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A Caribbean Getaway
St. Vincent and the Grenadines
Yearning
for warm breezes and sunny skies, but wary of Caribbean ports cluttered with
shops full of upscale junk and pushy tourists? Take to the high seas instead
on a chartered yacht adventure in the Grenadines, a winsome chain of islands
at the southern end of the West Indies, well out of the way of those behemoth
cruise ships and far from busy airports and city lights.
Some
travelers may prefer the pampering and luxury of a cruise ship with its comfy
deck chairs, meals on demand, ballrooms and cabarets, and cadres of personnel
always “at your service, Madam,” but not our bunch. We happily went to sea for
10 days snuggled into 40- or 50-foot sailboats, knowing that we would be
hauling halyards and hefting anchors, chopping onions and making spicy stewed
chicken, adding to our provisions in open-air markets, checking the engine
oil, washing our own dishes, and at the mercy of wind and waves to get from
here to there.
We all
flew into the island of St. Vincent, our point of departure, from home ports
ranging from Maine to Washington State, and caused some puzzlement as we
gathered at the Beachcombers Hotel on Villa Beach for our first meal together.
Instead of the usual crew of macho mariners and honeymoon couples, we were a
group of seasoned women who have sailed all over the world, some as captains,
some as race crew, some with spouses or partners, and, as for our captain,
Tania Aebi, all alone around the world at an early age. For a number of years,
Tania has organized sailing adventures for women, and those of us who had
joined her in the islands of Greece, the Mediterranean, the Bahamas, the
Seychelles or Thailand in the past wanted in on this latest adventure in the
far-away, fabled Grenadines.
Our
chartered sailboats awaited us, with the exception of the one that had been
hit by a whale a few days earlier and had to be sidelined with a bent shaft.
The efficient folks at the charter company quickly found a replacement for us,
but the whale report promised to be a topic of interest for the rest of the
voyage. We later learned when we visited the beautiful island of
Bequia, that the men of the island are allowed to harvest two whales
each year, and do so annually, going to sea to harpoon them in boats rather
smaller than our heavy-duty, fiberglass yachts.
After
loading up our galley shelves and storage bins with food and drink at the big
supermarket near the airport, we set sail from the little town of Calliaqua on
the southeast corner of the big island of St. Vincent, a flotilla of five
boats crewed by 27 women – a blend of young professionals, retired executives,
adventurous matriarchs, and a good many sailing school graduates and
postgraduates.
Our five
lady captains had charted a course that would take us south for five days of
island hopping and back up the chain of the Grenadines for an additional five
days, stopping at the islands and anchorages we missed on the way down, all in
the interest of taking advantage of the
winds that blow steadily and kindly much of the year.
Although
we stopped at islands like Mustique, Mayreau, and Petite St. Vincent with
alluring resorts, we were not tempted to give up the life of the sailor to be
waited on in plushy digs. Nothing could replace the thrill of sailing into a new
harbor at the end of each day, then diving off the deck to swim to shore or
snorkeling over a reef aglow with tropical fish and corals. Or shopping for
mangoes and exotic fruit in the local market stalls and walking along the
streets of a new town, making friends with the women who braid hair or bake
bread, or the men who run little cafes and want to flirt or talk politics.
Sitting
out on deck in the evening as the boat rocked at anchorage, watching the moon
grow fuller and fuller each night, picking out the Southern Cross and sharing
life stories alternated with raucous dinner parties on shore when we all
gathered around the tables in some little restaurant sampling the local cuisine
and the local rum.
The best
part of each day was when we pulled up the anchor and hauled up the sails for
the next leg of our passage. Each of our chartered yachts had roller furling
jibs, monstrous stretches of fabric that furled like more-or-less obedient
window shades around the front stay, and then rolled out with a good deal of
huffing, and puffing and winching, a performance somewhat like hanging out
laundry while grinding coffee. We each had long tricks at the wheel, keeping a
more or less steady course as we romped over the deep blue water and argued
about how high the waves really were that day. We were never out of sight of
land, one of the loveliest attributes of the Grenadines, which with St. Vincent,
form their own sovereign country.
After our
10-day voyage had ended and we were once more ashore, there was time to take a
quick tour of some of St. Vincent, an English-speaking island populated with
congenial and industrious people. We strolled the streets of the capitol of
Kingstown and its historic Botanical Garden, and drove through the fertile
Mesopotamia Valley and a rugged mountain landscape softened by plantings of
nutmeg and breadfruit trees, banana plantations, frilly palms and spectacularly
flowering frangipani and poinciana trees.
We all winged home with terrific tans, a luxurious sense of having been cradled in a tropical paradise, and the satisfaction of having met Mother Ocean on her own terms.