Tobago

Sunday 28th December 2008, day 162. 12° 30’.21 N, 059° 55’.60 W. On passage to Tobago

It is good to be at sea again. We left Barbados with little regret; although a pleasant, safe island, with plenty of palm trees blowing in the constant breeze and gorgeous white sandy beaches, it is quite built up, staggeringly expensive, and seems to be for smarter, richer people than ourselves. Tobago by contrast sounds more like our idea of a tropical island, with jungle, waterfalls, and lots of little bays to anchor in.

The north-easterly trade winds have settled down nicely for this trip of around 120 miles, and are blowing us along at a steady 6.4 knots. The waves are the great Atlantic rollers we had forgotten about in our week in the lee of Barbados: about 10 foot high, with plenty of space between them, they tower over our stern, raise up the side of the boat, twist us, then roar off to starboard in a cloud of foam. The occasional one catches us before the previous one has passed, and then we find ourselves looking out of the portholes into clear blue bubble-flecked water, before Tomia rights herself and surges on.

Tonight is moonless, so we have a chance to look again at the stars, this time with a star chart in hand. Orion falls into place, and, with no light pollution we can make out his sword and bow and arrow. As he marches through the sky, and rises from recumbent to standing, Sirius, his dog, comes into focus, bounding eagerly behind him. To their north, Castor and Pollux, the twins who make up Gemini, hold hands, and then we can make out Perseus wrestling to rescue Andromeda from the rock to which she has been chained, before we get to the Plough, still upside down, still pointing to a pole star which is now below the horizon.


Monday 29th December, day 163. 11° 19’.79 N, 060° 33’.06 W. Pirates’ Bay, Charlotteville, Tobago.

This is more like it! Pirates’ Bay is the right sort of address for a Caribbean island, and Tobago certainly looks more like what we expected. Man of War Bay (of which Pirates’ Bay is an inlet), on the north west corner of the island, is surrounded by steep slopes covered in a dense mat of green vegetation, complete with creepers and brightly coloured flowers. Bananas grow wild – but on slopes so vertiginous we daren’t try and reach them – and steam rises from the darker hill tops where that day’s rain has not yet dried out.

Charlotteville itself is tiny, with perhaps a hundred houses, all simple and mainly wood-built, painted in cheerful pastels. The road along the beach is lined with tiny shops and shacks selling a bit of whatever happens to be available, from pepper sauce through ketchup in plastic bags to cakes of Life Boy (sic) soap. The pace of life has suddenly slowed riiight down. The going exchange rate seems to be that 20 Tobago minutes translate at around a European hour – but hey, who’s counting, when you can wait for the customs officer while watching the chickens peck their way down the ditch, and chat to his wife and children, who have brought him over his lunch. Where’s the rush?