2014 Malaysia and Thailand – Page 2

06/04/2023

San Blas: A Taste of the Pacific

Link to published article: An Authentic Experience

Temperate, crystal clear waters to swim in. Palm-fringed, white sand beaches to stroll. An archipelago of over 300 unspoiled islands to explore. The painted face and bangled-arm of a tribeswoman selling the intricate stitched artwork of her ancestors and an indigenous community that repelled colonisation, banned international development and restricted mass tourism, people who hold firmly to their traditional roots. The San Blas islands are a living history, a preserved native culture, a protected archipelago; they are a different world from the remainder of the Caribbean cruising grounds and are as close as you can get to experiencing the Pacific islands without leaving the Atlantic Ocean.

Laying along the Caribbean coast of northern Panama, the San Blas islands stretch 100 miles along the southern Caribbean Sea between the border of Colombian and the Gulf of San Blas. Officially renamed Guna Yala by the Panamanian government in 2011, the majority of islands are small uninhabited islets and cays, and the 49 islands that are inhabited are generally occupied by no more than a family or two living on land passed down to them through the generations. Traditions runs deep within the Kuna Yala culture, and it would be fair to say it is the best preserved indigenous South American culture to this day. Subsistence fishing and coconut cultivation is the generate the main income, and sale of the unique layered fabric panels made by the Kuna women, the Mola, is also a large part of the economy.

The San Blas islands had long been on my A-list of destinations. Having lived there in the mid-seventies, I was far too young at the time to hold onto my childhood experiences of Panama, but my parents remembered our time there with great fondness. Stories of crash landings in Kuna territory on a broken bi-wing and semi-permanent face markings painted down my mom’s nose were two of my parents many stories. They’d sailed through the remote San Blas islands long before it became a popular cruising destination, where they were greeted by men in dugouts who offered fish, lobster and coconuts and woman who displayed their intricately woven Molas. They retold the stories with such vivid detail, making me yearn to seek out similar adventures. When Panama finally lay in front of us, I knew exactly where I’d be spending my time. The question was, what remained? Had the authenticity of the islands been wiped into the past, or had the Kuna truly succeeded in holding onto their tribal heritage? Would I walk in my parents footsteps, or would the adventure only live through their stories?

My turn was up the morning we sailed into the San Blas Islands and laid the anchor down in front of the Swimming Pool, a popular anchorage in the Eastern Holandes. Given the name, I knew I wouldn’t be experiencing the San Blas of my parent’s day. We shared the anchorage with one other boat, however, and that was a popularity I could accept. The water was still a clear, transparent aqua blue. The tiny islet in front of us had one traditional palm-built shack sitting under a crowd of palm trees. Out on the water a man sat in his wooden dugout fishing off the edge of the reef. “Mom, Dad,” I thought, “I walk in your footsteps!”

I strung the hammock on the aft deck and eased myself in, set to soak up every morsel of my quiet, idyllic paradise. Tilting my head back to top it off with a sip of cold rum, I spotted a yacht headed our way. Behind that yacht, another, and another beyond that. My paren’t footprints were disappearing with every sail that popped up on the horizon. Within a few hours the anchorage turned into a crowded parking lot, my beautiful sandy island barely visible through the bimini of the boat that dropped anchor on top of us. Just before sunset a small dugout with a Kuna family slowly paddled towards us. Salvation. My dream had been altered but was still intact. I knew that the Kuna Indians held firmly to their traditional ways and had refused assimilation into the Panamanian culture. As the dugout pulled alongside I smiled broadly knowing my Spanish wouldn’t help but searching for a fish in the hold as our common goal. My smile was returned by an equally enthusiastic grin and, in clear and concise unbroken English, he asked for a $5 anchoring fee. Between my English-speaking Kuna host, my island view through the backend of another yacht and the keel-hung traffic jam around us, my hopes of experiencing my parent’s version of the San Blas were dashed. I would have to set my own footprints in the sand.

Shifting expectations didn’t take long, however, as there was plenty on offer within the San Blas regardless of its increased popularity. While there are many islands within the archipelago, there is a concentrated group of islands where most of the cruising happens. Follow the popular cruising guide, the Bowhouse Guide, and you will enjoy a social hub within a defined cruising circuit; tread out of that area and you have can experience a far more remote San Blas. There are still areas throughout the archipelago where time continues to stand still.

We were rarely alone as we sailed a clockwise course through the San Blas, as the islands are now an extension of the Atlantic cruising circuit. Charter and cruising yachts fill the anchorages throughout the archipelago and local tour operators run day trips for tourists out to the inshore islands. Panamanians have adjusted to the increase in tourism by running skiffs to many of the popular islands, offering a range of provisions from fruit and veg to beer and wine. Many of the Kuna have integrated with mainland Panama and now speak Spanish, and English to a lesser degree, allowing us to share a language and bridge the linguistic barrier. While forty years has brought many changes to the San Blas, some of those have made cruising the islands a more convenient and comfortable experience.

That said, while tourism has come to the San Blas, it is still very low-key. The Kuna have refused any large-scale development and the options for over-night accommodation are rustic, some as basic a hammock strung between palm trees. In addition, the handful of islands that offer this option are close to the mainland, restricting tourism to the majority of the islands. We had the unique opportunity to spend an afternoon with the ex-President of Panama, Ricardo Martinelli, when his helicopter landed on a small uninhabited cay near where our anchorage in the Eastern Holandes, providing us insight to some of the politics of the recent past. The ex-president discussed his campaign to turn the San Blas into “the next Maldives.” The Kuna, however, hold sovereign independence throughout the islands and have rejected attempts to develop resorts throughout the islands. It was not progress the Kuna wanted, and I realised then what a privilege it was for us to be able to travel throughout an area that had fundamentally remained so unaltered by outside influence. It may not be exactly what my parents had experienced, but it wasn’t far off it.

That afternoon showed me that my first assessment of a lost culture hadn’t been entirely on the mark. Clearly there were changes, but this two-hundred year old culture still had firm roots. Many of the dugouts had outboards, but square-rigged wooden canoes still sail throughout the islands. Kuna men still row up with their bilges filled with fish and coconuts, often accompanied by their wife and child selling molas for $40 a pane. To sit with these woman and look through the intricate stitch-work made me appreciate how much of the Kuna traditions were still very much a part of everyday life; molas are hand-stitched exclusively by women in their spare time between rearing children and household demands, and each meter-square piece can take up to a month or two to complete. While men have moved towards modern clothing, most women dress traditionally in a cotton wrap and mola blouse, a colourful headscarf worn to deter evil spirits. Their wrists and ankles are wrapped in multi-coloured beads and married women still wore the traditional gold nose ring and thin black line painted down their nose. Huts ashore we still very much replicas of the housing of their forefathers, and families still live on land that has been passed down to them through the generations. Some islands are no longer inhabited, but many are still run exactly as they have been for centuries.

We’d been warmly welcomed by all the Kuna we’d met, and a few of them allowed us a closer insight into their daily lives. One particular interaction stands out as we were invited to spend the evening with a Kuna family in their home. When we arrived, the head of house stoked the embers of the fire-pit and we were invited to cook with them. Their lodging was built as three separate huts, all made of palm fronds laid over a wooden frame and set on a sand floor. Hammocks were strung up inside the huts for sleeping, the kitchen was set up inside a lean-to and the sink was open air. Their companionship was relaxed and casual, and the evening thoroughly enjoyable. I didn’t leave with a piercing or painted strip down my nose as my mother had during her time with the Kuna, but I generously wrapped in beaded wrist and ankle bracelets which made me feel that I could experience an authenticity that is still inherent in the culture forty years on.

Nowhere in the Atlantic had I felt so close to an island nation with such a true sense of cultural identity; slightly modified but inherently intact. The key factors that made us draw the comparison to the Pacific is that the Kuna culture is completely different from that of the rest of the Caribbean, where islands have become either first world nations or are trying to become one. That development has been wholly rejected by the Kuna. As in the Pacific, you are guests to their island, and you come into a community that is largely unchanged for hundreds of years. They are both a substance culture, with strong family ties, adhere to tribal ways and obey the rules laid down by the chief. In comparison to the Caribbean, there are fewer boats, fewer charters and fewer tourists. For Atlantic cruisers who want a slice of the Pacific Islands, the San Blas offers the very experience on a small scale in the southwestern corner of the Caribbean.

Link to Images: <a href="http://<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fsvatea%2Fposts%2Fpfbid0zosydCmrsFBxemg2SVBCGzKeie6CuV9fDqqd88D1YkDBtpu3Xiv3zS6tva9sTk9cl&show_text=true&width=500" width="500" height="676" style="border:none;overflow:hidden" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share">San Blas

03/04/202303/04/2023

Ey Ey Brother Shackleton

Link to published article: Ey Ey Brother Shackleton

I’ve spent a notable time on the sea but don’t consider myself much of a seaman. Not in the nostalgic sense of the word – weathered old souls with salt-imbued rags who sit in old bars scratching their matted hair telling tales of their conquests and mishaps. Of course, I’ve had my share of adventures worth telling over a cold pint, but somehow I don’t feel I fit the mould. I sail a boat. I live on a boat. I raise my kids on a boat. I transit oceans by boat. But seasoned seaman? I don’t think so.

As I sat sipping a frothy pint in Peter’s Bar, with decade upon decade of captain’s hat (and the occasional captain’s bra) above my head, I felt like I’d finally earned that right. Peter’s Bar is as old as the volcano it is built on, currently run by its third generation of Sr. Azevedo, who continues to supply transiting mariners with more than just ale: for generations Peter’s Bar has been the sole support for ships and people passing through, supplying provisions and parts, mail collection and delivery, medical supply and local gossip. It might’ve taken me ten years, 55,000 miles and a few dozen ocean crossings, but I finally got it — that feeling of what it is like to be an old saltwort worth her lick.

Of course, having just completed a two-month passage was a factor. I didn’t really feel the gravity of what that meant until we pulled into Horta at the conclusion of our 60,000 mile trip from South Africa to the Azores and people gave their congratulations as we sailed in. We shook hands ashore with locals who already knew about us and were impressed by our recent time at sea. So, when I sauntered into Peter’s Bar and ordered a pint and sat down amongst the painted faces of patronage from generations past — Chichester, Montessier, Knox-Johnson — I felt that welling of pride. Yeah Shackleton, I gotcha bro.

After two weeks swaggering around the streets of Horta en simpatico with those cruising legends, it was time to refocus on the reason I spend all this time on a boat: To explore. For me the beauty of boats isn’t weather routing, reefing sails and clocking ocean miles. I like all that — particularly the ocean miles surrounded by the beautiful silence of that endless, endless sea. What I like most, above and beyond it all, is what lays at the other end. I like charting the destination and then rolling in and discovering the truth of a place beyond my ignorant expectation. Or often, my lack of expectation. Maybe my high school history told me more than just its geography, or perhaps the news has revealed some current catastrophe. But often a country means no more to me than a name on the map. Then I draw a line between where I am and where it lies. I point my boat in that direction and spend weeks watching the miles tick away as it gets closer. And then one morning, bam!, I am there on her shores — everything new and unknown and waiting to be discovered.

The Azores was like this for me. I’d heard of the Azores. Perhaps in the news. Perhaps in a lesson given by my 11th grade teacher. But I hadn’t learned about the Azores. I didn’t have any current knowledge of the Azores when I arrived but everything I was hearing on arrival had me itching to explore: volcanic craters, black lava pools, lava tubes, lava rock vineyards, the barren exterior, the lush interior, the bulls and the bull fights. Highlight after highlight — it was time to bring my modern-day explorer into action. I marched my kids around the streets and the countryside, to the museums and the cactus gardens and into every rocky lava-created attraction offered. They were as gobsmacked about its rich history at seven and nine as I was at forty-six: The sordid plight of the Sperm Whale and the island’s involvement in the near decimation of the species, its longtime influence in maritime history and its significance as a trade hub between Europe and the Americas, its ever bubbling and exploding volcanoes. How did I miss all that fascinating history? How cool to be learning about all of it now.

We focused our time in the seven islands that make up the Azores on four islands: Faial, Pico, Sao George and Terceira. Faial was a highlight in its volcanic highlights. We anchored in the main harbour and took day trips throughout the island from there. The north was wet, lush and tropical with dense forest, high altitude lakes and fantastic views of the island. The south was dry and developed, with the capital Horta as the economic and social centre. Town was a twist of small winding streets that led from the town basin to the hills with a fantastic botanical garden at the top of it. The architecture had the look of a quintessential small European mountain village with uniform architecture and colour, a mix of well-maintained homesteads and dilapidated ruins. The most recent volcanic eruption in the 1950s sent most of the population to America; many of the residents returned but a significant number of people had permanently resettled, leaving their family homes abandoned. The west was dominated by the dramatic Capelinhos volcanic crater and to the east the caldera. Running all around the island was a succession of volcanic lava pools, unique in structure and stunning in appearance.

Pico is a singular vocalic cone that juts out from the sea with cooled lava flow visible down its sides. There is a small harbour with a busy ferry terminal and swinging room for a yacht or two within. The island is know for its local wine production and tourists flock to the island to see its unique method of growing grapes: individual plants separated by a square fence made from intricately stacked lava rocks, protecting the hard earth from erosion and the plants from wind burn. We spent our day measuring 32,000 steps with the periodic pinch of grape and dip in the sea. Given two of our team have legs that measure 75cm in length, the fact that we marched around a volcano in the heat all day is something to commend them for.

From Faial we sailed for the long southern stretch of Sao George’s dramatic coastline. Hunkering down in a tiny one-boat harbour, we enjoyed crystal clear waters, a small local village and a forested mountainside that came alive with the sound of birdlife at dawn and dusk. There was very little to do in the five-shop village and so we spent our days away from the business that had defined our experience in Horta and enjoyed the quaint solitude of our little spot. We took a holiday and treated the boat as a pleasure craft and not a mobile home. We enjoyed slow mornings and midday swims, spent the afternoon amidst toys and tonic and ate our meals as picnics on deck. Life as a live-aboard cruiser can often be fraught with boat jobs and normal life requirements that leave little of the idyllic lifestyle. So it was with great pleasure that we put all tasks on hold and enjoyed the quiet, simple life for a change.

Our last main anchorage was off the southeast corner of Terceira. This became quite a social hub for us, reconnecting with several yachties we’d hung out with along the way and meeting several new ones in harbor. We rented a car and toured the island, wandering again down lava tubes below the earth and getting lost in the labyrinth of caverns of old extinguished volcanoes. The villagers throughout the island were clearly bull-centric, as each village had a central bull ring and many private estates had bullfighting training rinks and stables. This time of year would usually see half of Europe flocking to Terceira to experience the daily bull fights, done village by village and fought on the streets and beaches amid amateur bull enthusiasts and intimated observer. But this year brought only one professional show, done to bring funds into the Catholic Church and appease the demands for this centuries-old tradition. We were fortunate to be able to see the only fight that was put on for the year. While witnessing acts of animal cruelty is something I like to avoid, cultural traditions are a privilege to observe as a foreigner. Sitting amidst the enthusiastic Azorian crowd, we watched bull after bull be taunted to the dance of the skilled matador and the beauty of his trained horse, and enthusiastically joined in with the jeering, cheering crowd.

I regarded the Azores as a mid-Atlantic rest stop in route across 4,000 miles of ocean but found it to be a remarkable destination in itself. The amount of cultural, historical, and geographical sites demand a dedicated amount of time to properly explore, and once done there should be time remaining to settle in with the ghosts of mariners past with a full pint and an empty schedule. After all, if you’ve made it across the ocean to get there, why not settle into the very same seat that Chichester, Montessier and Knox-Johnson occupied on their transit across the ocean. You earned it after all — you are one of them now.

Photos posted on: Images

03/04/202303/04/2023

Two Sides of a Coin

Link to published article: A Lesson in Sharing

Our plan was the Caribbean at the end of 2020. The Canaries was intended as a quick layover in route to our rum cocktails, but even quick stops can result in well laid plans becoming obsolete. So it was for our season in the Caribbean, which was quickly bumped as soon as Gambia came onto our radar. I met a German couple while in Lanzarote who had spent time there a year earlier and their stories sent my excitement for coconut trees and tropical fish out the window — muddy river full of hippos and crocodiles? I’m in!

My time earlier in the season in the Western European Atlantic was enough to drive one reality to the forefront: I am in this cruising lifestyle to explore. Hanging out on non-moving boats gets boring quick. I’m not interested in a floating apartment, regardless of what country it is floating in. I live on a boat to travel and explore as many places as possible, and the more culturally diverse the better. As I debated the change in plan with John, I pointed out that all our favourite destinations have been those that were the least planned and the furthest off the beaten track. Gambia, a country that receives two to three yachts per year, was certainly that.

Barriers and Bridges

Including Gambia in a northern Atlantic circuit is not difficult, so I’m not sure why more cruisers don’t do it. It is only 300 miles southeast of the Cape Verdes and It is only 300 miles SE of the Cape Verdes and is an easy stopover to include between Canaries and the Caribbean. There are a few potential obstacles to be aware of, however, and it is important to understand these before making the decision to include Gambia in your route.

For one, you must be prepared for a third-world experience. For a relaxed visit, you must have a flexible attitude and be able to find humour in the chaos. This is most evident on entry into the country in the bustling capital city of Banjul, where dust and dirt and noise dominate. The clearance process is confusing but the officials are pleasant, and the process can be sped up if you don’t mind greasing palms along the way. Of course, this is all done in the overt undertones of community support. At customs we were sagely informed, “The office has run out of coffee and the team doesn’t have enough money to buy any ahem ahem.” The port captain informed us that he was required to view the stores onboard the boat “but, cough, if you buy me a Coke I don’t think I’d have the time to drink it AND come out smile wink.” Immigration’s excuse was grand: “Our department needs its own boat. We are happy to accept a donation to help us towards that cause.” While I am morally opposed to paying bribes, it was an indication of the tight sense of community that was shown in every village we met along the way. It wasn’t greed that was at the root of the requests, it was the fundamental concept that everyone was responsible to support the whole. And so we paid the $3 coffee donation, bought the captain his $1 coke and slipped $5 to help buy a boat.

You will also have to accept that you will sail a minimal amount of time, if at all. I’d imagined The Gambia being an Amazonian-like river with endless exploratory possibilities. I envisioned sailing slowly up the river with the tide, however in truth there isn’t the distance between banks to make this practical. You’d need to tack as soon as you completed your tack, and continue running sails from port to starboard until you concede defeat and turn on the engine. We did sail, a little, but only when the wind was directly behind us and the tide was running with us. If you want to sail up the river, be prepared for a lot of waiting. Or just turn on your engine and go.

While motoring may not be a significant disincentive for many cruisers, a 17’ meter bridge might be. The Gambia Bridge was completed two years ago and is the only road access for vehicles crossing the river for 300 miles; unfortunately, it also serves as a barrier to many vessels from exploring the upper reaches of the river. As the trip to Gambia is all about its upper reaches, if you cannot get under the bridge then it may not be a trip worth taking. In our case, we had approximate height of the bridge and approximate height of our mast with a meter wiggle room between them. When we approached the bridge we did so with extreme caution. This meant making our way slowly at the start of the ebb tide with myself sitting up at the top of the mast to keep a visual on our one meter gap. We were right to use caution, as our gap was actually a foot of clearance from the VHF aerial and it was an intense moment when I had to make the call to proceed or abort. Strapped to the top of mast, an error in judgement would result in more than just our boat suffering from a collision.

It is only once you are on the other side of the bridge that the other factors become evident. It is here that the wider river turns into smaller creeks, offering secret hideouts to tuck into along the way. The options aren’t always obvious, as you have to know that the entrance to the creek gets shallow before it becomes deep again. You may see less than half a meter under your keel as you approach and may assume that it will only continue to get shallower, but hold your course and you’ll squeak past the entrance to watch it drop to ten meters as you head deeper into the tributary. At 2.2 meters, we often drew a line in the mud with our keel on our way into a creek to find it drop sharply to on the other side. You’d then find yourself nestled up tight amongst the reeds on a boat 15 meters long in a creek just 20 meters wide. Make sure you drop your anchor directly in the centre of the creek or you’ll find yourself bumping the mangroves on the rivers edge at the turn of the tide.

With small creeks come small insects. We were told that we would need to keep our anchor light switched off at night otherwise we’d be walking on a carpet of moths on deck in the morning; we didn’t adhere as a boat on anchor without a mast-light seemed worse than assisting insect suicide. But best heed advice on the mossies. If you are not prepared for them, a trip through Gambia will be a trip through hell. Mosquitoes are not only present, they are vicious and the itch of their bite will last days. Fortunately, we had a three-tier netting system in place that kept the bugs out of the boat in a series of stages: Netting for the cockpit for the worst of times, netting for the hatches and companionway as standard use, and netting above the beds if barrier one and two had been breached. There wasn’t a night we weren’t thankful for the sanctity of our impenetrable fortress.

Food and water must also be planned for before a transit up the river. As the river is muddy all the way up its reaches, using a water-maker it is not advised unless you have a bilge full of filters. We filled our 1400-litre tank with water from the community well before departure and used water sparingly up the river; we washed our bodies, clothes and dishes in river water and used our tank water exclusively for drinking and cooking. This meant scenic deck showers in the early evenings, a hose dragged through the cockpit to fill the sink and whites-turned-brown clothes pegged on the rail. You must be comfortable using local well water, clean but unfiltered, and accept running jerry cans to and from the well if spending any amount of time upriver.

Food is also sparse outside of the larger towns and transport is a difficult but worthwhile experience. If you aren’t up for a long and dusty walk, then local transport is either a hot stuffy minivan or a cool rickety donkey cart. Donkey cart is preferable as there is a limited number of bodies that fit on top of the cart, though witnessing people bumped off means safety is not guaranteed. But I’ll risk safety for comfort, as being trapped inside a nine-person minivan with thirty other people wedged inside is a practice in achieving mental zen. I love the craziness of it, but bumping along dusty roads with your body crammed into a locked position against sweaty strangers is one thing, compounded by the fact that it will take you four hours to move 12 miles and for every minute spent moving you’ll spend ten minutes stopped. In the heat. With the windows closed. Oddly, it is the only place that I saw masks being used; not to stop the transmission of Covid but to decrease the inhalation of dust. When you get back to the boat in the the same darkness you departed the boat in, you are exhausted but have a sack full of onions and potatoes. Mission accomplished.

One last but important consideration is to understand what “floats your boat” — what is it you seek when you cruise? If it is solitude and seclusion, Gambia is your place. You can spend weeks up a creek hidden from the world, with only bird song to remind you that other life forms exist. Is it cultural experience? You will be well rewarded as you are more than just an observer in Gambia. You will be warmly welcomed in any village you visit and the Gambian hospitality is some of the most inclusive, generous that I’ve experienced. Looking for a party? A cruising community is non-existent and, if seeking kindred-spirited sailors, you will be hosting a party for one. So, know your social agenda before choosing your destination.

If this list of considerations leaves you questioning why you’d sail for a muddy river on Africa’s western shores, the peaceful tranquility of Gambia’s social isolation and the unique cultural experience of Gambia’s social immersion is the sweet reward.

Social Isolation

When I recall Gambia visually, I will think of a country of mirrors. Everything has a double: There are two suns that shine down, two moons that rise up, the roots of every tree end in dense foliage and the bottom of every house rests on its rooftop. As a longtime cruiser, I am used to the ripple of wind across water, the constant roll over gentle waves and the swell of the ocean as if it breathes. It has been a long time since I’ve looked out over water that has no movement, no heartbeat, no breath. Yet, it is the reflections on the motionless river water that brings it to life. I didn’t realise a muddy river could be so beautiful and so full of vibrant colour: Blue, green, red, white, black. The water captures the life that surrounds it and tossed it back — the sky, the forest, the sun, the moon and the people in beautiful, perfect reflections.

It sounds like a crazy Alice in Wonderland kind of world, unless you understand the degree to which the River Gambia dominates the country. It is a country that stretches 350 miles from west to east with a river that runs the entire length of it. The country is surrounded by Senegal, which at its furthest is only 20 miles away and often only two. The river is the country.

With the river comes the animals that depend on it. I was told that I’d see hippo and crocodile on the riverbanks, and I accepted that there would be a possibility that I’d have such luck when transiting up the river. What I didn’t appreciate at the time is that I was guaranteed to see hippo and crocodile. They don’t live in isolation; they live in abundance. Their presence is marked in every creek by the trampled reeds that line the waterfront and the river access holes that tunnel through the bush. On Christmas Eve we took little chimes up on deck in the evening to convince the kids that they’d heard Santa’s slay. A cute idea, but the tinkle of bells was drowned out by the bellow of hippo that had come out into the river right next to the boat. On Christmas Eve a crocodile crashed through the reeds into the water five meters from our anchor. On New Years Eve we sat in our tender watching croc laze on muddy shores and hippo cool down in the shallows and, on the same stretch of river, men in their pirogues laying out their fishing nets. We also sat in our dinghy in the national park to watch a family of chimpanzee curiously watch us, silently peering out from a tree overhanging the water only yards away. Dolphin were also present, and a pleasant but unexpected surprise. When I think of river I think of fresh water, but the lower river is saltwater and it was with great delight share the waterway with them. I had hoped for sightings of wildlife in Gambia, and I got it. What I didn’t expected it was that it would all be so close and abundant.

We chose the isolation and the quiet solitude offered by the smaller creeks on our two week trip up the river. Due to timing, we kept to ourselves over the holidays and enjoyed our celebrations surrounded by the beauty of the river. Because we were away from the villages, we were submersed in the wildlife. The birdlife was prolific and we sighted dolphin, hippo, croc or chimpanzee every day. Why take a detour to Gambia? It is more than a chance to get off the beaten path — it is to be surrounded by the beauty of nature, the silence of the river and the magic of chance encounters with animals that are so different than those typically seen by yacht.

Social Immersion

If Gambia was a coin and each side of the coin was associated with an attribute of the country, heads would be social isolation and tails would be social inclusion. As we chose heads on our way up the river, we chose tails on the way down. There are many remote villages that dot the river’s edge and the locals are hospitable, welcoming and warm. Invitations to visit are readily made by waving hands on the shoreside and if you aren’t drawn in by their visual signs of welcome, then they will paddle out in a pirogue to deliver greetings in person.

The children are as enthusiastic as children are anywhere in Africa — gregarious, enthusiastic and inquisitive. Being swamped by small bodies in a cacophony of noise is not a unique experience, and I am always charged by the energy that the children bring with them. What was a welcome surprise, however, was the warm welcome that was also extended to us by the adults. It helps that English is widely spoken and having a shared language allows for a connection with people you meet along the way. But there is more than language to credit for the warm Gambian hospitality.

While Gambia is a poor country and the people are living in very third-world conditions, I experienced little of that “give me” attitude that occurs in many poor nations. If anything, the handouts came the other way. There wasn’t a single village we visited where we weren’t made to feel welcome. I’ve had more meals made for me, been asked to drink more tea and been gifted more fish and vegetables than in any country I’ve travelled to. Even the wood-carving peddler offered two additional carvings at the end of the deal as gifts for the kids (and I’d only bought one small bowl) and the batik artist gave my daughter a dress even though I didn’t purchase anything. Self-selected guides would offer to walk with us as we arrived, making introductions to others in the community along the way and ensuring we were comfortable and our needs were met. It was fantastic to have an ambassador while walking through the centre of a village; it made us immediately less of an outsider and allowed us to experience a deeper layer of the community.

In one village we were enthusiastically invited to join in a Christian ceremony, where we followed a man around town who was wearing a horned headdress and gourd-covered back. He was dressed to represent the evil spirit of an animal while the community chased after it to scare it away. I’m not sure what part of Christianity was being covered, but in a predominately Muslim community I don’t think that was what mattered. That the fruit bloomed and the vegetable gardens were safe was of much more practical concern.

We were also honoured by an invitation to join a family in the naming ceremony of their newborn son. To properly mark the occasion, we undertook the arduous two-hour minibus journey to town to source fabric, track down a seamstress and have a ceremonial outfit made on the spot. We departed at 6:00am and returned hot and tired at 6:00pm, ready to start the celebrations the following morning. The ceremony was beautiful to witness and I am honoured to have been included, early as it was. To start the day we were invited into the house to watch the baby’s head get shaven and for the 7-day old infant to make his first appearance to the world. A woman was in charge of money collection and a continuous stream of women walked in with a donation of rice, as the new mother would be taking some time from the fields (the cultivation of rice was a woman’s job, and rice from the field was the primary source of food for the family). We then watched the community elders gather, chant and whisper the given name into the infants ear. Prayer was then given to the child’s health and welfare and the name, which had been selected by the elders, was finally announced to the family. Afterwards the men sang and prayed as a group and the woman did the same in another, followed by a shared communal bowl of sweet ground rice and the gift of betel nut shared amongst the group. A morning of sitting, chatting and drinking tea commenced, a large shared lunch in the afternoon to follow, however the evening party was cancelled due to the death of an elder in the afternoon. I would have loved an evening sitting in their compound, dancing to the beat of drums in my newly-stitched stiff waxed-cotton African dress, but it was not to be.

There is a culture of collective consciousness which was evident in many of the interactions between the adults. It was evident in the naming ceremony, in the hush of the village upon the death of a community member, in the community lunch shared at Lamin Lodge where everyone was guaranteed a free meal. We noticed it on our very first day in Gambia, when our local escort passed small change to his friends in passing. In most instances it was our money that was passed out, but it was an introduction to the communal nature of the people nonetheless. I saw this again and again, the nonchalant passing of small change between hands in passing, slipped over on a handshake. I was also a benefactor of this generosity as a hot tea, a chilled bag of yoghurt or piece of fruit would be randomly passed over to me with a smile.

It was also obvious that it is taught from an early age. If a treat is offered, there was no greed. Everything was divided and shared. Children often paddled a pirogue out or swam out to visit us at the boat and an invite onboard would be extended which would start an endless wave of visitors. If treats were in hand when others arrived, the kids would hand their drink over or split their half-nibbled cookie so that the newly arrived wouldn’t miss out. My favourite story is that of a friend, who shared a gummy worm he had with several children. The first child licked the sugar then passed it along, the next took a lick and and the next until all the sugar was gone. Then it was slowly nibbled and passed until the entire gummy had been shared amongst every child.

Covid Considerations

There was a certain perk to our decision to head for Gambia, which was that the country was Covid-free. While the Caribbean bubble was disintegrating and Covid regulations were making travel not only difficult but also expensive, Gambia was a safe haven in the crazy world of global epidemics. We spent a portion of time at our base camp at Lamin Lodge, a well-known cruisers haven that had fallen into disrepair. The local community had picked up the gauntlet during the tough tourist-starved year and established a daily communal meal to ensure everyone was fed; we were invited to share in the feast. The centre of activity was usually under the trees between two local establishments: One was a bar that, due to the lack of electricity, sold only soda from a chilly bin and the other was a restaurant that, due to the lack of clients, only served instant coffee.

We would all mill around, hopeful that the 2:00 mealtime would be ready by 3:00 but was never ready before 4:00 and most frequently served at 5:00. We learned quickly never to come to lunch hungry. I came to appreciate the time required to produce a meal after getting involved with the cooking. The typical Gambian meal is 95% rice, 4% fish and 1% veg, cooked for several hours over charcoal in a large iron pot in a layered process: Fry the fish in a gallon of vegetable oil and remove. Add veggies, herbs and spices to the pot of oil in order of density, set aside. Cook the rice in the richly favoured oil. Three hours later you have cooked the three separate components of the meal, which is layered on a platter in reverse order and served. And let me tell you, the food was delicious. No doubt the bucket of oil was a contributing factor.

When eventually served, we would huddle in a group and share the meal together. At a time when my family in England and the USA were hibernating in isolation due to the surge in Covid cases, we were sitting hunkered down in the dirt eating with our hands from a communal platter with strangers. How different our experience was from so many around the world. We enjoyed the daily ritual of a shared meal and the camaraderie that came with it, and it was hard to pull ourselves away when it came time to do so.

So ask again, why Gambia? Is it worth the motoring and the mud and the bugs? Yeah, I can give up a few rum cocktails for a trip up the Gambia river. I’ll take a month of motoring for a few days in the silent tranquility of her freshwater creeks. I’ll elbow through a mile of mud to sip tea with a stranger. I’ll battle a billion mosquitoes to hold a hundred little hands in my palm. If I were a gambling woman I’d put money down on the Gambian coin, and it wouldn’t matter what side of the coin I laid my bet on. Every day I would lay my bet, flip the coin and let fate decide my direction: Heads for the river and tails for the village. Social isolation or social inclusion — either way I’d be a winner.

Photos posted on: Images

03/04/202306/04/2023

Sugar and Spice

Follow link to read the published article: Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice

When the end of the cruising season in the southern Caribbean was upon us, we did what a majority of Caribbean cruisers do: We sailed south for Grenada. We delayed as long as we could, knowing the hurricane season was upon us but not wanting to be forced south. I had but one impression of Grenada, and that was of rotting boats and retired sailors. It was a cruisers graveyard, or so I thought, and I was far from accepting an end to our sailing days.

Grenada is the southernmost group of islands in the Lesser Antilles archipelago as well as the name of the main island within a cluster of eight smaller islands and about a dozen smaller islets and cays. The only thing I knew of its geography prior to arriving was that it was one of the few island groups in the Caribbean far enough south to be considered out of the hurricane belt. It was with supreme irony, therefore, that we had to shelter in the mangroves on our first day in country from a category 1 storm. As we lashed Ātea’s bow to densely-bound tree roots and secured lines to the cleats of yachts on either side of us, our small unit became a part of the larger, unified collective. Little did we realise that this interconnection would be representative of our Grenadian experience.

Safely through the storm, we disbanded and spread out to explore our new surroundings. We completed our clearance in Carriacou, Grenada’s northern sister island, and we were amazed to see a hundred or so yachts anchored in Tyrell Bay, Carriacou’s main harbour. I knew Grenada was popular, but if the numbers of boats in Carriacou were anything to judge by, I’d have to cope with much larger numbers when we travelled further south. The south coast of Granada not only provides the most settled weather, it is riddled with about a dozen safe harbours from the dominant easterly swell. It the reason why cruisers gather on Grenada’s south coast, and it is also the reason why cruisers remain. Some stay for hurricane season, some use the island as a base for a few years, some retire from active cruising and either settle or sell. One thing was certain, though: Grenada was far more than the end of the line.

Before making the journey south, however, we wanted to stretch out the season by adding in a short circumnavigation around Carriacou, known to the Kalinago (the original Island Caribs) as “The Isle of Reefs.” Given name and reputation, we would spend our time dodging bommies and soaking up the tropical island experience with our feet in the sand, our bellies in the water and our hands on a bottle of rum. We stopped at Petite Martinique, the third and smallest of the three main islands, and enjoyed the rugged, rocky beaches, side-stepping clusters of goat grazing the green rolling hills as we hiked up Mount Piton for panoramic views of the surrounding islands, and climbed down into the Darant Bay Cave for framed views of the same islands at sea level. Of course, we couldn’t miss a few sundowners on Mopion, a tiny sand mound rising amid expansive coral reef with a single beach umbrella perched in the centre. While technically a part of the Grenadines, its proximity to Petite Martinique made a quick dash across the border for a sip in the shade of this unique little spot a worthwhile experience. Living up to its name, Carriacou was an island surrounded by unspoiled reef, and it did not disappoint. A quick tour of her perimeter was the perfect way to salute the end of an amazing Caribbean season.

With a quick stop-over in Ronde Island, a beautiful private island that lay half way between Carriacou and Grenada, we continued our transit south. Again, of things unexpected, I’d not prepared myself for the wild beauty of Grenada’s west coast. Mile after mile of dense, lush forest cascade down the leeward side of the island from peak to sea. We hugged the coastline as we sailed the 13 miles down the west coast, looking up at 2,700 feet of volcanic rock and shear waterfalls that fed the small rivers that ran down the slopes of the mountainous interior to the coast. While Grenada is well reputed as a tourist destination for holiday-makers seeking either a sun-drenched party or quiet refuge on one of its 45 beaches, I knew from sailing down the coast that my preferences would draw me inland.

Grenada’s coastline contains many large bays, but the majority of yachts head for safe anchorage behind one of the many narrow peninsulas that spit up the southern coastline. As we pulled into Prickly Bay, the first of Grenada’s southern harbours, I knew from the crowd of yachts that I would be escaping to the interior as soon as possible. As it turned out, I didn’t get that chance. As soon as we dropped anchor we were invited ashore for a cruiser’s jam session, reconnecting with friends from past seasons. The following day we found ourselves crammed into the back seat of a taxi on our way to an event for the annual Chocolate Festival, and our schedule quickly filled after that: Tours of cocoa plantations, cocoa grinding competitions, chocolate tastings and chocolate drawing contests. In additional to the island’s cultural events, we were also immediately drawn into the cruiser’s social scene. On our first week of arrival our mornings were already booked into early morning yoga and bootcamp on the beach, and the kids joined a cruiser’s homeschooling collective and regular extracurricular activities that were held under the shade of the trees. If we weren’t listening to live music or joining the beach barbecues put on by the locals in the evenings, we were sitting poolside and sipping beers from a $5 bucket with a crowd of other cruisers at Le Phare Bleu, a boutique hotel who’d opened their amenities and their services to cruisers during the pandemic. Every morning there was an activity and every evening there was a social get-together, and the weeks flew by in a social extravaganza unlike any we’d experienced. As yachts gather in Grenada every year for the hurricane season, it was clear that the regularity of this influx of boats had resulted in a solid cruising community and a variety of services and events that have arisen from it. Far more than a collection of retired boats and sunburnt seamen, my preconceived notions of Grenada didn’t come close to the reality of the vibrant cruising network that existed on this popular island.

As we made new friends and reconnected with old ones, we found that we really enjoyed the buzz that the tight community offered. Pulling myself out of the continuous activity took a concerted effort, but I eventually dragged the family off the beach and up the mountains. After our trip into the interior, I knew I had a new passion for my time in Granada: Exploring waterfalls. A short bus journey followed by a hike into the forest would lead us to one of Granada’s many waterfalls, and unlike other tourist destinations where fees were handed over and you’d stand under falls next to groups of other tourists, we had the rivers free of cost and all to ourselves. Some of the trails were a short distance from the road, and we’d hop on and off a bus to walk the short distance to the falls. Others, such as Seven Sisters and the Concord Falls, required planning as it took a full day to hike in and out of the forest, clambering up steep banks and criss-crossing the river to wind through deep forest to get a view from the top. Each part of the river that ran down from one of the six inland lakes had its own magic and I was enthusiastic to see what each had to offer. It was only later it that I really appreciated all that I’d gotten in terms of Grenada’s inland beauty. As I paid $20 per person to stand in crowd under cascading water in Costa Rica’s most popular waterfalls, I couldn’t help but compare it to all that I’d been able to see and experience in Grenada’s secluded, remote interior.

In additional to nature, we explored some of the historical roots of Grenada’s past. Grenada’s original economy was based on sugar cane and indigo, and with that came the importation of slaves in the mid-seventeenth century to work and harvest the crops. We set out to search for some of the old plantation houses and slave pens that remained from that period, which took us on a wild tramp through the the backstreets of quiet neighbourhoods and into unmarked bush to find these lost relics. It was quite the education for our children to see the small, dank, windowless stone slave quarters set behind grand old houses, a potent reminder of darker times in this beautiful and vibrant country. We also smelled and sampled some of Grenada’s more current crops, nutmeg, mace and cocoa at the top of the list of exports, and enjoyed local culinary treats such as oil down, a vegetable stew that is the country’s national dish. Thanks to these excursions we can say that Grenada is, both figuratively and literally, full of sugar and spice.

Cruising often leaves you tied to the boat and, therefore, the sea. Grenada was a wonderful period of enjoying the most of both land and sea in equal balance, and in doing so we were able to get the most of what the country has to offer. To see the beaches but not the forest, lakes and rivers is to get only half the experience; likewise to spend time inland but not explore the coast leaves only half an impression. As Grenada offers safe anchorage throughout the hurricane season, cruisers remain in close proximity for an extended period of time, sharing experiences and building friendships. This is unique for a community that is typically very transient, and offers plenty of opportunity to create a home away from home atmosphere. In addition, there are suitable yacht services available so that the period of time spent waiting for the next season gives everyone a chance to get much needed repair work done. Far from being the end of the line, Grenada offers an interim rest stop where friendships are forged and yachts are restored on an island that offers a wide range of activities and opportunities both on and above the waterline.

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09/09/2022

Beautiful Barbuda

Barbuda is a low-lying coral island thirty miles north of Antigua, and one of the best hidden secrets of the Northern Antilles. Most of the 1,600 local residents live in the main city of Codrington, leaving the remainder of the island a collection of uninhabited beaches and coral lowlands. It is here that cruisers can enjoy the quiet solitude afforded in so few places throughout the Caribbean.

All beaches being equal, each of the anchorages were very difference experiences: Spanish Point was remote, wind swept and deserted, bringing together a tight cruising community where the kids collectively played on the beach and the adults kite-surfed in the afternoon and everyone came together in the evenings for a barbecue and bonfire. A new curfew had been enforced across Antigua and Barbuda, but this restriction felt a million miles away as we freely mingled under the stars. It was a return to coral waters and sandy beaches, but sadly much of the reef was dead and the fish life sparse, most notable ashore in the mass mounds of conch graveyards. As such, we focused on sports on top of the water rather than under it, enjoying a dedicated period of time for windsurfing and kitesurfing. Eventually the relentless trade winds that blowed a consistent 20 knots across the anchorage that drove us to seek shelter elsewhere. Spanish Point will remain in our minds a wild, windy and remote destination, yet equal in its beauty and the enjoyment of the constant social engagements with other cruisers.

We found a long, beautiful fine white sand beach at Coco Point that, unfortunately, had also been discovered by the local hotel industry. An exclusive water sports club dominated the best kiting spots, but that didn’t stop us from enjoying the most of our corner of the beach. The kids enjoyed racing around on their newly-acquired water skis and John enjoyed spending time on his windsurfer, dragged down by kids catching a ride on the front of the board. We enjoyed a lobster dinner prepared by a local fisherman and the company of a few new cruising friends, a few of which became central to our enjoyment of the Caribbean further down the line.

Codrington sits at the northern tip of the island and provides a stunning pink sand beach that stretches for miles. We shared the anchorage with three other cruisers, enjoying lunch picnics in the afternoons and sunset cocktails in the evenings. The highlight was getting close to breeding frigate birds who were amassed in great numbers in the inner estuary. We took our paddle boards on an expedition to get closer to them, and by rowing across a narrow strip of land into the shallow brackish lagoon we were able to approach the frigate birds nesting grounds and silently observe the mating rituals as the males puffed their bulbous red throats and the females squawked their response.

Barbuda will be one of those destinations that provided unique experiences in each of the different anchorages we visited. It was filled with fantastic moments shared with the other cruisers, from lobster barbeques, daily water sport, evening bonfires — all made the more unique as our isolation from society meant we weren’t locked down by a curfew that were restricting so many others. Our days were full, our nights were full, and our memories are full from all the wonderful experiences.

09/09/2022

A Family’s 12,000-Mile Cruising Adventure

We were interviewed by Yachting Magazine about our decision to leave a country under lockdown and how we were able to successfully continue cruising throughout the global crisis. Covid may have complicated our cruising plans, but it didn’t thwart them. Here is our account of our year traveling through the Atlantic — south to north, east to west: A Family’s 12,000-Mile Cruising Adventure.

22/08/2022

Bonaire’s a Blast

Bonaire was a mini-holiday destination for us and we lapped up the luxuries through excellent shoreside meals, social sunset happy hours, desert hikes, round-the-island road trips and daily dives off the aft end of the boat. Diving in Bonaire is like hopping into an oversized aquarium, where everything is benign and beautiful, colourful and diverse, easy and accessible, placid and playful, all the way down to the miniature seahorses resting on the mooring block. There were none of the challenges that can be so typical of cruising in this small Dutch colony. Here, everything was easy: The weather, the life ashore, the life under water, the diving, the sailing, the socialising. Our days were full of fun and full of rum, without a worry in the world.

A full account of our time in Bonaire was published by PassageMaker in the following article: The ABCs of Bonaire.

07/08/202230/04/2023

A Worthy Destination

Link to published article: Cruising Cartagena : A Worthy Destination.

Route planning can sometimes be more about what you choose to you miss out on rather than what you include. Time in country can be surprisingly short for many cruisers, as seasonal weather requires you to plot a destination and move towards it on a relatively strict timeframe. Often there is little room for detours and deviations; if a country isn’t on your track, it is left in your wake forever.

The problem is, unplanned destinations often crop up and fitting them in can become a priority. Colombia was never a name on our list of cruising destinations until we got to the Southern Caribbean, but the closer we got to South America the more frequently the name Cartagena cropped up. At the time our focus was on transiting the Panama Canal and cruising the remote Pacific islands, and a detour to a big city didn’t appeal. However, we were transiting from low-key islands in the Atlantic to low-key islands in the Pacific and an injection of high-speed would be a nice change of pace: A large sheltered bay, a busy metropolitan city, a UNESCO world-heritage site and the vibrance of the vivacious Latin culture—Colombia was our unexpected add-on.

As the date for our transit to Colombia neared, rumours started to spread concern. We were starting to hear reports of very strong winds, poor anchorages and crime off the north coast of Colombia, all reasons to avoid the country. The winds that funnel around the coast create a wind acceleration zone, resulting in high winds and steep seas. Would we be driving Ātea into a chaotic washing machine? Colombia has a history of violent crime. Would we loose everything in not padlocked to the deck or hidden on our bodies? Everyone spoke of rough anchorages and the need to stay in marinas. Could our budget survive?

The more we heard of Colombia, however, the more the sense of adventure outweighed calls for caution. As sailors, how could we not be drawn in by a city steeped in piracy, conquest and gold? As travelers, how could we not fall under the spell of a vibrant city thriving behind old fortified walls? We would get a break from our lazy sun-drenched Caribbean beach days and drink aquadentes under the twinkling lights strung above Cartagena’s rooftop bars and dance until dawn in the city’s most famous salsa clubs. We decided to re-draw the travel plan for the season. We decided to sail for Cartagena.

The Old Amid the New

Cartagena’s dramatic high-rise skyline rose up on the horizon as we closed our two-day passage from Bonaire to Colombia, giving us our first indication of the very different pace that lay ahead of us. As we entered through the eastern entrance to Bocagrande, our echo-sounder bounced from 10 to 3 meters, registering an underwater breakwater that had been built in the mid-1700s to close off the the northern entrance to the bay and force all access to Cartegena by sea past the heavily-fortified southern entrance. Old military forts that used to protect the Spanish from foreign invaders now stand idle, welcoming inbound traffic from all over the world. Today, the Port of Cartagena is Colombia’s main container port and processes around 1600 vessels each year, including container ships, cruise ships, bulk carriers, and the odd cruising yacht. The cannons that point seaward are no longer a threat to foreign interest.

Sailing past these 500-year old fortifications is a reminder that much of Cartagena’s past is deeply woven into its present. Old forts stand beside modern skyscrapers that line the shoreline of Playa de Bocagrande, Cartagena’s version Miami Beach. Empty turrets stand next to busy modern housing complexes and sections of fortress break way to streets and pedestrian walkways. La Cudad Amurallada, Cartagena’s historic walled city, is the most well-preserved and complete fortification in South America. As in the past, horse and cart roll down old cobblestone streets, however they are now interrupted by lengthy traffic jams. Perfectly preserved colonial architecture has been repurposed into swanky cafés, upmarket restaurants, local residence and boutique shops. The 11 kilometres of old city wall are a unique feature in itself, as it is possible to circumnavigate the city by walking on top of them. The old exposed brick covered in beautifully painted graffiti and covered in brightly blooming jacaranda is a perfect example of how the past has been perfectly woven into the present, creating one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

We enjoyed every minute of our time in Cartagena. We wandered through San Felipe de Barajas Castle and learned about the constant pirate assaults and colonial invasions and strolled through the convent and chapel of La Candelaria de la Popa, a beautiful church that sits atop the city’s highest hilltop, Mount Popa. We walked throughout the old walled city a dozen times, seeing many of the popular landmarks from statues of Simón Bolivar and India Catalina that stand in vibrant central plazas to gold museums, theatre houses, slave quarters and bull rings held within beautiful colonial buildings. We found a dozen or so Spanish colonial-style churches and cathedrals spread throughout the city. When we were done sightseeing, we soaked up the colourful Colombian environment: We relaxed in street side cafés, listened to buskers strumming local tunes, window-shopped outside upmarket designer boutiques, ate scrumptious local chow in hole-in-the-wall restaurants and gazed at the provocative murals and graffiti that are generously displayed throughout the city. It was ambling through these backstreets gazing at the magnificent street art that I was reminded of the list of reasons not to come to Cartagena, and crime had been top of the list. When everything that surrounded me left me buzzing with delight, I had to wonder what the negative comments were about.

Little Reason for Concern

And what of our concerns after gaining first-hand experience? Many of the streets considered too dangerous twenty years ago are now popular hangout spots filled with funky cafes and swanky bars, trendy artisan shops and local art galleries. Rough turned bohemian and the historically volatile neighbourhoods had transformed into a hip, artistic quarter that drew in international visitors by the thousands. While I was wary of pickpockets, I had no cause for concern in regard to serious crime.

Poor anchorages and restrictions to marinas were also mentioned, however we stayed just outside the Club Nautico de Cartagena marina with our anchor buried deep in the mud. The only rough movement we experienced was created by the daily tour boats that rushed past us during the day which stirred up significant chop. If you were doing Cartagena right, you were also busy being a tourist during the day and any daytime discomfort would be irrelevant. By the time you returned to the yacht, the tour boats were tucked back in their berths and the peaceful quiet of a flat calm anchorage surrounded by a city full of sparkling lights stretched out before you, a view no fancy hotel could match.

In regard to caution regarding strong winds, the place of greatest intensity is the waters between Punta Gallinas and Cabo Augusta. This should be approached with a good forecast, but this is nothing more than standard good seamanship for the area. The winds can be strong and the swell can be large, but with a proper forecast this isn’t reason to avoid the north coast of Colombia altogether. We enjoyed remote, peaceful bays of the Tayrona National Park and enjoyed the bustle of our anchorage in Cartagena’s busy port, planning our movement between them with a quick weather check. With time and prudence, entry into the country doesn’t warrant precautions out of the norm.

After experiencing Colombia firsthand, we start a new rumour: Cartagena is a fantastic cruising destination. The winds are manageable, safe anchorages are plentiful and serious crime is a carry over from a bygone era. Take your time, check your weather, trust your anchor and go have some big city fun. I came to Cartagena uncertain about what lay ahead, but it was a matter of days before I’d fallen for its charm. I could stay in the area for weeks, months, even years. Given a sturdy air-con unit, I could stay indefinitely. The people are friendly, the topography varied, the cruising options abundant. The city is a living history, a blend of the old and the new, the past and the present. It is radiant, vibrant, and absorbing. Adding Colombia to our itinerary was a fantastic diversion from our year in the Caribbean and a welcome shift from the Pacific islands ahead of us. If Colombia lays as a detour from your route, do yourself a favour: Rewrite the plan. Make sure you don’t look back and see it left behind in your wake. A dog-leg isn’t a detour when it holds all that Cartagena offers. It is the destination.

18/02/202206/04/2023

The Grenadines: A Tropical Playground

Link to published article: The Year of the Puppy

I’ve earned the right to hate everything about the Grenadines. Having paid $1000 for PCR tests and a two week quarantine to get into the country, we’d just cleared in when a volcanic eruption covered the islands in a thick layer of toxic ash. Things were just starting to normalise when a tree branch fell with the accuracy of a well-aimed lance and pierced my foot, fracturing my bone in the process. As I was starting to regain mobility, a series of minor medical issues sent me to the local clinic where a life-threatening condition was misdiagnosed. While the personal disasters were mounting, neither natural catastrophe nor medial calamity were enough to send me barreling for home. Given the rap sheet, I’d say that says something about the country.

When you’ve been cruising for an extended amount of time, it is easy to see how countries may start to blend into each other. But they never do. Given the proximity of islands throughout the Caribbean, it is easy to assume one sandy cay is the same as the next. But they aren’t. The Grenadines are a perfect example of this. The 32 windward islands that make up St. Vincent and the Grenadines (SVG) are spread across 60 miles within the Southern Caribbean Sea and are geographically close yet geologically distinct from each other. From black volcanic shores to white sand beaches, from dense tropical rain forest to aired scrubland, from colourful fishing villages to empty bays and high-end luxury services to spartan local fare, the options are limitless. If you want it, the Grenadines has it.

And we wanted all of it. John and I arrived in the Caribbean in early 2021 and spent our time sailing throughout the Lesser Antilles, searching for an area where we could island hop without having to go through expensive PCR tests and lengthy quarantine periods every time we wanted to move islands. We knew that the Grenadines provided cruising grounds that offered this, and we made our way towards the island group in early April. We made a quick dash for Bequia as soon as we had completed our two week quarantine in Saint Vincent. While I knew we were leaving the main island unexplored, the call for a relaxed island vibe and the beat of steel drums far outweighed the tourist activities of St. Vincent. After all, not much moves mountains and St. Vincent was all tall peaks and deep-cut valleys. Hiking waterfalls and the rim of a crater would wait until the steel drums were starting to rattle their own tune inside my brain.

But some mountains do move — particularly exploding ones. One week out of quarantine and La Soufrière, the youngest and largest volcano in the country, erupted after 40 years of laying dormant. The plume rose 26,000ft into the air and then slowly descended down on us, settling a thick layer of ash onto every surface throughout every corner of the Grenadines. All who could move, moved as quickly as they could. We pulled up anchor though a thick haze of ash and sailed south in a compact line of fleeing vessels. The Tobago Cays lay in the southern end of the island chain and we settled in there to wait out the fallout with a dozen other boats. It took a few days for the wind to shift and blow the ash away, and when it did we got our first glimpse of the glorious Grenadines. After a false start, we were ready to do what cruisers do best: Relax and party — each in equal measure.

Tobago Cays and the Lesser Isles

Fortunately, we were in the perfect place for it. The Tobago Cays consist of five uninhabited islands in the southern Grenadines surrounded by an expansive reef system on the outside and a crystal clear, white sand lagoon on the inside. Green turtles and sting rays slowly swim past and under the boat while colourful fish swiftly pace along the nearby outlying reef, creating an aquatic wonderland. When we were ready to dry out, we wandered ashore in search of large iguana and small land turtles on our hike up the hilltop for stunning views of the tropical beauty that lay below. Late afternoons invariably turned social as cruisers gathered under the palm trees to tell a few tales over a few cold beers. We shared potluck meals and built bonfires, and occasionally we wandered across the island to enjoy a local barbecue where the daily catch of fish or lobster would be cooking on the open grill, the only service provided in the Cays. Our days were exactly what Caribbean cruising was supposed to be: Long, slow and lazy. Had it not been for my desire to see the rest of islands, we would have spent all of our time in the Tobago Cays exactly as Captain Sparrow had in the Pirates of the Caribbean, sacked out in the shade of a palm tree with a belly full of rum.

After a few weeks of paradise, however, it was time to move on and see the rest of the Grenadines. While there are a few dozen islands within the group, the majority of cruising destinations are focused on the nine inhabited islands and a few of their surrounding islets. Each island has its own unique character and to experience the nuances of each was rewarding. Union provided a prime spot for kitesurfing where days were dominated by wind-sport activity. Mayreau offered my favourite anchorage where Atea sat a boat-length from the white sand, palm-lined shore. Canouan brought a touch of opulence, where we dined in a luxury restaurant built for the affluent and sat seaside sipping colourful fruit-wedged cocktails from the open-air bar.

Our focus changed as we shifted from island to island, depending on those small nuances. Either we were racing in the wind on top of the water, or we were eye-balling fish as they swam along the reef, or we were rolling around in the gentle surf. Regardless of the island or the bay, our days were filled with a soft breeze and warm, clear water. We were travelling with a few other cruisers at the time, so our salt-filled days invariably ended in beer-filled nights. If we weren’t on the beach raising our glass to the setting sun, we were gathered in a cockpit toasting to our good fortune. A succession of days slowly turned into run-on weeks which developed into a set pattern as life continued on in pretty much the same fashion as it has in the Tobago Cays. The names of the bays changed, but the experience remained the same: Beach, siesta, drink. It was time to find somewhere that would add some diversity to our days, and Bequia was just that place.

Bequia: The Cruisers Mecca

We were finally in Bequia, the cruisers Mecca of the Grenadines, and back to our original starting point. Well out of high-season and not long since the recent volcanic eruption, only a few cruisers had returned to Admiralty Bay. Many of the restaurants and bars were closed, but a few were working hard to keep the regulars returning. The Marina Bar had Thursday barbecue specials, Jack’s restaurant had Friday night happy hour and Daffodils had Sunday potluck. Many of the tourist attractions were down to reduced hours or open by appointment only. While services were minimised, the atmosphere was great and we were able to experience a quieter, more local scene than the charged atmosphere of high season. We were travelling in company with three other boats and pretty soon we had established our own collective routine: Beach yoga and a dip in the ocean in the morning, a dive or inland hike in the afternoon and sundowners on the beach or happy hour rum punch in the bar in the evenings.

We would plan different excursions to break the routine, visiting a salt-farm, a fruit plantation, a pottery shop, a heritage museum and a turtle sanctuary. We ordered specialty cocktails at a floating bar and ate lavish meals over extended lunches in upmarket restaurants. We explored the windward bays and hung out with the locals, learning how to crack a coconut with a rock, roast it in the fire after salting it in seawater. We ate salt-fish cooked over the heat of a fire while learning how to carve designs in seeds with a stick. We walked through local villages where the bones of humpback whale were discarded on the side of the road and we climbed up the mountainside for fantastic outlooks over the sea. Life in Bequia was full of options and opportunities, if you made the effort to seek it out. It was a different kind of paradise from the sleepy islands that stretch south beyond it, but it was rich and rewarding all the same.

After two months living an idyllic carefree lifestyle, however, we were feeling that our existence was falling into a set pattern again. The itch had returned and we were ready to dust the fine, white sand off our backsides and put some intrepid into our travels. Saint Vincent hadn’t appealed to us when we first arrived in the Grenadines as we were looking to insert ourselves into that picture-perfect postcard, the one with a slanting palm tree casting its shadow over still, clear water. But we needed a change of scene, and that scene was glaring down at us from 4,000 feet.

Saint Vincent: The Heart of the Grenadines

We were curious to see the aftermath of the volcanic eruption and sailed to the far north of the island where the damage from the volcano was visible. Pyroclastic flows had devastated the northern part of the island, reshaping the landscape as it carved a path of destruction to the sea. Acres of felled trees were left blackened and charred, rivers were redirected and new valleys were carved out by the flows. Houses lay flattened by the weight of the ash deposited on rooftops, entire crops were wiped out and 16,000 people had been evacuated from the red zone, leaving villages scarred and deserted. Anyone within the “red zone” was on their own. We visited villages where active settlements had turned into ghost towns and only a small handful of determined residents had refused to leave. We were in one of these towns when heavy rains created a flash flood that drowned the houses and streets in a torrent of ash-filled mud. Regardless of hardship, the people were hospitable and welcoming. It was humbling to experience such warmth from people who had suffered through so much.

But there is more to Saint Vincent than hardship and destruction. The island has its own unique beauty with high mountain peaks and thick verdant forest, jagged boulders overhanging shear cliffs that rise up from the black sand shores. We had been travelling in company prior to our departure for Saint Vincent, so to be on our own in this rugged land was a welcome change. We found our “new favourite” in a tiny one-boat cove, where we stern-tied Atea and made her fast to the rocks on either side and enjoyed the serene solitude of our private sanctuary. Our over-night stop turned into a succession of days filled with cliff-diving, rock climbing, bush walks and beach bonfires. We sat in pitch-black bat caves, hiked steep mountain tracks and found rock art hidden in the bush. We watched the blinking light of fireflies at dusk and the mysterious flashing light of jellyfish at night. We’d left the party in Bequia in search of something different, and we found it in our very first stop in Saint Vincent.

But there was so much more coming our way. As we slowly made our way north, the beauty of the island slowly unraveled before us: I wanted to hunt for first-century petroglyphs and wander through age-old ruins, and we found them. I wanted to walk through dense rainforest to stand under raging waterfalls, and we stood there. I wanted to jump off tall cliffs into the clear water below, and we jumped. I wanted the thrill of swimming through the total darkness inside deep fissures in the rock, and the adrenaline pumped. I wanted to sit with the seamen and hear to their stories, and we listened. We’d come up to St. Vincent in search of something different, and different was unfolding by the day.

I had a certain expectation of what Saint Vincent would be like, but nothing prepared me for the gruesome sight of a whale hunt. I knew whaling was legal in the Grenadines, but I didn’t believe it to be true when we were told “black fish” had been caught that day. True to word, four pilot whales were towed in by longboats in the evening. It was both horrifying and fascinating to witness. While every fibre of my being opposes whaling of any form, we travel to open our eyes to new experiences. We were invited to join in as they skinned and butchered the animal on the beach in the morning and watched as they boiled the fat to extract oil and cut the meat into slices to lay on drying racks. We even tasted the fried skin and accepted the whale teeth that were offered to us.

My misfortune may have earned me the right to hate the Grenadines, but my experiences have given me nothing but the feeling of great fortune. Everything about it is fabulous: The cultural diversity, the geographic proximity, the scenic beauty. Each island has its own unique character, and that diversity means you can choose to relax in its pristine beauty or dig deep into its rugged underbelly. I wanted peaceful solitude and I got it. I wanted to rub shoulders with the locals in a dusty bar and I got to. I wanted decadence and I indulged in it. I wanted social with fellow cruisers and we created it. I wanted intrepid and I found it. How could I have known that a small group of islands could offer so much in so many different ways?

18/02/202206/04/2023

The Blessed Isles: More than Just a Stop Over

Link to published article: The Blessed Isles

Sailing across an ocean is often seen as a mariners biggest achievement. With 4,000 miles between America and Europe, the distance across the Atlantic means a four-week transit across a temperamental ocean. It is for this reason that a small collection of mid-Atlantic islands earned the name, “The Blessed Isles.” Officially called Macaronesia, these four island groups — the Azores, Madeira, the Canaries and Cape Verde — have played a central role in trans-Atlantic trade since boats first started long-distance voyages. Located west of Portugal, Spain and the north-African coast in the Eastern Atlantic Ocean, they continue to offer a mid-passage respite for modern-day mariners keen for short break in route between the two continents.

The four island groups are often thought of as relatively similar. All are volcanic in origin with a number of the islands still active (as illustrated by the recent eruption of Cumbre Vieja in Las Palmas, Canaries in September this year) Their isolation from the mainland has allowed endemic species of animal and fauna to flourish, and their exposure to strong trade-winds means a harsh environment during the northern winter. Knowing we would cut our transatlantic passage by adding a mid-Atlantic stop, we used the Canaries as a break point: A week transit from Europe to the Canaries and then a three-week sail to the Caribbean.

The Canaries is an autonomous region of Spain and consists of 13 islands. Given the geographic similarity between the islands within Macaronesia, I was expecting an extension of Madeira and the Azores; I couldn’t have been more misinformed. I am unsure where I’ve seen such diversity within an island group. Each of the thirteen islands has its own unique environment with a fascinating cultural heritage that is still evident today. To see one island is certainly not to have seen the other.

Tenerife Cave Dwellings: The original settlers of the Canaries were the Guanches who arrived from African in the first or second century. They settled in caves across the islands, concentrated in Tenerife. What was fascinating to me about this history is that people are still living in these cave dwellings to this day. Excursions throughout the countryside revealed numerous dwellings spread across the island; drying laundry splayed out on lines, dogs lounging outside cave entrances, chairs perched aside a rock wall, chickens living in their coops: All scattered evidence of human habitation. We found isolated valleys where large communities were dispersed across a mountainside, with small footpaths winding their way up the mountainside. I became fascinated by this current cave culture, still alive and vibrant. I’ve travelled to many countries where old cave dwellings are protected as Unesco Heritage Sites, but this is the first time I’ve seen established communities in remote cave dwellings. It became my preoccupation to drive aimlessly throughout the island, trying to find as many cave dwellings as I could discover — a surprisingly easy feat given the number of cave-dwellers spread out throughout the Canaries.

Lanzarote Volcanic Vineyards: Both the Azores and the Canaries have developed a unique form of viticulture in one of the most inhospitable regions. It is impossible to imagine that someone can grow anything but the most rugged crop in the rocky, volcanic soil. Grape vines are the last thing I would expect to crisscross the region. However, ingenious vintners have done just that — they have created an environment where grapes not only grow, but thrive. This form of deep-root horticulture called “erarenado” is unique to Lanzarote. Small semi-circular walls, called “zoco,” are made from black lava stones and protect a single vine, providing a barrier against the strong trade winds. It is a very labour intensive form of cultivation as each crater holds a single vine, making hand-picked grapes the only option for harvesting. Wine-tasting was the last thing I expected on our mid-Atlantic stop; not only was it delicious, it was also historically fascinating.

Lava Tubes and Subterranean Tunnels: Lava tubes and deep volcanic caverns riddle the Canary Islands. A number of the islands, such as Gran Canaria and Tenerife, have extensive pyroclastic fields and a number display dramatic volcanic cones with impressive craters, such as Teide on Tenerife and Cumbre Vieja on La Palma. Given the range of erosional stages of each of the seven volcanic islands, each island offers a very unique perspective. This means you can hike the top of a volcanic rim that is covered in deep foliage (Gran Canaria), walk through volcanic moonscapes (Los Lobos), wander deep inside massive caverns (Lanzarote) and follow lava tubes deep inside (Tenerife). Given the different stages of each of the islands, you can see both the devastation and the beauty that they bring: As one explodes, another holds a breathtaking amphitheatre and a species of blind crab that is endemic to the island. While the local inhabitants continue to deal with the aftermath of Cumbre Vieja’s violent explosion on La Palma, Cueva de los Verdes in Lanzarote holds concerts for an audience of 500 in its expansive cavern and provides sanctuary to an endemic species of miniature blind albino cave crabs in its deep-turquoise underground freshwater lagoon.

Underwater Sculpture Garden: Equally unique to the Canaries is Europe’s first underwater sculpture garden, a collection of 12 installations laid down by sculptor Jason deCaires Taylor to raise social and environmental awareness. “Museo Atlantico” was made public in 2017 and holds 300 life-sized human figures all performing everyday tasks: a couple holding hands, a man sitting on a swing, fishermen in their boats, someone taking a “selfie.” Four years on and the sculptures are starting provide a decent false reef and the effect is impressive… and rather eerie. A dive on the site will remain a very unique experience and is not to be missed on a trip through Lanzarote.

Many sailors use the largest of the Canary Islands, Las Palmas in Gran Canaria, solely for provisioning and boat preparation prior to a transatlantic passage. However, to bypass the islands that surround the main island is to miss out on some interesting and diverse islands and should be considered a highlight destination in the Eastern Atlantic. Each of the islands we visited on our sail through the island group was a continuous series of unfolding surprises. The villages all hold their own quaint small-town European character and each island offers an experience drastically different than its neighbour: From the bustle of Gran Canaries largest city, Las Palmas, to the quiet cave-dwellers of its outer communities; from from the enormous sand-dunes of Fuertaventura’s Parque Natural de las Dunas to the barren volcanic cone of Los Lobos to the lush laurel forest of Los Tilos de Moya in Gran Canaria; from sea to inland lake to crater rim to underground tunnels; from camel back to mountaintop to mid-city cafes. There is a diversity in the Canaries that makes a “hop” through in route from American to Europe a must-see destination in itself.