Our picque nique of duck terrine, baguette and cornichons was devoured with relish, with just the one bottle of wine.  We were both unaccountably tired (I wonder why, see climbing up steep hill with nasty infection etcetera) and we slept very well indeed.

We set off this morning with great anticipation remembering the “best sail ever” from Guadeloupe to Nevis where we whistled so fast past Montserrat that we didn’t bother to stop and still made it to moor up just as the sun set in Charlestown.  Imagine, if you may, the diametrical opposite.  The wind foofed at 2 to 4 knots as we left Deshaies.  It continued to foof at 2 to 4 knots for the next hour or so.  After that it foofed a lot more at 4 knots with the occasional exhilarating rise to 6 knots.  We plodded along the engine thrumming and realised that we were in for the long haul, the wonderfully reliable, exhilarating wind of the Caribbean had disappeared.  We wallowed along until a thought struck Bob, “We have had to use the engine a great deal more than ever more so what was the fuel situation?”  Normally we have bags of the stuff and we had deliberately not filled to the brim in Rodney Bay so as not to have all that surplus fuel slopping around for WIndy’s cruise home.  Bob’s verdict was a tad worrying.  The fuel was somewhat lower than might be thought of as necessary for a 40 mile motor.  He fretted quietly.  We reduced the engine revs to a more economical 15.  We swung out the mainsail s far as it could go to catch every feeble breath of a following wind.  We had lunch which Bob couldn’t eat because he was still fretting.  The driver shaved as many miles off the journey as possible even doing a comparison of which way round Montserrat was the most economical.  We went for the figure hugging version, passing a lot closer to rocky outcrops and rocks than Bob normally considers sensible.  Bob went and checked the spare fuel situation,  We are after all intrepid ocean crossing stalwarts so have such things to discover that one of the spares had sprung a leak and had filled its plastic bags with diesel.  Of course this was in the forward cabin and the fuel filler point right in the stern.  Bob’s dash clutching a leaking bag of diesel from forward to aft would have astonished Usain Bolt but Usain doesn’t leave an evil, stinking trail of oily fuel across the saloon, up the companionway, through the cockpit and over the back.  This messy horror was despatched and the second (cleaner and more amenable) dispensed too.  Buttocks clenched, fingers crossed, we arrived in Little Bay, put down the anchor and set off to remedy the fuel situation foregoing our traditional arrival beer.  The situation had to be serious.

We checked in, requiring the usual form filling in triplicate , with a new touch whereby you had to turn over all the carbon papers to write on the back, and wandering to collect stamps between various offices and smartly dressed officials.    We enquired about fuel and were waved towards a chap “over there by the tamarind tree” whose role in this was uncertain.  At the gates (entering Montserrat is a bit like leaving prison) we were hailed by Wilfred the local taxi driver who lost interest when we explained our plight.  Joe Phillip stepped into the breach and happened to have some petrol cans at home.  We duly went to his home, picked 4 of them them up, went to the petrol station where they were filled, returned to the dock, loaded them aboard the dinghy (it just took the weight without sinking), motored out to WIndy, hauled the cans off using the end of the painter, filled the fuel tank, returned the empties to the dinghy, pottered back to the dock.  And then we did it all over again.  Jo was a very enthusiastic participant in this great adventure and told us (at least 20 times) that he was the preferred guide mentioned in the Chris Doyle Cruising Guide,  He certainly saved our bacon and was to be applauded for his great enterprise.  A very nice man.

Having got this little palaver out of the way, Bob and I then set to to clear the deck of a;l the spilled diesel.  After I administered a good dollop of washing up liquid on hands and knees,  Bob played bucket dipping and swabbed the decks like the very best cabin boy.  We didn’t notice the sun setting and probably missed the only green flash ever.  It has been that sort of day.  Ah well, what better way to recover than a gin and tonic.  Make it a strong one Bob!