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6th January - 17th January 2005
Christmas pud and Birthday fruit cake, and more than a few rum punches), it was time for a
quick crew change and some reprovisioning before setting off to some of St Lucia's west coast
anchorages. It would be return visit for Q and Mark, a bit of a busman's holiday for local girl
Molly, and new stomping ground for Sarah and George Frost who had narrowly escaped the
ravages of the Boxing Day tsunami in the Far East. At short notice they had come instead to St
Lucia for some sun, after three days of uncharacteristic rain in Dubai when their Thailand trip was
dramatically aborted.
Beneath postcard perfect blue skies (at least initially!), the sailing-adventurers cum
charter-skippers set sail for Marigot Bay, a sheltered and picturesque double bay just a short
skip south of Rodney Bay Marina.
After consulting our ever-handy, well-thumbed Guide to Fishing, and lengthy discussions about
the type of lure to use (dark on dark days, bright on light days), Freddy the fishing rod was put
out as Q and Mark regaled the new crew with tales of massive cross-Atlantic catches, arms
outstretched as they reminisced about dorado with a fingertip-to-fingertip span, and enough fillets
to feed Skardu's ARC contingent for at least a week. It was during one such tale, just an hour's
sail outside of Rodney Bay, that Freddy whirred into life and Q cranked in a small tuna which
skipped, flickering bright blue, across the waves before being landed on the deck. Christened
'Katrina' she was given a swift whisky sundowner straight in the gills: a lethal pre-barbecue
marinade!
As afternoon turned to evening, and ominous dark clouds began to gather along the inland
mountains, we dropped anchor in Marigot's inner bay just in time for a quick dip, the hoisting of
Sarah's bikini top up the mast, and cocktails as the sun slipped behind the swaying palms of the
picturesque sand spit. It was time to stoke the barbecue and put Katrina to the taste test. Gently
seared with just the right touch of Moroccan spice and fresh lime-juice, she passed with flying
colours and was the perfect appetizer before a night onshore at the local champagne bar and
restaurant 'Rainforest Hideaway'. After a delicious meal, serenaded by Molly and her local Jazz
band, it was back to the boat for a nightcap as the first smattering of raindrops hit the deck - just a
passing shower?
No such luck - the rain was relentless throughout that night and on into the next morning, when
we were rather rudely awakened by the sound of Skardu's anchor chain being dragged into the
mangroves by another yacht, helmed by a belligerent Dutchman. The sudden shunt forward
brought Q and Mark onto the deck just as we witnessed the stern of the Dutch boat come within
inches of taking out Skardu's bow. After much arm waving, shouting and the hasty lifting and
resetting of the anchor, we were settled again, this time keeping well away from any craft flying
the Netherlands' colours!
The wet weather was well and truly set in, so all plans of exploring ashore vanished in the
downpour. It became a rainy-day-in, accompanied by the brilliant AA Gill's account of making
his first porn flick, meeting Miss World and judging the Miss Iceland competition...inspired stuff!
Much of the conversation blamed Sarah and George for bringing the unseasonable weather with
them from the UK. All plans to go to Anse la Raye for dinner (fresh grilled lobster and fish from
streetside stalls) were quashed thanks to a particularly heavy sundowner session, local libations
included, which led to the super-heightening of Mark's prowess as an analytical orator and
George's penchant for meteorological observation ("No, really, it's raining much harder now.").
Much later, we finally opted to bundle into the dinghy for a rain-soaked journey to 'The Shack', a
little restaurant on the other side of the bay. After lashings of conch fritters, fish cakes and more
wine it was back to Skardu where George declared it was, indeed, raining even harder than
before, then collapsed into inexplicable mirthful laughter over the name of the Soggy Dollar Bar.
Yes, it was one of those nights!
The next morning it was time to up anchor and head south to Soufriere and the beautiful Pitons.
As we headed out of the bay, St Lucia was shrouded in heavy gray clouds, the 'liquid sunshine'
was unrelenting, and thoughts of getting that elusive Coppertone glow faded as the wet weather
gear was passed out. Freddy was soon dispatched with a bright-pink rubber squid lure as we
trawled past mist-covered villages and tranquil coves. Soon the Pitons loomed on the horizon
and it was easy to see why they were once worshipped as Gods by the original Amerindian
settlers. Shooting straight up from sea level to over 790 metres, they stand silent sentinels above
the town of Soufriere.
As we reached the boundaries of the local marine park fishing exclusion zone, Freddy shrieked
into action and this time Mark rose to the challenge. As he worked the reel a bright yellow flash
rose to the surface of the water and danced in the wake of the trailing dinghy. Another tuna - this
one a five and a half pound Yellowtail (weighed on our new fish scale - a gift from Tristan), it
provided enough for sashimi and fillets for the grill. Mooring in the sheltered crystal waters of
Malgretoute at the base of the Petit Piton, it was time for a swim - despite the continuing rain. As
we dried off, consummate host and charter chef Mark began cleaning and preparing Leroy for
the evening meal. Not even Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto could have topped the resulting
Sushi 'Leroy'-a-la-Mark, which looked as good as it tasted, and was served to the
accompanying strains of Japanese music as the waves kept lapping time on the hull of Skardu.
Perfection..... well, almost. The lapping waves also called for a Dramamine chaser and a little
horizontal time for the ladies whose delicate tums were beginning to feel the effect of life on the
waves.
The next morning brought patchy blue sky and some welcome sunshine to our otherwise
waterlogged bodies. After devouring fresh Creole loaves still crusty from the wood-fired oven of
Theresa Henry's bakery (Nutella is such a wonderful thing!), we determined it was finally a day
for some exploring ashore, so we organized a water taxi to Soufriere, and a land taxi from the
town to the nearby drive-in volcano and sulphur springs, then on to the Piton Falls. Being
Sunday, Soufriere was still sleeping off the effects of Saturday night, so we dropped in to visit the
Rastafarian chef Jah Lamb, at his veg restaurant. Our taxi-driver Shabba was a stout man with
his name emblazoned across the windscreen of his car. We asked if he knew a local artisan
called Rosemary, a very attractive woman, popular with the men folk because of her pretty face,
who makes the most beautiful baskets. He scratched his head and looked blank. "Rosemary?
Rosemary? Hmmmmm... you mean Miss Steven? Ah yes, yes I know Miss Steven. Yes, I
have a child with her. She makes very nice baskets." How can you answer that gem of an
understatement?
We could smell the volcano before we reached it... the stench of sulphur gas belching up from
bubbling mud pools filled the air with sinus-clearing pungency. The tour of the crater was
definitely a "tourist" experience, so we opted for the authentic experience - venturing slightly off the
path, we climbed down to a hot black river of mud, and proceeded to slather ourselves in
squelchy, black, sulphur-rich mud said to reverse the aging process and leave your skin as soft
as a baby's bottom. Who knows, but it did smell pungent, and even a week later we were still
scraping black mud from under our toenails! Nonetheless it was great fun, and a great
opportunity to replay the mud-flinging days of our youth with a whole raft of supposedly
therapeutic benefits. For more of a wash off, we drove a short distance to the Piton Falls - a hot
spring-fed waterfall, then walked back to Malgretoute to rejoin Sarah on the boat and hand over
the mud Q had thoughtfully collected for her benefit, but which we couldn't convince her to use!
For our final night in Soufriere we decided to dine at Ladera's 'Dasheene' Restaurant to sample
the "sexy cuisine" of reknown chef Orlando Satchell (he had previously treated Q and Mark to a
post-ARC cooking demo). A fantastic evening of creatively presented and tasty dishes, delicious
Rojo Mojo, and the kind of chocolate mousse that needs to be delivered on room service so that
it may be put to appropriate use!
Monday morning and it was time to head north once again to deliver Sarah and George to their
afternoon flight back to the UK. We headed for Vigie Cove, a quiet creek off the main Castries
Harbour, a stone's throw from the small regional airport, and nestled in the shadow of massive
cruise ships docked at Point Seraphine. Vigie was lake-calm compared to the rough seas
outside the harbour mouth, and we couldn't resist the lure of a complimentary day room,
showers and champagne at the Auberge Seraphine Hotel, owned by Molly's friend Cammie
Joseph and her dad, Papa Joe. After lunch we bade farewell to Sarah and George, and were
enjoyed the delights of Contreau-soaked strawberries,when we were stirred by a surprise visit
from the yacht 'Pink Lady' carrying spare spinnaker parts hand-delivered from the UK.
That night we watched 'Life of Brian' in the Skardu cinema lounge, before a morning sail back to
Rodney Bay and the end of an all too brief excursion.
The remainder of that week gave us the chance to catch up on shoreside admin, spend some
more valuable time with Q's parents Terry and Gerald (who had retreated to a charming guest
house set in thick greenery near Rodney Bay) before they too returned to London, and explore
some of the wilder corners of St Lucia's tropical interior.
Highlights included dancing to the "winin" tunes of the weekly Gros Islet "Jump-up", where the
local girls took it upon themselves to teach us the finer points of Caribbean dancing; trekking
along the remote, windswept north-east coast where wild horses graze amongst striking cactii;
exploring deep into the tropical mountainous interior where beautiful waterfalls lie hidden in thick
verdant jungle, and feasting on proper local fare at Henry's guesthouse.
_____________________
Thanks to the eminent St Lucian journalist Molly McDaniel, for her contributions and
assistance writing this log.
