The Grenadines: Islands in the Clouds Part IV: Palm Island and Petite St. Vincent
13.15°N.Lat./61.2°W.Lon.

Located at the southern end of the archipelago belonging to St. Vincent and the Grenadines lie two resort islands quite different in character from one another or from anywhere else in the Caribbean.  Palm Island and Petite St. Vincent are both privately owned and operated by expatriated Americans who made their dreams of owning an island paradise a reality.

John Caldwell is the Caribbean’s answer to Johnny Appleseed.  He not only resurrected his lush Palm Island resort from a scrubby mosquito haven, Caldwell also did a great deal to improve the scenic condition of quite a few Grenadine Islands-simply by planting  an abundance of coconut palms almost everywhere he sailed.  His life story is loosely documented in a biography entitled Desperate Voyage.  The first edition, bearing a different title, was primarily a romantic account of Caldwell’s sailing voyage to Australia to reclaim the Aussie mate he fell in love with while serving on a navy ship in the South Pacific.  His publisher, however, was not impressed, insisting there wasn’t enough perilous conflict for a sea adventure.  Needless to say, John Caldwell’s second draft was packed with enough embellishment to make an experienced sailor cringe, and his fastidious publisher smile.  Compared to fighting off sharks and monsoons, Palm Island was a welcome change.

Only half a mile in diameter, Palm Island is as laid back as you can get.  The simple palm-thatched bungalows and open air bar are handsomely set in front of Casarina Beach, which may well be the most beautiful stretch of sand in the Grenadines.  Sailors approaching the island from the north first notice two large solar panels occupying a large part of the island’s only hill.  These collectors not only serve as a convenient land bearing, they also make sure the island’s energy needs are quietly fulfilled.  All visiting yachtsmen should make it a point to anchor on the southwest side facing the resort and go ashore for a drink and perhaps lunch.  Just one mile west of the bar is a spectacular view of the Union Island skyline.  The jagged mountains of Union are very impressive, resembling a setting more likely found in the South Pacific.

Union is the hub of the southern Grenadines with an airstrip, local hotels, restaurants and, most importantly, the customs and immigration office.  American and European sailors coming and going can make Union’s tiny Clifton port seem almost cosmopolitan.  There’s plenty of local color as well.  For example, one rather interesting waterfront diner is constructed entirely of conch shells and mortar.  Three guesses what the specialty of the house is!

While several commercial flights arrive daily in Clifton Bay, I would advise the meek at heart to come by boat.  To touch down on the Union Island runway, a pilot must execute a hair-raising nose dive down a mountain face, only to pull up to an abrupt stop before sliding off into the Caribbean Sea.  A friend of mine who is rather proud of his aeronautical skills took three passes before attempting to land.  Flying a large kite off the stern of my charter yacht seemed a clever way to signal our whereabouts to him.  When we later met at the bar (he was in dire need of a drink by then), I asked why he hesitated in his landing.  Exasperated, he exclaimed, “I would have made it on my first try had I not been so distracted by some damn kite!”

At times it appears everyone in Clifton is engaged in some sort of sporting activity, from street soccer to a vocal game of dominoes.  Even basketball is given an island twist: the leathery feet of local players are rarely clad at all, much less with the overpriced footwear kids fight over in the states.  I was surprised to find one of the kids I played with, Adonal Foyle, later playing in the NBA.  This lanky, seven-foot sixteen-year-old was head and shoulders above his peers.  I was pleased to read in Sports Illustrated that he was using basketball simply as a means to further his education. (Adonal claims the sport, as played in the U.S., calls for ferocity not befitting a future prime minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines.)

It was also in Clifton Bay during the local May Day Festival that I first met John Caldwell.  I had no idea who he was, other than a barefoot, bare-chested old fellow wearing a curious palm frond hat.  He was actively gathering everyone within arm’s reach to participate in a friendly tug-of-war.  I’ve heard John has a tendency to coerce his resort guests in much the same way for a morning jog and swim.

A couple of miles southeast of Union and Palm is the much more formal island resort of Petite St. Vincent.  Like John Caldwell, its founder, Haze Richardson, had also taken to sailing shortly after serving his country.  Of course he fell in love with the Grenadines and ultimately with the prospect of building an exclusive, first class island resort.  Forty years ago, his idea was that, once established, he could install efficient management to run the resort, enabling him to come and go as he pleased.  Today, the manager is still Haze Richardson and, to my knowledge, in all these years he has rarely had a vacation.  I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him though.  PSV is a beautiful and popular island retreat.  Each private stone cottage is equipped with a flag pole to summon room service.  Needless to say, Richardson knows how to pamper his guests.  PSV also accepts a limited number of visiting yachtsmen for lunch and dinner.  I suggest you radio ahead and reserve a table in the Overlook, where the view is as fantastic as the food.

Just to the north of Petite St. Vincent are two picturesque sand-spit islands, Pinese and Mopion.  Mopion, the larger of the two, even has a thatch shelter affording visitors a refuge from the Caribbean sun.  Snorkeling around Mopion is exceptional.  I have spent an entire day here with charter guests who inevitably wonder whatever happened to the time.

Since settling in Charleston and starting a family, my wife Carole and I often wonder the same thing.  I believe it was Fitzgerald who wrote, [We are all alike] “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”  In the end it is not so much the things we cherish as the people and places that fill our lives.  Of all my time spent sailing the southern trades of the eastern Caribbean it is in these “islands in the clouds” where I am “borne back” most often.  However, one should never linger too long on any given subject.  So, if you would like to know more about these people and places of the Grenadines you will simply have to go there yourself.  You will find the journey well worth it!

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The Grenadines: Islands in the Clouds Part III: The Tobago Cays
11.15° N. Lat. / 60.40° W. Lon.

When it is so cold that the pipes freeze and I have to bring the dog in, I inevitably ask myself why I ever left the Caribbean. Fact is I never really have, at least not in my mind. With all the colorful down island paintings and charts staring at me in my house and sailboat, I’m constantly transported back to warmer climes. Sure, I make my annual winter business trip to St. Thomas and Antiqua, but it’s not at all the same after having lived there aboard charter yachts for six years!

In the previous articles, I spoke of two Grenadine Islands possessing alluring charms all their own, Bequia and Mustique. However, both are quite inhabited. Now, when I sit land-locked, huddled by the fire, there is always one place in particular that stirs deep in the part of my soul that always remains in the Caribbean. That place is a tiny group of islands known as the Tobago Cays.

Located at the center of the island chain, the Tobago Cays are perhaps the most alluring of all the Grenadines. Anyone who has been lucky enough to explore the Grenadine Islands finds their visit to the Tobago Cays all too brief. In fact, you could happily spend your entire vacation exploring the hills, beaches and coral reefs of the five deserted islands: Petite Rameau, Petite Bateau, Baradal, Jamesby and Petite Tobac. Protected by the government of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, the Tobago Cays are a national treasure. There are no cruise ships here, no airstrip, restaurants, shops houses or developments of any sort. What the Tobago Cays have to offer is a natural playground second to none in the Caribbean.

The only way to reach the Tobago Cays is by private or charter yacht, sailing south from Canouan or north from Union Island. The best anchorage is right in the center of the five Cays. From here it doesn’t matter what direction you’re facing because every view includes at least one tiny beach lined isle, set in the azure blue of the Caribbean Sea. None of the islands are more than two hundred yards long, and all are as close as a brisk swim or a short dinghy hop. Jamesby, the smallest of the five cays, is probably my favorite. Behind Jamesby’s palm tree shaded beach lies a rocky hillside. You can reach the top of the island either by following a slightly overgrown trail or, if you fancy yourself a rock climber, by scaling straight up the rock face. Once at the top, the view of the Cays and most of the Grenadines is quiet a sight. There are nice grassy patches atop most of the tiny islands, perfect for picnicking, and Jamesby is no exception.

While picnicking, beach combing, rock climbing and sunbathing are wonderful activities, they all take a back seat to exploring one of the best coral gardens in the world! Surrounded almost entirely by Horseshoe Reef, snorkeling and diving in the Tobago Cays is a spectacle to behold. The kaleidoscope of colors found on the reef literally ignite the senses. The water on the inner reef is only five to ten feet deep, which is perfect for novice snorkelers. Rainbow-colored parrot fish, blue tangs, squirrel fish and yellow goat fish move as one through a variety of coral. Three-to four-inch long damsel fish are harmless but quite bold, and if you feel a tickling sensation, thses little rascals are usually the culprits. One would be wise to use the dinghy channel to explore the outer wall which is separated from the inner reef by a ridge of shallow coral. At the outer wall the marine life is breathtaking, as huge schools of blue chormis shimmer in a vertical display down the forty foot slope. Don’t be surprised to see larger grouper, angelfish, eagle rays, harmless nurse sharks or an occasional sea turtle swimming by. There is such a variety of marine life and so much to explore, you’ll probably grow webbed feet and hands before you’ve had enough.

I mentioned in my last article that my clannish family had begun to descend upon my wife Carole and me after only a few weeks chartering in the Grenadines. By the time my parents finally arrived, however, it had been months, and I had become quite comfortable navigating the winding Tobago cut. Sailing in at dusk, the five tiny islands were upstaged by the scenery above. The nightly view of the heavens is just as fantastic as Horseshoe Reef. Because the luminosity of the night sky is unobstructed by the glow of electric lights (save those on yachts), you can witness a starry sky beyond even Van Gogh’s imagination.

It wasn’t until the next morning that my father, first out of his cabin with binoculars in hand, got a clear look at any lunar activity. The Grenadines attract primarily European sailors who believe in the full body tan, particularly those of the fairer sex. The Tobago Cays are no place for the prudish. Scanning from one French boat to the next my father finally chanced upon an old German fellow, also with binoculars in hand. They acknowledged one another with a wave and emphatic thumbs up.

In the time we spent operating our charter sailboat, Carole and I both agree that the Tobago Cays are one of our favorite spots in the Caribbean. The Grenadines are aptly named “Islands in the Clouds” by the Caribe Indians, and the Tobago Cays are always foremost in my mind when my thoughts drift back to sailing in those beautiful islands.

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The Grenadines: Islands in the Clouds Part II: The Island of Mustique
12.52°N.Lat./61.11°W.Lon.

Of all the Grenadines, Mustique is perhaps the most unique. You’ve heard of exclusive clubs and restaurants; who is to say that there can’t be an exclusive island? The private owners of the island united to form the Mustique Company, and their names read like the Who’s Who of Who’s Who! They are indeed the ultra-rich, and Mustique is their winter playground. Some seventy mansions with their gardens, tennis courts and swimming pools are scattered throughout the island’s hills and beaches. Charter guests have become utterly star struck when sailing into Mustique. One guest in particular tickled me with her enthusiasm after reading Mick Jagger’s name in the phone book. Others, however, like David Bowie, Princess Margaret and Raquel Welch are more discreet about their island getaway.

With only one resort and a small guesthouse, the French-owned Cotton House at the north end, Mustique’s tiny airstrip gets little traffic. Here, meticulously restored buildings from the eighteenth century are adorned with antique furniture of the same period. Set atop the hill above the Cotton House restaurant, the pool, bar, and verandah are completely encircled by sugarcane plantation ruins. The luncheon buffet is open to visitors and is quite a spread by any measure. Dinner and cocktails are served in the restaurant to guests and visitors in appropriate attire. For a more casual setting try the beach barbecue on Saturday nights. The Cotton House restaurant and guest chalets are perched on a hill just yards from a private beach. Here, one can sail, swim, snorkel, windsurf, water-ski or just soak up the Caribbean sun. Dive Mustique is conveniently located at the Cotton House beach, for those interested in scuba diving. The dive shop is run by New Zealander Leslie Danning who will show you reefs and wrecks for both advanced and beginning divers.

Most of the island’s visitors come by charter boat into Britannia Bay. Sailing south from Bequia, or north from Canouan, Mustique’s Britannia Bay is well worth the visit. On the beach to the left of the jetty is Basil’s Bar and Restaurant. Constructed almost entirely of bamboo and palm fronds, Basil’s has a very laid back Caribbean charm. Its stilt foundation stretches out over the bay, and one can take in lunch or sip cocktails and literally watch the tide come in. Basil’s Bar has an interesting array of tropical drinks and local concoctions to enhance one of the best views of a Caribbean sunset. There is also a small boutique next to the bar and one can buy fresh bread and provisions at the nearby general store. The New Year’s party at Basil’s is always packed, as celebrating celebs find their way down from the mountains for a cameo appearance. While I have never taken part in the festivities, I have heard embellished accounts, testifying that virtually anything can and does happen!

The island inhabitants were careful to preserve the natural beauty of Mustique. Britannia Bay is surrounded by hills rising 500 feet. Broken only by the multi-million dollar mansions, is a small group of beach shacks owned by the local fishermen. They live just as their forefathers had long before the Mustique Company was formed. Setting out at 3 a.m. every morning, these fishermen row their traditional craft out into the Caribbean Sea, returning by late morning with their catch.

Snorkeling in Britannia Bay is a real treat. One has a good chance of seeing tropical fish and even a lobster or two within the coral reef. Walking, scootering or horseback riding is quite spectacular as well. Scooters and jeeps can be rented from Tech-Serv; horses for riding through the Mustique Equestrians. The Cotton House, Dive Mustique, Tech-Serve and horse stables can all be reached by boat on VHF channel 68.

Though Mustique is only three miles long, and one and a half miles wide, there are quite a few extraordinary views and deserted sandy beaches. Of course, residents and guests of their estates insist that sightseeing visitors respect their privacy. On one occasion my wife Carole was near David Bowie’s driveway videotaping our boat down in Britannia Bay. As a van passed by, the local driver became irate, yelling at us to take the camera and leave immediately. We would have never noticed that Tina Turner was in the van with him, had he not made such a fuss.

More than a few friends have jokingly referred to my family as being somewhat clannish. With two brothers living on St. Croix at the same time my wife Carole and I were chartering in the Virgin Islands, it wasn’t long before one of them came searching for us when we sailed south to the Grenadines. Having only been there a couple of weeks, my brother Will had no clue how to find us except by way of a friend’s private plane. Obviously looking for a single sailboat in a stretch of islands fifty miles long is virtually impossible! Giving up the search, they finally landed at the island airstrip with the least potholes. Carole and I probably sailed into Mustique’s Britannia Bay at the exact moment my sibling touched down on the island runway. It wasn’t long before we gravitated to the same corner of the same beach. We had taken very different routes. I approached from the reef, where I had lost a desperate battle with an uncooperative lobster. Will approached me from the bar with a beer in hand, ready to catch a glimpse of the green flash, which everyone knows can only be achieved while tipping a Heinekin bottle at the exact moment the sun sets. As I stood up out of the water and faced my Cheshire-like brother it was instant recognition. Pointing to his beer, the only words I could muster were, “Where’s mine?”

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The Grenadines: Islands in the Clouds Part I: The Island of Bequia
13.00°N.Lat./61.15°W.Lon.

We had been chartering in the Grenadine Islands of the southeastern Caribbean for only a few months. Making the adjustment from the Virgin Islands was quite a challenge. Gone were the supermarkets, laundry services, seafood deliveries, marine chandleries, trained shipwrights, electricians and mechanics. In the Grenadines our sailboat was indeed an island into itself, and if anything needed to be done, it would have to be done by it’s inhabitants, namely me and my wife, Carole. Provisioning, for example, was a three-day adventure, haggling with vegetable farmers at the market, local bakers, transient fishermen and temperamental butchers. One quickly learns to go with the flow.

On this day in particular we finished a charter at Union Island and were en-route north to St. Vincent. We would get a chance only to wave at our new homeport island of Bequia (Bek-we); after all, we had a plane to catch out of St. Vincent bound for the States-at least we thought we did. What we didn’t realize was that the always-helpful locals had taken it upon themselves to forward our tickets by way of the local schooner ferry FRIENDSHIP ROSE to the Frangipani Hotel in Bequia. Fortunately, we arrived at Young Island, St. Vincent with a few hours to spare. Charlie Tango, St. Vincent’s best known taxi bus driver and entrepreneur, was the first to inform us of our predicament. With an uncharacteristic sense of urgency, he jumped into his taxi and headed up the mountain, hailing the Frangipani Hotel over the VHF radio. Back eight miles south in Bequia, our secretary and dear friend, Norma, sat engaged in her favorite activity, knitting. Upon receiving Charlie’s urgent message, she quickly sent a young boy running with the airline tickets back to the FRIENDSHIP ROSE before its final departure of the day. Miraculously, we made our flight.

The island of Bequia is so dear to us we chose it as the name for our golden retriever. Bequia is beautiful year round, but the perfect time to visit is around Easter. The Bequia Easter Regatta attracts sailors from all over the Caribbean. The local hotels and restaurants of Port Elizabeth, the island’s main harbor, are alive with music and a bounty of brightly dressed folk and colorful characters brimming with salty tales. The flowering plants and trees along the waterfront walkway extending from the Frangipani Hotel to Bequia’s Plantation Resort are at full bloom in the spring. Strolling by the quaint gardens and shops laced with gingerbread latticework, you are most struck by the shower of white cedar blossoms blanketing the bay. Within all this scenic beauty, it is the Bequians themselves who impress you the most. It is their liveliness, expressed through the gardens, architecture, boat building, painting, batik, local crafts, music and cuisine that make Bequia so special. There is no more fun-loving group of people on the face of the earth. With “jump ups” (dances) almost nightly, you’ll find a variety of musical entertainment from steel band and island folk to reggae. If you are chartering a sailboat, you don’t even need to go ashore to enjoy the music, as the delightful rhythms and night sounds fill Admiralty Bay. One of my prized possessions, which include model Bequia boats, batik shirts, etc., is a locally crafted Caribe bongo drum. Never had I felt more a part of the island and its people than at sunset when a group of us would sit on Gibbons Beach with our bongos of various size and pitch, serenading the sun as it dipped into the Caribbean Sea. Gibbons Beach, just south of Port Elizabeth, is a beautiful deserted sandy stretch bordered by huge palms, mahogany and cedar trees. At the far end is a natural rock archway. The coral lying just under the water from this archway is well worth snorkeling. It is not uncommon to see small, brilliantly colored Queen Angel, as well as many other tropical fish and schools of iridescent squid.

If you’d like to try scuba diving, there are several water sport companies to accommodate you. Despite the unappealing name, one of my all-time favorite dives between 35 and 40 feet is Devil’s Table. Here the coral is varied and colorful with an abundance of marine life. Of course, you don’t have to get wet to enjoy Bequia. Shopping, dining or just limin’ (loafing) are probably the most popular activities in Port Elizabeth.

Boat building is an artist’s craft here in Bequia. From the intricate inlay of model boats to one-hundred-foot schooners, Bequians use only a skilled eye and simple hand tools. The steel-hulled cargo and cruise ships, which are quite new to Bequia, are only reminders of a world which has graciously spared this island paradise. The FRIENDSHIP ROSE, Bequia’s grand schooner, sails back and forth daily to Kingstown, St. Vincent. This traditional gaff-rigged vessel transports all kinds of goods-produce, goats, furniture, household items, etc.; and for about three dollars, passengers can take a nostalgic ride sailing on the Caribbean trade winds. Bequians love to talk, so don’t be bashful and don’t be fooled by appearances. For the most part, Bequians are proud people whose forefathers are from Europe, Africa and the whaling boats that sailed from North America. While Bequia is one of the world’s few places granted aboriginal rights to hunt whales, environmentalists will be heartened to hear it is a dying practice. There are few whalers left, however, who are young and bold enough to risk their lives in local boats, stalking the humpback and sperm whales that frequent these waters. I found one such proud whaler who now makes a modest living selling homemade hot sauce. He would never have shared his adventurous past with me had I not stumbled upon the subject. I stood spellbound for what must have been an hour, listening to a poor, withered old man transform himself into a mighty harpooner! Needless to say, I bought some of his hot sauce.

Aptly named “The Islands in the Clouds” by the Caribe Indians, the Grenadines are wonderful islands to explore. I know of more than a handful of sailors who have been around the world, only to settle in the Grenadines, often times in Admiralty Bay. Bequia was our homeport for over a year and is still very vivid in my mind. Whether Carole and I were hosting a three-week or three-day charter in the Grenadines, we always found time to acquaint our guests with the island of Bequia. I hope each month visitors to our site may also, at least in their mind’s eye, become acquainted with these islands I have grown to love.

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Australia’s Whitsunday Islands Part II
20.10 S.Lat / 148.55 E.Lon

I signed aboard the Golden Plover just in time for her annual haul-out.  John DeVere’s Coral Sea Line has its own modest facility on the mainland at Airlie Beach, constructed specifically to handle Plover’s enormous hull.  The simple rail and hitch system, however, exposes the keel only at low tide and it takes the coordinated efforts of all crew members, from cook to steward.  Everyone participates in the twelve-hour frenzy of cleaning, prepping and painting below the waterline of this 110-foot brigantine.  Racing against the tide can create a rather urgent, if not hostile, atmosphere amongst the crew.  This is hardly the environment where one would prefer being introduced to one’s new shipmates, that is, if their faces are even discernible through the spattering of the blue bottom paint.

Other than the paint, what initially struck me was the crew’s diversity: male and female; old and young; hailing from Wales, Germany, New Zealand, Sweden, the British Channel Islands and, of course, Australia.  I was, in fact, the only “Yank” in the lot.  The Golden Plover’s skipper was an Australian nicknamed “Gopher”.  While I never completely understood the endearment’s origin, I later learned from one of his lady friends that it stemmed from his having uncommonly large toes.  In direct contrast to our boss John DeVere, Gopher, a man of few words, had an easy way about him.  The rest of the crew, with the exception of the chefs, engineer and steward, was comprised of wandering, underpaid sailors who, like I, signed aboard for the experience.  As first mate, they were under my charge, which immediately caused some dissension.  After all, I had only just arrived, while they were old hands, already quite familiar with Plover’s eleven sails and nearly 100 working lines.  My position was as much a surprise to me as it was to my crew, and because the Golden Plover is a vacation charter vessel, and not the HMS Bounty, it wasn’t long before we became friends and set about preparing for the next charter, only two days away.

Forty-eight hours is not a long period of time in which to become acquainted with the running gear of a square rigger, her sail commands and the sequence in which they are called.  What made matters worse was that John DeVere himself decided to come aboard for the first leg of this charter to check out the new first mate.  My fate was in the hands of my crew and I made it abundantly clear they were to cover for me as much as possible.

The Golden Plover was made ready, passengers boarded, and Mr. DeVere took his post, poised next to Gopher at the helm.  As we left Airlie Beach and entered the channel, I was as tight as a drum until catching a glimpse of the smug faces of my crew.  Almost matter-of-factly, Gopher called to set the fore and aft sails.  In response, I cried, “Main staysail, down-haul halyard and sheet!  Let go down haul, go halyard and take up the sheet.”  It was then that something utterly amazing and unexpected happened.  The crew began to sing.

“The village girls on Sunday-haul ‘em away!
They don’t wear any undies-haul ‘em away!
You should see the crew on Monday-haul ‘em away!”

We set the knock staysail, main topmast staysail, inner jib, outer jib, mainsail or “spanker” and then I turned my attention back to the helm for the signal to set the squares.  Starting with the forecourse bunt lines, sheets and tacks, the squares were set and trimmed “to the top gallant”.  A few rough edges and stammered commands, but, for the most part, things had gone fairly well.  It was then that John DeVere turned to the captain and asked if, for the fun of it, we might try to hove to, or come to a dead stop using the sails.  This was a maneuver I had done with schooners, ketches, sloops and even yawls, but with a brigantine I didn’t have a clue.  On a beam reach, we began tacking the squares.

“No, no, the forecourse looks like a bag of shit,” yelled DeVere as he left the helm and stormed forward.  He had me step aside and take notes while the Plover was halted, and was once again allowed to take her course.

As we dropped off Mr. DeVere at Long Island, there were no words exchanged between us.  Nothing, however, could begin to diminish what I felt seeing these islands for the first time.  Most of the Whitsunday chain is designated National Park, inhabited primarily by flocks of colorful rainbow parakeets and laughing kookaburras who echo throughout the rain forest.  There are even more wonders beneath the sea, where one will find an unparalleled coral community amidst the world’s greatest reef.

Leaving Long Island and setting sail for Whitsunday, the largest and most beautiful island of this archipelago was a far more relaxing sail.  I did become a bit concerned wen the normally reserved Gopher asked everyone to come aft and witness the initiation of the new crew member.

“And what initiation would that be?” I inquired.

He explained that every new crew member who would serve aboard this fine vessel must first climb one hundred feet up the main mast and kiss the capstar atop the mast head.  This was easy enough, and afterward, the bar bell was sounded for a round on the house, or ship, as it were.

In reflection, there were quite a few rounds to be had; especially those during happy hour after sails had been unfurled.  When Plover was anchored my job as mate finished for the day.  Down in the galley, however, things were just warming up where New Zealand Chef David Wilson and his assistant Don (the “kiwis”) were hard at work.  I made it a habit of creeping up behind the two with a measure of burgundy and tapping the wine glass twice with a spoon to signal my approach.  Dubbing myself “assistant to the assistant cook,” I thoroughly enjoyed helping the understaffed galley crew.

Having seen quite a few gorgeous beaches in my day, White Haven on Whitsunday is easily the most spectacular of them all.  This enormous stretch of fine, almost pure white sand is set between crystal water and untouched natural forest.  Evening songs and activities on the beach were always a prelude to private walks under the clearest of skies and the brightest of stars, all dancing ‘round the Southern Cross.  There is an incredible transparency to Australia’s skies, revealing to me an inspiring phenomenon occurring only once in a man’s life: a phenomenon I could have easily missed.  Lying in my sleeping bag on the deck of the Golden Plover, with my naked eye, I actually saw Haley’s Comet-there was absolutely no mistaking it!  I was so excited, I woke the entire crew.

The Aussies have a relentless sense of humor and a great love of sport.  In the following months I spent sailing their islands, the antics of the Australian people never ceased to amaze me.  In fact, their fun-loving nature brought some things out in me where were better left inside.  We were constantly doing things on a bet.  For instance, to prove my point once for a few beers at happy hour, I negotiated a standing back flip from the stern rail, abruptly breaking wind at the appropriate juncture.  When one of the crew jumped 60 feet from the topsail, I leapt 80 feet from the top gallant, a feat which makes my skin crawl to this day.

As first mate aboard the Golden Plover, I learned more about traditional sailing and had more fun than at any time in my life.  I was allowed to do things I had only dreamt of as a child.  Even John DeVere turned out to be more of a sheep in wolf’s clothing.  He was, after all, responsible for my being there.  Perhaps I would never have left had I not heard my future wife Carole calling from back in the States.  I mean this literally!  Returning to the dock at Airlie Beach, I was often first along the key to tie off the dock lines.  One day, just as the Golden Plover was secured, the phone rang on the dock at a booth I had never even noticed before.  When I picked it up, it was Carole, who had been transferred through the Coral Sea Line office.  Some things are far too strange to be mere coincidence.

This story is dedicated to the memory of John DeVere.

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Australia’s Whitsunday Islands Part I
20.10 S.Lat / 148.55 E.Lon

When Captain Cook and the crew of ENDEAVOR set sail in 1770, heading north from Botany Bay, they had placed an inexorable stake in mere faith.  It was both faith and imagination that brought James Cook and his three-masted bark to the fertile east coast of the southern continent.  While Dutch explorers first reported evidence of Australia’s sprawling shoreline some hundred years earlier, Cook would be the first to chart this fascinating, yet virtually undiscovered country.  “There is a reason to imagine,” claimed King George’s appointed commission, “that a continent or land of great extent may be found to the southward.”  And with that, his majesty’s royal bark ENDEAVOR threw apprehension to the wind, and went forth.

There is no modern equivalent of such an unknown left on this earth.  To imagine this leap of faith is to look every conceivable possibility in the eye and proclaim, “Come what may!”  Fortunately it wasn’t fierce giants or three-headed sea monsters Cook encountered on his voyage north along the Australian coast, but rather a wondrous archipelago of islands.  In his log, Cook wrote, “Indeed the whole passage is one Continued safe Harbor, besides a number of small Bays and Coves on each side, where ships might lay as it were in a Bason.  The land, both on the Main and Islands, especially on the former, is Tolerably high, and distinguished by Hills and Vallies, which are diversified with Woods and Lawns that looked green and pleasant,” entered June 3, 1770 on the morning of Whit Sunday.

Making my own way north on a bus out of Sydney, over two hundred years later, I had taken a much more modest leap of faith.  With only four months left on my visa and very little money left in my pocket, I decided to push my return flight forward to the last possible day.  Already used to thinking upside down, the coming of fall in April had me looking north, yearning for warmer climes.  Luckily I had become friends with the mate aboard a tall ship headed around the world for Australia’s 200th birthday.  Listening to his experiences aboard a charter brigantine based in a group of tropical islands off the Great Barrier Reef’s southern tip supplied ample fuel for my imagination.  Having just finished a stint as crew aboard the brigantine ZEBU, I was anxious to sign on with another tall ship based somewhere along the more temperate Queensland coast.  After he agreed to send a letter on my behalf, I forwarded my sea credentials and, with the shoes on my feet, a few swim trunks, T-shirts and a warm weather sleeping bag in my pack, I bought a ticket for Airlie Beach, the closest mainland port to Australia’s Whitsunday Islands.

Airlie Beach is a small but colorful resort township.  The social hub of the main strand is the open air bar at Whitsunday Village, a palm-drenched resort landscaped in true Polynesian style.  When the sun dips into the blue horizon, three large German fellows take the stage at the village bar.  Accompanied only by an old guitar, these brothers joyously resurrect ancient sea shanties with a brutally honest fervor.  Their lyrical tales originate from around the globe, which the brothers spanned in several years of painstaking research at a number of tropical bars not unlike Whitsunday Village.  The vessel which carried them on this romantic quest was herself resurrected from the past.  Built at the turn of the century as a steam launch off Australia’s rugged southeastern coastline, the ship was originally commissioned to service buoys and lighthouses.  She was later employed as a pilot boat and even served as a navy training vessel during WWII.  After the war she was re-rigged as a fishing ketch, and by 1966 the old workhorse was reduced to nonstop dredging for scallops.  When a tragic fire erupted on board in 1968 the craft was burned to the waterline and towed into the shallow mud banks at the mouth of Victoria’s Maribyronong River.

In 1970, in what can only be described as a miracle, a German visitor had a premonition which would ultimately bring the ship back to life.  Intrigued by the classic lines of the hull, the young man actually witnessed a vivid transformation in a dream, where the hull’s wreckage was lifted from the goo and morphed into a magnificent sailing ship gliding far away across the ocean and up the Rhine River to his home town, Cologne, Germany.

Realizing his dream with the help of his two brothers, she was completely refitted as a 110’ brigantine.  The wondrous vessel was christened, GOLDEN PLOVER, named appropriately after the tiny shorebird with the greatest migration route of any known species.  Accompanied by their closest friends, the three brothers set the GOLDEN PLOVER on her watery flight to their European homeland, only to return to the beckoning shores of eastern Australia.  There couldn’t be a more perfect setting for this rare bird than the Whitsunday Islands and no one had a greater awareness of this than a passionate Dutch sailor named John DeVere.  In a lease agreement the brothers turned the brigantine over to DeVere’s Coral Sea Line charter company as the only vessel of her kind operating in the Whitsundays.  With a crew of 12 and carrying up to 50 passengers, she is to this day a vision to behold.  The chance to work aboard her at any capacity was almost too much to hope for.  You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the Coral Sea Line office greeted by John DeVere’s extended hand.  “Good, you’re here,” he said matter of factly, “I’ve been expecting you.  We need a first mate.”

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The Island of Dominica
15.34 N.Lat / 61.27 W.Lon

In the wild grandeur of its towering mountains, some of which rise to five thousand feet above the sea; in majesty of its almost impenetrable forests, in the gorgeousness of its vegetation, the abruptness of its precipices, the calm of its lakes, the violence of its torrents, the sublimity of its waterfalls, Dominica stands without rival, not in the West Indies only, but I should think throughout the whole island catalogue of the Atlantic and Pacific combined.”

These were the words written by a European explorer in 1876 describing the central island of the Eastern Caribbean.  While W. Palrgrave’s poetic attempt to capture the awesome power and beauty of the island comes close, there are simply no words which can possibly define her.  This was a particular problem for the very first European explorer who, when asked to describe Dominica, fell utterly dumbfounded.  In an audience with King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, the resourceful and imaginative Christopher Columbus was reduced to crumbling a piece of paper to convey the stark imagery of the island’s landscape.

Little has changed since, as Dominica has managed to remain as one of the last “untouched” islands in all the Caribbean.  With the exception of a few modest roads and villages, she is as she has always been.  Unlike most of the Caribbean islands, which boast gorgeous bays and sandy beaches.  Dominica’s incomparable beauty lies primarily in her interior.  This helps limit tourism to the more adventurous; those who are unafraid to set off on foot in search of hot spring waterfalls, boiling volcanic lakes, native parrots, monkeys and exotic vegetation.

There are a few commercial flights in and out of Dominica.  The majority of island visitors arrive by private or charter boat, dropping anchor in Prince Rupert Bay at the northwest end and clearing customs in the quaint town of Portsmouth.  Soon after you arrive you will be met by a flotilla of young local entrepreneurs offering to take you on a guided tour of the Indian River, for a nominal fee, of course.  This excursion is well worth the seven or eight dollars; however, be sure to pick a rowing guide rather than one with an outboard who is more likely to disrupt the wildlife.

The narrow, twisting river is quite magical, sheltered beneath a dense canopy of trees and vines.  While the mouth of the Indian opens up into Prince Rupert Bay, I would not advise taking your own dinghy up river, for this act would be interpreted as a blatant attempt to sabotage a vital part of the island’s fragile economy.  For the most part, Dominicans are a cheerful lot who aren’t over-exposed to tourists and are still quite helpful.  The farther you get from the main settlements, however, the less likely you will be able to decipher the islander’s thick patois accents.

At Prince Rupert’s north peninsula lies the Cabrits, two small mountains which served nicely as lookout points for the British in the 18th century.  There is a well-marked trail on the eastern slope with a fantastic view from the top.  The Dominicans have begun restoration of Fort Shirley at the foot of the Cabrits guarding the entrance to the bay.  The completed sections and a small historical museum located at the fort are well worth seeing.

As was the case with my wife Carole and me, it won’t be long before you’ll want to get a look at some of the island’s breathtaking hinterland.  The Dominican National Park Service is well aware of the island’s natural merit and has done a marvelous job of providing a network of roads and hiking trails without spoiling the landscape.  While one could spend days exploring the northern forest trails of this twenty-mile island, I would suggest heading south to the village of Roseau which borders Morne Trois National Park.  Dropping the hook off the south end of the township or tying up at the Anchorage Hotel gives you easy access by foot.  Dive Dominica is located next to the hotel and, if you are inclined to explore the watery side of the island, you will not be disappointed.

Roseau itself has much to offer the discerning local craft hunters who will be amazed with the variety of bags, bowls, baskets and batik.  The streets of Roseau are quite narrow and at times you’ll be holding your breath if you choose to rent a car.  Passing a large truck on some stretches of roads is absolutely impossible, as I found out a bit too late, once bottoming out with both left wheels in the gutter.  This is obviously a common occurrence, for no sooner had we gotten into this predicament than several large spectators has us back on our way without even having to get out of the car.  On the outskirts of town you’ll find the Botanical Gardens and Forestry Division headquarters.  From here you can join a park tour or inquire for directions to set out on your own.

Trafalga Falls is a must see.  If you have ever imagined the ultimate tropical waterfall, Trafalga will surpass all of your expectations.  Fed not only by mountain streams, but also by a natural hot spring, bathing in the water at the base of the falls is both relaxing and exhilarating.  On one side, swirling Jacuzzi-like pools of hot mineral water will soak through to your soul.  On the other side, a cool rushing shower excites every pore.  You can spend hours going back and forth.

Hiking further into the national park rain forest requires a guide, particularly if you wish to see the second largest boiling lake in the entire world.  Situated in a volcanic crater one hundred and fifty feet across, this spectacle is an eerie sight to behold as horrendous volcanic pressure forces steam to groan from the very bowels of the earth, while enormous shoots of clouds burst from the bubbling froth and rise high up into the air.

There are many more falls, lakes, rivers and overlooks to visit, each just as spectacular as the next.  It is no small wonder that Dominica is home to the last settlement of Carib Indians.  Now reduced to farmers and craftsmen, the once-fierce race of warriors had ruled the Caribbean for centuries before European settlers intervened.  The spirit of these proud natives is still captured in their artwork, especially the haunting war masks displayed in small galleries throughout the reservation.

There is simply no way to describe the sheer beauty and mystique of Dominica given volumes of text, much less these few short paragraphs.  My advice is that if you are fortunate enough to sail along her inviting shore, I implore you, for goodness sake, don’t be content with just a visit to the beach bar.

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St. Lucia
13.53 N. Lat / 61.04 W. Lon

When we were both in college, my brother William gave me the LP, Making Movies by Dire Straits.  This album stirred our imagination; especially the track entitled “Tunnel of Love”, which tells of an English amusement park called The Spanish City.  We were on the brink of starting our own lives, and the possibilities seemed endless.  Once more we were kids set loose at the gates of the carnival, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves in the heart of the Caribbean, along with our younger brother Stephen, William’s wife, Lisa, and of course my wife, Carole.

While we could have done far worse with our three years based in the Virgin Islands, with William and Stephen running their St. Croix construction company, and me and Carole chartering our sailboat Aquarius, it was not quite Camelot, or The Spanish City for that matter.  I set my sights further south to what I was sure would be a natural wonderland of independent, strong, happy natives and breathtaking scenery, where twin mountains rise three thousand feet straight out of the Caribbean Sea.  The island of St. Lucia, in particular, had stirred my imagination once again.

My parents and tarot-reading sister Ann came down from the states to wish Carole and me bon voyage.  Before leaving, I implored my talented mother to paint a haunting picture of Aquarius, accompanied by two dolphins and a sperm whale, sailing by St. Lucia’s Piton Mountains at sunrise.  She insisted, however, that I paint it myself, which I reluctantly did.  Strangely, it was my sister and her cards who foretold of a somewhat different St. Lucia than I had envisioned.

The evening before we set sail, I sat on William’s beach and stared south-southeast at a point somewhere between the ocean and the moonlit sky.  Like many young boys of my generation, I once dreamt of being an Apollo astronaut, effortlessly bounding across the craters of the moon.  In college, influenced as much by my astronomy professor, Sheridan Simon, as the rock band, Dire Straits, I had enlarged 8×10 glossies of the moon, taken through a telescopic lens.  I wondered if I would ever have a chance to get a better look.  For the following three days as we sailed south we were reliant upon our craft, not unlike the crew of Apollo 13 navigating back to terra firma aboard quite a different Aquarius.  Our journey was obviously far less tedious, yet almost as inspiring.  For instance, I can recall being alone on a midnight watch under a rising full moon when a magnificent school of dolphin danced before me, silhouetted by the aforementioned glowing sphere.  They were bathed in shimmering light, and I was utterly spellbound as they swam about, seemingly conscious of the effect they were having on me.

When I found my vessel in the summer of ’87, I had absolutely no intention of changing her name.  Born to us at the dawn of harmonic convergence, she has been a window through which Carole and I have witnessed the best part of our lives.  Aquarius’ approach to the south end of St. Lucia afforded us what was undoubtedly the highlight to that point.  Escorted once again by a school of dolphin, we absorbed the awe-inspiring Pitons for hours before heading farther up the east coast to Marigot Bay.

One could easily sail less than a mile off Marigot and never see the entrance.  Obscured by a palm-covered peninsula, the clever and illusive Lord Admiral Nelson once hid his entire fleet from the pursuing French by ducking into the bay and tying fronds in the rigging.  More recently, Walt Disney himself chose Marigot Bay as a site for his feature film, Dr. Doolittle, where islanders adopt “civilized” English names and manners while preserving superstitious customs.  Old Walt definitely started something, for this has become the paradox of St. Lucia.  Since declaring their independence from the English, the local government has invited all manner of resort development throughout the island.  Investors and developers are still attempting to tame the wild innocence of the island and its people.   They have created what reggae artist Lucky Dube refers to as a “Mickey Mouse freedom”, where a man-made utopia tries to replace one already provided by God.  This manmade utopia, of course, comes with a price.

With all her development, Marigot’s beauty isn’t in Doolittle’s quaint waterfront café or the elaborate Mooring’s facility, but rather in the surrounding mountainsides and tranquil waters.  As one drops anchor, local boys paddle out to sell anything from baskets to fruits and vegetables and will soon move on with a smile regardless of whether anything is bought.  While on charter we would usually buy a stalk of bananas to hang from the bimini, picking the fruit as it ripened throughout the week.  At times we would find bands of younger children asking for a dinghy ride from the customs office dock to the sandy beach peninsula, only a stone’s throw away.  Accommodating their cheeky request was a mistake I would make only once, for no sooner had I boarded two or three of the laughing urchins than there were half a dozen more, crawling all over me, tipping the boat and trying to influence my course.  When I arrived at the other side, they immediately requested a return trip.  This little prank was a kind of initiation repeated on almost every first-time visitor to Marigot Bay.

Most visiting yachtsmen find refuge at the northeast end of the island at Rodney Bay, which is much flatter and more arid and boasts a brand new marina inside the inner manmade lagoon.  In Rodney’s outer bay there are quite a few hotels, resorts, restaurants and three charter yacht facilities which sprang up in recent years, all catering to passing tourists and yachtsmen.

Between Rodney and Marigot lies the growing capital of Castries, where more and more street vendors are losing space to the newer shops, cafes and boutiques.  In the market, however, there is still a wide variety of local fruits and vegetables, from mangoes to christophines and sweet avocados the size of melons.

At the southeast village of Soufriere the scenic brilliance of St. Lucia’s unparalleled beauty is best revealed from an anchorage off the old Hummingbird Hotel.  Tying up stern to a palm tree, one can see the twin peaks of the Pitons rising up directly across Soufriere Bay.  This is an awesome spectacle, especially first thing in the morning when a sailor pokes his head out of the hatch and seems to come face to face with God.  Perhaps even more awe inspiring is this scene on a calm night, framed with starlight from above and a mirror image reflected in the bay below.  I often wonder how enterprising locals and developers could break free from the magic of Soufriere and use its power simply to turn a buck.  Nestled between the Pitons now sits a “Disneyesque” resort, where live elephants have been imported simply to amuse wealthy guests in their air-conditioned rooms.  Even the hot springs at gorgeous Diamond Falls are guarded by self-important government toll collectors.

At sunrise on the morning of Aquarius’ final sail south along the Pitons of St. Lucia, I remember feeling rather disillusioned.  Carole and I were accompanied by our friends, Susan and David Hickerson, who were, of course, dazzled by the twin mountains.

“What’s that?” asked David, whose attention was drawn to the other side of the boat.
“Oh, just a couple of dolphins,” I replied.  “We see them all the time.”
“No, that,” insisted David, as a puff of spray shot up just beyond our two playful companions.  My heart leapt and as we came up alongside the enormous black beast, there was no mistaking it.  Up from the deepest depths of this treacherous profit driven world had come my hypothesis in the form of a sperm whale.

Man will never fully determine a nature he so grapples to make his own.  Somewhere in a stateside freezer, Walt Disney sleeps, hoping one day to be revived by the progress of futuristic man but, in the meantime, as Lord Byron put it, “Roll on deep and dark blue ocean….”

Dedicated to the memory of Sheridan Simon, who knew the universe comes to us from within.

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San Remo, Italy and a Riviera Rendezvous with The Darling Jade

There is something rather curious in the main salon of the British J-Class vessel Endeavour that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the décor.  It’s not the collection of six original J-Class champion hull models displayed over the port settee in the library next to the fireplace. Nor is it the entire transom of America’s Cup winner Ranger on exhibit over the starboard settee. The curiosity is just to the left, mounted on the forward bulkhead; an odd oil painting of a smiling pig flying through space.  No, the painting is not inspired by the Pink Floyd song, “Pigs on Wing”.  Rather, it is there to serve as a clever reminder to the great many doubting Thomases of the yachting world.  The artwork targets those nay-sayers who, since the 1940s, proclaimed the once-magnificent Endeavour would never sail again!

In her day she was indeed magnificent!  Built in 1934 by British airplane magnate Sir T.O.M. Sopwith, Endeavour was to be the yacht to finally reclaim ‘The Cup’ from those cunning Yanks who had won and defended it since 1851.  Applying revolutionary new aviation technology to her hull and rig, Endeavour dominated England’s racing circuit and earned the nickname ‘The Darling Jade’.  She swept the first two cup races against her American counterpart before finally letting the prize slip away, largely due to tactical mistakes.  She went on to dominate all other British challengers until World War II when the nation’s priorities, particularly those of Sopwith, took a drastic turn.

Endeavour was sold several times by 1947, when she fell into the clutches of an indifferent scrap merchant.  Hours before she was to be utterly demolished, a sympathetic buyer seized possession of the hull, saving the once-proud vessel from the breaker’s mall.  She was, however, still poorly neglected and, in the early ‘70s, sank off Cowes, England.  Sitting at the bottom of the Medina River, Endeavor was bartered yet again, this time to a couple of enterprising carpenters, for the grand sum of ten pounds.  Using plastic bags to patch the holes, the old gal was resurrected from her watery grave and placed in an abandoned seaplane hangar where she sat until 1984.

With no rigging, interior, keel, rudder or even ballast, she was purchased for the last time by American yachtswoman Elizabeth Meyer.  Five years and ten million dollars later, Endeavor metamorphosed into a spectacular craft surpassing even her former glory.  Today she retains the same sleek 130-foot long 22-foot beam hull design yet with much improved state-of-the-art rigging, including a four-foot-wide boom and a mast that towers over 165 feet above her deck.  Elizabeth fondly recalls a charter in the Leeward Islands when Endeavour guests, including singer Jimmy Buffet, held a two-day cocktail party on the boom.  Set on a broad reach, the boom extended out over the water.  Their destination was of no concern as long as it was down wind with stars above and the Caribbean sea below!  As a charter sailing yacht, Endeavour has no equal.

Endeavor shares the spotlight when she joins a gathering of the most beautiful power and sailing yachts once a year in San Remo, Italy, to be inspected by modest brokers like myself at the beginning of the Mediterranean spring season.  San Remo, located thirty miles east of Monaco, has an Italian flavor all its own.  The marina is bordered by Nobel’s famous estate and subtropical gardens, home of the namesake pioneer of modern arts and sciences and founder of the Nobel Prize.  It was here in San Remo I was introduced to Ms. Meyer and her historic yacht.

Walking barefoot along the teak deck of Endeavour, I could feel the powerful, graceful strength that lies captive in her temporary berth.  Just a few days earlier, she was on the mighty Atlantic, crossing the span between the northeast American coast in less than a fortnight!  In San Remo, her nylon mooring bonds would not hold her for long as there was already talk amongst the crew of a challenge from two of the other charter sailing yachts.  Berdy and Aspiration are both beauties in their own right: brand-new 86-foot Swan designs, notorious leaders of the sailing industry as the epitome of modern racing yachts.  I asked Elizabeth if Endeavour would have any problem with the two Swans.  She said to meet her back on the yacht the following day at noon and find out for myself.  It was difficult for me to sleep that night.

I felt incredibly lucky, if not blessed, to be one of only a handful of passengers to set out over the enchanted waters of the Mediterranean aboard The Darling Jade!  That glorious morning commands were barked from the helm as we headed up into the wind to set the mainsail.  The sheer enormity of the main was absolutely mind-wrenching as it gradually unfurled like a fast-forming cloud.  Finally the headsails were set and the silent beast quickly came to speed just off the wind, under her 6000 square feet of Dacron.  Glancing around at the other passengers, I noticed no one could begin to contain their smiles.  At the helm, Elizabeth directed my attention to the anemometer which read 10 knots.  She then pointed to the speed/distance log indicating the yacht was maintaining a hull speed of over 12 nautical miles per hour.  We were sailing faster than the wind!  As the crew engaged in several warm-up tacks, I retreated to a safe observation post all the way astern, out over Endeavour’s bubbly wake.  There were no stanchions, lifelines or even a toe rail, yet Endeavour was so steady, so at one with her environment, not once did I feel uneasy at my narrow perch.

It wasn’t long before we were joined by the two Swans.  Neither Berdy nor Aspiration dared wait for Endeavour, starting off on their tacks a hundred yards or so ahead.  Within minutes it was obvious that the modern hand-crafted Finnish racers were no match for The Darling Jade.  Elizabeth Meyer demonstrated her canny wit as she passed them both, yelling a sarcastic but good natured, “Yacht designs sure have come a long way.”

The revitalized Endeavour is the fastest of the remaining four J-Class yachts to race in the America’s Cup.  It still amuses me to think Berdy and Aspiration actually believed they could match this spectacular beauty.  To them I say, never give up hope, for indeed, pigs can fly!

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The Saronic Islands of Greece, Part II
37.50 Degrees N. Lat/23.50 Degrees E. Lon

With the conclusion of the Greek Orthodox Easter Week-end and all the colorful festivities and enormous feasts on the isles of Aegina and Poros, it was time to move on to the third island on our itinerary.  As I mentioned in last month’s article, our home for the week was aboard the extremely comfortable and very sleek motor yacht Myrine.  Aboard Myrine, my wife Carole and I were treated to superb traditional Greek dishes and found the crew extremely hospitable.  They were quick to share their vast knowledge of local Greek customs, architecture and history, including the rich ancient history of the Saronic Gulf.

Heading south from Poros, Myrine rounded the headland of Hydra’s main port shortly after sunset, unveiling the most picturesque harbor in the Saronic Gulf.  Pronounced E-dra, the horseshoe-shaped bay is alive at night with a cosmopolitan gleam of electric lights from the top of the mountain village down to the waterfront streets below.  Also captured in the dark evening waters of Hydra’s main port are the reflecting lights of a hundred yachts and local craft clustered along the main street wharf and extending docks.  The bay is magnificent, particularly in the early evening, with all the tiny shops and street-side cafes still bustling with visitors but only visitors, as there are absolutely no vehicles of any kind to crowd the scene or disrupt the atmosphere.  Hydra, however, can hardly be referred to as a sleepy little island.  For just as the shops close up, the nightclubs and discos are in full swing.  In fact, Carole and I found a few of the more popular clubs reduced to long lines and standing room only.  We finally stumbled across a small back street tavern where, much to our chagrin, we found two of Myrine’s crew members, very much in their own element.  After spotting us, they tried feebly to compose themselves.  Of course, it didn’t matter, and after I bought a few rounds and they had danced with Carole a few times, any semblance of formality was quickly forgotten.

By day, the view of Hydra’s rocky terrain is filled with whitewashed, tile roofed villas and mansions clustered densely near the waterfront and becoming more sparse as one approaches the top of the steep mountainside.  Many of the larger mansions date back to the 18th century when Hydra rose to power as a prominent shipping port.  Today the maritime tradition of the isle, once dubbed “Little England”, continues as home base for the Merchant Navy School.

There are a number of wonderful galleries scattered throughout Hydra, as the island in recent years has become an art Mecca for Greek painters and art lovers alike.  One is easily inspired by Hydra’s narrow winding stairways and spectacular overlooks.  The island’s charm takes on an especially colorful hue if you make your way up by foot or donkey to the heights where ancient ruins emerge from steep fields of wildflowers.  Even farther up you’ll find churches and monasteries which dot Hydra’s rugged slopes.  At the gate of one such monastery we found a curious guardian who approached us shaking her finger.  In a great contrast to the vivid hillside she was dressed in drab brown.  Under her covered head and shoulders we could see the wrinkles from Greek summer suns and wiry limbs showing years of toil.  Smiling all the while, she rapidly vocalized some sort of complaint in her native tongue.  It is times like these that sign language can take you a long way.  Pointing to our cameras and waving her arms emphatically, her message of no pictures was finally communicated.  After leading us through the monastery grounds chattering nonstop, she conveyed her final message by sign.  This one was unmistakable as she reached out with one arm, still grinning, her palm facing up.

The following day we arrived in Spetses which, unlike Hydra, permits a few vehicles to travel her streets.  There are not many, however, as the island’s preferred mode of transportation is horse and carriage.  One can easily acquire a feeling of being transported to an earlier time when wandering the waterfront streets of Spetses.  Surrounding us at Agin marina, where Myrine was berthed at the bay of Argos, where the most extraordinary remains of ancient walls and statuettes dating back over four thousand years to the Helladic era.  Much of the island’s heritage has been preserved, not only in the architecture, but in the subtle tradition of meticulous courtyard gardens and the not-so-subtle custom of restaurateurs displaying their goods.  If you happen to be an octopus connoisseur, for instance, you are in luck.  One local establishment had strung out over a hundred of the slimy creatures for inspection.

Whether you’re in the Mediterranean, Caribbean or Isle of Palms, there is one custom that’s altogether timeless.  If you’re simply looking for a beautiful stretch of sand on which to lie down and transform yourself into a bronze god or goddess, there are two gorgeous beaches on Spetses:  Agii Anargyri and Agia Paraskevi.  If you have problems pronouncing these, just hold up a bottle of sunscreen and ask in your richest Charleston drawl, “Which way to the beach?”

The Saronic Gulf islands of Greece are wonderful to explore, particularly in late spring and summer when the crystal waters of the Med have warmed and you can swim and snorkel along the more secluded bays and anchorages.  I think what you will find most entertaining, however, are the people themselves, who take great pride in these fascinating and beautiful islands which, for them, are a pleasure to share.

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