A Thousand Miles from Anywhere

by Sandra Clayton

  It is 37°C in the saloon when we get back to Voyager.

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  Philipsburg

  Next day we begin to discover our environment. It is nicer to do this in the early mornings when it is pleasantly warm, leaving the hot afternoons for stretching out on board, in the shade of our awning, with cool air blowing through the front windows as Voyager noses into the breeze.

  The tourist boats zipping around us are called Pinta, La Niña and Santa Maria. Like the slave road on Statia, there is often a profound irony to tourism, the events being used to attract or entertain visitors concealing very painful periods in history. The names of these tour boats are those of the three ships Columbus took on his first voyage towards the Indies in 1492 and which would make such a major contribution to Spanish expansionism in the following century. This included the colonisation of the Netherlands, beginning in 1568 and the 80-year war the Dutch waged to free their country from Spanish domination. It was a fight that would define their nation, their religion and their art.

  There are five America’s Cup 12-metre yachts anchored here. Each has a professional skipper and a crewman and they take people out for a race daily. There are two of Denis Connors’ boats, Stars and Stripes 86 and Stars and Stripes 87, and three Canadian boats, Canada II, True North I and True North IV. These sleek racing yachts look particularly beautiful heeled well over, beating into the wind.

  In their prime they were the epitome of racing technology and cost an absolute fortune. Yet all such yachts have only one season of glory before the new contenders with their new designs make them as out of date as last year’s smartphone. Built for one race series, by the next they will have been superseded. But at a cost of millions they are definitely a sport for the seriously rich.

  Also gracing the bay is the SS Norway. She began life as the SS France and, at something over 1,000ft, was the longest passenger ship ever built at her launch in 1960. She was designed as a luxury ocean liner for the trans-Atlantic run after the Second World War, to compete with the original Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth. Ultimately, sea passages gave way to air travel and in 1979 the France was bought by a Norwegian cruise line, modified for cruising duties and renamed the SS Norway.

  We go shopping and discover Sangs supermarket. It is huge, Chinese, and currently being extended, or having its roof fixed – it is not clear which but Hurricane Lenny did do enormous damage to this island. The mayhem of having the builders in whilst still open for business is made manifest by the unexpected appearance of items from areas that have been hastily cleared, including a towering stack of woks, red with rust from water damage, trolleys full of tinned tomato juice with their labels peeling and mud spatters on the ice-cream cabinet.

  For the rest it becomes a culinary mystery tour. Like the fascinating little fancy parcels in a glass-fronted cupboard, wrapped in cream paper and tied with a bow. Their labels have the words ‘sell-by date’ in English but everything else – including the date itself, the ingredients and the cooking instructions – in Chinese characters.

  The freezer cabinets are full of things like pork stomach, tripe, beef kidneys, salted mackerel and chicken’s feet, none of which I have recipes for. And, given these staples, there has to be a question mark over what exactly goes into the sausage they sell here. So we end up with chicken. Again. And a tray of Carib beer, to keep the fridge lined and ourselves cool in the afternoons.

  On another morning ashore, David has a futile time trying to get an e-mail connection at the cyber shop, and when he telephones Layla on Antigua there is still no sign of the two airmail packages posted to us on 6th January. She is still waiting for the Christmas parcel her father sent from England in early December. It is now the second week of March. While he wrestles with the internet, I set off for the town’s pharmacy. In these islands, items readily available in European supermarkets such as vitamin pills, aspirin or first-aid supplies – and sometimes even toiletries – are often available only from a chemist’s shop which, like here, may be some way out of town.

  At Philipsburg’s pharmacy anyone with a prescription takes a ticket and discreetly waits their turn. But there is a distinct lack of privacy at the counter because the local men are lounging against it and chatting companionably. So when a woman wants to discuss her intimate needs with the pharmacist she has to do so over or between these men, who put their own conversation on hold while they listen intently to hers.

  Three cruise ships and a clipper ship have made for a lot of visitors suddenly. The atmosphere is quite jolly, however, thanks to the throbbing Caribbean rhythms inviting the newcomers to step inside the World’s HQ of Guavaberry or succumb to the allurements of Last Mango in Paradise.

  As for the hordes of vendors that the cruise ship passengers bring out onto the streets, they don’t bother a solitary woman striding purposefully past them on the assumption that she has been around long enough to be satiated with solar-powered T-shirts whose black and white motifs convert to colour in the sunlight. So why bother with me when there are endless undecided groups and browsing couples milling about?

  The tension among the taxi drivers is palpable as they try to separate those intending to visit the surrounding shops from those wanting a tour of the island or a restaurant further afield, and each tries to be first to secure a fare. But although there is occasional shouting from these men, mostly at one another, the body language is not aggressive.

  What is aggressive is the swarm of women blocking the road with wads of 3-for-$10 Caribbean T-shirts over one arm. As I slide between them and go on my way I pass two American couples trying to decide at which restaurant to have lunch. But the T-shirt vendors are determined to get their own needs settled first. So when the four Americans, intent on their guidebook, fail to respond immediately to the shouting directed at them, the largest and loudest of the women moves up very close to them and bawls.

  ‘Hey, you! I’m talking to you!’

  Not so much the promised trip of a lifetime as a glitch in the merchandising process.

  If the town is busy, so too is the harbour but there can be little hope of anyone conforming to moderate speeds when the Port Authority’s own vessel roars across your bows at 20 knots to get to an anchored cruise ship. It returns almost before its own wash has subsided, at similar speed but adding a wheelie this time and causing a small tidal wave that sends all the dinghies crashing against the concrete dinghy dock.

  There is also a dive boat that hurtles about bearing the name Still Waters; an irony not lost on anyone in the anchorage left clinging for support to a stove or shower fitting in its wash. Add to that the shuttle service taking the cruise ship passengers to and from town, the tour boats, assorted tenders, dinghies, fishing boats and day boats all frantically rushing about, and since we are getting low on water anyway, we decide to look for somewhere a bit quieter.

  Next morning we set out for the island of Tintamarre off the French half of the island, a passage which also gives us the opportunity to turn on the water maker and fill up our tanks. We decide not to stay the night, however, as there is a considerable chop to the water and no protection from the prevailing wind. And as the wind looks set to increase, at best we should have a very bumpy night while at worst we could end up on the rocks.

  So we return to the shelter of Groot Baai for the night and set off again next morning for Simpson Bay which has a couple of major attractions for us. One is that it gives access to a large sheltered lagoon and the other is an electrical repair company where we can get our anchor winch repaired.

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  Simpson Bay Lagoon

  It is only a short sail along the southern coast to Simpson Bay where we anchor and wait for the bridge to open. The lagoon occupies a large part of the western side of the island and is divided almost equally between the Dutch and French halves of the island, although for yachtsmen the Dutch half is the more popular because the French side has shoals.

  The Dutch have built a short canal to give access to their ha
lf of the lagoon. Crossing it is a lifting road bridge which is raised twice a day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, to allow access for boats. Before going through you have to dinghy into the canal to the bridge control tower and sign a waiver against any damage to your boat while passing through the lifting bridge.

  While we wait in line, a man from Michigan tells us about his recent visit to Saba and the hospitality of the man from the island’s diving school, who had hung around for three hours waiting to help him get his yacht onto the commercial dock because of the heavy swell. When a freighter was still unloading there at 7pm the man told him to leave his yacht at anchor where it was and come ashore. The man then put him up in his own home for the night.

  The lagoon itself, when we get inside, is very crowded with anchored boats as well as RIBs and dinghies whizzing past notices saying, ‘3-knot-max – no-wake zone’. To the buzz and fumes of outboard engines is added the roar and fumes of planes taking off or landing a few yards away. Very low and very loud.

  The island is served by the world’s major airlines but Princess Juliana Airport’s short runway, with the beach on the seaward end and the lagoon at the other, is a favourite photo-opportunity for those eager to capture spectacular shots of a KLM747 only a few metres above beachgoers’ heads and who are periodically blown over by the jet engines’ blast.

  We have two attempts to anchor in the soft mud but, hopefully for David’s back, we will have an anchor winch working before we have to raise it again. Leaving me on board in case we drag, David goes ashore to find the repair company’s landing stage and arrange for an inspection. The landing stage has been virtually demolished by Hurricane Lenny and David finds himself accosted by dogs.

  Stray dogs are a feature of all the islands but we have never encountered aggressive ones before. Normally they stay well away from humans and have a hard time of it, especially the females who are always either pregnant or trying to protect and feed themselves and their pups.

  However, someone from the repair company will come and look at our anchor winch on Friday if they have a cancellation, otherwise on Monday. The weather forecast is for increasing winds by the weekend.

  The early morning airwaves are pretty busy here. We listen as usual to Britain Today on World Service at 6.30am, but then tune into the VHF for the Big Fish Net at 7am; the Radio Net at 7.30 with weather, goods for sale and AA meetings; then the Security Net at 8.15 followed by another weather forecast at 8.30.

  One of the items, which will become something of a cause celebre in coming days, concerns a Swede who accidentally rammed an unattended American boat while leaving an anchorage under sail and then fled the scene. A hue and cry is out for him, not least among his fellow Swedes, who ask darkly over the VHF network how they can capture this man who is giving them all a bad name.

  Something else we learn from the Security Net is the regularity with which yachtsmen’s dinghies go missing here. Even more worrying are reports of burglaries on yachts with people not only losing money, valuables and passports while they are ashore but on occasion waking in the night to find a thief at work inside their boat. So today we make a tour of the chandleries.

  Going ashore at the designated dinghy dock, another victim of Hurricane Lenny, is a test of agility. Its temporary replacement is constructed of large sheets of plywood fixed to several pallets, which do not have sufficient buoyancy to keep it properly afloat when you put your weight on its outermost edge. To have any hope of keeping your feet dry, therefore, the instant you step from your dinghy you need to sprint landward as fast as possible. If two of you make the mistake of standing on the edge at the same time, it sinks.

  The assistant in the first chandlery is very pleasant but gives the impression that he wouldn’t shop here himself. And he doesn’t have what we need anyway. The staff in the second give the impression that everything is possible if you will just hang on a minute while they find it although, like the previous shop, they are out of stock of most things. A fellow yachtswoman, making a futile trawl of the depleted shelves alongside us, sighs and says it probably has something to do with the regatta.

  We do finally get our hands on a security cable and padlock for the dinghy and a battery-operated motion detector for Voyager’s cockpit, along with a variety of other things such as charts and a pilot book for the British Virgin Islands and various electrical bits and pieces. In the Caribbean, getting your hands on what you need is rarely the end of it, however. There is then the vexed matter of price. In these islands the price at the till is rarely the same as the one in the catalogue, on the shelf or on the item’s own price sticker. Shelves and individual items don’t have prices on them much of the time anyway, which is why catalogues are available as you go in.

  The prices at the present checkout are considerably higher than those in the catalogue David is holding but, when he mentions this, the cashier points to a printed disclaimer above the till about prices being subject to change without notice. When David looks resigned and starts fishing in his pockets for more money the cashier says that actually they’re using last year’s catalogues.

  While ashore we encounter the skipper off the damaged American yacht and accept some of his posters – identifying the Swedish boat which damaged his own – to put up for him at our next port of call, Anguilla.

  Crossing the bridge on our way home, gliding effortlessly below us just under the surface of the water, is a large, flat, brown creature shaped like a stealth bomber but with pale spots on its back and a very long thin tail. It is the first stingray we have ever seen.

  Before bed we place the motion sensor above Voyager’s companionway doors but have forgotten all about it by morning and when I step out into the cockpit to greet the new day I am met with an ear-piercing scream. As, indeed, are our neighbours. So, every morning now, whichever one of us is up first has to limbo backwards through the doorway to get under its beam and snake up an arm to turn it off.

  Sean from Dublin comes out to inspect our anchor winch as promised but having removed it finds it is not their type of work and takes it to a local company which repairs it very quickly. Sean comes back and replaces it. It is quite costly but will save David a lot of future back strain.

  We now enter a period of high winds that are too strong to encourage anyone to go anywhere, even ashore unless essential, and like everybody else we are simply grateful for the shelter of the lagoon. And we have everything we need: food, drinking water, propane for cooking, excellent refrigeration, books, music, videos, sunshine, shade, brief bursts of rainwater for baths and – to keep us in contact with the outside world – World Service and our VHF. And given the present conditions our wind generator is producing plenty of power.

  While the Security Net reports on safety advice and items that have been stolen, on the 7.30am Radio Net yachtsmen call in about items they have found and their owners are welcome to come and collect them from the caller’s boat. These are normally small, lightweight items such as binocular cases and cockpit cushions, that tend to slip overboard but, given the current strength of the wind, today’s list includes two 30ft racing yachts which have dragged during the night.

  Today is my birthday. We had planned to visit the northern half of the island to sample some of its French cuisine in celebration, but abandon the trip because it is so windy. Instead David produces a delicious candlelit dinner on board although we have to eat it indoors to prevent the candles from blowing out. Or, indeed, even some of the lighter items of food from leaving our plates.

  Next day the Security Net reports that theft from the anchorage has now escalated from dinghies and outboards to a whole yacht. A steel one called Diablo.

  There are more items of interest on the Security Net in coming days. One of them is that Montserrat’s volcano has blown again and there is talk of a ‘dome collapse’ caused by the heavy rain. There has been an explosion, followed by flows of mud and fire, and light ash is falling on boats at Antigua. It seems that when a lava dom
e that has formed over a volcano’s crater collapses, the explosions within become more dangerous due to a combination of the dome’s debris, the type of lava produced and the build-up of gas pressure.

  Also on the Security Net is a report from a meeting between cruisers, boat boys and tour guides with the Prime Minister of Dominica following break-ins on leisure craft. He is new to the job, he says, but eager to tackle the situation. Nor does his status exclude him from the tribulations of the people he represents. Apparently a robber arrested last week had recently turned over the Prime Minister’s own house. There is a very high unemployment rate, he says, 60% among young men, who refuse to take the few agricultural jobs available to them. Unfortunately, he says, Dominica is exporting crime to neighbouring islands and there are, for instance, 160 young Dominican men currently in Guadeloupe jails. He is trying to get inward investment from the Japanese and also asking the French for help as this would be cheaper than keeping people in jail.

  And last but not least, during a lull in the high winds the owner of Diablo hired a small plane and has discovered his stolen yacht anchored in a secluded bay. The weather forecaster who follows begins his report with, ‘Very unusual weather patterns for this time of the year,’ as he does most mornings.

  David, meanwhile, is captivated by some of the names of the yachts around us calling one another on the VHF. A particular favourite is: ‘Resolute... Resolute... this is WC Fields.’ It even sounds like the man. It gets us started on some of our favourites from the past.

  Over time we have gathered a list of boats with inappropriate names, the most recent addition being that life-denying couple Gene and Erica on Carpe Diem, with its imperative to seize each day and live it to the full. But still clinging to the top of our list is the man at a yacht club where we once stayed. Each morning he would call up the club’s jolly boat for a lift ashore and in a voice from the crypt would intone with a dying fall, ‘Ode to Joy, this is Ode to Joy. Come in please.’