of rum punch (made from the rum we had soaked a lunchtimes pineapple in, divine).  We slept like logs to the distinctive sound of surf breaking on the reefs.

We awoke to a classic Caribbean super downpour, appropriate for this time of year, hunkered down until it had passed, slipped the mooring buoy, passed a turtle wafting along  and negotiated with trepidation the tricky dog leg out of Tobago Cays.  The course was set for Bequia, the sails went up and off we sailed sedately across a calm sea.  The wind wavered around 14 to 18 knots, a favourite of Windy’s and we hummed along, even overtaking a catamaran (hooray, but we aren’t competitive you understand).  It was a corker of a sail, the sun beating down as we bowled along on a broad reach.  Sigh!

We arrived at Bequia (only slightly left of the selected way point but giving Bob the opportunity to “remind me about leeway”, sigh!), deaf and dumb signed to get a mooring buoy and tied up tidily (perhaps a bit too much exuberance on the drivers part on this occasion). 

After an arrival beer (naturally) we headed into town.  Poor Bob arrived soaked to the skin due to a close encounter with a 5 foot 10 blonde who decided to full power right by us creating a tsunami of a wake.  Bob barked at her, and it wasn’t very polite.  We soggily slopped along the road, disposed of rubbish and took refuge in a nice restaurant (Akwa) where Bob cheered up considerably with the most delicious fried chicken.  By the time we had checked out at Customs, stocked up with beer and water (two of our staples), he had dried out for a drier return to Windy. 

Since then we’ve been doing a bit of chilling in the sunshine with a balmy breeze and Bob has been doing some odd jobs to do with ropes and moving mattresses about (I am not entirely sure either).  Now the sun has just gone over the yard arm, a pretty pink sky, and it is G&T o’clock (I can hear the hammering of the adjustable spanner).