We are now on Bequia, a small island just off the coast of St. Vincent. We previously visited this island four years ago. It is a jewel in The Grenadine chain, of which there are many. This jewel is easily reached by passenger ferry and after checking in again bedraggled and dripping I hastily book three places on The Friendship Rose, a magnificent tall masted schooner which promises a trip to paradise.
So today we find ourselves putting out to sea at seven in the morning under a weak Caribbean sky. There are about twenty of us on this voyage to the Tobago Cays, a magnificent coral reef and nature reserve some three hours away under sail and with a good wind which is what we have today. Our crew are of course experienced, they are going to and from our destination on a weekly basis. But that does not mean the work is any easier. Sails, and there are three of them, have to be hoisted and this takes considerable effort utilising the strength of the male members of the crew. The captain, a wizened Caribbean, with a face that reflects many such sea journeys under the tropical sun, directs proceedings from behind the wheel. Mostly by sign language as his voice cannot be heard over the crashing of the waves on the hull of the Friendship Rose as she ploughs her way across the warm spraying waters.
Our party is the usual multi-national mix of tourists, although I am convinced as is Trish, that one of the two elderly Caribbean ladies sitting opposite us in their day out finery, is in fact the Captain's wife. They both seem to know everyone of the crew and our Captain pays particular attention to the elder of the two when he passes by en route to the stairs leading down to the bowels of the ship and appropriately, the toilets. She also, on occasion, waves his comments away with disdain. What more evidence do we need?
Soon the sun worshippers are out, not least a quartet, all from the same family, male and female in equal mix, one of whom is draping herself, like Cleopatra awaiting the arrival of her lover, on the raised cushioned part of the aft deck. She is all bronze face, white sunglasses and sarong, hair streaming back in the wind. Picture perfect. But that picture is due to change...with a vengeance.
Many others are too enjoying the early morning sunshine. We pass islands waking up to the new day and other boats bobbing on the water. The sun grows stronger and breakfast, consisting of coffee, fresh fruit and croissants is served. (Some of us will be seeing that breakfast again).
Trish is going well. Last time she spent the most of the trip hidden under a towel, slumped on the aft cushions trying to ignore the pitch and roll of the ship wondering why she ever agreed to come on the damnable excursion. This time my mother has rescued her. Knowing we were going to repeat the journey, I suggested she follow the practice of my mum when I was young....Qwells. These small tablets sorted out my car sickness issues and unbelievably they are still on sale in all good chemists. And they are working for her. She is able to look at the rolling horizon, watch the birds swoop for fish in the cresting waves, see the dolphins rise and arc into the water and perhaps most importantly enjoy the beverages included in the price of the trip.
There is a small commotion at the wheel. The Captain is gesturing towards the horizon. I look too and can see a bank of dark clouds rolling towards us. The wind is picking up. The sails begin to slap against their frames and hats have to be held down. The sun is weakening, obscured by scudding clouds, fleeing in the face of their angrier cousins. One of the crew emerges clad in a sou'wester of the brightest yellow, with more in his arms which he gives out to the crew, Captain first. I wonder how many of us are aware of this. Cleopatra looks concerned and shifts uneasily upon her dais. The wind picks up even more. Ponchos are given out and Cleopatra looks less regal now. The noise of straining canvas fills the air and now the wind whips around us. Children are sent down. The Captain's wife and friend too. Others by choice. The rain starts. It comes sideways. We pull the ponchos around us, they billow and flap. Mine looks like Superman's cape, in full flight.
There is no sun now. Driving rain soaks us as does the spray, forcing salty water up nostrils and down necks. It's warm at least. We hold on to the rail where we are sitting. The wind is fierce now, in seconds despite the ponchos we are soaked. I look towards The Captain, I expect to see him tied to the wheel, short, fat cigar burning, grim determination on his face. Instead he sits calmly on his seat, one hand on the wheel as if he is your favourite grandpa taking you for a Sunday afternoon drive in the countryside, roof down, elbow on the windowless door edge, regaling you with tales of his boyhood.
Time has passed. For some it will have dragged, for us it has added thrillingly to the adventure. The storm seems to be at its height now and one of the crew signals to the captain from the prow. He is pointing forwards to a small sunny break in the dark curtain of cloud. A window of golden opportunity perhaps? I fully expect there to be a pot of the shiny stuff there if and when we arrive, as it seems as if we are turning towards it, away from the darkness. Again the sails strain against the crosswinds and the ship staggers to starboard. Those unlucky enough to be walking across the deck at this point are thrown sideways losing their balance like a drunk wandering homeward after a full yet foul night out.
Cleopatra staggers past, heading below decks. She looks the worse for wear. Previous elegance buried under a rising stomach, her once bronze skin a less than lustrous pallor. Sunglasses are nowhere to be seen, possibly blown the same way as my cap, overboard and gone. Others follow. Some are completely unaffected, another example of life's never ending game of roulette. Water runs down the deck swilling around in little whirlpools confused by the changes of direction. But we go unerringly towards that brightening light. Little by little the sky grows less dark, the wind begins to drop and the rain eases, no longer lashing sideways, until it's hard to tell rain and spray apart. The sun breaks through and immediately warms all around. I expect to see our ship steam in the heat.
Seabirds return, swooping and diving. Ponchos are removed and we emerge into a bay of delight, many impossible shades of turquoise water ripple around us, small sandy beaches lie resplendent in the Caribbean sun, palm trees sway in the gentle breeze. It's as if we have reached the other side of a wormhole, once threatening to tear our world apart as we navigated its depths but rewarding us with the tranquility of its other side.
Brightly coloured fish meander and dart below us as a small tender is lowered with all who want to visit the watery wonderworld. We fix masks, snorkels and flippers and prepare for the adventure to come. The Tobago Cays have even restored our Cleopatra to her earlier self perceived splendour as she and her entourage go ashore in regal anticipation. There is of course the journey home to come but this is easily forgotten as the magnificence of nature once again takes away breath and overcomes imagination. We are all easily rewarded and completely overwhelmed by what we experience here in a paradise of unspoilt splendour.
Great piece of writing John!
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