Of squalls and chewy conches
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Mon 10 Jan 2011 22:56
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12:38.85N
61:23.42W
A mere 20 knots of wind and it seems like near
silence down below. We're getting used to strong winds here as the trades that
eluded us during the Atlantic crossing assert themselves. Summer Song has just
endured a 30-knot plus squall in a very tight anchorage on Mayreau that has
filled up with charter boats and catamarans as the day has worn on. The squall
anounced itself on the windward side of the island with lowering grey cloud and
the promise of rain. When it hit the beach, visibility dropped to 100 metres
through the downpour, and the palm trees thrashed about in protest.
I swam out to Summer Song to be ready in case there
was any anchor dragging, while Alex, Celia and Andy sheltered under a
palm-thatched bar, watching the action. Summer Song was darting about on her
anchor like a tuna on a hook, and with the other boats doing the same, I have
half a mind to put out fenders for the night.
The last two nights were spent in Tobago Cays, a
wilderness of reefs and strong winds. To the east, there is nothing but the
Atlantic swell which crashes into the two circular reefs surrounding a lagoon of
startling turquoise, dotted with half a dozen small round islands. Although
there were plenty of boats here (including some ARC friends, such as Wind of
Gothenberg), there are lots of corners that no-one bothers to visit.
We anchored for lunch with hearts in mouths at
World's End Reef, out beyond the protective embrace of the main reef. The swell
crashed into the coral just a hundred metres from where we anchored in the
clearest water imagineable. Rays, snappers, groupers, angel fish, garfish and
millions of other denizens of the seas were everywhere. But because it felt so
exposed, we headed back to the main part of the Cays for a windy night in good
company, stopping at an island called Petit Tabac. It appeared to be deserted,
but while walking around the periphery of this little coral atoll, we
bumped into an American couple, who looked as bemused as us. For the rest of the
walk, we were following their footsteps.
We left for Mayreau early on this morning, finding
a plum spot at Salt Whistle Bay on the northwest of the island. For lunch, we
drifted into a ramshackle hut called the Honey Cone, which was peopled with
loud, friendly rastas. They offered the usual Caribbean fare of creole chicken,
pork and lambi - what the locals here call conch. This is usually steamed for
hours, then fried in strips, with a result not unlike slightly overcooked
calamari. Amazingly it's delicious. Conch may even take over for me where
squid and octopus left off in Spain.
Tomorrow, we're off to Bequia (strangely pronounced
Bek-way), skipping overhyped and expensive Mustique in favour of a more chilled
island with plenty of snorkelling and a lively little town. Then, on to St
Vincent to return Celia and Andy to the real world, where they'll be flying
back to chilly Gothenberg.
Meanwhile we've 'pimped our lure', which is to say
that the pink cuttlefish which snagged us a huge tuna and a wahoo on the
crossing has been revitalised with sharp new hooks and a brand new 'skirt' of
pink tentacles. With luck we'll get into something tomorrow during the 20-mile
sail north-east to Bequia. Just in case we don't have any luck, though, we've
purchased a tuna from a local fisherman, which will be barbecued on the Cobb
tonight.
Anyway, I'd love to chat on, but I can see the rum
punches are ready. Cheers, mon...
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