Pup-Pup-Stop!

Saba

Our overturned dinghy in the squalls off Saba

The so called ‘witches tit’ in Simpson Bay lagoon, St. Martin

Little yellow birds at the bar in Philipsburg

I suppose a blog is not the forum where one would expect to read about a non-event, but before you switch off and return to reading your e-mails let me quickly add that this particular non-event ended with a superb premier event.

We left Anegada, the uppermost Virgin Island with much regret and the prospect of a long 120 mile sail to windward (Gilly’s most un-favourite point of sail as I am sure you will recollect….just think leant right over with lots of wind and bumpy, rolly swell for over 12 hours where even venturing below to meet a call of nature is a mission not to be lightly contemplated). However, we had chosen our day carefully and the trade winds were kind to us making it much more pleasant than anticipated. We could not leave Anegada before dawn as the exit channel was somewhat tortuous and unlit so at first light at about 6.30 we were on our way knowing we would not arrive off Saba until the early hours.

Saba is a tiny Dutch Antilles island which makes up for its lack of breadth in its height and grandeur. Lushly green, it has carved its niche for hiking and snorkelling. Being so steep-to this particular little island is quite dear to our hearts as it was the first island we visited when we chartered a Sunsail yacht from St. Martin in 1998. Then, with no by your leave, we picked up a buoy jumped in our dinghy and went ashore where we found the locals very welcoming – their hospitality stretching to a very cheap taxi-tour of the island (including a peep at the sumptuous villa used by the Dutch Royal family) with a long stop for provisions at a local super-market. We were very much looking forward to a return visit and had placed Saba firmly on our agenda right from the start.

The first part of the chain of events which seemed set to thwart this plan was when, at past midnight with Saba looming darkly large ahead of us we turned the engine and took down the headsail. As we were just about to take the mainsail down to the engine gave a faltering pup-pup and promptly died. Damn! (or words to that effect!). Back up with the head sail and with Gilly at the helm the swearing Skipper promptly went below to investigate the problem and much to our relief shortly afterwards he started the engine started again. Skipper thought the problem had been the electric stop button which had shorted…he had therefore disconnected it and all seemed well again…..down with the sails and onward to Saba. After another 15 minutes pup-pup-stop again! Up with the sails and with the island now looming very large indeed Skipper retreated below again and bled the fuel supply…..eureka! Down came the sails and this time with the engine happily purring we started looking for the mooring buoys which we knew circled the leeward side of the island. Could we find one? No. We had our spanking new mega you- can’t-hide-from-me search light (which the Atlantic Rally bods insisted that we carry but which we had never yet had occasion to use) sweeping boldly along the shoreline waters but no buoys could be seen and anchoring was out of the question as it was too deep and it was forbidden due to the coral reefs – this whole area being deemed a National Park. Pup-pup-stop! Again the engine gave up on us and again we hurriedly hoisted sails whilst Skipper this time examined the fuel filters but there was nothing obvious at all so he tentatively tried the engine again and we held our tired breath waiting for the engine to decide whether to start again…..and thankfully at the same time we glimpsed a buoy hiding in the swell and were able to attach ourselves to it before the engine gave up again. Phew! The swell made the mooring very rolly but we didn’t care and gratefully took to our bed about 20 hours after setting sail from Anegada.

Next morning we were awoken by a knock on the hull and a cheery faced dive instructor telling us we would have to move as the buoy we were attached to was white and therefore the reserve of dive boats alone. Skipper patiently explained our dodgy engine problem and promised to leave the buoy as soon as he had it sorted out. Gilly, still in her jim-jams, wanted to ask the rather pompous dive-bloke where exactly we were supposed to move to when clearly, from our experience of last night all the yellow buoys did not exist anymore. I am trying to learn as I grow older to hush my mouth until I am sure of my facts (some would say I am still a slow learner in this respect…) but as I drew breath to start my rant I looked around the surrounding ocean to see a myriad of coloured buoys….so where had they been hiding last night? It remains one of life’s mysteries and any faith we had in mega-search-light has been dashed very early in its career aboard. (And yes, before you mention it, we are both due Specsaver appointments).   Changing oil filters is a messy, business and never one to be undertaken in your kitchen but try telling that to fractious, tired Skipper that….I dare you! On closer examination there were traces of possible contamination of the fuel in the filters or a possible air bubble or two. Either way both filters were successfully changed without too much swearing and then theengine started and we trusted would continue until we could find the right coloured buoy. Eventually we found one but still in the rolling swell and strong winds and to our relief the engine did not hesitating to serve. Hurray! Given the surging swell and wind, Gilly declined the offer to go ashore with the Skipper in the dinghy to complete the clearing in process and prayed her presence in person would not be insisted upon by the Dutch officials. He soon returned with his mission accomplished, saying he had been informed that some more sheltered sailing buoys were round the corner on the western fringes and from there we could beach the dinghy and get ashore if the swell subsided. He described his ride into the harbour and the difficulties he had landing the thing because of the swell in Fort Bay so this seemed like a good plan. Engine played happily once more and so off we went to the west coast which seemed little calmer than the south.

Two days later we were still sitting there frustrated at our inability to get ashore because of the conditions. There were near constant northerly and north-easterly squalls of heavy rain and wind causing the sizeable swell never to subside much. Crestfallen. So much for our glorious return visit! Come on dear Saba….it’s us remember? Please let us come ashore! When it was still blowing and rolling on day three we decided enough was enough. We were just preparing to set sail to St. Martin when Colin looked out to sea and saw a massive creature emerging out of the deep….a huge humpback whale had come to bring us some cheer! We watched it pass us about half a mile away but then were rather shocked to see a flotilla of boats racing up behind it….presumably full of interested tourists. Poor whale seemed to be getting annoyed at the pesky convoy which were now in front as well as behind him and slapped his tail down crossly several times and reared up out of the water as if to fend them all off. We had never seen a whale before and had never appreciated before just how enormous they are but so majestic and beautiful. So, down-hearted as we had been at our failure to get ashore to Saba we were truly thankful to have been in the right place at the right time to see our first whale passing by (albeit a rather miffed one!).

Thence across the Caribbean Sea to St Martin….or should that be Sint Maarten.  Truth be told this island which is only 7 miles in each direction is a surprising mish-mash of Dutch and French….a very strange combination of cultures and styles.  We were heading first to the Dutch side, specifically to the capital of the Dutch side, Philipsburg.  Ah, I hear you say, you were heading there because youwould not need to clear- in again…..Saba and Sint Maarten both being Dutch…..wrong! After a fast and furious 5 hour reach we put down our anchor in the enormous Philipsburg Great Bay sharing the space with at least 3 massive cruise ships crowded alongside their quays in one corner. We dinghyed ashore and walked beyond the cruise dock and into the Commercial dock were we found the Immigration and port offices and cleared in….and yes, we were told, it was necessary to clear out separately when we left the Dutch side and clear in with the French when we crossed over. Never mind – all the formalities were achieved fairly quickly and efficiently. We left the offices with the now familiar glow of having been made legal and therefore free to roam. Philipsburg has it all. It is a tourists’ delight as it has a long expanse of beach, lined with a long palm treed pedestrian walkway littered with sea-gazing restaurants and bars. Behind that it aptly named Front Street and Back Street which are a duty free shoppers heaven with everything ranging from diamonds to rum. Awash with the excitement of having actually managed to arrive ashore somewhere at last we celebrated with a rum punch in a pretty historic courtyard bar with little yellow birds fluttering to and fro between the overhead shady trees, called The Kangaroo Court – as it is situated near the Courthouse, obviously. But there is more to Sint Maarten than Philipsburg and the next Dutch Antilles chapter we were planning was inside the huge lagoon in the centre of the island (half French and half Dutch). We were in need of some serious housekeeping …..both provisioning, chandlery and laundry and decided that the glamorous marina in the lagoon at Simpson Bay would equip us with all we required. However, the night before we set sail we were involved in a drama with a cruise ship. On our anchorage in the bay it had become our sunset ritual to sip our sundowner as we watched the cruise ships load up their hordes and disappear into the sunset. On the particular evening the Norwegian Gem slipped her mooring and left the harbour but Skipper noticed her stop and turn soon afterwards. We turned on the VHF radio and heard a MayDay message from the ship saying someone had gone overboard. We informed the French Coastguard that we were very near the vessel and he asked us to proceed and help in the search. Rearranging the furniture of our minds from gin and tonics and dinner to bringing up the anchor to look for a possibly drowning soul in the increasing darkness took some effort but we soon found ourselves very near the massive cruise ship’s hull being advised how to help grid-search the area. On the radio we could hear other boats coming from far and wide to help including a US naval vessel. It was heart-warming to hear such a huge response. After half an hour anxiously scanning the waters nothing had been found and the Norwegian Ship’s Captain was being questioned on the radio about the exact circumstances of the supposed accident. Falteringly he had to admit that it, er, could have been a mistake…er, some crew member thought that he may have seen someone in the water but er, now they were having second thoughts that what they saw was, er, actually just a small flashing yellow buoy on the periphery of the harbour. The search was then scaled down and eventually we were all stood down and mightily relieved we were too. Yes, we had wasted our time but what a noble effort there had been by all concerned to drop everything as we had done and join the search. It has to be said the US official vessel was not so magnanimous and continued asking the ship’s captain to account for all souls on board his vessel.

So next day saw us through the lifting bridge, into the 12 square miles of Simpson Lagoon and shepherded past the huge superyacht marinas into our corner of Simpson Bay marina. It was everything it needed to be and we found a fabulous supermarket nearby and chandlers galore within dinghy distance. Resolute was treated to a new sun awning (an essential piece of kit in these climes) and a new set of batteries. After a few days catching up with our chores and using the excellent internet we decided we must move on and boldly cleared out of the Dutch side of Sint Martin and proceeded through another lifting bridge in the middle of the lagoon into the French side of the island (St. Martin). Along with many other yachties we anchored in the grubby-watered lagoon and then proceeded to Marigot, the French capital in the dinghy to, yes, you guessed, clear in. It was rather strange to be on the same island but in a completely different place. Out came our rusty French again and our euros (US dollar and Eastern Caribbean dollars were the currency on the Dutch side and useless here) in order to do the formalities (self-service in France on a computer upstairs in the tiny harbour office and grudgingly stamped by the Immigration Officer at the Ferry Docks). The little harbour was surrounded by chic boutiques and bars and the atmosphere was unmistakably Francophile at every turn. Searching for a supermarket there some days later we followed directions across a rather shabby area of town with dark shambling shacks selling odds and ends interspersed with scrub land and goats. This cannot be the right road we were beginning to think….but then as if incorrectly placed like a hotel on the Old Kent Road in Monopoly was a gleaming new Super U full of organic French vegetables and Foie Gras!

Betwixt the French and Dutch cacophony that is Saint Martin there is a thriving British ex-pat community who ply their nautical trades to both sectors and constantly manage to vive la difference. The seeming ring-leader is a chap called Shrimpy who has a boatyard cum laundry cum bar cum café but his most notorious claim to fame is his hosting of a very useful VHF radio net in English every morning at 9. Here there is an exchange of news and views and newcomers too are accepted in to the fold and their inane questions are answered by committee on the airwaves. In the calm but somewhat murky waters of the lagoon there seemed to be a preponderance of rather sad yachts requiring much tlc (tender loving care) who had been lived aboard but stationary in the lagoon for eons as life had somehow passed on by. It seemed that some of these British live-aboards contributed avidly to Shrimpy’s daily broadcasts and the lagoon had become their entire world.   We felt the need to move on.

Our last port of call, after all the madness of the busy lagoon was back out through a tiny narrow lifting bridge, past Shrimpy’s entire empire and with some relief out into the azure clear ocean. Round the corner we found a beautiful peaceful cove called Anse Marcel. Ashore there was a widesandy beach belonging to the Radisson hotel complex and marina which we were able to access by dinghy. As we contemplated our departure from this split-personality of an island we saw a boat we recognised coming into the bay with its distinctive yellow canopy.It belonged to a Swiss couple we had met several times along the way in Portugal. They intended making their own way across the Atlantic …..and here they were! We spent a lovely evening aboard ‘Givemefive’ comparing our journeys and our future plans. Having nearly completed their frantic one year Caribbean tour and heading north to the Bahamas and thence back across the Atlantic in May, we sadly said our goodbyes to Claude and Gael knowing our paths were unlikely to cross again. The next day, as we wound our way from our anchored boat into the marina to (guess what!) clear out of French St Martin we were being watched by huge iguanas sitting stock still on the rocks, moving only their eyes as they watched us pass them. What language do they speak we wondered? A fitting end to the unique melange that is St. Martin/Sint Maartin.

 

 

Resolute and the Virgins

Judith and Duncan with us at The Baths, Virgin Gorda

The Baths, Gorda

Judith at the helm!

Definitely in the United States!

Resolute basking in the Virgins

Another impossibly beautiful sunset in the Virgin Islands.

So, now we have got you to the environs of the Virgin Islands at last and the clearance performance is at last completed without us being clapped in irons on either the US or British Islands. It is time to let us share with you our impressions. 

Of course, the first thing one notices is the abundance of boats. This is truly THE sailing mecca. Yachts, catamarans and super yachts and cruisers are everywhere. But because there are so many islands with all their little nooks and crannies in which to hide, it somehow never feels uncomfortably crowded in any of the anchorages or harbours.  Whereas further south in the windward islands the majority of ensigns flying were those of fellow European trans-Atlanticees, up in the Virgins we were in the minority; it was the stars and stripes and the maple leaves who reigned supreme. Channel 16 (the VHF channel exclusively reserved for serious messaging between boats and coastal stations) was transformed into a communication system to book a place in a nearby resort or book a table in a restaurant and even to make your choice from the menu! (Solent coastguard would have apoplexy).

In an e-mail message to my parents when we had just arrived in St. Thomas at the capital Charlotte Amalie, I described it as being an island in the Caribbean sea which seemed to have had all the Caribbeanness wrung out of it and replaced by bling!  On reflection, and once we had explored the town more thoroughly, that was perhaps a slight exaggeration.  The market at least was authentic and sold some beautifully colourful clothes and knick-knacks and hidden behind the main streets were relics of what once was a thriving Danish harbour….yes, Danish!  There are still many wooden clap-board Scandinavian-looking buildings dotted around (so familiar to us with our recent Norwegian habitat still at the forefront of our minds). The Danes sold their Virgin Islands to the United States in 1917.  The US was keen to have them as they wanted a military outpost in the Caribbean and a coaling station and harbours for steam ships. Today the prime industry of Charlotte Amalie is the separation of cruise ship passengers from their dollars! They come in their droves.  Usually there are at least 4 cruise ships tied up in the harbour and sometimes more. As a duty free haven, shoppers are seduced by endless shops selling everything from flavoured rums to diamonds.  Outside the shops the vendors try to lure you in by loudly extolling the virtues of their wares; meanwhile taxi drivers constantly ask you if you require their services…..so a casual walk down the main shopping thoroughfare cannot possibly be perceived as a quiet, undisturbed stroll. One cruise ship in particular caught my eye when we first came in to Charlotte Amalie on the ferry.  A monster US vessel, I was disconcerted to see its name was ERIC.  “What a strange, but rather endearing name for such a massive floating hotel….” I commented to Colin.  Once he had stopped laughing and regained some composure he invited me to look again at the ship’s name, writ large on the hull…..not ERIC, but EPIC!  Every cruise ship we have seen since…and there have been very many….I have hoped was ERIC again but so far he has alluded us….perhaps feeling rather insulted at being thus demeaned. (However, Simon Cowell has since come to every sad ERIC’s rescue by giving his new baby son that name….I must have known it would soon be stylish again…ahead of the game me!)

Having had enough of the bustling streets we set sail with our guests Judith and Duncan and headed around the top of the island where we understood the beaches were wonderful. Magen’s Bay was supposedly the most sheltered with a vast expanse of powdery sand almost completely around the perimeter….picture postcard stuff.  Having anchored, we eagerly changed into our swimming togs and climbed in the dinghy to go ashore to the beach to cool off.  We were greeted not by a welcoming committee but by a surly American guard telling us in no uncertain terms that we were not permitted to come ashore in our dinghy anywhere along that huge expanse of public beach.  Great!  We reluctantly got back in and headed right across the bay to a tiny patch of sandy beach populated in the main by gentlemen who liked to swim together in the all-together (if you get my drift) but not to be put off again and without further ado we beached the dinghy and jumped (fully clothed in swimming gear and averting our chaste eyes – I hasten to add) into the turquoise waters.  Bliss at last. The same regimented rulings to dinghy approaches to beaches predominated throughout the US Virgin Islands, supposedly because it was considered dangerous to mix swimmers with outboard motors, so we observed the permitted lanes and paid strict attention to all the notices on the beaches stating the many rules and regulations.  We were left in no doubt that we were indeed in the United States!

Now all that organisation and administration which felt prohibitive in St Thomas was put to positive use on the neighbouring island of St. John which is predominantly, along with all its many beautiful coastal bays and cays, a National Park.  The tycoon I.S. Rockefeller bought the island in 1954 and gave it to the nation (except for the posh resort at Caneel Bay which is still the reserve of the rich and famous). Unlike, St. Thomas which is covered in hotels and houses, St. John has none of the large scale, somewhat brutal developments and very few people live there. There are endless little bays all well organised with different coloured mooring buoys for only daytime use, or diving boat use, or overnight use. All are very secure and well maintained by the Park service and allow adequate space for privacy and enjoyment without the damage to the coral which indescriminate anchoring would cause.  Rangers patrol to give advice and a welcome service at each venue from a local boat ensures you are aware of the stringent guidelines that have helped to keep the island from the abuse of overuse. For $15 per night we enjoyed many a beautiful clear watered bay populated by stunning tropical fish and cheeky quick-diving turtles.  Payment was made at a floating payment station. Once we had got used to the system we were grateful for its simplicity. On land, the National Park had trails and paths to enjoy the wooded interiors and also the ruined Danish plantations. We followed the trail to the ruins of Annaberg Sugar Mill. It certainly served as a stark reminder amidst the lush green beauty of the island slopes and the views of the brilliant blue waters, of the ugly, bleak, slave-driven economy on which this island and much of the Caribbean once thrived.

Sailing north up Drake’s Passage (!) to face the inevitable immigration clearance once more, we took Judith and Duncan back to where we started in Tortola and the British Virgin Islands.  Much more laid-back and casual in attitude, but still with some US influences, the British Virgins have retained much of their unique Caribbean identity but lacked some of the finesse and organisational rigour of the US Virgin Islands.  Yer pays yer money and yer takes yer choice! Road Town is the capital – a vast crowded harbour littered with pontoons and cruise ships and yacht charter companies in a real chaotic mish-mash. We radio-ed in to one of the large yacht harbours but after several attempts got no reply so decided to tie up anyway and a rather perplexed Colin then went to find someone to ask where we should go…a far cry from the instant responses and welcoming, helpful dockside assistance we had been used to in the USVI. Eventually a guy sauntered along and showed us where we could moor. From there we were able to explore the rather ramshackle town which was carefully positioned well behind the twee little gaily-painted shopping shacks purpose-built near the cruise terminal. There were vendors selling fish on wooden benches on street corners and a supermarket full of local produce….we felt we were back in the real Caribbean again.

 Continuing up the coast to eastern Tortola we discovered the wonderful Trellis Bay….chocablok full of boats big, small, plush and wrecks with a gorgeous beach littered with beach bars and little arty craft stalls and shacks. Many a rum-punch was imbibed at this and similar beach bars along the way….a speciality venue of choice in the British Virgins……bars with wonderfully apt names like The Last Resort, The Loose Mongoose or D’ Best Cup!  Pusser’s Painkillers were probably the most effective cocktails to live up to their name.  Made with the famous British Navy Pusser’s rum (the original ‘grog’ first issued to sailors in 1740) they certainly did deliver  the proverbial punch!

After several soirees at unspeakably exquisite tropical island anchorages around Tortola we ended up on the larger 10 mile island of Virgin Gorda….another volcanic island which is predominantly a National Park to preserve many of its outstanding natural features, including the famous Baths.  These are a remarkable collection of slowly eroding huge boulders that line the south of the island which we visited one blisteringly hot afternoon.  The swell rushes in forming swirling gullies between the rocks making swimming and snokelling rather hazardous, but the trails and paths between (and even under) the huge impressive rocks are beguiling and awe-inspiring. The northern sound of the island which is entangled in multiple coral reefs, is called The Bitter End and we clawed our way in there down a narrow buoyed channel into a wide bay with tiny islands and anchorages all fringed with mangroves. Nearby was Necker Island, privately owned by Sir Richard Bransom (of Virgin fame of course).   We craned our necks to get a look at the hugely stylish octagonal-shaped villa gracing its hillside vista.  We found out too that he is developing the adjacent Mosquito Island which is to be totally self-sufficient in environmental terms…it is currently under development but the villas will be occupied by the rich and famous eco-aware in the near future no doubt.

It was with incredibly heavy hearts that we then headed back to St. Thomas to put Judith and Duncan on their plane home.  We then had to confront our own plans to get us back down south for the beginning of March when Matt and Kim and youngest grandson Geoffrey (Geoffers to his friends) would be arriving in Antigua….some 200 miles away.  No panic…plenty of time!  We decided that the best option was to head to the island at the furthest northerly tip of the Virgin chain and one as yet unvisited – Anegada. They call this tiny island ‘the drowned island’ and its low profile is in stark contrast to the other volcanic island peaks. It is comprised just of coral and limestone; at its highest point is only 28 feet above sea level. Its 11 mile length is almost totally fringed with white sandy beaches…..truly amazing.  The downside is the difficult approach through a narrow buoyed channel which supposedly keeps you roughly clear of any coral heads (which would be through our hull in a nanosecond) – so much so that some charter boats are not allowed to venture to the island at all. (N.B. This is BVI we’re talking about here….no re-assuring USVI precision to rely on).  However, on the day, having successfully identified the channel and survived with our hull intact, we picked up a buoy along with many other hardy souls in Setting Point bay.  We were greeted immediately on our arrival by Barry, a smiling chap who proudly introduced us not just to himself but to his “most beautiful office in the world”! He was pleased to take our money for the use of the buoy and recommend to us his restaurant on the beach.  Much to his delight, we eventually booked a table with him for the following evening. Anegada is unique.  It has that rare ‘edge of the world’ feeling about it.  As you would imagine it is extremely low-key and very casual.  All around the bay are restaurants and one small hotel – each with its own little dinghy dock. It is all on a delightfully small scale at Setting Point – one little grocery store-cum-launderette-cum car-hire. One little craft shop. One little internet café. Simply bliss after all the hub-bub of the other islands.  Perhaps it was a real metropolis in comparison down the road at the biggest town called simply The Settlement….we never made it to there.  Instead we decided to spend the next day walking over to the interior salt lake to try to see some illusive flamingos who apparently hang-out there (none seen) and then along and along and along the palm fringed, white sandy beach….stopping to swim when the heat became too much.  Oh what a chore!  That evening we ate chez Barry……not a huge success it has to be said but what it lacked in delivery it made up for in atmosphere (note to self…..to grill lobster is a sin to human-kind serving only to render it akin to fishy tough old boots). 

So ended our Virgin Islands escapade.  Now to head back down south…..initially at least  sailing to windward.  Who thought this sailing plan was sensible? Pleasurable – yes; sensible –  definitely not!