Atlanta to St. Lucia and Down to Bequia

2-17 Tuesday

Don't want to forget the meal the Plotniks, JJ-aka-PP, Paco, Paco's son Matt and Matt's wife Jill had last night at the Watershed in Atlanta. Don't know if Atlanta has a finer restaurant, certainly those shrimp grits are incomparable. That long thing on the plate is not a canoe paddle, it's a piece of toast, maybe the best toast ever. The grits must be cooked in shrimp stock, butter, butter, butter, more shrimp stock and more butter.

Believe it or not, Plotnik ordered a burger, A $12 cheeseburger. It was just about as good as the one at My Father's office in Stiletto City, and that's saying something. One burger a year is about right for The Great P, as long as it's either this one or that one.

The Great Ducknik had fried oysters along with the shrimp grits and there were local Atlanta beers to go around. Afterwards, Plot and Duck mostly played with Cleo, JJ's new kitty, and then packed and repacked for the flight down to St. Lucia this morning. Right now, Plot and Duck have gone through the military-efficient check-in and security line, taken the tram to the very last stop and then walked through the International Terminal to the very last gate. There are only a few people here so far which means Plot was able to grab the wall plug for his laptop. The coffee is colored water, but that's about it for things to complain about.

We spoke to The Great Finch yesterday. She and Captain Crow and the boat are already in St. Lucia waiting for the Plotniks' arrival this afternoon, and plans have been made to eat at an old favorite watering hole of theirs in a harbor outside of Castries, St. Lucia. Look at the map -- you'll see the airport at the bottom of the island and Castries at the top. There's a volcano in between. Plot and Duck will have to find a cab to take them from one point to the other point, and then: it all begins.



2-18 Wed, Castries, St. Lucia

You can't beat tropical sunsets.

Here's where we ate last night -- the Coal Pot in Castries, St. Lucia. Plot ate kingfish, but he tasted Finch's dorado, and it's dorado from now on.



Plot attempts to use the computer on a sailboat anchored in a small harbor, but the boat goes back and forth and up and down. He is determined not to use the scopolamine but to instead let his body get used to the pitching of the sea so his body can iron everything out naturally. It's not really working. He can't read on board yet either.

It was hot in the berth last night, and hard to sleep. Then around 3:30am the skies opened and a cloudburst brought the temperature down. Some of the raindrops got into the cabin, but very few, and it got cooler with a little breeze. This morning after breakfast Captain Crow and Finch and Plot and Duck got in the dinghy and motored past three enormous cruise ships, each the size of small mountains, and tied up at the little jetty in Castries.



An old woman had a t-shirt shop on the pier and the first shirt Plot saw had Obama on it. "He is our man, we pray for him," said the lady and her friend nodded in agreement. Both wore long, flowering skirts, multicolored scarves on graying hair, and sandals. "He's my man too," said Plottie. "But he's got a really hard job now." "We love him," they both said.

All those tourists on those boats -- probably more than 7-8 thousand, and practically none of them venture on to shore, except to take the planned excursions. So the local shore economy gets nothing out of it. We have a little of that Africa feeling -- white people nosing around a black island -- but that's just the way it is.



We bought fresh dorado in the fish market, where the fishmonger used a knife like a Saracen invader and sliced four huge chops off a fish two feet long. It was three pounds of fish and the price was $25EC, which is around $9US. Actually the cost was $24EC but when we didn't get change, Deb asked about the last $1EC and he said the bag cost $1EC.

Bags of spices and bottles of hot sauce in the Castries Outdoor Market, next to the fish market.



The roti shack that was calling Plotnik's name, but there will be more roti.



Time for a snorkel.

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Thurs 2-19 Soufriere, St. Lucia

Plot made up a marinade for our fish last night, and a cucumber salad, but being below so long made him start to feel a bit squeamish. The problem was that the night's anchorage in Anse Aye was so rocky that that squeam never really left him from yesterday afternoon until maybe an hour ago, when everyone hopped into the dinghy and motored into Soufriere, the larger village where we can clear customs for tomorrow's run down to St. Vincent and Bequia.

Finch gave Plottie half a Meclazine, which worked except for making him very tired, and by the time he was on dry land, walking around Soufriere looking for a roti shop and a supermarket, he was feeling fine. Seasickness appears to be all or nothing-at-all. You're sick and you want to die or you're perfect.

Men standing up in rowboats or pangas continue to approach any boat on a mooring, attempting to either guide them into the harbor, which is unnecessary at best and really annoying at worst. Cap'n Crow had a run-in yesterday in Marigot Bay where two men, one a young guy in a canoe, the other an older man in a gussied up windsurfer carrying two boxes of bananas to sell, refused to take No for an answer. It ended up a shouting match but at least that's all there was to it.

Tonight, while Plot was on deck trimming ends off green beans and cutting up mangos and scallions for salad, a buy steered his boat next door. "Want to buy my vegetables mon?" he called. He had bananas, mangos, avocados and other fruit and a few squashes. it was really nice to have a boat float up next door with dinner provisions, but we already had bought everything we needed yesterday in Castries. Tonight we ate bbq chicken in Plottie's zaatar spice mix, saffron rice, green beans and mango salad, and all that after an Alliance Cocktail, created by Finch and Duck out of rum, passion fruit nectar, lemon lime-with bitters, lime juice and grated nutmeg on top. We drank to friendship while sitting on the deck staring at the sunset and the palms. This is the most beautiful time of day for sure, but especially on the back of a sailboat in the tropics. I know, I know.

The wonderful thing about traveling with old friends is you start at a higher level. You don't need small talk and it's fine to hang out in silence on the after deck, awaiting the green flash, hah! (Cap'n Crow claims he sees a split second green flash the second the sun drops below the horizon, but Plottie has even stared through binoculars. Not hardly, Bob Mar(d)ley.)

The local Creole patois here sounds more like French than English, and in fact is a combination of the two. Can't understand a word of it, until they speak our English with us, which we can get most of. The women are less involved with you than the men -- the women nod their heads, answer what you asked, and that's it. You get smiles out of the men and some commentary, especially when they are trying to sell you something, which is all the time.



Life is close-quartered on a sailboat but there is a lot to do, at least when you're not feeling sick. The truth is Crow and Finch have sailed this boat many times by themselves and don't need Plot and Duck at all, but we can do a little bit at least -- coil a few lines, learn how to tie some knots.

Tomorrow is a real sail, starting early in the morning across 50 miles of open ocean and Plot has already reserved a whole Meclazine.

Sat 2-21

Just goes to show you how you can plan and you can plan but you can't plan for everything. There has been no internet service anywhere in the vicinity until we arrived at Bequia. Plot decided he would not take the computer off the boat ever, but would simply keep a journal in TextEdit, then transfer photos and blog entries to his thumb drive, take the thumb drive to town and plug it into a waiting computer.

But the garbage, the damned garbage. On a boat you can't dispose of anything except by putting it into a black trash bag and taking it to shore on the dinghy. Also, when you're in the dinghy motoring to shore, your hat can easily blow off in the wind.

So when the Cap'n and crew got set to go to shore this morning, we still had to pack up the garbage. Plot did so, but had to tie a knot in the big garbage bag and he needed two hands to do it.

While tying the garbage, his hat flew off into the ocean.

Plot quickly emptied his pockets, which were ready to go to shore: cell phone, extra camera battery, wallet. Stripped off his shirt and sandals, patted his pockets once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, dove into the drink and swam out to capture the hat that was heading for Cuba.

When he got to the hat, he remembered the thumb drive in the secret interior pocket of the new LL Bean shorts that you can't feel from the outside.

By the time he got back to the boat, the thumb drive was dead. So he's had to scotch the thumb drive idea and has taken the computer to town right now. That's just goddam well the way it's gonna have to be.

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The run down to Bequia was amazing yesterday -- 50 miles and 8 1/2 hours in squalls of wind and rain. There is no direction the boat didn't get battered in, up, down, side to side, inside and outside and all of them at once. But thanks to the meclazine, Plot only felt a bit sleepy, and never queasy. By the time they arrived at Bequia, everyone was exhausted but it also felt exhilarating, like we'd accomplished something.

Bequia is pronounced Beck-wee. This large bay where we are anchored (Charlestown Bay) is very beautiful, surrounded by green verdant hills. This morning Plot was up at 5:30 and went up on deck to find a complete half moon rainbow covering the mouth of the harbor. Duck got up in time to see it too, and thirty seconds later it was gone.



Guys bring their boats up to the sailboats to sell banana bread, or marine supplies, or even to take your laundry into town to wash and fold it and bring it back in the afternoon. You sit on the back of the boat and stare out to sea while people are very happy to take care of your business.

Above is Banana Bread Man. Plot bought one of those loaves for $20EC and it lasted for three days, dense, whole-wheaty with a hint of banana and not too much sugar. Below is the laundry boat.



We met a man from Zimbabwe this morning, living on his boat the past 5 years. Very interesting dude, if definitely from the old school. But what else will you be when you've been forced to sell all your possessions and buy a boat to live on the rest of your lives? Not that white Zimbabweans shouldn't have seen it coming, which they did, but...you know. There are two sides to every story.

There seem to be Brits and British colonials everywhere around the world, living on their boats and minding their own business. Not too many Americans doing that.