Sunshine, a change of pace. When my friend Bruce suggested a two-week sail in the Caribbean, I signed on.
“Go,” said my wife, “but, Grenada?”
“A proud people. Enslaved by British and French from the 1600s. The U.S. invaded in 1983. Maurice Bishop was too friendly with communist Cuba.”
“And now?”
“Independent in 1974. About 100,000 English speaking folk, mostly of African descent. Three islands: Grenada, Carriacou. Petit Martinique has 1,000 inhabitants. They keep goats, build boats.”
“Where is it?”
“From the Equator, 700 miles, south of Barbados, north of Trinidad, five hours from Vancouver to Toronto, six to Barbados. The hardest part is getting there.”
“Who’s Scott Watson?”
“Skipper of the 52-foot Boxxer. Crossed the Atlantic. Bruce says easy going, teaches sailing out of Granville Island. Okay?”
“Deidre says there’s sharks and the mosquitoes carry dengue fever.”
“Shots, swim where safe.”
“The crew?”
“Linda’s done the Atlantic with Scott, a couple named Jim and Sheila from Coquitlam.”
“A Canadian was killed by pirates in Trinidad. Be careful.”
“It’s not too bad up here yet,” Scott told me at Prickly Bay, where the Boxxer was anchored. “A few nurse sharks.”
On our first sail on the southern end of Grenada, Bruce held on to my belt while I shared my breakfast with the seagulls.
“That was good porridge,” Scott quibbed, jovially. “Made it, myself.”
The next big outing, with Gravol, went better: a brisk run 40 miles up Grenada’s western coast. We hauled in the sheets, unfurled sails. When Scott’s windlass froze, I helped pull up the heavy manual anchor. Flying fish crested the waves. Flocks of boomerang-shaped boobies dove onto silver minnows trying to escape pursuers from below.
Carriacou boasts 100 rum shops and one gas station. Off Hillsborough, we were met by “boat boys” selling lobster for $15 EC – $6 US a pound. One wanted a tow after his motor conked out. Scott patiently worked on it until it started again.
On shore, Harvey, a cab driver, took us shopping for groceries and local rum called Old Grogg. At Anne’s Restaurant we ate lambi, conch, a shellfish seasoned with saffron. Grenada is “the spice island”, famous for nutmeg and the best chocolate in the world.
After lunch, Harvey drove us along narrow, hilly roads past signs like Dover (English) and Belair (French) to the town of Windward, where locals still build boats by hand.
That night, we docked the dingy at the Lambi Queen, a bar and restaurant. Carib, a local beer for $2.5 EC and a steel band – six musicians drumming out ’50s tunes like Blue Spanish Eyes on bottomless metal barrels. People danced in the street.
Dunstan tells me about Jumbies, “devils who take the form of humans. “Dey come out in de dark night, take your soul. But we got electricity, now Too bright for jumbies to hide.”
“How did one get away from a jumbie?” I ask.
“Turn your clothes inside out quick, or show your crucifix.”
The next day we snorkel nearby Sandy Island, a treeless strip of sand under a hot sun – fish, eels, turtles.
Our next port is Petit Martinique – one main street, small houses with goats in every yard. Children’s colorful drawings –“a banana a day keeps the doctor away”, and cotton, a one-time export crop, decorate the walls of a school. Logan, a teacher tells Jumbie stories. “They like them,” he says proudly.
Twelve days pass. Time to head down the windier eastern side of Grenada to Le Phare Blue (the blue lighthouse) Marina off St. George’s. It’s what sailors call blue water sailing this time with 25-knot winds and 10-foot swales. Scott and Linda have entered a regatta that begins the day we will fly back to Canada.
The marina has a restaurant, bar, hot showers, a laundry, welcome amenities after 10 days at sea. In the Caribbean, it’s so humid, clothes never dry out. At the pool, a boating couple talks pirates. They uprooted from Trinidad because of increasing threats. “That was just after Hurricane Ivan hit in 2004,” the woman says.
“Destroyed most boats here. The last hurricane was 50 years before that.”
“It’s climate change” says the cabby on route to St. George’s for a final day of site seeing. He lowers the blare of reggae music on his radio. “It’s supposed to be the dry season, but it’s rained every day. Last year, four months no rain. Animals died, the hills turned white.”
St. George is a bustling town built around crescent shaped Wharf Street fronted by buildings with red tile roofs. We pass spices stalls, and groups of uniformed school kids. The ‘Caribs’ are the friendliest people in the Caribbean. When I bought vegetables, the vendor laughed as she offered to “come home and spice them up for you, baby.”
Old Fort George, still intact, overlooks the harbour, a row of canons ready to sink invading ships. I stand on the spot where Bishop was executed before the U.S. troops landed, and wonder if new outsiders will force change on a people who seem happy with their old ways and values.
A Brazilian entrepreneur plans a hotel and shopping mall on Carriacou facing the bay. Will boat boys be diving for lobsters if I return in a few years? I saw two mosquitoes, Deidre. There’s no reason not to come back. The hardest part is getting there.
Jack Emberly is a retired teacher, local author and environmentalist.
