Very mixed feelings sailed with us out of Ile a Vache early one January morning. Yes, we would be pleased to be away from all the oft-intrusive knockings on the hull which we knew would usually herald another plea for something with a tough decision attached…but conversely we had got to know so many brightly interesting characters who had each enriched our days.
However, it was time to move on so after some very fond farewells we edged out of the bay under sail – frightened to engage the engine until we were out of fishing buoy territory which was some miles out into the deep water off the Haitian headland. There had been a change of plan: instead of heading directly due west for Cuba, we had decided to head south west to Jamaica. We had read that the Cubans were wary of boats coming directly from Haiti – worried, probably unnecessarily, about the threat of cholera which had certainly been a problem in the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake of 2010 and by the lack of a clearance document, for the uninitiated, a clearance document from your last port is an essential prerequisite for being allowed into your next country. Also we were desperate for some decent supplies. So it seemed to make sense to head for an English speaking capitalist state – enter Jamaica – not to mention our desire to see yet another Caribbean island. Always a treat to be able to communicate without the obstructive prism of a foreign language especially when your paperwork is not in order! This was no minor detour though – I suppose it is proof, if any were required, of our new found determined boldness in the face of longer passages at sea this season – 150 miles out of our way albeit with the wind behind us, but then making our trip north to Santiago de Cuba a possibly more uncomfortable beam reach instead of an always comfortable run. Were we mad? Possibly!
After an uneventful, peaceful 24 hour sail, dawn broke over Jamaica just ahead of us. That spectacular sight alone made the journey worthwhile – easily some of the highest peaks we had seen in the Caribbean – looming large above the more prosaic green slopes. We were face to face with the famous blue mountains. We found the entrance to Port Antonio tucked in behind a headland, slipped between the headland and the abandoned Navy Island and found ourselves in a large bay with several other yachts on mooring buoys and others, including some very grand vessels in the marina. Attractive fresh white wooden colonial-style buildings lined the water’s edge – all very twee and a far cry from the higgledy-piggledy shack-lined shores of Ile a Vache. After a night of watches we were, as always, desperate for some sleep so we wearily picked up a buoy in the dawn light, did the minimum and grabbed some sleep. We were woken a few hours later by seriously heavy rainfall. Stair-rods of rain were falling and our blue vista was turned to a very grey, unwelcoming one. We radioed the marina and asked the procedure for checking in. We had heard that Jamaica, was particularly rigorous with its clearing process, so were relieved to be told that all we needed to do was bring the boat to the dockside where customs, immigration and public health officials would visit us……but that we did not need to think about moving anywhere until the rain had stopped. Phew!
The pause though, gave Gilly at least ,time to worry slightly about what exactly an environmental health inspection of our boat might entail thus inspiring some frantic cleaning and sorting until the rain stopped and we were directed to ‘the face dock’ – an term we had not come across before – an Americanism we learnt meant ‘the far side of the main dock’. We live and learn. The Marina Manager, Paul, gave us a ream of forms to complete in readiness for the clearing process. The dreaded Health Inspector arrived and came aboard all smiles and welcomes and very non-threatening (he had even bought his beautiful teenage daughter along with him – it being Sunday). He checked in our food storage lockers, fridge and freezer that we had not imported any nasties from Haiti – asked about tummy bugs (have you got a fever/diarrhoea?), checked for any other sort of crawling bug and for out of date meat products hidden away. Once satisfied he signed us off giving us permission to take down our yellow Q (quarantine) flag and dump our rubbish ashore. Next aboard came two large (physiques we had not seen whilst in Haiti), jovial chaps who were severally from Customs and Immigration. Again, they were efficient but friendly – so we were soon passport-stamped and legal once more, heading back to our mooring buoy in the bay. First impressions of Jamaica were certainly very favourable though became a little tarnished when a cacophony of music started up around us – not from just one source but from many –all seemingly trying to outdo each other in volume and bad taste! However, somewhat immune to it all by our tiredness we slept well.
It is impossible to arrive at this Marina without being reminded of the star-studded past of this area. The Errol Flynn Marina is so called because the post war film idol made this his refuge from Hollywood here. Port Antonio apparently owes its origins as a tourist spot to Flynn after he ran aground in his yacht here and took such a liking to the area that he bought Navy Island and a nearby hotel on the peninsula off Port Antonio. By the 1950’s he was inviting a string of celebrities to visit including Bette Davis and Ginger Rogers. Flynn sadly died in 1959, aged only 50, which brought the notoriety rather prematurely to an end. Little remains today of that celebrated legacy, except a sense of faded glamour and shabby charm. It seems that many a star seeking seclusion found their nirvana in Jamaica in the 50’s and 60’s. Just down the coast at Port Maria is Firefly, the Jamaican home of English playwright, actor and songwriter, Noel Coward. His house is still open to the public….but unfortunately we did not manage to go there.
Next day we were refreshed and ready to explore beyond the posh wrought iron gates of the quiet, staid, post-colonial reserve of the Marina complex. Within five minutes we were in the boisterous, colourful, frayed, dusty streets of downtown Port Antonio. Some colonial grandeur had long since gone to seed but some edifices survived in the form of statues and long-stopped town clocks. Hustle and bustle everywhere. Gosh what a difference from Haiti! Here was an ATM – there was another. Here was a small grocery store…..and over there is another! The covered market was vast and vibrant, with so much to offer we were spoilt by the choice of very fresh fruit and vegetables all purchased from comely Caribbean Mamas. Lettuces are often hard to come by in the Caribbean – unlike their doughty but far less alluring cousins, white cabbages which are everywhere. In Jamaica there was a glorious preponderance piled high on a market stall. Gilly comments “Oh those lettuces look beautiful “Mama stall holder (aged about 75) says…..”yep, just like me!….my name is Norma by da way….and if ya need yer chick’n or lobster jerked I’m ya gal! No-one jerks like Norma jerks!”. (By the way, for the uninitiated, to jerk is a verb meaning to coat and marinate any cut of meat, fish or crustacean in a sauce consisting of spices ,peppers and chilli – thus rendering it either hotly delicious or, depending on your personal taste – wholly inedible. It could be argued of course that the seedier cuts of beef, pork and goat benefit from such treatment….but lobster and fine fish….please!). Needless to say we stood laughing and buying Norma’s wonderful produce for some time…..but though we went back to Norma on subsequent days we never did try her jerk anything. Whilst on the subject of the delights of the market and meat selections let me recount one last memory. The butchery department. We have learnt by now that these sections of markets are not for the faint hearted and would make anyone tempted by vegetarianism definitely convert immediately. We had found no fresh meat in the small grocery shops in the town so we asked the receptionist in the Marina who told us. rather snootily, that there was a section of the market where everyone (meaning locals) bought their meat. We were amazed we had not yet found it but she told us it was ‘at the back’. Yes, it was ‘at the back’ for a reason….let’s just say the meat was VERY fresh and very juicy….in fact Gilly was standing too close when the bloodied butcher hacked our beef off the giant ribcage and got splattered liberally with ‘red juices’. The rest of the queue of locals, a safe distance behind us of course, looked on, shaking their heads knowingly, a small smile on their lips and the word ‘amateurs’ no doubt on their tongues! Even the dismembered head of the poor beast, unceremoniously sitting on the bench, seemed amused. Needless to say Gilly (a.k.a. Laundry Goblin) was not too happy about it. Such is life in these parts. The beef was chewy but good. (Totally un-jerked!)
This infectious, joyous attitude to life in Port Antonio and what little we saw of Jamaica generally made our trips into town no hardship. Often people asked where we came from which inevitably led to them alluding to a family in the U.K. and sometimes reminiscences of trips there to see them. Yes, there were a few chancers asking for money or to take us on trips. In fact every day an enthusiastic chap asked us if we would like to go white water rafting with him which struck me as desperate in the extreme – I mean, do I look like a white water rafter?!
The impressive boardwalk in the Marina complex led to a beautiful strip of sandy beach, complete with beach bar which belted out Bob Marley (Jamaica’s most celebrated celebrity) almost continually. We suspect the sandy beach was a touch fraudulent – maybe imported sand in a thin layer which quickly gave way to soft river mud of dubious origin if one approached the edge of the marked swimming area too closely. Our suspicions were enhanced by the signs everywhere saying that the sand was not to be removed from the beach. The signs also directed that the appropriate standard of beachwear must be worn (i.e. both halves of bikinis) and also specified that appropriate behaviour (nothing ’lewd’) was expected of guests. Our noses detected however, that the sort of tobacco smoked was not regulated in any way.
So that in a nutshell (usually nutmeg hereabouts) is our limited experience of Jamaica. There was more to see – Montego Bay sounded SO glamorous – but we had to push on. Take me to Cuba I said in timeworn fashion….OK , he said, why not, and off we went to Santiago to Cuba….
Navy Island, Jamaica -owned by Errol Flynn
Errol Flynn Marina, Port Antonio, Jamaica with Blue Mountains in background.
Those haunting blue mountains, Jamaica
Port Antonio, with mountains behind.
Goodbye Jamaica
Our first glimpse of Jamaica’s blue mountains
resolute-en-voyage 