Route of Tobago Clipper
This is the account of my sailing trip from Antigua to Gibraltar in the summer of 1995 with Roger, Neil and Veronica on the yacht Tobago Clipper. After a shakedown trip to St Lucia, we headed out over a windless ocean to Gibraltar, via Bermuda and the Azores. The trip took the whole of July and was completed without major loss or injury. The lack of wind in the Caribbean was more than made up for as we left the worst hurricane season in living memory in our wake. A timeous escape indeed.
Route of Tobago Clipper
Some experiences can be memorable, or even haunting. The unforgettable
type are filed away in compartments, waiting patiently to be booked out
and appear as fresh as if it were yesterday. The haunting variety need
the passage of time to exorcise the ghosts. I am uncertain all the ghosts
have been laid satisfactorily, but most of the demons have departed.
I can now use a land based toilet without a lifebelt and harness,
having overcome my mortal fear of falling in. This was caused by only
having an ashtray to crap in for two months. When asleep, I no longer
clutch the edge of the mattress, in the horizontal fruit-bat position.
Nor do I waken at two in the morning, and gingerly climb backwards out
of my bed to a floor which is now only a foot away, then jump straight
back in and try to lull a mind to sleep which is eager to be on watch.
Other devils still lurk and though. Covered in a cold sweat and sitting
bolt upright in bed whilst my wife is asking "What do you mean ‘For God’s
Sake! No More Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pies’?". The nausea from the
slightest whiff of something which smells a little bit like Smash instant
potato. A sense of longing as one watches the sun disappear into the sea
from the land.
Gatwick to Antigua is a very boring eight and a half hours of
claustrophobia. The return trip would be almost a month. Fellow
passengers included the cast of ‘Men Behaving Badly’ who, under
the influence of alcohol, spent their journey getting in their
character roles. The sight of an inebriated Martin Clunes heading
for the cockpit plunged the nervous flier contingent into deepest
gloom and anxiety.
Antigua airport didn’t disappoint. A long walk on black and scorched
asphalt in an atmosphere like a sauna with the fan on, leads you into
the cheerful pink building hung with notices about how happy Antigua is
to welcome you. The surly face of Caribbean bureaucracy soon has you
thinking about the Trade Descriptions act. The guards at Belsen greeting
the trains as seen in old newsreels appear positively charming compared
to the expressions cultivated by centuries of resentment. I think slavery
was abolished only because plantation owners got pissed-off with having
to see those surly faces every day. Teetering on the edge of illiteracy,
the officials stare into open passports with strained expressions, as
though willpower might unravel the mysterious symbols on the paper.
Nothing weird about mine, South African stamps and a permanent residence
certificate meant I didn’t have to smile, simper and pretend not be a
racist. I heaved up my bag, sixteen kilos of my gear and nine of Fray
Bentos tinned pies totalling over half a hundredweight. Fresh sweat
sprouted everywhere.
"Taxi Sor?" asked a grizzled old face of the kind that photographers
always take in black and white close ups. "Where you goin?", leaning
over the barrier and reaching for my 25 kilo bag.
"Jolly Harbour, how much?" I asked, ducking around the edge and hanging
onto the bag. I didn’t feel a Fray Bentos supercargo crippling moment
coming on, I’d keep it until I did.
"Dis way Sor!" A note of urgency reached his voice as he cast worried
looks behind us. An uproar was beginning to brew, and it was focused on us.
The system (as I now know) is that one must approach the scheduler,
not just grab the first likely lad with a taxicab badge. The smartly
dressed young thug will then allocate a taxi for your use. With the
danger of his cut being lost along with his authority, he scuttled
angrily after Methuselah an me.
"Eh mon, you can’t do dis ting, you must get a Taxi from me, mon!" he shouted.
Grizzled old man transformed into lioness with cub. If he could, he would
have grabbed my collar in his teeth and broken into a trot, but made do
with hurrying me into his Hiace oven. I practised my innocent-cub look
through the dusty back window at the gesticulating scheduler, like a scene
from "Born Free". You know the one: wide eyed, innocent, yet quizzical.
The cunning plan was foiled by the hi-tech barrier system. Two women in a
white breeze block hut collected parking fees in a box on a stick which
appeared from a square hole in the wall. They refused to raise the barrier,
so I was reluctantly prised from my temporary refuge and deposited into an
‘official’ taxi.
Still, I did have the pleasure of watching the scheduler’s
face as he carried the Fray Bentos catalogue across the hot car park.
The smart tropical shirt sprouted dark patches, whilst he took on the
astonished ‘slave being whipped’ look you see in B movies. All big
rolling eyes and sweaty forehead, casting worried glances
down at the big grey bag.
"Hello! - You made it OK - How the devil are you?" Roger came down onto
the quay at Jolly Harbour.
"Let’s get this bag on Tobago Clipper, let me have it - Oh my God!
I’ve ruptured something!" The Pies of Evil had claimed another victim.
First impressions were heat, humidity and a relentless wind blowing dust
from the semi-completed golf course. The sky was overcast and threatening.
A tropical wave, a bump in the isobars, was passing through and causing
the stormy looking weather. Later in the season these matured into
full-scale tropical storms and hurricanes; for now, it was just an
efficient dust transportation system.
Relieved to have made it, though pressed down by humidity and hot wind,
my spirits were further raised by Roger’s announcement.
"It’s Happy Hour at the Dogwatch!". Several Wadadli beers, rums and
brandies later, tired and emotional, sleep came on the lazarette with
a teak mattress and a winch for my pillow. To make your nest on a
collection of sharp objects is a great tribute to the potency of
Antiguan beer.
Jolly Harbour's original name still appears on the old charts. The pressures of tourism forced the change:
who would want to spend two weeks in Mosquito Bay? The bars and restaurants might make the evenings seem Jolly,
but visitors still wake up with several pints of blood missing - and clouds of pissed gnats having a disco round the street
lights. Jet lag, blood loss, alcohol poisoning and oppressive heat can all contribute to a feeling far removed from the
bushy tailed variety.
Discovered the manager of the Sports Club is a Zululand born Brit. He and his wife have had enough of the West Indies
and are heading back to Blighty soon. Had bags of fun crawling round with a rag and mineral oil removing the marks
left behind by the adhesive tape which held down the varnish protection cloths.
More tape mark removal, crowned with a boat wash. Off to the Dogwatch again to play pool with Roger. An
attractive girl called Sara, who turned out to be Tony's wife, took it all very seriously. We would have, if we'd stayed
slightly sober. Understandably, there was some chagrin when we kept winning (ha ha) .Post match laughter about
Sara's short dress riding up as she attempted a tricky shot, and Roger undecided whether to go for the pink or the
brown.
There is an octogenarian on the loose out here who answers to the name of Ernest, but you have to shout it quite loudly
before he does. A long term Canadian bachelor, he winters like an old marabou stork on his 35 ft Nicholson. Not only
is he trim and fit, but he's also randier than a tom cat on speed. Thin as a mop handle, with an unruly white thatch, his
skin looks as though it has had a previous, and altogether larger, owner. Most of his adult life was spent caring for his
invalid mother, so he is getting on with the good things in life with grim determination. His companion in crime was a
cherub faced Californian called Tim. Tim had studied the LA walk and talk which convinces you nothing is connected,
the contrived shamble which West Coast beach bums spend years perfecting - and which quickly spreads to their logic.
Tim and Ernest were in hot pursuit of two American student lasses, making a quartet of The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
and The Past It Completely. Tim was hoping for a `Three in a bed' romp; Ernest looked as though he'd be happy to
gather the crumbs from the bedsheet. The girls were `homely' featured and could have been mistaken for the Little and
Large double act. Ernest didn't do himself any favours in the chat-up department by stopping mid-sentence, staring
into the middle distance with rheumy grey eyes and sucking noisily on an imaginary acid drop. No one has the
complete theory on this behaviour, the clever money says he is rearranging his badly fitting dentures.
"Tim"
Few things can afford such amusement as watching a horny grandfather and grandson pair drool over such uninterested
targets, like some old vulture training its scion. Ernest's anxiety was draining away as we watched. He'd been
concerned that Roger and I were going to muscle in on his patch, and our protestations about condoms on bargepoles
were not believed until we confirmed we were married and thus out of the game. Unfortunately, as the last drops of
anxiety disappeared down the plughole of his brain, so did Ernest; behind the table of Tobago Clipper and into a
dreamless sleep. Tim left with the girls and 3-in-a-bed in his eyes, though definitely not in his future.
Saturday : Morning coffee was disrupted by an ancient head popping up from behind the table with panic written in its
eyes.
"Where am I (suck, suck, nibble, nibble). Where is this, who are you, and what time is it for God's sake?"
"You're on Tobago Clipper, we're not sure (hungover), it's nine o'clock, and would you like some coffee?" we said.
Recognising his surroundings, he relaxed and cupped his coffee.
"What happened last night then?" he asked, taking in the shambles of bottles and glasses.
"You shagged those poor girls half to death you old goat. When they cried for mercy we had to haul you off. Now the
fat one wants you to meet her mother."
The consensus of opinion in the bar that evening, Ernest having flown back to the USA the same day, was that if we
were as active at his age, we wouldn't give a damn about making fools of ourselves. George Rogers recounted an
amusing story about Ernest having the hots for a young woman. Apparently she thought Ernest was of the kindly uncle
variety, not the randy old bear. She was helming his boat, whilst Ernest stood behind to show her how - and cop a quick
feel at the same time. He was so intent the boat almost foundered on a reef, and the girl was distraught (and a little
disgusted too perhaps) when she discovered his beastly motives, and the cause of his dribbling wasn't an attack of the
Alzheimer's.
Sauntered off to the main beach, out of the marina, past the sporting club and along the hot road with Club Antigua on
my left. The approach to the beach is over a small bridge crossing one of the sluices into the timeshare development.
There are always large fish swimming here, so one has to wonder about the sewage arrangements. The white sand on
the beach is bright enough to bleach your eyeballs. Prickly grass, sea grape shrubs with their leaves like Chinese fans
and oleander form the landward fringe. Cutting off the road and housing development. A few lofty, disinterested
coconut trees stand looking out to sea, some leaning like giraffes' necks to get a different perspective. The sea is calm
and turquoise to match the sky. The deep blue distance holds the shadow that is Montserrat. A picture of just as one
expects the Caribbean to be.
Tobago Clipper is getting a facelift. Skill is the leading varnisher, Simon the Rasta his helper. A middle aged
Antiguan, Skill claims to have worked the seven seas on commercial liners and cargo boats. Simon is tall and thin with
his dreadlocks stuffed into gaily knotted tea-cosy. Our banter turned to sex as it always does, and Skill gave us his
opinion on what he favoured.
"Man, you don' want a girl dat is all over-used, you see what I mean. You want someting sweet and tasty, about eight
year old" he said, his eyes laughing under his bandanna.
We split our sides laughing, and chided him for being a self-confessed pederast.
"It's illegal Skill" we argued.
"I don' care, got a wife at home anyway, mon" he replied enigmatically.
Roger said he had heard of a survey which stated the average age West Indian girls lose their virginity is 10 years old.
To stop it getting any younger, we spread the rumour that Skill is a pederastafarian.
Keeping out of the varnishing crew's way, we spent the afternoon making up lures with crimps from the tackle shop.
Before the sun had risen over the hills by the golf course, Roger was in the bosun's chair and raised using
the anchor hoist to inspect the mast. Though it was cool on deck, he soon began to bake as he ascended, like Icarus into
the sun's rays. We then bent on the staysail which almost killed us. The sheave on the masthead has long since gone, so
the halyard had to be hauled over the spindle. Even with the winch it was as stiff as hell, and reduced us to babbling
blobs of sweat.
Probably the hottest day so far, so when we went to the Epicurean Supermarket to provision, we didn't want to leave
the air-conditioned alleyways. The problem with getting hot and then cooling off, compared to being cold and warming
up, is the former is nowhere near as pleasant as the latter. At least when you step into the sweaty fug of a pub on a wet
and windy winter's evening you can tear off your coat, jacket and pullover. When you pass into an air-conditioned
room, you are already stripped down. Granted you stop sweating immediately, but you are still left feeling like a wilted
cabbage leaf in a fridge.
Mondays are the "Welcome to Jolly Harbour" days. The Manager of the complex and his staff lay on free rum punch,
and a steel band plays down on the beach. This is bad news, or more specifically, the punch is bad news. Its effect is
rather like that of a small child which innocently slips its hand into yours, and before you know it, you are trying to
explain yourself to a magistrate.
Everyone said "Go easy on the punch, John". "OK" I said, "just a taster. I have been warned, I'll go easy".
One hour later the beach sand had become strangely lumpy and difficult to walk on. This was countered by my new
friends becoming talented, handsome and amusing. They were also ignoring their own advice, and hammering the
punch container. The talk leapt from one riveting topic to another, getting loud enough to drown the steel band
labouring heroically in the background.
The band finished before the punch, but not by much. We set off to complete the demolition at the Dogwatch and
passed the musicians, slowly packing their gear in expectation of their money and transport.
"Thanksh ! I fought yous were great" I slurred.
"Dat OK mon, you have good time now" a Mike Tyson look-a-like purred.
"You know, I was really surprised how good you were, `cos this guy I know says you are rubbish, and no where near as
good as Halcyon" I said.
The steel band stiffened to a man. Cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes the chief gorilla asked "Who
said dat?. What de name of dat fellah?"
"Oh, you wouldn't know him. He's called Skill and he lives over by Borland".
In the Dogwatch without Roger, we had got out of synch. A friend of Jane's, perhaps most kindly
described as a frump with sad eyes, decided to tell me her life story and why she was going to commit herself to taking
care of a paraplegic. The subject of her care had once been an athletic, sleep with everything that moved, good looking
all round go-getting guy. Following a broken neck from a motorcycle accident, he is now bedridden and pissed off no
end. Enter Cathy, Antigua's answer to Florence Nightingale, who will now devote her life to caring for him. It is mean,
but I couldn't help thinking of the Stephen King novel `Misery', where James Caan is trapped by Kathy Bates in a
lonely house in the mountains. I don't think Cathy's seen the film, given that she did not react when I asked her if she
had invested in an electric carving knife yet.
Jane, not to be outdone in the so-depressing-you-could-slit-my-wrist department, then told her life story. The Dogwatch
turned monochrome as she told her tale, finally leading up to how she suffered brain damage when a Jolly Harbour
tourist reversed a car over her. Two sobering stories of that magnitude in one night and the Wadadly lager stood no
chance. I left with clear head.