"Tobago Clipper"
Left Jolly Harbour, bound for St Lucia and the cat. On the diesel quay, because the hose wouldn't reach, we were going to use the transfer pump to fill the tank away from the quay. I went down into the pit and attempted to uncouple the pipe. The heat down there was awesome, remnants of last nights lager spurted from my pores like a sprinkler system. Sweating so much, I couldn't get enough friction on the pipe and was distracted by my whole life flashing before my eyes. Enter one George Roberts in a shirt even an extrovert Hawaiian might have blanched at. He hopped down into the confined space, cunningly heated by diesel engine and generator, and proceeded to connect up the transfer. When he emerged there was hardly a bead of sweat on the man. I swear his mother must have slept with a salamander back in Canada.
On the way over the wind was conveniently on the nose, allowing Tobago Clipper to demonstrate she can go faster sideways than forwards if you trim the sails right. We did catch a dolphin, about 8 pounds. Just small enough to hide in the bucket.
Arrived in Rodney Bay with a defunct alternator, so the idea of sea-trialing paid off. First impressions of St
Lucia after Antigua was how green everything is. There are mountains, called the Pietons which look like emerald
artillery shells stacked against the sky and make a unique landfall. The lagoon entrance is very narrow into Rodney
Bay, which probably makes the water inside quite a potent cocktail of sewage and exotic tropical bugs. On the left, as
the channel widens, is the conch charnel house. Piles of pink shells bear witness to the local taste for this shellfish and
the energy of the local fishermen. The stench of rotting fish which comes off, however, is enough to put most
yachtsmen off this delicacy. The smell is so strong, it catches your breath and causes an involuntary retch.
That night we dined ashore in the marina restaurant with Adrian and Barbara Kelly from Kelly's Eye. He is an ex-BA
steward, now retired, and working as a deck doctor. He couldn't recall my sister, but had a vague idea of Richard
Bartholemew. When I mentioned RB and my sister were living together he looked mystified; "I thought he was a
shirtlifter". Strangely enough, when I mentioned Adrian and Barbara to Richard once I got back, I got the same
reaction. Perhaps BA have a lot more straight stewards than they realise.
Well into my cups, my shoulder was shaken by a boisterous Swiss fellow. "I know you. Serifos ja!. I recognise your red
eyes!" Sure enough, it was some comrades from the Aegean when were storm bound in October 94. Small world,
strange they would remember my bloodshot eyes so well.
Veronica and I went into the capital, Castries, on a dollar bus. These are minibuses which have been converted into
mobile shrines to Bob Marley and the joys of close bodily contact in a hot climate. At one point I thought we would
have to make a detour to the hospital so a surgeon could separate my thigh from that of a fellow passenger. Castries is
like a scene from a Graham Greene novel. Open drains, potholed main streets and a worn out look to everything. You
almost feel that they have given up, and the jungle is just around the corner. And when its finished smoking its joint,
it's coming to take over the town. The market is filled with women just sitting on the ground with a scant display of
fruit and vegetables spread before them as though they have just fallen and spilt their shopping. The last pot of paint in
Castries was bought in 1967. They have blown the money on ghetto blasters and reggae tapes ever since then. I raided
every fruit stall for the half-remembered exotic shapes and tastes of my West Indian childhood. Veronica politely
refused my soiled offerings, having more regard for her digestive tract than I for mine.
George and Stacey took the opportunity to look up an old Antiguan friend. A semi-reformed alcoholic time share
salesman, John had what might be called a chequered past. Pursued by debtors, threatened at gunpoint and constantly
living life on the edge. He has settled in St Lucia and has a beautiful house with a long winding path down to the sea,
lit by lanterns at night. I met his beautiful half-caste wife and angelic looking son in the bar at Rodney Bay. The
manager of the bar had obviously been exposed to John's flexible attitude to bills, because he signed him to one side for
an intensive talk on the subject.
Roger and Neil, meanwhile, were slaving over hot alternators and a manual, trying to fit the new one. Eventually the
chief guru had to be called in to sort it out. I chatted to his wife to discover one of their close relations had just died and
thus they were a bit distracted. My sole contribution was to join Barbara Kelly on Kelly's Eye and assist in sorting out
their PC. First of all, we sorted out the back-up procedures and then we looked at the plastic casing which was splitting.
This has turned into an ongoing saga with Compaq and P&P Computers which will be solved one day I am sure.
That night we dined aboard Kelly's Eye, a superb dish of chicken with garlic potatoes, eaten in the cockpit under the
stars. We were joined by friends of theirs, Ian and Peter, St Lucian lotus eaters like themselves. Over the water we
could hear the beat from the distant bars like an engaged tone from an African drum call. This is where Neil and
Veronica were dancing the night away with the Rastamen and women. On the far side of the lagoon there is a peculiar
building straight from Marrakech. This is an Indian, or Arabic resort where they all boogie on down to sitar and radical
bangra wail music, jangling their bangles and swinging their saris late into the night. At times it did sound as though
the lead singer was complaining about a red hot poker up his backside, but there's diversity of culture for you.
We left Rodney Bay lagoon with cat aboard and anchored off Pigeon Island for some bottom scraping. The
sea life in the tropics doesn't hang about, so there was no shortage of fish food in the form of dislocated barnacles in the
water. Neil and Veronica were both nursing Tequila hangovers, the latter moving very gingerly - but gamely - in the
kitchen. Bottomsides clean, we weighed anchor and headed into the wind, back to Jolly Harbour.
The wind was on the nose, (surprise, surprise) so TC was heeled over and going sideways with the same enthusiasm as
the outward trip. The reel on the dinghy stanchion suddenly began to buzz, signalling fish on line. The general
stampede to loose the sails, throttle back the engine, tighten the drag on the reel, and get cameras helped us to land a
40lb Dorado. These fish later became to Tobago Clipper what albatrosses were to the Ancient Mariner, but for now we
all excited. George demonstrated the humane killing method, pouring rum into its gills. This worked fine on the fish,
but hasn't had much effect on his friend John yet, though not through a lack of trying.
Bosun, our feline reason for the trip to St Lucia, was suffering from extreme seasickness. He lay like a piece of
discarded clothing under the shower step, occasionally summoning the energy to howl like a stabbed baby in his misery
of the ocean, and hatred of the world. No one had volunteered to shove half a Stugeron up his arse, which apparently is
an effective remedy, and might really have made his day.
"Tobago Clipper"