Fort de France, Martinique is a big city by Caribbean standards. The first person we talked to was the Customs lady, originally from Ontario.
We anchored by the fort itself, and had a great view of at least a part of the city, and no view of the industrial areas or the container piers around on the other side of the fort. We were rather close to the ferry docks, which seems to be the standard for anchorages in the Caribbean, and bobbled and rolled when they came and went. Three other Canadian boats near us, two from Quebec, and Raft, from Midland, Ontario. The Customs lady had been to summer camp for several years in Midland, so they had lots to chat about.
Had a blast wandering around FdeF. Randy was the soul of patience, and I was able to supplement the desperate pile of faded and stained Frenchy's clothes that I've been wearing when "clothing optional" is not an option. We went into one of many lingerie stores, and here's me, flipping through one of the many racks of matched sets, completely lost with the European sizing. The salesperson, a young woman about 6'2", enormous, asks in French if she can help. Randy tries to translate measurements into both centimetres and French, but after some gesticulation, she just reached over and felt my breasts, one after the other, then walked over to a rack, and flipped through until I indicated a set I liked. She walked over and slapped them on the countertop, and was a bit surprised that I wanted to try on the bra. Also purchased (different store) a new brass hinge for the cockpit table to replace a broken one, and paid about 10 Euros for the thing. We hadn't been able to use the table for a couple of weeks, so we figured it was a necessary expense.
Had lunch at Lina's, a wonderful sandwich with wonderful red wine (we've figured out that you have to chill red wine to the right temperature. Red wine is not meant to be drunk at 30 degrees C), and watched the soccer. Everywhere, there's soccer.
When we got back to the boat with our haul, I tried stuff on for Randy, and noted that the teeny snazzy underwear that went with the bra was a size XL. Now there's a confidence buster. Then Randy replaced the broken hinge on the cockpit table, closed up the table, and the other hinge broke. Situation normal.
We shifted across the bay to Anse a L'Ane, which seems to be sort of a weekend spot/suburb for the big town. The entertainment for the afternoon was watching the kids jumping off the wharf, and listening to the irregular roars and shouts from a beach bar: more soccer. The little ferries came and went, and everytime they pulled into the dock, the boys on the dock would cease jumping from the end of the dock, run onto the ferry, up to the roof, and leap off with loud whoops.
It was overcast and showery, so for a change of scene, we moved over to the next bay, Anse Mitan. Just after we anchored, a fellow in a dinghy came alongside and said that they were coming with their big schooner to pick up a little mooring ahead of us, and we would have to move. No problem. The schooner was a huge, ugly, hogged, bodged affair for daytrippers that we'd seen across the bay. Randy has trained me well, and I was able to discuss with him quietly all the reasons it was an abomination. I also noted that the mate in the dinghy had a very bad ponytail held in place with a pink scrunchy. He probably looked up at me and thought, en francaise, "does she know that there's a grease stain on the front of that ugly pea green top?"
Next day, we sailed across to St. Lucia. A grey, grey, grey day, a very confused swell and chop, and occasional heavy rain. There are always compensations, and today, it was dozens and dozens of small porpoises leaping about, flipping high out of the water, walking on their tails, and swimming along in beautifully sychronized groups.
We headed into the lagoon at Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, to get out of the swell, to check in and line up fuel and water for the next day. First person to greet us was Gregory the Fruitman in his little boat with a very rickety awning flying dozens of flags. We bought six mangoes and a pineapple for a couple of dollars, and picked up another scratch on the topsides. Next was John, in his brightly painted little boat with an enormous Bob Marley flag flying from the stern. John was very, very, mellow, I mean really mellow, and he and I had a nice chat. He told me about some of the boat ladies that really liked him, and maybe I might really like him, and I mentioned that I had a captain of my own (who came on deck at that moment) and John backed down in his mellow way, and we bought a woven palm basket from him. We saw John the next day, and it being offseason, he hadn't sold anything all day and he looked beat and terribly skinny, although still mellow. We gave him a sandwich and a beer and he told us how he used to run tours in a bigger boat, taking tourists down the coast, and back up in time for the sunset. He seems less able now, although still a young man. Too much ganja is my guess. He was going home to share the sandwich with his dog. We did enjoy talking with John and Gregory (tomatoes and avocado the next day), and John taught me to do a proper Rasta handshake.
Chris Doyle's guide indicated that the best pizza place in the island was just around the corner, so we opted for dinner ashore and it was great. Upstairs from the restaurant there was a fitness club, so we scarfed our pizza to the sounds of a heavy bass beat and the thumping of feet and the sadistic barking of the aerobics instructor. Back at the dock, a young woman, all tarted up, stopped me, "Excuussee meee! I just want to have a small coffee here? Can you give me 6 dollars?" Um, no. The next afternoon, the same young woman spotted Randy alone at the dinghy dock waiting for me to get back from the bakery, and, in her wet tshirt, said "Excuussee meee! Would you like to have a massage later?" Entrepreneurial tart. We left the lagoon that afternoon, and anchored out in the bay, just out of the sphere of the Sandals Resort.
Randy here. Cocktail hour, and we're sipping the usual rum concoction, and we spied a typical yellow plastic kayak from the resort, manned by an East Indian couple. We were hoping that they weren't on their honeymoon.They seemed to be having a lively discussion about how to turn the kayak around. They'd blown downwind from the resort, and were now in a panic state about how to get back. First, there were loud cries from the woman everytime the man tried to wield his paddle, then they were both paddling in unison, backwards, with the most tentative strokes imaginable, just moving inches per stroke. Sue suggested that she'd seen more torque applied to a spoon in a tub of ice cream. For the next fifteen minutes, they paddled this way, and were just holding their own, backwards, against the trade wind. At this point, Sue said "maybe you should go over and offer to tow them back, or instruct them, or something," when eureka, the light bulb came on, and they both started paddling on the same side, and the bow came round into the wind. After that, it was the drill sargeant voice of the woman in the bow, "Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right" with the occasional "Right, Right" when she felt they were off course. Why we need rum at this time of day. So we went ashore to Jambe de Bois (wooden leg) for snacks and wifi, and the best book swap we've run into so far.
Headed down to the Pitons at the south end of the island. The most amazing peaks, shooting straight out of the ocean, covered with green, wreathed with clouds. We picked up a mooring at the base of the northern, highest piton, and the small reef at the base was in about 8 feet of water, we were within 15 feet of the reef and in 60 feet of water, and if you spit a cherry pit off the south side of the boat, it would sink in about 300-400 feet of dark water. SB had a couple of good snorkels at the base of the piton, but picked up something stingy on the arms on the way back to the boat. Swimmers on Aldora on a mooring just behind us had the same problem, both of them also doing the crawl. Vinegar and alcohol (applied externally) stopped the stinging right away.
Rolly bloody spot, so we shifted in the morning to moorings between the pitons, again, spectacular. No anchoring allowed in this area since it's a reserve, and no fishing either, not that we'd be much of a threat these days. Hung out for another day, then booted across to Bequia (say it BeckWay, and you'll fit in), the northernmost of the Grenadines. Yesterday, we had the pleasure of watching two traditional Bequia two-bow (double enders) boats racing. Each had a crew of about 6, and they flew.
But we have arrived at some sort of carnival time. The very worst part of modern technology is the ability to amplify shitty music. All we hear is DUM DA DUM DUM, DUM DA DUM DUM, AND REPEAT. Endlessly. We're a mile away from the centre of town, and you can still feel the noise vibrating in your chest. Last night, the music went until about 3:50 am, and then there was a Jump Up that started at 4 am and wound down at about 8 am, when we decided to get up and eat breakfast. Shopping in town this morning, we noticed clumps of bodies lolling on benches under trees, vodka bottles still in use, covered with white mud or paint. The place came alive again (DUM DA DUM DUM, DUM DA DUM DUM) in the afternoon, and is still rocking.
Tuesday, and town has quieted down. We walked up hill and down dale all the way out to the turtle hatchery, and were so well rewarded with a lovely talk with Brother King. As a young man, he used to fish and take turtles, and for the last 11 years, he's now 68, he's been working hard to try to give the endangered turtles a chance. He watches and guards the nests of eggs, collects as many babies as he can, and raises them until they're about five years old and then releases them. Without his help, a baby turtle has about 1 in 3,000 chance of making it to adulthood (it takes 25 years for the females to be old enough to lay eggs), and Brother King's rate is about 50 out of 100. He's released 880 turtles to date. He was particularly concerned because this year, about 3/4 of the way into the egg-laying season, he's only found one nest of eggs. His focus is on educating the young people in Bequia. The adults see turtles, and turtle eggs, as food, and he's counting on getting the young people educated about how the turtles are disappearing. What an interesting man. Self-taught, dedicated, passionate, he works with his turtles every day by himself, with help from his grandchildren. Guess what the baby turtles eat? Brunswick Sardines.
Very interesting day, very long walk, then very expensive laundry in the afternoon.
Next post, I hope to have a picture of prom night: Tom in a suit, and Molly, who is, according to Tom (a most truthful boy), "the prettiest creature to grace the earth." This has nothing to do with cruising in the Caribbean, but everthing to do with being a mother cruising in the Caribbean.
We anchored by the fort itself, and had a great view of at least a part of the city, and no view of the industrial areas or the container piers around on the other side of the fort. We were rather close to the ferry docks, which seems to be the standard for anchorages in the Caribbean, and bobbled and rolled when they came and went. Three other Canadian boats near us, two from Quebec, and Raft, from Midland, Ontario. The Customs lady had been to summer camp for several years in Midland, so they had lots to chat about.
Had a blast wandering around FdeF. Randy was the soul of patience, and I was able to supplement the desperate pile of faded and stained Frenchy's clothes that I've been wearing when "clothing optional" is not an option. We went into one of many lingerie stores, and here's me, flipping through one of the many racks of matched sets, completely lost with the European sizing. The salesperson, a young woman about 6'2", enormous, asks in French if she can help. Randy tries to translate measurements into both centimetres and French, but after some gesticulation, she just reached over and felt my breasts, one after the other, then walked over to a rack, and flipped through until I indicated a set I liked. She walked over and slapped them on the countertop, and was a bit surprised that I wanted to try on the bra. Also purchased (different store) a new brass hinge for the cockpit table to replace a broken one, and paid about 10 Euros for the thing. We hadn't been able to use the table for a couple of weeks, so we figured it was a necessary expense.
Had lunch at Lina's, a wonderful sandwich with wonderful red wine (we've figured out that you have to chill red wine to the right temperature. Red wine is not meant to be drunk at 30 degrees C), and watched the soccer. Everywhere, there's soccer.
When we got back to the boat with our haul, I tried stuff on for Randy, and noted that the teeny snazzy underwear that went with the bra was a size XL. Now there's a confidence buster. Then Randy replaced the broken hinge on the cockpit table, closed up the table, and the other hinge broke. Situation normal.
We shifted across the bay to Anse a L'Ane, which seems to be sort of a weekend spot/suburb for the big town. The entertainment for the afternoon was watching the kids jumping off the wharf, and listening to the irregular roars and shouts from a beach bar: more soccer. The little ferries came and went, and everytime they pulled into the dock, the boys on the dock would cease jumping from the end of the dock, run onto the ferry, up to the roof, and leap off with loud whoops.
It was overcast and showery, so for a change of scene, we moved over to the next bay, Anse Mitan. Just after we anchored, a fellow in a dinghy came alongside and said that they were coming with their big schooner to pick up a little mooring ahead of us, and we would have to move. No problem. The schooner was a huge, ugly, hogged, bodged affair for daytrippers that we'd seen across the bay. Randy has trained me well, and I was able to discuss with him quietly all the reasons it was an abomination. I also noted that the mate in the dinghy had a very bad ponytail held in place with a pink scrunchy. He probably looked up at me and thought, en francaise, "does she know that there's a grease stain on the front of that ugly pea green top?"
Next day, we sailed across to St. Lucia. A grey, grey, grey day, a very confused swell and chop, and occasional heavy rain. There are always compensations, and today, it was dozens and dozens of small porpoises leaping about, flipping high out of the water, walking on their tails, and swimming along in beautifully sychronized groups.
We headed into the lagoon at Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, to get out of the swell, to check in and line up fuel and water for the next day. First person to greet us was Gregory the Fruitman in his little boat with a very rickety awning flying dozens of flags. We bought six mangoes and a pineapple for a couple of dollars, and picked up another scratch on the topsides. Next was John, in his brightly painted little boat with an enormous Bob Marley flag flying from the stern. John was very, very, mellow, I mean really mellow, and he and I had a nice chat. He told me about some of the boat ladies that really liked him, and maybe I might really like him, and I mentioned that I had a captain of my own (who came on deck at that moment) and John backed down in his mellow way, and we bought a woven palm basket from him. We saw John the next day, and it being offseason, he hadn't sold anything all day and he looked beat and terribly skinny, although still mellow. We gave him a sandwich and a beer and he told us how he used to run tours in a bigger boat, taking tourists down the coast, and back up in time for the sunset. He seems less able now, although still a young man. Too much ganja is my guess. He was going home to share the sandwich with his dog. We did enjoy talking with John and Gregory (tomatoes and avocado the next day), and John taught me to do a proper Rasta handshake.
Chris Doyle's guide indicated that the best pizza place in the island was just around the corner, so we opted for dinner ashore and it was great. Upstairs from the restaurant there was a fitness club, so we scarfed our pizza to the sounds of a heavy bass beat and the thumping of feet and the sadistic barking of the aerobics instructor. Back at the dock, a young woman, all tarted up, stopped me, "Excuussee meee! I just want to have a small coffee here? Can you give me 6 dollars?" Um, no. The next afternoon, the same young woman spotted Randy alone at the dinghy dock waiting for me to get back from the bakery, and, in her wet tshirt, said "Excuussee meee! Would you like to have a massage later?" Entrepreneurial tart. We left the lagoon that afternoon, and anchored out in the bay, just out of the sphere of the Sandals Resort.
Randy here. Cocktail hour, and we're sipping the usual rum concoction, and we spied a typical yellow plastic kayak from the resort, manned by an East Indian couple. We were hoping that they weren't on their honeymoon.They seemed to be having a lively discussion about how to turn the kayak around. They'd blown downwind from the resort, and were now in a panic state about how to get back. First, there were loud cries from the woman everytime the man tried to wield his paddle, then they were both paddling in unison, backwards, with the most tentative strokes imaginable, just moving inches per stroke. Sue suggested that she'd seen more torque applied to a spoon in a tub of ice cream. For the next fifteen minutes, they paddled this way, and were just holding their own, backwards, against the trade wind. At this point, Sue said "maybe you should go over and offer to tow them back, or instruct them, or something," when eureka, the light bulb came on, and they both started paddling on the same side, and the bow came round into the wind. After that, it was the drill sargeant voice of the woman in the bow, "Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right" with the occasional "Right, Right" when she felt they were off course. Why we need rum at this time of day. So we went ashore to Jambe de Bois (wooden leg) for snacks and wifi, and the best book swap we've run into so far.
Headed down to the Pitons at the south end of the island. The most amazing peaks, shooting straight out of the ocean, covered with green, wreathed with clouds. We picked up a mooring at the base of the northern, highest piton, and the small reef at the base was in about 8 feet of water, we were within 15 feet of the reef and in 60 feet of water, and if you spit a cherry pit off the south side of the boat, it would sink in about 300-400 feet of dark water. SB had a couple of good snorkels at the base of the piton, but picked up something stingy on the arms on the way back to the boat. Swimmers on Aldora on a mooring just behind us had the same problem, both of them also doing the crawl. Vinegar and alcohol (applied externally) stopped the stinging right away.
Rolly bloody spot, so we shifted in the morning to moorings between the pitons, again, spectacular. No anchoring allowed in this area since it's a reserve, and no fishing either, not that we'd be much of a threat these days. Hung out for another day, then booted across to Bequia (say it BeckWay, and you'll fit in), the northernmost of the Grenadines. Yesterday, we had the pleasure of watching two traditional Bequia two-bow (double enders) boats racing. Each had a crew of about 6, and they flew.
But we have arrived at some sort of carnival time. The very worst part of modern technology is the ability to amplify shitty music. All we hear is DUM DA DUM DUM, DUM DA DUM DUM, AND REPEAT. Endlessly. We're a mile away from the centre of town, and you can still feel the noise vibrating in your chest. Last night, the music went until about 3:50 am, and then there was a Jump Up that started at 4 am and wound down at about 8 am, when we decided to get up and eat breakfast. Shopping in town this morning, we noticed clumps of bodies lolling on benches under trees, vodka bottles still in use, covered with white mud or paint. The place came alive again (DUM DA DUM DUM, DUM DA DUM DUM) in the afternoon, and is still rocking.
Tuesday, and town has quieted down. We walked up hill and down dale all the way out to the turtle hatchery, and were so well rewarded with a lovely talk with Brother King. As a young man, he used to fish and take turtles, and for the last 11 years, he's now 68, he's been working hard to try to give the endangered turtles a chance. He watches and guards the nests of eggs, collects as many babies as he can, and raises them until they're about five years old and then releases them. Without his help, a baby turtle has about 1 in 3,000 chance of making it to adulthood (it takes 25 years for the females to be old enough to lay eggs), and Brother King's rate is about 50 out of 100. He's released 880 turtles to date. He was particularly concerned because this year, about 3/4 of the way into the egg-laying season, he's only found one nest of eggs. His focus is on educating the young people in Bequia. The adults see turtles, and turtle eggs, as food, and he's counting on getting the young people educated about how the turtles are disappearing. What an interesting man. Self-taught, dedicated, passionate, he works with his turtles every day by himself, with help from his grandchildren. Guess what the baby turtles eat? Brunswick Sardines.
Very interesting day, very long walk, then very expensive laundry in the afternoon.
Next post, I hope to have a picture of prom night: Tom in a suit, and Molly, who is, according to Tom (a most truthful boy), "the prettiest creature to grace the earth." This has nothing to do with cruising in the Caribbean, but everthing to do with being a mother cruising in the Caribbean.
posted by Susan at 4:13 PM
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