The Windward Islands: Total Sensory Experience

October-November 1999

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Rajé Harwood

A westering sun, leeward side of Mayreau, casts silver nets on a calm sea and gold threads around my skin's salt sweat surface. Aurelia blossoms perfume the air. Warmth of sand, sun and body is one. Movement of the sea matches rhythm in me. The kayak, pulled up on the beach, is tattered and worn. Searing orange life jackets are faded a dirty tan. Peeling plywood seats show their layers. A tattoo of patches and stitching on the canvas skin and spray skirt attests to our adventures during these months in the Windward Islands of the Caribbean Sea. We seem to have slid from being white, vulnerable to the elements and naive in relation to local customs; to being brown, attuned to sea and land, and, in many ways, accepted.

We had owned and travelled in kayaks in British Columbia, fibreglass ones that withstood bouncing off rocks. But for this journey we had purchased a second hand collapsible model, done initial repairs, glued extra rubber to the keel and flown ourselves and our craft to St. Vincent, the northernmost island of the Grenadines.

An instant boat emerging from two canvas bags is really cause for excitement. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered in the shade of the Indian Bay Beach Hotel as wooden ribs were snapped and tied into place, giving shape and tension to the outer canvas and rubber skin of our Pouche.

'I want a boat like that', said one onlooker, his rasta locks tucked under an engineer's cap. 'Good for fishing down Tobago Keys way'.

'No', said another, more skeptical. 'She be too light for the sea, for the distance'.

A gray-bearded man, introduced to us as Skipper, arrived, wet and sandy. He stayed to watch. Foreboding words were spoken about the channel between St. Vincent and Bequia about current, standing waves and trouble even with large motor and sailing vessels. Skipper shook his head knowingly, 'Sometimes bad, Mon. Sometimes bad'.

I was eager to glide out into the unknown blue terrain, and swam out over urchins, or vauna, locally called sea eggs, to reconnoiter our route for a test of our new craft. Avoiding their spines I found a passage through the coral reef, marked by a buoy, later confirmed by a local as the only break in the coral wall.

Walking our kayak along the beach toward this spot, we were immediately grabbed by a wave and swamped by its breaking crest. I climbed in as my companion, who I will call 'The Ragamuffin', held her steady, then he jumped in himself and we shot through the gap beyond the breakers.

'Keep into the wind', shouted The Ragamuffin from the stern, while he adjusted the foot pedals controlling the rudder. We were both paddling hard into the wind, high on a swell then sliding into a valley, aware of the give of our flexible hull as, serpent-like, we moved. We found our stability was sure, even with water sloshing inside. I felt foolish to have forgotten our bailing sponge. We decided that the spray skirt is needed even for casual play.

The intensity of the sun's heat and of the concentration required, combined to make this first trial run a short one. Coming about to set course for the shore, we were lifted high from behind and then sent surfing, nose down with water frothing over the stern.

'Hard on the right', called The Ragamuffin, and my shoulders fell into the instruction... hard right, soft left, hard right. By the next swell under the stern we were positioned correctly, and surfed with no intake of water.

In the following days we made several trips to the port of Kingstown, becoming adept at coursing through swells and willywaws.

'This ocean has personality', exclaimed The Ragamuffin after we had hooked a fish on our trolling fly but were too busy paddling with the wind in our teeth to reel him in. On our next fishing attempt we caught a Blackjack.

'You must have come from Haiti', someone exclaimed, as a crowd gathered to attempt to assist us cleaning this firm-fleshed fish. It was prepared West Indian style, and set the precedent for our nightly feasts. We were to thrive on one pot meals of fish, onions, sweet potatoes and spices.

We left St. Vincent at dawn, paddling through the milky light, bound for the shore of Bequia. Flying fish danced before our bow as we rose and fell with each swell. Rounding the point into Admiralty Bay, something bit our trolling fly, and, with a big splash, straightened a number eight stainless hook and swam off. On Princess Margaret Beach, the Farrel family adopted us and frequently visited our camp. The children taught us to fish their way: catch a tiny burrowing crab, pull it apart and firmly attach a juicy bit of flesh onto a small hook connected to line and a short winding stick. Go swimming and snorkelling to locate some schools of fish. Follow them by boat, jigging the line. Catch a fish. Cut this one and firmly attach this larger piece of bait onto a slightly larger hook on the same line and stick and catch dinner this time.

Better prepared for travel some distance from markets, we left our friends early one morning, slipped past Moonhole (a series of mansions built into caves) and followed Bequia's western coast on our way to Quatre Isle. Zipping between West Cay and the island changed our lazy paddle into a ferocious battle with wind and waves to keep from broaching in the following sea.

Isle de Cat everyone called it, and whatever the vegetation once was it has evolved into scrub and cactus. Goats left by the last inhabitants wandered in little troupes, eroding the soil and biting back any young trees growing. There was an abandoned house with the ruins of a water cistern. It would have been possible to shoo the bats and rats and soldier crabs and climb down a slimy ladder into the tank to fill your thirsty jug with brown water, but thankfully we had enough until rain catchment replenished our bags.

We camped on a palm fringed beach protected from the Atlantic by a veritable jungle of a reef. The first night we cooked a meal and sat by a smoking fire while the place came alive around us; birdsong, scampering lizards, mosquitoes and no-see-ums reached crescendo with a downpour that sent us into our tent. After the rain stopped, I got up in the dark to investigate clanking and scraping noises. Was it the goats eating our canvas-skinned boat?

No. The dying fire lit a scene far more fantastic, and I was paralyzed into fits of laughter. Land crabs as big as dinner plates were dancing around the red coals, each with a pot or pan, bowl or spoon in their one large claw. Waiving their booty, clanking and crawling in some ancient arthropod ritual, they were a slow motion parody of a performing steel band. Crabs were holding our leftovers up for inspection and clattering compliments to the chef with a din that had aroused their kinfolk for miles around, and brought them all running to the party. They finally saw me, abandoned their crab minuet and scattered. One crab crashed willy nilly through the fire pit throwing a halo of sparks over the whole scene.

We waited one week, until after full moon, hoping for a calm around the reef to undertake an eighteen mile crossing to Canouan and then the Tobago Keys. As conditions remained too risky for us (without a kite sail that would ensure the alternate route, a sure drift to Venezuela) we climbed aboard a larger vessel known as the Roll On and finally made camp on a small piece of sand on the north reach of Charlestown Bay, Canouan. Here we were sheltered by manchanilla trees, poison trees whose leaves and branches when cut exude a milk that leaves an itchy rash and welts on the skin. Living in their shade demands alertness. Coiled about one branch for days slept a congo snake, also reputed to be poisonous.

Our nearest neighbours were Bequian fishermen, camped away from home for a month to fish and sell to Martinique buying boats. They would come by in the evenings, visit, and catch small fry by casting throw nets from shore to be used as next day's bait. The coral reef, a nursery for ocean going fish, is overfished and pressure on it is increasing but this area off Canouan still provided a bounty of food. Our own fishing culminated with the catch of a three foot long Cubera Snapper with a long line off the beach at evening. Salting down and storing our catch, we prepared to disembark at dawn.

Outside of Charleston Bay a vista appeared to the south of our future destinations: Mayreau, starboard side; directly ahead, the Tobago Cays; Union Island beyond Mayreau, and Carriacou behind that. To windward of the Cays, one line of palms marked Horseshoe Reef. Distances were not great, only wind and current were pushing us off course to the west. Swells are large and choppy. Aware that rocks and reef with shallow draw would be appearing, we had not quite registered their emerging out of exposed waters, open sea and breakers. To avoid jagged rock, we came about and headed Atlantic-wards into the wind and pulled hard, followed the north shore of Petit Rameau to a channel. We beached on Petit Bateau. Three fishermen, just leaving, abandoned their camp to us, a protective palm frond lean-to with counters, a raised fire pit built of conch shells and view of Union Island.

Our intentions at the time of leaving Canada had been to cover the distance between the Vincentian Islands and Antigua. Instead, we were having a total sensory experience, living on and in the sea,. Despite war being declared following Maurice Bishop's assassination in Grenada, we were soon to find ourselves in the Grenadian territory of Carriacou. Look for our continuing adventures in the December/January edition of WaveLength.

See part II of this article in the December/January 2000 issue.

Rajé Harwood is WaveLength's distributor-representative for Northern Vancouver Island. She lives on Hornby Island.