Sailing through St. Vincent and the Grenadines

“Do you want to go on an adventure?”

I’d sailed through St. Vincent and the Grenadines before, but in a more spacious (and stable) catamaran. This time, the invitation to explore the island chain west of Barbados was on Rapajam, a 53-foot monohull sailboat. With six guys. The number was originally smaller, and grew as the trip approached. I had concerns. Where will they sleep? “They’re 20-year old boys,” I was told, “they’ll sleep in hammocks.” (Some did.) What if the generator breaks? (It did, days before the trip only to be replaced by a refurbished one.) Will a hurricane form while we’re already pot-committed? What if I’m seasick the entire time? I’d never spent more than eight hours on a sailboat, let alone nine days kicking off with a 16-hour sail from Barbados to St. Vincent.

I said yes.

We provisioned the boat, aided by last year’s amenities list (cannot overstate the need for clothes pins and frozen lasagnas), and set sail Wednesday at 3 p.m. sharp. “Fair winds and following seas!” my sister texted seconds before the signal disappeared. At snack time, I introduced the boys to the wonder that is parmesan cheese and pears. As we* sailed into the sunset, Barbados hung suspended in the distance for hours, eventually succumbing to the horizon. The itinerary was…well, actually I didn’t entirely know but the first stop needed to be St. Vincent to clear customs. Ultimately, we would also visit the islands of Bequia, Mayreau, Union, Canouan, and the Tobago Cays, meeting up with two other boats along the way.

*By “we”, I mean everyone but me. Admittedly, I know less than nothing about sailing. But I was in the safe hands of our captain/dear friend Alex and our crew of lost boys, so I happily assumed the role of chief cook, dishwasher, and bartender.

Safety Briefing. “Nobody on deck after dark while we’re sailing. If you fall overboard you’re as good as dead.”

At 10 p.m., we started our watch shifts, a two-hour window during which you were responsible for keeping everybody alive. Mine was 4-6 a.m. I relieved my predecessor at 3:55 a.m. and made myself relatively comfortable in the cockpit under a blanket of stars, planets, satellites and galaxies; a soundtrack of waves gently lapped the boat. With the instruments on autopilot, I studied the monitors. This wasn’t the screen that I had walked through with Alex, and so I started pressing buttons until I realized that was a bad idea and maybe just stay awake, watch for 700-foot container ships, ensure those distant lights on the horizon are indeed St. Vincent and not other boats, and wake the captain if needed.

By 8 a.m., we were safely at the Blue Lagoon Marina in St. Vincent handling the customs paperwork. After a calm one-hour crossing over what can be a turbulent channel between St. Vincent and Bequia, we anchored off Princess Margaret Beach in Bequia’s Admiralty Bay for the night. Bequia itself is a destination where I’d happily spend a week, her deep teal yet translucent waters softly giving way to golden beaches and jungle-green mountain slopes dotted with colorful homes. In Port Elizabeth, the quaint town, we timed our quest for bread with the arrival of the ferry based on past experience, and BYO’d containers for fresh coconut water. The Caribbean of yore.

An hour or two before sunset, the fellas set out on the dinghy to see if they couldn’t supplement the evening’s meal with some freshly-caught barracuda. Dinghy rules: Bring water, a paddle (or two), a flashlight, and a radio or cell phone. Wise advice from our captain: If that tiny motor gives out and you’re adrift—especially at night—you’ve “lost most of the battle” (same goes if you fall overboard while sailing in the dark).

Was it one or two nights in Bequia? It’s easy to lose track of time here. Our next destination was Mayreau (pronounced my-row despite my inclination toward may-rew), sailing past Mustique, Canouan, and a myriad of unpopulated (by humans) land masses along the way. The Grenadines are, simply put, ridiculously beautiful. Everywhere you look, islands at varying distances sketching jagged ridgelines, topography all slightly askew. We motored into the palm-fringed isthmus that is Salt Whistle Bay. (Yes, I took this opportunity to teach everyone the word isthmus.) You could not want for a more picturesque scene. Our expert navigators did their thing, tossing out both stern and bow anchors to keep us secure for the night just a few yards from shore. We whiled away the hours with beach walks and fishing and DIY floating bars (hint: put a cooler on a paddle board and tie it to the anchor rope). Just torturous.

One day once again became two (three?), and it was time to relocate to Union Island (more specifically, Chatham Bay, otherwise known as Back Bay, otherwise known as “Bajan Bay” during the summer months when the Barbadians descend). En route, we’d fuel up in Union’s town of Clifton (buyer beware: gasoline and diesel are particularly expensive in Union on account of a 2020 fire that destroyed the island’s only gas station) and procure more bread (big bread eaters onboard). It is here where I’d attempt to jump between two boats tied at the dock only to hesitate and nearly get stuck between them in a full involuntary split, incurring significant bruising on my inner thighs from the wires. Thank you Bruce for hoisting me aboard, and note to reader: once you decide to jump from one boat to another you really need to commit to it.

If Salt Whistle Bay is the postcard Caribbean beach, Back Bay is Jurassic Park meets Tahiti; a deeper natural harbor where the water assumes the color of the lush mountainsides soaring to the heavens. Indeed, I scaled one such mountainside last year - a sheer 30-minute climb that I immediately regretted but persevered, despite actually sliding down the summit only to be lent a helping hand to ascend (it was steep and muddy and I was wearing running shoes, what can I say?!). Back at sea level, the beach affords at least two establishments—maybe more depending on the time of year—for food and beverage. We opted for a curried conch lunch at Tenuta Chatham Bay Resort, a sleepy but well-built collection of cottages and outbuildings at the southern end of the bay, then walked up the beach and continued the festivities with our ever-expanding seafaring posse at Sunset Cove beach bar. At the end of the evening, our new friend Bruce (another Bruce!) decided he didn’t have it in him to board his dinghy from the shallows, so, like a Roman king in his chariot, climbed into it on the beach and instructed our lost boys to pull him into the water.

barracuda — Barracuda bounty in Back Bay

Another day, another island. Anchors away and we set course for Canouan. My geography was improving as I made note of the islands we passed: Carriacou to our south (a dependency of Grenada, herself beckoning in the distance); Petit Martinique, also part of Grenada and yet inexplicably home of notoriously cheap liquor; Petit St. Vincent, a private island with a resort of the same name (per their website, “Visiting yachtsmen are welcome and we currently have an island access fee of $100 + taxes per person” and yes I’m interested); and Palm Island, another private island resort. I made a mental note to check the rates at these exclusive enclaves; for now, I’d continue to wash dishing off the back of the boat and shower over a toilet.

Canouan—nicknamed Billionaire’s Island, with a runway fit for private 747s—does not want for luxury. Instead of anchoring at bay as we had been, Sandy Lane (of Barbados fame) has built a massive, world-class marina for mega yachts and plebeians alike - the Sandy Lane Yacht Club and Residences. The scale of the marina itself is almost jarring coming from at times completely undeveloped locales. Picture Main Street Disneyland but tropical and maritime and empty (this is the second time I’ve visited in the off-season and found it just as quiet, though it’s not hard to fathom an influx of yachties in the near future as the archipelago gains notoriety). The berthing fee of around $50 US/night included use of the highly anticipated air-conditioned shower facilities, complete with a tiled lobby housing a sofa (our friends joked that if they were missing, we’d find them in the bathroom lobby playing dominoes), TV and artwork. Alas, upon arrival there was a gaggle of teenage girls who had the same idea, so back to the berth for me. At Shenanigans, the swanky bar, restaurant and beach club a 5-second dingy ride across the main channel, the staff brought out fresh towels in case we wanted a dip in the pool and if that’s not a welcome I don’t know what is. The bartender, Kevin, is one of those absolutely delightful individuals you’re happy to have encountered, and we followed his suggestion to have some “nibbles and cocktails” before visiting the more casual Scruffy’s for dinner. They even took our order for loaves and loaves of bread to be picked up fresh from the renowned bakery the next morning (a boatload of bread monsters, I told you). And with a soul-stirring view shooting straight south through the heart of the Grenadines, it’s no wonder this particular location was chosen for the restaurant.

At this point in the story I should mention that I opted to sail down and fly back instead, leaving them (the Lost Boys, Peter Pan and Tinkerbell - our trusted captain, so named because he’s constantly tinkering and fixing) to the more taxing journey fighting the currents. Because of this, I needed to “clear off” the boat at Canouan customs, so that when Alex returned to Barbados without me on board there weren’t any…questions…as to my whereabouts (at one point I suffered a bout of dehydration and was told my body would be used for fish bait if I succumbed). While the runway runs parallel to the marina, the official airport entrance is up and around a hill. A hill that Alex was able but not willing to climb. As captain of the boat, he was required to appear with me and duly advised we would be taking a shortcut by scaling a fence into the airport. Aye aye, captain.

Permission to deboard in hand, we set sail for the penultimate stop: the Tobago Cays, a protected marine park comprised of five uninhabited islands. Together with the rest of our flotilla, we anchored for a few hours amidst a plethora of turtles feeding on the plentiful seagrass before Rapajam decided to take advantage of favorable winds and begin her journey home. Me and my duffle transferred onto our friend’s catamaran for the evening, before returning to Bequia in the morning where I’d overnight in a hotel and fly out early the following morning. (aforementioned soul-stirring view, even closer, 360 degrees of I’ve-died-and-gone-to-heaven absolutely surreal visuals)

Rapajam preparing for her sail home to Barbados

Which brings us to the Bequia Plantation Hotel. The sail from the Tobago Cays took six hours instead of the usual three due to my new captain’s pride in not motoring (It’s not a contest! No one is watching! I repeatedly exclaimed internally as the island drew no closer), so by the time we reached Bequia it was nearly 5 p.m. I laid eyes upon my abode for the night, nestled on the shoreline beneath a coconut grove on the quiet end of Admiralty Bay. After nine days at sea, no hotel has ever looked more inviting. My shipmate gave me a dinghy lift to the hotel’s dock, where I strolled through the open-air restaurant and across the lawn to be greeted at reception with a very warm, “Welcome Kerry, your room is ready and cold.” Indeed, the A.C. was on, hibiscus placed on the bed and in the bathroom, and luxury shampoo/conditioner/body wash in the pebble-floored oversize shower (at this point in the trip, whether or not the hotel provided toiletries was a real concern and a huge relief). I just adored this charming little gem of a hotel, a throwback to a simpler time while also providing every modern convenience (including electrical adaptors) for under $200 a night. After one of the best showers of my life, I absorbed both the phenomenal sunset and the welcome drink from the dock of the bay (yes, an Otis Redding song come to life) until I spotted my shipmates climb into their dinghy - time to set foot to town to rejoin for the last supper.

After my oceanfront breakfast of a perfectly soft-cooked omelet (sidenote to all interested parties - the hotel delivers their exquisite pastries by dinghy to your boat on order), it was time to head to Bequia’s airport. I tallied the remainder of my Eastern Caribbean dollars, calculating the precise amount to cover the taxi fare, tip and departure tax - the latter at $50 E.C. per the government’s website. Upon check-in, I was informed the departure tax was in fact $100 E.C. “Do you take cards?,” I hopefully inquired. No. “Is there an ATM at this airport?” No. “Is there an ATM nearby?” No. Fantastic. Cashless and desperate, I spotted a couple checking into the same flight and realized I must beg for money before resorting to Plan B of calling the hotel, having them send me a taxi, spending another night, going to an ATM in the morning and booking a new flight for the following day(s). Despite their initial hesitation, they begrudgingly handed over the $50 EC (less than $20 USD) which I repaid upon return to Barbados.

Relieved and seated by the open door of the 10-passenger plane, I overheard a crew member on the tarmac talking about a conspicuous liquid on the fuel tank exterior that he “wiped away” but “has come back”. And then an announcement, “Folks, we are gonna take the plane to St. Vincent so the engineer can take a look.” With us on it. A mere 10-minute flight vs. the 30 to Barbados and thus the saf-er option. All’s well that ends well, as the suspected leak was instead the result of an overfilled tank. Slight detour complete, we successfully landed in Barbados and I made my way to the marina, where I rejoined Rapajam to clear out the boat.

On the way, I called my family to check in. I hear my uncle chiming in from the background. “I’m disappointed in your judgment!” he (jokingly?) exclaimed. My mind raced through all the potential sources of this statement: Breaking into an airport, traveling without cash, staying on a plane that may have been leaking fuel, other things I won’t put in writing. (It was the fuel leak for him.)

On arrival at the boat, I found her crew exhausted after a 26-hour return sail (“two sunsets!”) with spilled diesel sloshing around the cabin the entire time and a very near running aground incident. But would they do it again, I asked? A unanimous yes through cheeky smiles from my Lost and Found boys.

Hi.

Jun 6 Wendy and the Lost Boys

Hi.

Jun 6 Wendy and the Lost Boys

Mar 26 Brava, Lisboa