From Antigua to Nevis (pronounced nEEvis) is about 40 miles and at 6 miles an hour takes something under 7 hours so, having sent Ian to the airport, we set off early and with light winds put out our new fishing lure. Soon a little ferry hove into sight on our right hand side (port) our right of way. The ferry tried its hardest to sneak in front. But Tonic charged on and eventually he gave way and turned on our stern. General relief when a commercial ship gives way because the collision regulations say that we should maintain our course, which is like a fly staring out a bull. However the ferry skipper had the last laugh as he nipped behind and the fishing line went twang, for a millisecond I thought we had caught another barracuda but no, we had a ferry, and weighing more than 135 pounds, off it went. At about £10 for five minutes fishing that comes in at slightly over budget!
Anyway we sailed on, with a second had lure, to Nevis (nEEvis), picked up a buoy about half a mile from the coast and settled down to sleep. Soon the local night club kicked in with the most impressive sound system I had ever experienced and we were treated to Caribbean bangin tunes, complete with vibro-rappin that would have had Dr Who reach for his sonic screwdriver. The base was so good that Chris slowly moved across the bed propelled by the never ending beat! Then the swell picked up, a long Atlantic swell which set the boat rolling in a chaotic mode which reached a crescendo ever 4 or 5 minutes and then falls away rapidly to nothing. Between the two not much sleep was had until finally at half past four the rappers announced their departure with a crystal clear “We gone!” and we were left alone with the swell. By dawn we had had enough and we dropped the buoy and sped off to St Kitts. St Kitts was a different place altogether, we spent a happy couple of days working out that we could not ride the scenic railway and ate some good food.
The urge to head north had us anchored in a bay for an early start to St Martin and with light winds we motor sailed to Marigot Bay, St Martin. St Martin was a delightful place, we went ashore in the dinghy and had coffee and croissants in a pavement café before heading to the port to clear in and out (you are allowed 24 hours after you say your going) and settled down to an afternoon exploring with the dingy. St Martin/ St Maartin is an island jointly administered by France and the Dutch and in the middle, spanning the border is a lagoon. We slipped across the border for a Dutch beer. They didn’t have any so we settled for a Dominican. That evening we set out to the French side for some steak frites etc. and after a happy meal set off back to the dingy. It had been stolen, our 10 year old dinghy, complete with wooden oars and the only 4 horse power outboard in the Antilles had gone!
Find a Gendarme! Wrong type of Gendarme! Find another!
“We are the intervention force! You have to report your crime tomorrow in the next town!”
“So are you not interested in this crime which has just been committed?”
“You have to report that tomorrow in the next town”
“We are staying on a boat and if we get back to the boat we have no dingy, we will not be able to get back to the town tomorrow. Can you not take the report now?”
They were good looking lads and the traffic stopped (they had guns) as they strode of towards the dingy dock but the only tangible thing they did was take our name.
A fellow sailor delivered us back to the boat having said that he had heard it was a hot bed of crime and he always took the keys out of his boat when he left it on that quay.
The next morning Chris was in a fine mood as she rang the local fuzz and was
treated to the Gallic shrug . “You have to go to the police station in person!”
Next she tried the “cruiser net” “use it there lose it there” was the response! It turns out that Saint Martin, WI is a hotbed of crime. Dinghy’s are stolen from the quay in Marigot and taken through a mass of yachts into the lagoon and straight over the border. At any time the perpetrator can abandon the enterprise and be free of all risk by just plopping over the side. The Police don’t even have access to a boat and make it as hard as possible to report the crime.
We left in disgust heading west for an over-night trip to the Virgin Islands. Virgin Gorda Harbour, BVI was the target and finding land at dawn we slipped into the harbour and popped across the “show“ field to find Customs. A show was being set up and I asked the roadies what time it kicked off?
“About 12. There will be more cars coming!”
It was a car show, that should not bother two weary sailors but what are those big speakers for? It turned out that the “car show” was to determine, by scientific method, who has the loudest stereo system and soon the ranks of cars were swelled by Japanese and American offerings from as far a field as Anguilla (like Gunnerside without the gill) and Tortola (a similar population to Boroughbridge). Next the vehicles were lined up and each in turn blasted out the 1812 overture or some Caribbean equivalent whilst scantily clad young girls advanced with a sound meter.
It was a sort of knock out competition and within six hours we were down to the 150dB plus mob, only eclipsed by the compere who clearly had a system the like of which would need a Mack lorry to carry. He spent much of his time entreating the crowd to “BACK OFF” and shouting “154.63” and useful things like that. Next there were the appeals and before you knew it it was bed time. Then the disco started.
Still that’s what makes it Caribbean, the sun, the rain, and some nutters with nuclear sound systems!
