Bequia

Wednesday 28th January 2009, day 193. 13° 30’.33 N, 061° 14’.56 W. Port Elizabeth, Bequia, St Vincent and the Grenadines

We finally finished all the things we had to do to Tomia in Trinidad, released our new cruising chute snuffer from Customs, and set off on the short hop to Bequia.

There were masses of American boats in Chaguaramas, and they were a bad influence on Tomia, who got rather mistressy. I would catch her whispering to Anthony and fluttering her eyelashes like mad.

“Oh darling, I was just talking to Willow. She’s such a pretty boat, and much younger than me.” Giggle. “Oh darling, you’re just saying that. Do you really think so? You are so sweet.” Pause. Casually: “Anyway, darling, Willow’s got air conditioning. It’s wonderful, so cold and fresh. She says it hardly cost anything at all. Well, no, I know, darling. Yes, of course we’ve got to be careful, you’re quite right. But I know how difficult you find the heat.” And then, allowing a flicker of breeze to run across her foredeck and ruffle his hair: “Of course, you know darling, I was only thinking of you …” We left just in time.

A short hop to Bequia, I said, well in fact it is about 140 miles, taking us just over 24 hours. We went up the windward side of Grenada and the Grenadines, motor sailing most of the way with a nice 4-5 coming from the north east. We arrived in Bequia at around midday, just time to have a nap and get ready for the first evening of the annual jazz festival.

The festival was brilliant – a real mixture, everything from steel pans to heavy rock (the sort where the lead guitarist throws himself round the stage contorting his face during 5 minute solos, just as if he were playing air guitar in his bedroom in Pinner), via Bequian country and western (totally feel-good), and a bit of blues. I didn’t recognise any of the names – perhaps you will know them – the memorable ones were Toby Armstrong (air guitar), Julien Brunetaud (French pianist, just like a young Jules Holland), Dana Gillespie (jazz singer, mature but still rocking in size 18 leopard print two piece), Ian Seigal (playing the mad bad and dangerous to know rôle, in a black shirt with skull and cross bones, white wasted face, and so out of it that the band were exchanging looks the whole time “Do you have any idea what he’s gonna do next?” “Not the foggiest, but I’ll watch him like a hawk, just in case he decides to change key suddenly again”) and finally Mike Pearce (round glasses, straight floppy badly cut hair, deeply lined face that could be age or a hard life, saxophonist and harmonica, and probably most other wind instruments, and a general air of never having quite got as much limelight as he deserved). We danced till early morning, negotiated the dinghy and beach without mishap, slept most of the day, and, highlight, Anthony got offered some dope for the first time in his life. He was thrilled, reckons he’s not quite past it yet – but if you can’t get offered dope on a beach at a Caribbean music festival …

The weather here is – well, there’s plenty of it. Mostly boiling hot sunshine, but a couple of times a day a downpour blows in, and we charge round closing hatches, and hanging out any salty clothes for a good rinse. The past day or so has been very windy, and last night found us at midnight trying to get the sun awning down in gusts of 30 knots, getting soaked through, but luckily we only had our skins on, which dry nice and quickly.