Yesterday did not go as planned.
We decided to leave St. Pierre late in the morning. The old town had a lot to offer that we hadn’t yet explored, but in our recent spirit of perpetual motion, we decided to press on. We lifted the anchor, put up the main, rolled out the jib, and cruised out on a broad reach with a 10 knot breeze aft of the beam. There wasn’t a specific destination in mind, just south, so Cat had Chris Doyle’s Cruising Guide to the Windward Island in her lap, flipping through the pages for potential anchorages. A bit of hemming and hawing about whether we wanted the lights of town or a more secluded spot for the night had us opting for the former, figuring that Fort de France would offer good provisioning and maybe, just maybe, a decent pizza. We haven’t found good pizza since St. Martin.
With a destination set and another 10 miles to go, we hugged closer to the coast to round eastward into the massive bay in which Fort de France lies. Sustained wind was still not much more than 15 kts at this point, but we were getting big shifty gusts as we’d pass by the many valleys that run down to the coast between the mountains. It made for slow going in between, but we double reefed the main to make riding the gusts more comfortable.
Once we were far enough south that we were exposed to the open mouth of the 25 square mile bay, it became apparent what the true wind was doing, unobstructed by land. Blowing. Hard. Paradox doesn’t have a wind speed meter, so take my guesses with a grain of salt, but this was the strongest steady, sustained (non-squall) wind that we’ve felt on this trip. 30 knots? Enough that I couldn’t hear myself think if I turned my face into the wind and the sea was thickly mottled with white caps and foam, like a well-marbled ribeye. And, of course, we had to tack directly to windward to get to where we wanted to go.
To be clear, this wasn’t dangerous. It was windy and uncomfortable, but this was still essentially protected water so we didn’t have big seas, just a lot of short steep chop that would send every fifth wave over the bow and smashing into the dodger. I experimented with furling in the jib more and more until finally I gave up any sailorly pride and rolled her in completely, cranked the diesel to 11, and continued on under double reefed main. Much better. Boat regained a gentlemanly angle of heel and we puttered along at 4 knots hard on the breeze.
The turning point came when we ran right over the top of a poorly marked fishing net. I didn’t see the long floating line and buoys on either side of us until it was literally at our bow. I lunged for the throttle and threw her into neutral, hoping to at least not wrap the next up in our propeller. As we went over and past I kept expecting the buoys to come trailing after us and the boat to grind to a halt. Nothing. God knows how, but we passed over without getting tangled. Right as I started to celebrate, the hand reel sang out and line went stripping off as fast as were sailing.
“Get the knife and cut it free!” I yelled out to Cat, figuring we’d be better off losing half our line than all of it. I grabbed onto the spool in a futile attempt to slow the loss of line. By the time Cat came up the companion way, knife in hand, the line went slack. Hook and lure were left with the net. Guess I need to work on my fishing knots. That wouldn’t have held Santiago’s marlin.
I can’t begrudge any man their livelihood, but holy hell it’s frustrating when these island fisherman string up a hundred yards of net across a heavily trafficked waterway with nothing but faded coke bottles tied on to mark it. The loss of a lure is nothing, but having to go overboard with a mask and knife to cut away net from the propeller is no good.
In the wake of my on-setting foul mood, we started to reconsider whether we really wanted to beat all the way to the southern end of the bay to be able to lay Fort de France on the next tack. Another couple hours of howling wind and spray in our faces. Not our kind of sailing.
There was a little town named Schoelcher a few miles to the north of us that we could lay on a single tack and be there in half an hour. The Doyle guide mentioned something about there being a brew pub in town. Done. Prepare to tack – tacking!
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We dropped anchor next to the town dock in front of the beach with only one other cruising boat in sight. A rare thing. Now to find beer.
Doyle describes the brew pub thusly:Â “Cap Solomon, in the Madiana Center, will delight pub aficionados. They have a microbrewery on site so their beers are good.”
Not long on description, but sounds all right. I like pubs. I might even be an aficionado. I’ve certainly spent enough money in them to qualify.
Cat and I hopped in the dinghy and headed towards town. We tied off to the well-maintained town dock near a couple of local guys that were snacking on peanuts and mid-day beers and bullshitting over a fishing line. Setting off on foot we walked up the hill through the village and, after a few wrong turns, found ourselves walking along a freeway that wouldn’t be out of place in mainland France. Perfect asphalt and fresh stripes, cloverhead exits and on-ramps. More mis-steps were made, but we spotted a massive “Madiana Center” sign arching over a road entrance. We knew something was amiss, however, when we saw massive white coaches pulling in packed with school kids. Turning the corner, we saw why. Our quaint and charming Madiana Center with our delightful brew pub turned out to a cinema megaplex with a 500 car parking lot. Though beginning to have strong doubts about Doyle’s interpretation of “brewpub,” we continued forth out of morbid curiosity if nothing else. We entered the building amongst a horde screaming and laughing youths, into the lobby of the cinema. Sure enough, there lie a restaurant, but this did not have the look of a pub. Neon blue lighting, stark white walls, post-modernist furniture, and silhouettes of Audrey Hepburn plastered 10 feet tall across the walls.
Confirmation was made when we stuck our heads in and sighted the big copper brewing kettles. Yup, “brewpub.” We had arrived.
Given that I haven’t seen anything on tap since our trip back to the States, we stayed and drank underwhelming but honest attempts at Ambers and Blondes while seated in some kind of Flinstones-meets-the-Jetsons moon chairs with sweeping views of the parking lot. The music was… eclectic, the latest Drake club banger, an 80’s Whitney Houston ballad, and the throbbing deep house cuts requisite to any and every establishment with a European owner.
It was funny. I wouldn’t call it good, but it was an amusing confirmation of our belief that Chris Doyle has been out of the country too long and is no longer in touch with the tastes of anyone.
This is how I would have written the entry:Â “Cap Solomon, in the sprawling Madiana ciniplex, is the island’s first attempt at a microbrewery. The owner, clearly European, has decided to stave off middle-age with a strong dose of neon lighting and house music. While honest in its attempts, pub aficionados will be left wanting for the atmosphere of the watering holes in their home countries. ”
I know everyone loves the Doyle guides. They’re an invaluable resource for the cruising sailor. But don’t trust anything he has to say in regard to restaurants.
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We trekked back to the boat in good spirits. The pub wasn’t what we expected, but was bizarre enough (or maybe Doyle’s description poor enough) to be enjoyable. The walk took us back along the freeway that seems so out of place in a Caribbean isle and through the village with a quick stop for groceries at the 8 a Huit. Down the hill and to the dock, I clambered down the dock ladder into the dinghy.
“Will, where’s the gas tank?”, Cat asked me with a look of puzzlement on her face.
I cocked my head over my shoulder to confirm. Nothing but empty space in the aft end of the dinghy, the former home of the red plastic 6-gallon fuel tank.
“Stolen,” I said without missing a beat.
I looked around the dock. The two guys fishing and drinking were gone. There was a guy with a bass guitar, but I don’t think he had looked up from the strings since he sat down. Another girl was doing leg lifts and crunches while listening to head phones. Probably not keeping her eyes open for gas thieves. And they’re all French anyway – trying to question them seemed pointless.
I knew we’d been playing it loose for a while now by not locking up. I was not surprised to find it missing. I suppose if anything surprised me, it was that they didn’t take the outboard as well.
This kind of thing happens constantly to cruisers in tropical latitudes and it’s just the cost of doing business. I had no expectation of recourse, but I figured we ought to report it to the police – if there’s no report, it never happened. So back up the hill we went, stopping first at the municipal police station who, between Cat’s limited French and my charades, came to understand our problem and directed us to the Gendarmerie down the road. I don’t know what the difference between the gendarmerie and police are, but fine. More charades, more bad french, throw in some pictionary and Google Translate, and 45 minutes later we had filed an official report. The friendly police officer was even hopeful that they would recover our tank when they review the town’s surveillance cameras. I laughed at the thought, but appreciated the sentiment.
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Back on the dinghy as the sun went down, anticipating a 250 meter doggy paddle back to the mothership, we discovered another of many fine qualities that our 8hp Yamaha outboard possesses. She is so efficient and retains just enough fuel in the lines that we were able to idle along to the 10 yard line before sputtering to a halt and drifting to a stop on the port rail. Thanks, Yamaha.
As were were unloading our groceries and preparing to hoist the dinghy up on the davits, I saw it, laying in the bow. My suspicions confirmed.
A fucking peanut shell.
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