The Windward Islands-Part II

December 1999 - January 2000

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web. (see Issue Oct/Nov 99 for Part I)

by Rajé Harwood

This is part two of The Windward Islands. In part one, Rajé told of the assembly of a folding kayak on St. Vincent, and how she and her companion, The Ragamuffin, explored South through the Caribbean Waters of the Grenadines.

The Ragamuffin and Rajé with their Pouch in the Caribbean

Petit Bateau is one of four small islands forming the Tobago Cays, emerging from a shallow broad shelf of sand and coral. The Atlantic current is rich in nutrients and the corals which live by straining those nutrients are prolific.

With the simple aids of mask and snorkel, and no time constraints in this body temperature water, we became aquatic creatures... swimming with schools of spotted butterfish, small redman, and iridescent turquoise wrasse, encountering a fan coral, a moray eel, a parrotfish or a stingray.

We took to night fishing from our beach encampments: walking thigh deep into the sea, twirling a baited hook lasso style and casting it far out into the waves then retreating to shore and waiting for a bite on the taut line. The first night that I was the fisher, I saw the line move parallel to the beach, up and back. I called to The Ragamuffin.

'Is this current? Is this a fish?'

'It's a bite', he said.

The fish began to vary its pattern. Careful of our light line, we took turns playing the fish for half an hour, until we landed it, a beautiful snapper.

Not always were we so lucky in the dark. Once a rayfish swallowed the hook far too deeply to be set free. We were saddened at the death of this creature with whom we'd been swimming earlier that day. We found it hard to make a meal from the sharklike flesh. Later we heard of a tasty curry that could be cooked from rayfish.

Local people would reef fish sometimes with fish traps. On occasion the line holding the marker buoy would break. The trap would continue to lie on the ocean floor, entrapping fish as live bait would replace the old. In one bay, The Ragamuffin found such a trap and brought it to shore, after freeing an imprisoned octopus.

From the Cays, it was a morning's paddle downwind through the crystal blue tropical ocean to Union Island. We stowed waterproof bags into bow, stern and next to our thighs. Our Pouche was made of canvas and rubber with extra reinforcement we had added, stretched over an ingenious collapsable wooden frame. It moved like a porpoise through the swells, raising us high then diving into the next trough, where we made use of the calm for some strong forward strokes before our next serpentine lift and view of the horizon.

Our craft allowed for navigation through reefs with a grace unrivalled. Approaching Union Island we zoomed across a reef all but grazing the coral heads, and smiled, while local people in their boats waved at us frantically. On shore we were greeted by a gang of children who shared boat-sitting with one of us on the beach.

We had at first asked immigration for an extension of our visas in St. Vincent territory. Informed by officials that only in Kingstown (a paddle of several days back, into the Trade Winds) could such an extension be granted, we answered the necessary questions to obtain ship's papers to leave the country.

'Who is the Captain?'

'He is.'

'No. She is.'

I insisted it was The Ragamuffin, as he was most often in the stern.

'The Mate?'

That's me.

'What is your tonnage?'

We confer and arrive at 0.2!

'Passengers?'

'Zero.'

Our new friends waved us off that afternoon. US helicopters buzzed us repeatedly while at sea. We arrived on Carriacou at dusk, surfing in to the first sandy beach. It began raining and we spent a drenched night, beneath a cliff, waves lapping our toes.

Early the next morning, totally soaked, we set off for Hillsborough. Helicopters again buzzed us and an actual periscope broke the water forty yards to starboard.

Hillsborough was quiet as a grey mouse on a grey morning. We rented a room in which to rest and dry out. The all night disco was blasting reggae Christmas carols. People visited, and were warm in their welcome. There were no other tourists. The US soldiers were friendly enough, trying to have fun and hoping to make it home for their holidays. They had not had much to do on Carriacou. It was nine days before Christmas, and dancing each night helped to fade memories of all that had happened in Grenada to lead up to tanks rolling down Carriacou's main street and leaving a crack in the disco wall. Christmas eve, there was a parade and dancing moved into the street.

Christmas day came as a day of rest and quiet. Reclining in the cool of a coconut grove I could hear church bells coming from the dale over the hill, followed by singing, strong and melodious. Later we explored the kirk, and found at the altar, modelled in clay, an African Christ smiling and looking so kind.

Carriacou has no history of slave plantations. The people grow much of their own food on this verdant island, achieving some level of self sufficiency. To satisfy the need for other consumer goods, smuggling becomes a way of life throughout the Grenadines.

On Carriacou the workhorse wooden hulled boats are built. Bequian shiprights are rightly famous for making sailboats of graceful lines. Carriacou boats are heavier of girth than the Bequian, gaff-rigged and usually fitted with a practical poop deck cabin large enough for the crew. The common boats of the Lesser Antilles; they are perfect for their tasks. Three fishermen we befriended who were proud builders of their well kept sailing vessel had painted on the gunwales the letters IYBMYWAQ, standing for, 'If you believe me you won't ask questions'.

Each evening, local fishermen could be found casting throw nets from shore to catch silver fry for bait. One late afternoon, paddling in the lee of Carriacou, I witnessed other fishers of the deep: two sharks, their fins as sentinels, surrounded a broiling dark school of small fry. One leapt. In a cacophony of spray and silver fry, she opened her mouth and devoured a belly full. Then the other leapt, a glistening flash, and slid, returning to the depths. Over and over again I paddled upwind and drifted down to watch these expert fishers, until the sky had deepened to purple, pink and green streaks of entry into night.

The upwind haul to Palm Island was rough, as any pause in paddling meant backwards motion. To quote directly from the journals of The Ragamuffin, 'Our crossing from Carriacou was a dilly: wind and current working against each other to make the sea a spitting lunatic, determined to beat us silly. We were tossed and flopped and awash most of the time with waves breaking over my head, and I was in the back seat.'

In retrospect, fifteen years later, I ask myself, what is the one piece of gear we most wished we had that we did not have? A pump, ideally a foot pump, that could be operated without interrupting a stroke.

Palm Island had been given to 'Johnny Palm Tree' in gratitude for the many coconut palms planted by him and his family in Vincentian territory. He had developed it into a resort. We camped, with his permission, in a little used bay. From Palm Island we connected with jobs aboard a twenty-five passenger charter boat. By way of this ship we saw St. Lucia and Martinique. Experiences on board left us most grateful to re-unite, a month later, with our own independent craft.

Happy to be once again paddling, and in now familiar seas, we set out to explore Mayreau. We camped near the village and helped to off-load a boat. Balancing boxes on our heads, we filed up the mountain to the bakery and homes overlooking the bay. We were then treated to an evening of music at our camp, with fantastic drumming from sticks played on cardboard boxes.

Once again we paddled to the beautiful island of Carriacou. We were then ready to let go of our kayak and supplies. We gave them to a boy on Union who appreciated its design. He already had the responsibility of feeding (fishing for) his mother, brothers and sister, and assured us the kayak would be useful. This left us free to hitchhike the upwind way to Antigua and meet our scheduled return flight, six months after leaving Canada.

A year later, two post cards arrived. One was from our Carriacou friend who had successfully harvested a crop of agar (locally called sea moss) in a mangrove swamp at a river's mouth close to his home. He was thanking us for helping with its set-up. The second card was from the captain of that ship aboard which we worked. When he had last visited Union he'd seen our kayak come over the reef with more than two young souls aboard.

Shortly after this paddle in the Caribbean Sea, Rajé and The Ragamuffin left nomadic existence for a time, setting up homes in the Strait of Georgia. Hornby Island, where Rajé lives, is reminiscent of Carriacou in size and shape, and once a year the surrounding waters turn a Caribbean turquoise from the milt of spawning herring. Rajé is the North Island distributor/representative for WaveLength.