December was a strange month. My sparse posts on this blog reflect that – excitement for arriving in the French islands, introspection bordering on depression after a trip back to the States, rounded out by stagnation and restlessness as we overstayed our time in St. Martin. Though difficult to remember in the moment, I am once again reminded that these things are cyclical. Now we’re anchored in Ballast Bay, St. Kitts, down on the south end of the island, and with a new year, life is intensely good again.
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On New Year’s Day we finally quit St. Martin, said we’d had enough, to hell with the Christmas Winds. We took a beating for it, but we made it down to St. Barth’s in one piece, feeling all the better for the invigorating ride. Oe the move again, that’s all that mattered.
The spectacle upon arriving in Gustavia was unreal. Megayachts, as far as the eye could see, anchored as tight as they could swing a 250′ boat on a few hunred feet of chain. The only thing I can think to compare it to is to Great Harbour on Jost Van Dyke, but instead of charter catamarans, they were hundred million dollar yachts, and three times as many of them. I’d guess that well over half the world’s megayacht fleet was in attendance. I suppose that most of the thrill of ownership of one of these behemoths comes from being seen with it, and this is the place to be seen.
The scene that night on Shell Beach was an extension of the excess in the harbour. Quaint and quiet Gustavia had turned into a Bacchanalian paradise for the sons and daughters of the European elite. Frolicking drunk on champagne and at least partially nude, gyrating incessantly to the deep house cuts that were pumping over a massive PA system. Occasionally taking the hand of a partner and scampering off to the privacy behind a boulder. It was something to behold, but I am definitely not young, pretty, cool, or rich enough to partake.
I assume the truly powerful and impressive were around Gustavia as well, but they seem to maintain a lower profile. Eclipse, the world’s largest private vessel, was anchored out, but I didn’t see Roman Abramovich fire dancing on Shell Beach.
I should mention why we ended up having drinks on the beach in the first place. Gustavia’s outer harbour is cramped on the best of days, more so on their biggest holiday of the year. On our arrival we had to troll around for a while to find a hole to find an acceptable gap between boats, and once we finally found our hole, I looked over and immediately recognized the 44′ Fountaine Pajot catamaran next to us – Cheeky Monkey, the www.TurftoSurf.com boat. As soon as we had the anchor set, Cat and I hopped in the dinghy and went over to introduce ourselves.
Tasha and Ryan immediately welcomed us and invited us out to the beach, and following that insisted that we join their crew for a steak dinner on their boat. Both extraordinarily gregarious and generous, they’re equally inspiring. l’ll give a quick synopsis of what I know about their lives because I think it’s worth sharing: Met while teaching English in Qatar, noticed a void in the market for teacher certification, started a school in Manhattan that rapidly tuned into many schools throughout the US, bought a Catalina 34 and spent a year sailing down the coast and through the Bahamas, crewed in 2 legs of the round-the-world Clipper Races, went back to NYC to prepare the company for sale, sold it, bought the new catamaran, tried to row a tiny boat across the Mediterranean to set a new record but had to be rescued (twice!), raced a traditional outrigger canoe up the coast of Tanzania, and then took off on a circumnavigation on the aforementioned cat. Their video series on youtube is aptly named – Chase the Story.
Though we only spent one short of evening with them, drinking too many ‘ti punches and pain killers (the drink, not drug), it was abundtly clear to me that there is a common thread through all of their endeavours. Tenacity and an unwillingness to let inexperience prevent them from pursuing what they were after. I didn’t get the impression that they ever intended to be an inspiration, but their life in motion is a strong reminder to myself of how much is possible, whether business or adventure. Want to do something but don’t have the obvious means and experience? Who cares, pursue it relentlessly.
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With pounding heads the next day, we took care of all the odds and ends necessary to prepare Paradox for a trip. Customs, provisioning, rigging checks, engine checks, dinghy stowage, and so on. With farewells yelled across the anchorage to the crew of Cheeky Monkey we upped anchor and motored the few miles up the coast to Columbier, where a solid night’s rest is all but guaranteed, in direct contrast to the rolling and heaving harbor at Gustavia.
A blaring iphone alarm brought the new day at 5am. Pitch black still, we stumbled around deck, unzipping and removing canvas covers, making fast the halyard, and clearing cockpit for action. With water boiled and French press filled with the strong espresso coffee grounds that are ubiquitious in these islands, we cranked the diesel over and dropped our mooring at the first grey light of pre-dawn. Weaving out through the cosmos of anchor lights of the sleeping boats, I was reminded that these are the moments I love above all, heading out to sea in the stillness of the receding night. There’s a hum of the unknown about it that vibrates down in to my bones, even for a modest little voyage like we were undertaking.
Once clear or the bay we found the wind blowing gently out of the SE, not ideal for our intended direction, so we motored due south with only mainsail up while protcted in the lee of St. Barths. Get it while it’s cheap. An hour later, with the sun peaking over the horizon, we came clear of the south end of the island into open sea swell, unfurled the jib, killed the engine, and cracked off on to our course, about 185 magnetic. While our motor sailing tactic may bring condescension from the purists, it bought us just enough southing to be able to lay the passage between St. Kitts and Statia on a single close hauled tack.
The rest of the morning was spent reefing and un-reefing as the wind and sea state went through tantrums. We started out with 10-15 knots of breeze and full sail, but saw everything from total calm that required the diesel to a two hour squall that had wind over 30. In that much breeze, the tops of all the waves get blown off and streak the surface of the sea with white spume. If you turn your face into the eye of the wind, you can’t hear someone sitting across the cockpit unless they shout because of the howling over your ears. That was likely the strongest sustained wind we’ve sailed in on Paradox, but she plugged along at 7 knots with fine manners under a double reefed main and a quarter of the jib out.
Right before the squall set in, St. Kitts was still an amorphous grey lump on the horizon. By the time the sky cleared and rain stopped, she was verdant green and took up half the horizon, with individual houses and stone fence lines in view. With that, the breeze dropped to under 15 knots, so out went more sail and off went the foul weather gear (which in the Caribbean means little more than a wool sweater – I have yet to put on my actual fw gear). At noon we rounded the north end of the island and briefly debated dropping the hook at Sandy Point, but as we were still jazzed up we voted to stick to the plan and keep going south. This turned out to be the most arduous portion of the journey by a long shot. The rain started again and the wind picked up and could not have been anymore directly on our nose. And as we’re not really sailors, we did what we do, and turned the engine on. I’ll be damned if i’m short tacking the last 15 miles. Slowly, very slowly, but surely, we made our way down the coast line. We kept in close to shore, despite the hazard of poorly marked fishing nets, because the views of the pastures and villages and mountain slope were so good.
After hours of motoring at a pathetic 3 knots, we finally passed Basseterre, the main town on St. Kitts. We had no desire to deal with customs and immigration at 4 in the afternoon on a Sunday, nor pay the associated overtime fees, so we figured we’d put up the yellow quarantine flag, anchor where we pleased, and beg foregiveness for our ignorance of local laws if the coast guard came by. We first tried Frigate Bay, just south of town. Too rolly. We kept going a little further to South Friar’s. Too exposed. Figuring that the third time would be a charm, we kept on a few more miles to White House Bay. Hardly any boats, no wind, no swell, solid anchoring in 15 feet, and a beautiful view. Just right.
The feeling on the boat was ecstatic, satisfied, at ease. A complete departure from what it had been only a few days before. There’s something about movement that cleanses.
Maybe the grass is always greener.
*I apologize for the lack of photos. Our DSLR camera has been our first offering to Neptune.
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