With iPod headphones firmly clamped on our ears and full sails set on a beam reach, Oboe, Ryan and I screamed south from St Lucia at 9+ knots.  It would be easy to say that it was the best sail of my life but there have already been too many of those moments for that to be strictly true.  However, it was euphoric and knowing it could not last we arrived at The Grenada Yacht Club (pretentiously named I hasten to add) in St George’s Bay before dusk.  The stern-to mooring proved that I still have a lot to learn, with the bowline finding its way into the blades of the bow thruster and Ryan having to dive the bottom to retrieve it.  Oh well down to earth with a bump but at least we provided entertainment for the old colonials in their bath chairs on the verandah of the yacht club!

Our lazy passage south transmuted the following day into a full frontal assault on poor old salt-caked, dirt-caked Oboe.  Recognising the concept of a deadline for the first time in a while, lists were drawn up and tasks delegated, seeing Ryan tackling the decks, hatches and topsides, including all the stainless steel and Nigel donning his Mrs. Mop outfit below decks, rubber gloves and Mr. Sheen to the rescue!  Words were not exchanges for at least four hours but Oboe emerged as good as new.  Nigel topped off the task with a dinghy ride across the bay to Foodland (a supermarket, not a theme park for the gourmand!) and we were all provisioned and ready to go.  Lines slipped, we crawled round the headland to Prickly Bay with Ryan cursing each time a wave dared to splash up onto his pristine foredeck! 

Since then we have had Pete and Linda on board with us, fresh off the plane from Gatwick and anxious to soak up the Caribbean sun.  We headed north all day beating hard into a stiff breeze and a choppy sea.  I was worried that Pete and Linda would conclude “we didn’t sign up for this.  We thought gentlemen didn’t sail to windward!”  However they seemed to enjoy the roller coaster ride and especially the moonless but starry night entry into Hillsborough on Carriacou.  Our anchor set on the third attempt, frustratingly and after a lot of ooing and ahhing over the spectacular night sky we turned in, excited about going ashore for breakfast and exploring the little town of Hillsborough.  The town was indeed a delight; a mixture of friendly locals going about their daily work and “second homers” from Canada, UK and probably everywhere else, chatting like long lost relatives as they realise their friend have just come back after 6 months away.  Pati’s deli proved an unlikely little oasis.  Owner Pati, probably a Grenadan by birth but clearly from London judging by her “alright mate” hello, stocked everything the yottie could desire in a shop measuring 3m square.

After an internet session at Ade’s Dream, a small guest house, we set off for a 10 mile beat to Union Island and the unexpected delights of Chatham Bay, with a beautiful tropical anchorage and a white sandy beach.  We were met by the inevitable boat boy, this time Ballhead, proud of his shaved, shiny pate.  “Where u from?” he asked in Pidgin.  “England” we replied.  Ah Ha he retorted this time in a London accent.  I’m actually Tony from Bromley.  Got fed up with it all, so put up a shack here on the beach and do BBQ lobster.  You all comin’ tonight?”  Hard to resist I guess and the rest is history.

Nigel