General: St Vincent and the Grenadines

I'll be honest, right from the start. Cards on the table, I'm a land dweller, I'm not sure we have any business mucking about on the ocean. My usual enquiry on boarding a water-borne vessel is, "When are we getting off?" However, as a child I fished in the English Channel from what I recall to be nothing more than a rowing boat, later, I ran booze across the same stretch of sea by ferry and hovercraft (these days I take the train), I sped ...
...powerboat (which I now understand may not have been entirely legal). I Ribbed for seven straight days in wild Scottish seas. Once, between Melbourne and Tasmania, I finally understood that saying about an even keel, as I watched an initially spotless and civilised passenger ferry fill steadily with vomit during a night crossing of the Bass Strait, retiring to bed as the afflicted huddled together in panic and desperation on the restaurant floor. ... more

I'll be honest, right from the start. Cards on the table, I'm a land dweller, I'm not sure we have any business mucking about on the ocean. My usual enquiry on boarding a water-borne vessel is, "When are we getting off?" However, as a child I fished in the English Channel from what I recall to be nothing more than a rowing boat, later, I ran booze across the same stretch of sea by ferry and hovercraft (these days I take the train), I sped along the Thames just outside Windsor in a racing class powerboat (which I now understand may not have been entirely legal). I Ribbed for seven straight days in wild Scottish seas. Once, between Melbourne and Tasmania, I finally understood that saying about an even keel, as I watched an initially spotless and civilised passenger ferry fill steadily with vomit during a night crossing of the Bass Strait, retiring to bed as the afflicted huddled together in panic and desperation on the restaurant floor. For an hour or so I was a submariner in Mauritius. I've glided over stunning tropical reefs in glass bottomed boats more times than I've visited the dentist in the last ten years. Admittedly, this last excursion is usually employed as an excuse to avoid the "colourful and vibrant" local market. Translation: "colourful and vibrant" means noisy, dirty, overcrowded, and full of scheming locals keen to relieve you of your holiday money.

I realise, writing this, that I have had a little more experience than I first thought of boats. Meagre, perhaps above average. But nothing prepared me for 3 days on a sailing boat.

St Vincent and The Grenadines was the spot. A lovely spot it is too. Set in the Caribbean Sea, the island of St Vincent is used my many yachtsmen as the jumping off point to the nearby gems of Bequia, Mustique and the fabulous Tobago Cays. As part of our hotel deal we had the option of a private three day sailing trip on a 48 footer, touring the islands and the cays, sleeping and eating on board, and bring your own booze.

Captain, cook, my wife and I were ready to set off on a glorious morning, having supervised the loading of the beer, the wine and the rum ration. Loading the passengers proved to be more complicated. A wobbly dinghy, a back of boat stepladder cleverly positioned just out of reach of all but a keen orang-utan, and suddenly those refreshing brunch-time rum and cokes no longer seemed like such a good idea. Besides, ten feet or so back to the jetty is quite a distance when you swim like I do.

Transfer safely negotiated, we took up position on the bridge. "Do you want to give Danny a hand with the sail?" asked Captain George. Danny was the cook and deckhand. "I don't have to climb up anything do I?" I asked. Having established that no gymnastics were involved, I joined Danny at a sort of mid-point between the bridge and the front for some serious rope pulling. Polite thanks were offered as he gently elbowed me aside and employed a looping and winching manoeuvre which secured the flapping thing. "Not much wind today" said The Captain as he switched on the engine. We surged forward at 3mph. Waste of bloody time that was, I said to Sandra, and we were almost aware of the force of the mild acceleration.

We hadn't been out of the harbour for long when Captain George said, "Do you want to take the wheel?"
Like a guilty man, I pointed at my chest, as if there might have been other potential drivers hiding below decks or something. "Just like driving a car" he said. I didn't tell him that I don't have a driving licence. "Aim for that island dead ahead", he said. I was doing just that, but all of a sudden we were pointing in quite the wrong direction, so I compensated. The full 180 degree turn was not what I, or indeed the captain had in mind. He muttered things about the current pushing us to the right and the boat being slow to respond to the wheel, I smiled tightly, nodded, resolved to stick with it, take my time, try harder and figure it out in my own time. Danny brought me a cold beer and disappeared below decks. It seemed Sandra and I were in command. I concentrated on the steering for a while, took a sip from the bottle, then some spilt on the deck as I jumped at the whooshing sound of a firework, or maybe it was a flare. Neither. One of the fishing rods was unravelling at a hell of a lick as the line played out at something like147mph faster than we were actually travelling.

George and Danny leapt into action and raced to the back of the boat. Some feat as they had both been asleep downstairs moments before. The "Do you want to take the wheel?" line was obviously a tried and trusted one to guarantee a little R and R. "Keep her straight", ordered George. Here we go, spin it left, oops bit too far, spin her right, oh no, too much, spin it back, whoops, here we go again in a semi-circle or worse, wonder how they're doing with that fish? I glanced over my shoulder to see Danny hanging off the back with the gaff as Cap'n George struggled with the reel, and the only casting going on now was that of exasperated looks in my direction.

"Do you mind if we do some fishing?" George had asked. Not a problem to us, might be fun I thought, catching dinner. It soon became clear that dinner was packed in ice in the galley, straight from the hotel kitchen. The fresh 25lb tuna was destined for the market at the next port, with the proceeds trousered by the crew.

Stopped off at the rich man's island, Mustique. If you ever bought an Italian car it seems much of the money has gone on Signor Agnelli's huge pink villa on the hillside. Our arrival coincided with the return home of the local workforce who commute by ferry to St Vincent every day for construction or dock work. I'm sure they don't drink in Basil's bar on the harbour where even at Italian car magnate might baulk at the price of small ale. We were moored for the night off Mustique. George and Danny asked for a hand in securing the biggest sail. We rolled it up, and George said, "Just tie a double bow" Ooops, too late. Whatever I tied, it would not be recognised as any kind of bow, more like that first attempt on your shoelaces, and certainly could not be found on the rather attractive nautical knot arrangement which sat in a frame on the wall outside the galley.

Settling down on deck after a fine dinner (tuna, but not that one), the sight of the night sky, under the blackness pierced with myriad pinpricks of light, the gentle dusting of the Milky Way, the large glass of rum in hand, Cap'n George pointing out Venus, this was splendid. Darkness, the wonder of the cosmos, conversation and booze. Surely, to complete the picture, romance. Sandra was worried about noise and the boat moving.

Well, I promised to keep quiet, and as I pointed out, the boat was moving anyway. I found the motion disconcerting, so sleep was difficult. It seems that on a yacht, you have to attempt sleep on a piece of four-by-two, five feet above the floor, with the consequence that the whole night is spent in fear of a swift descent onto a hard and unforgiving deck. The 3AM pee (OK I'm over forty), involved a steep climb from the bunk, a stumble across the cabin, stifled cursing while treading on Sandra's hairbrush, then, mission accomplished, a dozen pumps on the flush, which succeeded only in filling the whole cabin with the smell that the gent's toilet had in the only pub you could get served in when you were sixteen.

Captain George had a tantrum the following morning when it dawned on him that I wasn't a master seaman in disguise. The wind had strengthened by a whisper, which meant sails up, engine off, and we must have almost doubled our speed to around my walking pace when I've got a train to catch. Some serious (or comedic, depending on where you were sitting) sail-hoisting, handle-fiddling, rope-pulling, moving around to catch the breeze, Laurel and Hardy style action was going on, and, under the misapprehension that I was a retired Olympic yachtsman, George mumbled and pointed, and grunted and gestured, I shrugged my shoulders in ignorance, wishing I was no nearer the ocean than the hotel's Jacuzzi. Suddenly, wraith-like, George materialised, at my side of the boat, and in a flurry of ropes and twirling of winches saved us all from certain… well, maybe certain tedium at 1mph less than we eventually achieved. I saluted Captain George and muttered something about going on a cruise next time.

I returned to steering, and, by deciphering Captain George's oblique instructions, showed some improvement. Got into the swing of feeling the current and the wind, moving the wheel to fit the conditions. We were approaching the island of Bequia, me at the wheel, Captain G saying, head for that hill, then head straight for that boat at the end of the harbour, the kind of instructions I can understand. I thought, well he'll take over in a minute, because we're coming into the harbour now, lot of boats around, he'll take over any minute now. Instead, he said, mind those freighters to your right, come left a bit, look out for that speedboat, then, with just little hand gestures, this way and that, until we found a mooring, he guided me in. The moment of mild excitement passed quite quickly and, as the long hours of aimless bobbing about began, I eyed the shore for likely hotels.

The approach to Bequia said, I think, a lot about sailing. At 11AM I thought, we're nearly there. At 2PM we were still nowhere near nearly there. I know judgement of distance over water is difficult, it may be impossible for all I know, but those seagulls and boobies I saw swooping around the shore just after breakfast seemed to have shrunk away by lunchtime. Perhaps they hitched a ride on a passing speedster.

Finally we hit some big waves and a decent wind on the jaunt from Bequia to St Vincent. That's when, moving around the boat, I began to consider the design faults of these sailed craft. Those rails of flimsy wire, with a gap plenty big enough to fall through must surely be a case for The Health and Safety Executive. Beds on the ceiling? Only birds and squirrels live like that on dry land. Those steep indoor stepladders. Why not make the boat a few feet longer and install a proper staircase? Generally these yachts, these rich boy's toys, are full of hazards for the unwary traveller. I find I can get up and walk around, or have a drink or a meal in relative comfort on an aeroplane or a train. Try doing this on a sailing boat and you'll soon find something to bump into, fall down or trip over. I absolve RIBS or powerboats from this, as I find the white knuckle experience concentrates the mind perfectly on nothing but self preservation, making redundant any thoughts of wandering around the craft. At those speeds the intake of food or drink should only be attempted by those with recent experience of the space shuttle, anyway, I've usually been smart enough to have a couple of stiff ones beforehand.

"Enjoying the waves?" asked Danny as we pitched up a wave and then down a wave, and then up and then down again. And again, and again, and let me guess what happens next, and repeat ad nauseum for the next three hours. These waves, I said, casually adjusting my sunglasses, have got nothing on Scotland, mate.

I don't know much about the sea, this much should be clear to you by now, but I do know that the only way to negotiate waves, is fuel-assisted, at high speed, and over the top of them. You bounce a bit for sure, but there's none of this interminable, dreary, cat-stuck-in-a-washing-machine type ride.

The hansom cab vanished from the streets of London many years ago. The tourist with a few spare bucks can take a horse-drawn ride around Central Park, New York City, and, by doing so, connects with a little bit of history, a sense of how our forbears got around, day to day. Really, this is where this redundant, tedious, over-complicated and pointless sailing pastime should be consigned. To history. Have you learned nothing from Darwin, you yachtsmen? 

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