Bruce Smiths's Voyage

Dominica

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 18:43:00 +0000

In Chris Doyle’s Cruising Guide to the Leeward Islands he speculates, “If Columbus came back today, Dominica is the only island he would recognize.” I can’t speak for the old explorer but on our recent, visit. that’s how we found it…unchanged, undeveloped, unspoiled. It was literally the same as the first time we visited some thirty years ago.

With great effort, some major steps forward have been taken for the island: cruise ship piers in Roseau and Portsmouth; new and greatly improved roads; a hand full of small bungalows and hotels catering to eco tourism. Mother nature, though, is in charge of the island’s fate and corrects those efforts by hammering the place with a hurricane now and then or, as happened last fall, shaking it up with a whopper earthquake that leveled numerous structures including Portsmouth’s ancient stone catholic church.

Dominica is in a time warp that feels, in this economic turmoil, downright refreshing. It has it’s share of poverty. Many live in mere shacks without proper sanitation, yet no one lacks food or water. Farm and jungle fresh food costs little to nothing and the islands many rivers feed community stand pipes in towns and villages.

On a trip to the weekly market I filled two canvas bags with papayas, each $1 EC each ($.37 US,) a hand of bananas, ($1EC,) 2 pounds of huge tomatoes ($5 EC,) and on it went with plantain, mangoes, passion fruits, peppers, lettuce, onions, sweet potatoes and yams until $30 EC (11.10 US) was spent and I could carry no more.

The little bakery, a closet sized space, sold their products at such a low price , I couldn’t figure out how they stay in business. Inside the grocery stores, a loose term in Dominica, it was the same. Simple foods at minimal prices for people with down-to-earth needs.

It was so very third world yet, oddly, almost every house had a cable TV, blaring the West Indies cricket match that was in full swing. And, I swear, everyone had a cell phone and was on it, talking, texting and checking for messages. Those who had cars had nice ones and the school busses were top notch, leading me to wonder…what would Columbus think of that??

The Bus

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 18:17:00 +0000

Many years ago a bus transport on the island of Dominica consisted of an industrial sized Bedford truck fitted out with wooden bench seats and a canopy. Access on and off was easy especially for those carrying gunny sacks of produce or livestock. But the ride was a literal pain-in-the-ass as the “bus” sped over roads riddled with potholes.

Bruce and Joyce in Portsmouth

As the Bedfords were thinning out, Bruce painted a mural at Leonardo’s Restaurant in the town of Portsmouth. The proprietor, a friendly woman named Joyce, asked him to make a painting of the countryside and a bus. She, unbeknownst to Bruce, was referring to the modern vehicle which hit the island in the mid-70’s, Toyota vans with seats and windows galore.

Murals take days and on the final one Joyce came to inspect her new art acquisition but was outraged at what she saw. “Dat not a bus! Dat a truck!” Bruce explained that he’d painted the Bedford rig because they would soon be history but Joyce was unconvinced.

After a dozen years and a monster sized hurricane we returned to find Leonardo’s out of business. Our knock on the door was answered by a woman. Bruce asked, “Joyce?”

“Yez, me Joyce.”

“I’m Bruce.”

“Boose? Boose? I tot you was dead!” she exclaimed as she nearly knocked him down with a hug.
Inside the restaurant-turned-house was the mural; the Bedford bus climbing the mountainous road surrounded by lush vegetation. “You wuz right,” Joyce said. “De buses, dey is all gone. I bring de children in ere and tell dem dat dis is ow we use to do it.”

Our visit ended that day on the porch just as a tow-truck rolled past hauling a Bedford truck-bus down the road. That was the last one we ever saw.

Last month we sailed again to Dominica and went immediately to find Joyce. The mural, still on her wall, held the history she still shares with each passing child. Although she misses those old vehicles she loves the fancy new bus owned and operated by her husband, Leonardo. She insisted we take a ride with him on his daily rounds as the postman.

He picked us up, the passenger seat heaped with marked bags, and we left Portsmouth on winding roads that climbed up and down mountains. Groves of bananas and coconuts flashed past the windows interrupted by giant breadfruit and heavily laden mango trees. Dominica is HUGE, collecting rivers of water that produce size XL plants.

On the northeast coast the ground seas lashed the black sand beaches. Tiny one-donkey-villages blew by, their occupants waving hello and goodbye. Periodically we’d collect or deposited a paying passenger all amidst the earsplitting sound of the Caribbean’s latest speaker busting music hits. Every once in a while Leonardo would turn his head to us announcing the name of a village. It seemed we might roll forever but a road washout stopped us short, ended the magical adventure.

Back in Portsmouth Leonardo dropped us at Joyce’s store and she greeted, “How it was? Good? You like de bus?”

“Yes, Joyce, it was good. Dat a nice bus!.”

Nevis Nice But Not So Sunny

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 12:58:00 +0000

Sailing back to Nevis after a fifteen year absence, we wondered what changes we'd see and it didn't take long to find the answer. The first was the new mooring field in the anchorage that, as we entered at midnight, appeared on our radar screen as a gigantic mine field. The next change rose with the sun as we surveyed the beach before us that held nothing but a bunch of naked trees. Pinney's Beach, famous for it's black sand and swaying palms had been hit by Yellow Leaf Disease which is moving up the mountain, taking every palm in it's path. A bit further down the beach sat the third change, the now defunct Four Season's Resort that was flooded in October by Hurricane Omar.

The rest of the island was, luckily, untouched by time. In the capital of Charlestown, the one and sometimes two lane road meanders crookedly past old pointed-stone buildings.

Scattered about are two story skirt and blouse-style structures and, of course, a handfull of tiny West Indian bars and snackettes. A bus trip up and around the mountain was a time travel to the sleeping village of Gingerland. Nearby a hike up a hillside took us past old sugar plantations and windmills.

Just like the sign, Nevis nice mon, until we stumbled upon the problem...

Clinging to the Four Seasons property is Sunshines, a sprawling rasta colored shack decorated inside with photos of the proprietor mugging with the rich and famous. He sells food, drinks and "Sunny" things like t-shirts. On one of the shirts, to our surprise, was a Bruce Smith image created a decade ago for a rum label. The rum brand never happened but Sunshine, friend of the rich and famous, stole the image and has been printing and selling shirts for ten years without permission, without payment, without even a simple thank you. When Bruce went to chat with Sunshine about the copyright violation, he was met with denial, lies and the threat of bodily harm. Not very sunny, Sunshine.

So Regis and Kelly, next time you're on island, I'd take a pass on the not-so-sunny place and head next door to Chevy's.

You Too Paradise?

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 00:45:00 +0000

Times are tough all over so if you were thinking of avoiding the madness by escaping to a Caribbean island…think again.

The economic downturn has rippled it’s way through the Caribbean Sea, sending waves of whoa onto each and every island.

Oh, sure, private planes and mega yachts still deliver the uber-rich like our neighbor in the anchorage, the world’s largest sailing vessel, Maltese Falcon. The grandest hotels, although not full, seem to be staying busy. Cruise ships continue their rounds bringing fewer guests yet enough to swell the islands they frequent. Tourism is alive but droopy. People are spending money but doing so with care.

As everywhere, it’s the little guy who’s been hit the hardest, the small business owners who are clinging to hope or were forced to shut down. We see a lot of price slashing signs around. In Phillipsburg, St. Marten, the long string of jewelry stores are having bling wars, each one trying to grab more customers by increasing their discounts. 25% off, 40% off, 50% discounts on down (or up) to 80% off. Now if those reductions are legitimate, that’d be a heck of a price cut on a $10,000 bracelet or ring!

In November I wrote about Mario, the Hot Dog Man, a hardworking street vendor selling $2 hot dogs and $1 beers, something surely anyone could afford. We found him recently in his usual spot in St. Marten but without the cart. “Hey, Hot Dog Man, where’s the dogs?” I asked.

“I wasn’t makin any money!” he said. “Da people walk by an dey jus ain buyin.“ Disappointed but undaunted, he re-tooled his business by ditching the cart and setting up a table in the same spot to display and sell the palm frond bowls and birds he creates right there. Still smiling I watched him greet passing tourists, answering their many questions, still St. Marten’s friendliest ambassador.

Perhaps the secret to success is diversification, like the highly painted place in Gingerland on the island of Nevis. Clarke’s One Stop Restaurant and Sports Bar seems to have it all…bread, pastries, groceries, pool room, Mac and Cheese and plenty of customers.

If for some reason you don’t find what you need there, there’s always the John E. Howell Pansy Parris Plaza where you can shop for fashion, ointments, household utensils, supplies and stationary while you “top up” your phone. Now that is truly a “Super Selection.”

Some West Indian enterprises seem to be holding their own despite a simple stock. The Ice House in Jost Van Dyke backs up their main event with some local jams and jellies but it’s the cold stuff that keeps them going.

Dany’s Hair Fashion is doing well but, really, that’s a business with job security. And, of course, all the little rum shops that dot each island like freckles are as busy as ever because finally, people have a reason to drink.

Goats and Chickens

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 14:13:00 +0000

They’re everywhere in the Caribbean, these free ranging fowl and livestock. Ramble down any road and you’re sure to see some cocky roosters, rounded hens, peeping chicks and an assortment of goats big and small. They roam without permission from neighbor to neighbor, always on the hunt for food.

The chickens are messy but harmless, eating bugs and scraps from the ground and garbage. The goats, though, can do some serious damage, consuming anything green that’s not penned up.

In St. John I watched a gathering of goats clean a ball field of grass before moving on to a flower clad house for dessert. “Who do they belong to?” I asked a friend.

“Well,” she replied, “If you hit one with a car, the owner will step forward and collect the animal’s value. But if one eats your precious tree or wipes out your garden, that goat is a free agent.”

Our seventy-some year old friend in Anguilla, Ralph Carty, reminisces about the old days when people ate island grown food. These days it arrives half ripe by boat or plane. I thought the change came because people gave up gardening. “No," he said. “De goats. It wuz de goats. De people duz let dem loose and dey eat it all. Dey wreck up de place. But back den, we have so much. Dem wuz happy times.”

One quiet Sunday we were chatting to a local fellow and commented, “There aren’t many cars today, are there?”

He jokingly answered, “No. On Sunday we duz lock up de cars and we lets de goats free.”

These pesky goats can be a curse yet somehow they’re revered. Anguilla’s Philatelic Bureau features the four-legged creatures on a beautiful set of stamps with t-shirts and postcards to match. The island of Antigua was recently represented at the world’s largest sculpture garden in Changchun, China by a two-meter high goat named Calypso.

And of course, they’re featured on every menu…curry goat, goat water, goat roti, and stew goat. The chickens are just as popular: baked, fried, curried, barbequed, stewed, roasted, jerked and in roti.

Now if goat or chicken doesn’t entice your taste buds, there’s always bull foot or oxtail. Thankfully, they don’t roam free.

From Here to There

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 11:23:00 +0000

Our big boat takes us island to island, two small ones ferry us to shore. But the moment our feet touch land getting from A to B and Y to Z becomes a Chutes and Ladders game with rules but no reason.

Mostly, for a variety of reasons, we walk. It's often faster, simpler, offers exercise, the most scenic opportunities and sometimes, it's the only option.

Each island has a system, if they have one. Antigua, St. Marten, Nevis, Grenada and a handful of other islands offer the best transportation with plentiful vehicles that cover the entire island for a small fee. If you miss a bus, another is right behind it. These buses are short vans with rows of seats along the sides and fold up ones in the middle. It can be a tight fit when they fill up with four or five people across carrying boxes, bags and the occasional livestock. Chickens certainly make for an interesting ride.

These buses have names like Miss Cherry Bomb, Daddy's Girl, Island Spice or Mr. Lover Man. Paint jobs are often spectacular and can include flames, iridescence and detailed airbrushed art.

Anguilla has a $5 bus for a five mile ride but I've yet to find it. St. John's system is US Government run and therefore, rarely operating. On the rare days it is, one can tour the entire island in air conditioned comfort on a full sized bus for $1. The same is true in St. Thomas but there, locals use the open air surreys or Gypsy's that for $1 stop and start to your needs.

In the Virgin Islands, ferry boats transport people, cars, or both inter-island. They can carry quite a load but rarely do while racing highspeed, using more fuel than sense. My favorite is a roll on/roll off car carrier that runs between St. John and Red Hook in St. Thomas. It operates on an island-regular schedule and actually has amenities.

There's a drink/snack bar, a couple of Mr. Roberts-style potted palms on deck and the vessel is nicely painted in red, white and blue. Best of all is their crew that claims "We is de bes lookin crew in de islands!" I don't know about that but they certainly are the friendliest.

And what other public transportation offers shots of rum?

Where Were You?

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 20:10:00 +0000

January 20, 2009, was one of those days not to miss because some day, someone will ask, "Where were you?" With no tv on our boat and only scratchy NPR reception, we set off on a mission to find a screen, some seats and a crowd of strangers. Although it would be watched in every Caribbean nation, we opted for the US Virgin Islands where officials predicted a day of so much limin' that they went with the flow and declared it a Virgin Islands holiday. Government was definitely closed but all the bars were wide open.

The nearest one to our anchorage was the center of the Coral Bay Universe, home of the island's best burger, Skinny Legs Bar and Grill.

Early on the big day we took seats at the bar before four large screens next to strangers who quickly became friends.

The CNN commentary flowed and everyone around us thickened it with insight and opinion. As the Inauguration stands filled with Senators and dignitaries, so did the seats at Skinny's with sailors, tv-less villa guests, campers and a random collection of tourists.

As if we, too, were freezing in the capital, our crowd clapped when appropriate, cheered politely, sang the National Anthem with Aretha and when the Chief Justice said, "Please stand," everyone shot out of their chairs.

We were there but not there. we were with the Obamas, the Bidens, the world, in our Skinny Legs way. We, the shady people on the sunny beaches.

The Lobster That Almost Came to Dinner

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 19:43:00 +0000

Lobster in the Caribbean is probably one of the most popular dishes despite the lofty price they fetch. The Lobster Grille at the Bolongo Bay Beach Resort in St. Thomas charges $40 (1 ½ lbs.,) $48 (2 lbs.,) $60 (3 lbs.,) $74 (4 lbs.,) and if it’s bigger than that, their menu says, “We’ll talk.”

Bruce met the lobster.

Four pounds seems like a lot of lobster but they get a heck of a lot bigger than that. The largest on record was 3 feet long and weighed a whopping 26 pounds!
Not only do they come in all sizes, they have many different names; spiny lobster, langouste, rock lobster and crayfish. But despite their differences they all have one thing in common…great taste.

Recently, Bruce returned to the boat to tell me that Foxy Callwood of Jost Van Dyke had kindly offered him a bag of fresh fish. Unfortunately, Bruce had to decline because we no longer eat fish in the islands, having almost been killed by one that was ciguatoxic.

Foxy's grandson, Adrienne, isn't sure of the beast.

Foxy understood but he really wanted to share his days catch so he handed Bruce a box containing a good sized lobster and said, “Now don tell me ya don eat dis.”

Bruce’s’ incorrect reply was, “No, Foxy, we don’t.”

When he relayed the story to me back on the boat I looked at him in disbelief and squawked, “A lobster didn’t try to kill us, ya know!”

An hour later, back on shore, we watched as Foxy took a piece of fishing line in one hand, that big lobster in the other and flipped it around like a cowboy roping cattle. In a matter of a minute that lobster was bound and tied like Houdini in a tank of water.

Foxy ropes it up.

I was perplexed so I asked, “Foxy, why’d you tie it up?”

He held it up to show us and replied, “So he don splash all de wata from de pot.”

Ready for the pot.

That tidy lobster went to dinner at a young lady’s house and we had beans and rice.

Olde Year's Night

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 14:25:00 +0000

When we pulled into Jost Van Dyke’s Great Bay on December 28th, we were the fifth transient boat in the anchorage. Two days later we had 107 new neighbors and late on New Year’s Eve there were far too many to count. Everyone was there on a pilgrimage to attend the world famous blow-out held annually at Foxy’s Tamarind Bar.

Several publications count it among the top dozen places in the world to drink the old year out and dance the new one in. Since we haven’t had the opportunity to experience the other selections and we don’t even know where they are, we can’t compare Foxy’s to much. What we can do is share our experience of joining several thousand revelers for a night on the beach under a star studded sky, bringing to an end a year of change, loss and hope.

The only way to Jost Van Dyke is by boat. Besides those in the tightly packed anchorage, there were speedy ones zipping in, ferry boats loaded to capacity, over booked charter vessels, sport fishing contraptions, ear-splitting cigarette boats and a crazy collection of small craft all low on their lines. All day long and into the night it was standing room only at the docks as each boat poured out their load.

Party fever began early in the day as guests hit the beach, checking out the escalating action.

Local entrepreneurs were busy driving nails into makeshift shacks hastily built to dispense barbequed chicken, fried chicken, jerk chicken and an endless flow of beverages. Heinekin beer banners and flags hung from every available surface; Christmas lights spiraled up palms; a mix of reggae, soca, and calypso filled the air.
Corsair’s was putting on a few final touches using a cement mixer and one of several bands was filling a stage with enough equipment that even Tortola would hear the party.

During the day dress was funky casual but that night fashion ran from barely-there bikinis to long flowing prom gowns. Jewels and sequins adorned clothes, masks and headpieces. Glow in the dark tubing snaked around wrists, necks, ankles and through hair. Many took it all in from behind battery powered 2009 glasses including the host of Jost, Foxy Callwood. LED gizmos spun wildly in the air putting on a light show or spelling out words, all first world toys on a third world island.

Foxy’s normally has one bar but on Olde Years Night they open and heavily staff five. A buffet barbeque dinner happens downstairs and a lucky 130 guests take the evening in from the upstairs for the $300 per person, Upper Crust dinner featuring seven courses and a bag of light and noise producing toys.

Music started in the main bar under the flapping closet of autographed t-shirts with boat-balladeer, Eric Stone. He warmed up the crowd so that by the time the DJ took over with ear-splitting, chest thumping island music, everyone was a tangled mass of hips, legs and arms. Out back in the field a brass band played followed by the Zac Harmon Band that had the auspicious duty of counting down the final seconds. Foxy floated onstage to join them, “Ten, nine, eight….one...Happy New Year!!!”

For some revelers that was a sign to head for one of the soon departing ferryboats but for many, that was just the beginning. Corsairs, finished with serving dinner, placed a wall of speakers on the beach where an impromptu limbo began. Every shack and official business in between played random music but somehow, mixed together, it all sounded right, even as the sun was lighting the sky.

By 11:00 am on January 1st, the beach was clean, the anchorage empty and everything was back to Jost Van Dyke normal, if ever there was such a thing.

The Incredible Shrinking World

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 16:21:00 +0000

Yesterday we were motoring out of the crowded anchorage of Soper’s Hole, Tortola. The Christmas winds were at work, shooting arcing blasts past boats, knocking them every which way. Carefully we picked our way through, taking care not to get hit by a skating sloop or a dancing catamaran. The boats were packed tight; some we passed with only feet to spare. Just as we were nearing the last few rows and open water we heard a loud shriek. “Aaaaaaaaa!“ Alarmed, our heads spun around, looking for the source, fearful of what we would find. The old nagging question, “WHAT NEXT?” filled our heads.

When our eyes met eight waving arms and four friendly, excited faces on a nearby boat, we knew what it was…NEIGHBORS! Not the kind we make in the Caribbean for a few days or weeks. These were the real deal from our home, so very far away, the town of Gig Harbor in Washington State. It was the Bujacich family, down for a week of tropical sun and sailing.

We knew they’d been in the area but we hadn't met up because we spent Christmas in the US Virgins and they'd been in the British islands. We were on our first day of a BVI cruise; they were on their last. Our paths crossed for all of a few minutes in an archipelago that holds dozens of islands, each dotted with an abundance of places to drop an anchor. The chance of us randomly finding each other was like locating a snowball in a blizzard or your lost child at the mall.

This SMALL WORLD phenomenon happens to us now and again. Last spring we dropped anchor off Virgin Gorda’s Baths after a sixty hour sail from Antigua. We were deep asleep until we heard a dinghy motoring nearby and a voice saying, “Gig Harbor? Gig Harbor?! That boat is from Gig Harbor!” Then louder, “HEY! GIG HARBOR!”

I jumped up and the minute I looked into the dinghy, the voice and I both screamed, “Aaaaaaaaa!” It was Sylvia, our former next door neighbor. She was down from Gig Harbor with her husband and friends for a week of sun, sailing, rum and lobster. Back home, Sylvia and Bruce had been members of the Bus-Moms-Club that walked our kids to and from the bus-stop. But that day, we were in one Caribbean spot at the same time, for all of a few minutes, but somehow we found each other.

Each SMALL WORLD encounter is astounding but the most amazing one happened years ago in St. Marten when we were anchored off uninhabited Green Key. Bruce and our young son were alone on the beach when a dinghy motored up. One of the three occupants pointed to Woodwind and asked Bruce, “Is that your boat? Where’re you from?” It turned out that she was the sister of our close friend from Gig Harbor. She was visiting St. Marten for one day on a cruise ship. To get to Green Key she had taken a long bus ride, walked down a long beach and hired the small boat. Phenomenon;miracle; act of God; fate; call it what you will but please, let it happen to us again…and soon.!

Merry Christmas To All...

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 13:33:00 +0000

As if by magic, the Caribbean Christmas winds arrived along with Santa. His sleigh and reindeer were replaced by a baby blue, open-air Dune Buggy. Here on the island of St. John, in the US Virgin Islands, we thought he would come to visit with a cart of presents pulled by a pair of scruffy donkeys.

But Santa is a modern guy. He was so happy, we wondered if he had air-conditioning inside that suit.

...and to all a good night.

Tis the Season

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 15:19:00 +0000

Christmases past in the states were always a wild slip and slide through endless seasonal tasks and each year, I secretly wished for a simpler celebration. I should have remembered the sage advice a friend gave me, “Be careful what you wish for,” because a few weeks ago, as Christmas present began to take shape, I found myself yearning for those crazy old times.

In our anchorage off the BVI’s tiny Jost Van Dyke, I merrily listened to Christmas tunes from a St. Croix radio station. I unfolded and decorated our nine inch boat tree. Our stockings, that list all the places we’ve spent Christmas for the past twenty years, were hung on a bulkhead with care. A dinghy darted past with Santa in it (but it turned out the fellow with the red hat was wearing the wrong kind of suit.)

On shore, little to nothing gave any indication that the holiday was upon us. No trees, no lights, no crowds of shoppers. No place to buy wrapping paper or a roll of ribbon. I even walked down to Corsairs Restaurant in search of the Pirate Santa I’d seen there last year only to find the place closed. Either we were in Scroogeville or the Grinch had been there first.

Then I saw the sign announcing the annual Christmas concert featuring the school children of Jost Van Dyke. The date, December 7th; the venue, the upstairs veranda of Foxy’s Tamarind Bar. Donations welcome; holiday food and refreshments during intermission. I gleefully rowed back to the boat and saved the date.

The day of the concert I arrived early as the children drifted in wearing starched white shirts, black pants or skirts and red ties or bow ties.

I took my seat next to proud parents who, like me, held cameras in their hands. A keyboard player warmed up;, a couple of men fiddled with lights as microphones were tested and adjusted. Finally, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” filled the air as the kids came singing, smiling, one-by-one up the stairs.

The program, 20 performances long, was a wonderful tribute to the true meaning of Christmas. Through songs, speeches, acting and reading, they spread the word of love and peace. If there was a dry eye in the audience, it certainly wasn’t mine. As a teacher and a parent I’ve been to dozens of Christmas programs but never did one touch me so well. Maybe it was the look in the eyes of children who have so little but appreciate so much; maybe it was the crazy state of our world or perhaps the hope we all cling to. Maybe it was Christmas.

Whatever it was, I hope it finds you this year and in all your Christmases future.

Jan

Hot Dog Man

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 21:28:00 +0000

His name is Mario but everyone refers to him by the product he sells; hot dogs.

“Hey, Hot Dog Man,” a voice calls from a passing car. Wha’s up, mon?”

Hot Dog Man grins and without looking up from his work replies, “Yah, mon, is good, tanks!” Beside him, two green tourist benches fill with a never ending crowd of friends and customers, everyone happily knocking back a drink and a dog.

Mario has been in the same spot on Frontstreet in St. Marten’s Dutch town of Phillipsburg for at least seven years, his mobile cart wedged in a narrow alleyway between two storefronts. His neighbors are an endless string of jewelry shops, touristy t-shirt traps and a few real restaurants squeezed randomly into the mix. He started there selling woven palm frond hats he made on the
spot and although it was lucrative, supply and demand was tough.

Hot Dog Man has many friends. They collect around the cart sipping the $1 special, Heinekin Pilsners, talking politics and taking in the parade of passersby from the cruise ships who move up and down the street like an army of ants. Most of them are busy shoppers and stop only for a cold one to fend off the oppressive heat. But sometimes husbands send their wives on, grateful for a seat, a cold beer and a shopping reprieve.

Mario’s friendly demeanor holds up through all the crazy questions he’s asked every day; “Where’s the McDonalds?” “Excuse me, where’s the bathrooms?” “How do I get back to the ship?” He points and directs, explains and jokes. Pride for his island inspires his ambassadorial answers.

We discovered Hot Dog man last year while running between the grocery store and the dinghy, carting as much as we could carry. Our twenty-something son was with us and who’s to say if it was the Hot Dog sign or the $1 beer that caught our attention but for a few days, we were among Mario’s best customers. On our first visit he loaded up our lunch with the usual; mustard, mayo, relish, and sauerkraut before looking us each in the eye, asking, “Hot sauce?”

“Well, yeah. A little, please,” I said.

And when it was Kess’ turn, he added, “Mon, you wan lotta sauce, right?”

“Sure,” said Kess. “Hot sauce.” Mario handed the dog to Kess and knowingly watched him take the bite that would spark a forest fire in his mouth. “Man,” Kess gulped, “That’s HOT!” Mario smiled and handed him the fire-extinguisher, an ice cold Heinekin.

We dropped by that cart every chance we could, not because of the menu but to watch his face light up; to catch a handshake and the half hug he handed out.

There’s a lot to keep visitors busy on Front Street, for sure, but if a taste of this island is what you’re after, (and I don’t mean hot dogs,) be sure to take time for a cold one with the friendliest face in town.

posted by Jan

Sign Me Up!

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 16:11:00 +0000

Our hometown in the states instituted a sign code requiring all placards, banners and business markers to follow a set of restrictive rules. In short, everything is marked with words sans character or art; rather bland and boring.

But not so in the Caribbean where pretty much every sign comes to life by a hand holding a paint brush or a very magical marker. Some are created with a sense of urgency like the hand scrawled security sign in Tortola declaring, “BAD BOYS KEEP AWAY.” If bad boys read, I wonder if they actually follow directions? Carved into a century plant in Anguilla at the edge of private property was the message, “NO TREES PASSING,” so we didn’t. I always give a wide berth to a sign in Antigua that reads, "THIS PLACE MIGHT NOT BURGLAR-PROOF, BUT YOU ARE NOT BULLET PROOF" and I heed the warning from another one beside it stating, "IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO- PLEASE-DON’T DO IT HERE." No, sir-ee and, "MEN-DO NOT SIT ON DIS COOLER."

Most island signs sprout up when West Indians decide to make a business. Tacked to a building, a post, tree or displayed sandwich board style, your wants and needs are spelled out in detail like the one for Clippers Barber Shop where you can get a jerry curl, if you happen to know what it is. In Jost Van Dyke, Rudy’s Rendezvous Grocery lists everything imaginable on their sign but I can guarantee that you won’t find much of it in the store except for the "MAKERS HANGOVERS! CURES!"

Hand painted and drawn menu boards abound on every island displaying the day’s catch, house specialty, drink concoctions or something like Ducana that you’ve always wanted to try.

My favorite menu-boards are cut out in the shape of a fish, a bunch of bananas, queen conch or other easily identifiable form. Clever restaurateurs add graphics and color, clever sayings, eye-catching adornments.

The Pine Apple Inn at White Bay in Jost Van Dyke dared the elements of sand and sea by painstakingly making their road sign from old bottle caps.

I love a corner collection of artisan signs, clustered together at a highly visible spot like a bunch of teenagers. These over stimulating groupings, like the one in
Coral Bay, St. John, probably bring about as many accidents as business but they sure look great..

There are some West Indian signs that no matter how you twist them, just do not make sense. "YOU DIRTY RAS BISKIT," crookedly staked in a yard, mystified us for years and it took a while this year to puzzle out, "NO TRUSS- NO FUSS- NO BUSS."

For certain, the most famous of all Caribbean signs is the "MISTER CREDIT IS DEAD" or one of it’s many knockoffs. If you don’t like Mr. Credit "YOU CAN GO TO HELEN WAIT," or so the sign says!
Jan

Hope Spreads Like Honey

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 18:29:00 +0000

On election night at the British Virgin Island’s tiny Jost Van Dyke, a large crowd assembled at Foxy’s Tamarind Bar. Huddled anxiously around a big screen hauled from his house for the momentous event, the raucous group was loaded with opinion and sharing freely. Everyone there, for that special night, was a polished, political analyst. Obama shirts were the unofficial dress code; hope, the sanctioned mood. When the polls finally closed at 1:00 a.m., Eastern Caribbean Time, the place went berserk . Drinks flowed and spilled as a high-fiving, back-slapping, hugging, kissing, dancing euphoria hit. Tears ran down every face. So much excitement on an island with little more than tourism to tie it to America.

Now nearby in the U.S. Virgin Islands, a similar scene unfolded. The Virgin Islands are a US protectorate; it’s citizens can receive certain national benefits but can not take part in an election. Bars, packed with televisions and wanna-be voters, spilled their throngs into streets that took on the energy of a full-on carnival. The celebrating never stopped and the next day, November 5th was sanctioned as “Obama Day.” Small festivities erupted, long held emotions poured out and the students of St. John’s Julius Sprauve School took the opportunity to strut their patriotic stuff. Their student body, kindergartners to 8th grade, left their ball field and headed to town for an impromptu Barack Obama parade. Dressed in school uniforms they marched through Cruz Bay with hand-made signs, banners, hats and portraits, cheering and chanting the name of their next president. Smiling and tearful onlookers cheered back.

A bit farther from the United States on the Dutch/French Island of St. Marten, signs of jubilation were still present two weeks after the vote. May’s Super Center ran a newspaper ad proclaiming, “Celebrating President Obama, 30% off Store Wide Sale!” alongside a photo of the new first family. Their customers could enjoy new curtains, comforters, large or small appliances along with the chance for change. Locals wore his image on an eclectic array of t-shirt styles and it was impossible to walk a block without overhearing his name even through the complicated ensemble of languages found on that melting pot of an island. When Obama wasn’t a spoken word , it was sung by one or another of the Caribbean’s most noted stars. Cocoa Tea’s election lyrics begin, “Well this is not about class, not for da race nor creed, make no mistake it’s the changes, what all da people dem need. Let me shout out…Barack Obama, Barack Obama…” and on it goes with a hip-whining reggae tune.

But the biggest surprise we just encountered in our two week, 7 island tour came in Antigua, well known for it’s own political history. For close to fifty years the island was run by the Bird family. First by V.C. Bird, known as the Father of the Country (or Daddy Bird,) and later by his son, Lester Bird (aka Baby Bird.) Now, the elder Bird was well loved and respected but adoration for his son carried a two-sided blade. Bruce has jokingly painted signs in his Antigua paintings that read “Lester love Antigua,” but some locals would say, “Lester love Lester.”

V.C. Bird looking pretty spiffy these days.

In the capital of St. Johns, a pretty hefty statue of V.C. Bird was erected that for years sat in all it’s concrete glory until the elements turned it a nasty shade of green. Much money and time was spent power-washing Mr. Bird until some serious paint spruced him up to his present day image. Good thing, as he’s got some modern day competition.

Without consulting his people, Antigua’s Prime Minister changed the name of the island’s highest mountain from Boggy Peak to Mt. Obama. Signs throughout the island proclaim, “Antigua for Obama!” and t-shirts are flying off the presses with the man’s smiling face surrounded by the words, “Antigua Love Obama.” Everywhere we went, all we talked to were upbeat, hopeful, looking for a change. On a local bus the driver and I chatted about the election. A lady seated behind me joined in saying, “See dis?” She held up the book, The Audacity of Hope and said, “I read it whon day. Dis man vary smart. I hope he can change dis world. I hope he is de change we need.”

Yes, mon. We hope so, too.

Jan

The Beauty of Books

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 17:47:00 +0000

In a calm moment, the camera came out to record a moment at sea.

The flavor and memory of a sail are influenced by numerous factors, the obvious being weather. Bad weather whips up knarly seas…causes uncomfortable conditions…creates sea sickness…and down it spirals. Good weather, on the other hand, is what drives sailors to make the next voyage.

Which way you meet the weather is the second most powerful influence. Heading into it is appropriately called beating; traveling with the wind, running; and something in between, reaching, is the best of all.

Entertainment on board surely adds or detracts from a sail. Satellite TV and DVD’s are options for some but on Woodwind, the ship of simplicity, we stick with books and they most certainly paint a passage with genre. We’ve had a multitude of spy-sails with V.I. Warshawski and Hercule Poirot along as crew. Any trip with Oprah’s book picks causes us to pull into port with a higher I.Q. One of my favorite memories was a horrific passage from Martha’s Vineyard to Bermuda but I loved it because Ann of Green Gables came along for the ride.

The several hundred miles we logged this past week began with a few days of Virgin Island’s hopping in sweet conditions accompanied by brainless reading. Midweek we started a three day beat from the BVI to Antigua in mild wind but no matter how you twist it, a beat is a beat. Pounding along, sooner than later, things will wear and they did. Running lights went out, the GPS shorted, ropes frayed, a block exploded and finally the bob-stay popped. And then the wind got mean. The last forty miles, from Nevis to Antigua, took twenty-four ugly hours.

Oddly enough, the memory of the last passage will not be the bashing or days of discomfort. Instead, it will be a remembrance of the read. Our literary crew included Barak Obama (Dreams From My Father) and Daniel Schorr, (Come to Think of It.) With them we drifted back in time to events and decisions that led our country and the world to the place we are today; a place of hope.

We share that hope and take it with us to foreign countries. We also hold the hope that the next sail is downwind!

posted by Jan

Jan

Big Deal, Small World

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 16:23:00 +0000

Bruce, at right, heading "to the rescue."

One of the biggest questions we’re often faced with is, "Just how small IS this world??" Miniscule? Petite? Tiny, for sure, especially if this mornings' adventure is any measure of size.

Sitting in Woodwind’s cockpit, sipping coffee, we admired our view of the Virgin Islands’ Coral Bay, St. John. On shore, church bells gonged and donkeys brayed. In the anchorage dinghies darted past signaling the start to a new day.

"That boat looks like it’s sinking," I commented to Bruce. The boat, a tidy little cruiser, was certainly heading ‘downhill,’ bow first.

Bruce grabbed the binoculars to take a closer look. "Someone’s swimming around it…must have a leak somewhere." Just then, a high speed dinghy raced toward the rapidly shrinking vessel; then another and another. A rescue effort was under weigh. People carefully clambered aboard setting up hoses and pumps to get the water moving back to the sea. "I better go," Bruce said as he threw three buckets in the dinghy. "It’s goin down!"

From Woodwind I could see that the pumps onboard weren’t big enough for the job. But those buckets, dipping in quick succession, quickly helped the craft crawl higher, inching up away from the bottom.

After an hour of bucket aerobics a woman on board thanked Bruce and introduced herself. "I’m Jan," she said. Pointing to a fellow in the cockpit she added, "and that’s Bruce."

As Bruce replied, "I’m Bruce, too. And my wife’s name is Jan," he remembered this couple, the other Jan and Bruce, also from the tiny town of Gig Harbor, Washington.

The first and last time our paths crossed, eighteen months ago, came about because of a mutual friend and our need to find a calmer home for Lars the Sailor Bird. We were hoping that St. John’s mobile veterinarian, Jan Fielding, could help us find a shore side Shangri-La for Lars. She wasn’t able to locate one but Lucky Lars now lives just a parrot’s squawk from them, the couple we call 'other Jan and Bruce.'

And the sinking boat??? The water was returned to the sea and the boat was towed to a dock where a wet mess is growing into a mountain.

DUCKS IN A ROW

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 18:12:00 +0000

Woodwind, at left, with the other ducks.

For the past few weeks we’ve been “makin’ a list and checkin it twice.” It’s a litany of odd bits and pieces, things we’ll need to cart from Washington State to the Caribbean, stuff for the boat that’s hard to get there. Sails, tools, art brushes, clothes, repair and replacements parts for all things BOAT are now in a box. I topped it off with a new pair of flip flops for good measure, just in case I blow one out.

We were feeling the thrill of accomplishment when a friend called to say, “There’s a hurricane in the Caribbean!”

“No problem,” we replied. “It’s already west of our boat. And besides, all the old-timer West Indians told us that the area wouldn’t have storms this year because the water was unusually cold last winter.” Up until that moment, they‘d been right. All of the storms, A to N, had formed north or west of the Leeward and Windward Islands. They hadn’t been licked by one.

The next morning I happened to catch a snippet of news that mentioned “HURRICANE… CARIBBEAN… VIRGIN ISLANDS.” A quick search on the computer brought up information that Hurricane Omar, a category 1 storm, was heading to Virgin Gorda where our boat, Woodwind, has been basking in the summer sun. This crazy storm was not following the rules of the road. It was moving northeast, getting bigger each hour and moving fast.

We thought about fretting and worrying but after having lived through a hurricane at sea, we knew our little boat could battle one out on shore. She was tucked in the Virgin Gorda Boatyard surrounded by a couple hundred neighbors, each just a few feet from the next. If one fell over, it wouldn’t go far. Everything on Woodwind was stowed or lashed down. Just like at sea, we’d done all we could do. Mother Nature would write the rest of the story.

Throughout that day we watched reports as Omar gained strength and crept closer to our target. Forecasters predicted a direct hit with the US and British Virgins. Omar was a category 3 storm moving northeast at 30 knots.

Visions of toothpicks danced in our heads that night. The “what if’s” kept us awake. But as we attempted sleep, the storm jogged east and only grazed the Virgin Islands with 50 knot winds. Some trees had come down, mud had slid, but thankfully, no one was injured. Our little Woody in that boatyard, with all those ducks in a row, made it through with little damage. Lucky us again.

Posted by Jan

Lois Lane and Jimmy

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 23:06:00 +0000

Our Puget Sound summer finally sparked a blaze when the chilly month called ‘Junuary’ came to an end and July and August brought the good stuff. It came just in time for a calendar laden with Northwest festivals, shows, farmers markets and happenings galore. After being cooped up most of this record-breaking cold year, Washingtonians were uber-eager to get out and live large.

Like Lois Lane, I’m always hot on the trail of a story and with so much happening there were plenty to chose from. With the help of Bruce (aka, Jimmy) we were able to gather quite a few. I visited an oyster farmer on Case Inlet and learned more than a half shell of information about the slimy bivalves.

Oysterman Tom Farmer stands with his dog Finnigan.

The opportunity arose to write a piece about the state’s lighthouses and I discovered that each of the 25 sentinels has a story and character all it’s own.

T-bird #9 sailing downwind with a championship party crew.

For three days, I covered the
50th Anniversary celebration of the T-bird boats in Gig Harbor that included races, a boat launch and enough stories to fill a library.

Bruce and I spent two days cruising South Sound in our 1956 Aristocraft speedster in order to find and report on the tiny waterfront businesses that dot that underdeveloped area.

Friend Blair Dallin joined Jimmy and Lois on a South Sound Sojourn.

Just last weekend I climbed over nearly two dozen tugboats at the 35th annual Harbor Days in Olympia, the state’s capital.

This all-about-tugboats event culminates in a heart stopping race that amazingly claims has never had a collision.

Tugboat racing is obviously not for sissies.

With Labor Day behind us there will be more stories to chase down. We’ll just have to be sure to take along our parkas.

Before and After

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 02:18:00 +0000

Long before the after.

Boats come to us in strange and mysterious ways. Most of the vessels connected to us in one way or another were built by Bruce. A few we found, some we bought, a couple were castoffs gifted to us. The only thing I know for certain is that there’s been a lot of them and each ones been different from the rest. The most recent “acquisition” came through a trade; one of Bruce’s paintings for a tired, old, wooden boat. It was a Norwegian Kutter, twenty three feet long, fifty years old, built of Douglas fir. Although I knew Bruce would breathe life back into it, others might have been wondering who got the better end of that deal.

Last fall we retrieved her from Seattle’s Center for Wooden Boats where she’d been left to wait like a homely kid in an orphanage. We trailered it home, jacked it up securely and left it to rest for the winter. It had PROJECT written all over it with nothing more to offer than a decrepit hull and keel. No sails, no mast, no gear. But it was pretty and full of potential in the eyes of Bruce, the builder, who had adopted another boat.

For the past two months he’s been making a lot of noise beside our house, sawing, sanding, pounding, grinding. First the holes in the hull disappeared; frames and floors were added below the waterline. Then, the deck was repaired and strengthened. A cabin was added, a mast built, the boom created, a rudder evolved. At some point between a cloud of dust and the symphony of noise he hauled out an antique outboard motor from storage and promoted it to chief engine. But, after a dozen years of non-use, it refused to start. He pulled the cord, messed with the plugs, jiggled with the wires then started the sequence again. It’s an old British Seagull that few have knowledge about so he went digging on the internet where he discovered an odd tip about attaching a drill to the flywheel to re-magnetize the magnet. After following the directions like a brain surgeon, he pulled the cord and PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH! A blue gas cloud filled the air and it ran like a top!

Checking off the list: boat, gear, engine. With only the sails left, out came the pre-war Pfaff sewing machine that had only been used by someone’s Grandma but never by us. It, too, wouldn’t get going. So he pulled on the wheel, messed with the gears, jiggled with the timing, started the sequence over again until it, too, roared to life. Then he stitched and stitched, hanked them on and finally, our new boat, Kutty? was done.

Our new old boat goes to town.

This past week I followed the truck that hauled her into town.

5..4..3..2..1..SPLASHDOWN!

A travel lift hoisted her into the air for a brief flight before splashing into the water. Withflowers adorning her bow, she settled in comfortably before coming alongside the dock. Within two hours Bruce had her dressed in red and sailing the harbor, turning every head they passed. The old gal has a new life and we have a new boat.
Jan

The end of the first sail with friends Tom and Jan Tallman.

The Willy T

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 19:28:00 +0000

On the island of Tortola, the airport is conveniently located just one block from the beach and the anchorage where Woodwind was settled in. Our buddy, Jesse Farr, had just flown in from Washington State, placing his feet on tropical sand for the very first time. A cold Red Stripe beer in one hand, his luggage at his side, he sized up the scene in tiny Trellis Bay and immediately knew that he was in for a good time. He and Bruce would sail the BVI for ten days together, checking out all the amazing attractions it has to offer.

Bruce introduced Jesse and his ‘first timer’ status to a West Indian acquaintance. The man’s face immediately turned into one big grin and he announced, “Ya got ta take ‘im to da Willy T, mon. Ya got ta go dere.” Well, local advice should always be heeded so they hoisted sail a day later and headed to a bay called The Bight on Norman Island on a quest for the Willy T.

It was when they sailed around the corner, into the large, uninhabited bay, that they realized there must be something special about the place because the anchorage was packed with boats. Charter boats of all sizes and all kinds filled the bay. In the middle of the crowd was a large, black vessel; behind it, dozens of inflatable dinghies clustered like grapes on a vine.

They dropped the hook, launched the dinghy and headed over to the place to ascertain the cause of the congregation. Not many businesses in the British Virgin Islands draw a mid-day crowd, maybe because everyone is at the Willy T.

The original boat dubbed the Willy T was launched in 1935 as a Baltic Trader named after one of the more famous BVI residents, William Thornton. In 1985 she was put into service as a floating bar and restaurant in the Bight where she gained an illustrious reputation as a “bistro on the briny.” Pretty much anyone who charters in the BVI visits once and it’s quite possible that some spend their entire week right there.

After a decade of service to diners and drinkers, the ol’ gal sprang a leak. The bilge pumps weren’t up to the job of saving her and she sank at her mooring in June of 1995. Knowing she had met her fate, divers raised the hull, hauled it out to sea and sunk it again with the hopes of creating a dive site. If any secrets had ever been left on board, (and I know there were plenty,) the sea and weather erased them. Today, there is nothing left of the old William Thornton.

The owners of the restaurant, not wanting to lose a good thing, found a replacement and quickly installed a 100 foot schooner in the same place. In January of 1996, the new and improved Willy T opened for business and is even more popular than her predecessor.

They serve great food: salads, fresh lobster, conch fritters, calamari ceviche, roti, ribs and pretty much any thing a hungry pirate would want. But their specialty is drinks. Like ski shots served from a water ski with several holes in it plugged with shot glasses. Everyone participating picks up the ski and down goes the drink(s.) It’s also a place to dance ‘crazy style‘, to dive in the water when things heat up, to take incriminating photos and to meet new friends. And all though what happens at the Willy T should stay at the Willy T, everyone is so elated to have been there that they just can’t wait to tell their friends.

Like our buddy Jesse who returned to the Pacific Northwest sporting a Willy T hat, flying a Willy T flag from his boat, wearing, of course, a Willy T shirt. Makes you wanna go, huh?

A Gentleman’s Race

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Tue, 27 May 2008 18:05:00 +0000

When people think of the Caribbean, they envision sun, sand and swaying palms. Because of those alluring attributes, the region has become a magnet for sailors and all things “sailing.” Almost every island now hosts at least one major sailing race or regatta and some of them are downright HUGE!

St. Marten’s Heineken Regatta this year drew nearly 300 entrants. The Stanford Antigua Race Week choreographed 185 boats as they sailed around the island. In April, one of our favorites, the Antigua Classic Regatta, attracted over 60 of the world’s most glorious old “gals” ... and one old “guy.”

Bruce’s art show schedule placed us and our boat, Woodwind, in a ringside seat one week before this year’s Classic got rolling, at the entrance to Antigua’s Falmouth Harbor. Everyday we watched the horizon as tiny, distant dots slowly grew into familiar sail configurations of schooners, sloops, cutters and yawls. They came in all sizes and shapes, from Adela’s 147 feet of gloss and gleam to the newly launched 24-footer, Springtide, sporting a fresh coat of British red paint. The J/boats, Velsheda (130 feet) and Ranger, (136 feet) arrived towering over all, with masts that seemrd to touch the sky. There were a few “plain Janes” among the fleet, but most of the boats were so highly polished and varnished sunglasses were mandatory just to walk the docks.

All sailing events in the Caribbean have two time consuming components: races and parties. Like cookies and milk, you can’t have one without the other and they never seem to even out. So, holding to that adage, the Antigua Yacht Club began the festivities with a launch celebration for two new nautical books by Alexis Andrews, the island’s premier photographer. Andrews is the proud owner of one of the eight boats that showed up to race in the Traditional Class. Seven of them were built on the island of Carriacou and the man who gave them life, Alwyn Enoe, sailed in for the debut of the books that celebrate his craft and talent. In “Vanishing Ways,” Andrews tells the colorful story in words and photos of Carriacou’s boat building past. The second book, “Genesis,” chronicles the building of Andrew’s own sloop, including some serious superstitions and a sacrificial goat.

With 60 boats entered to race and each needing upwards of 10 crew members, I figured I could find a ride and a story. I first imagined I might join one of the J/boats, until I heard the small delivery crews would be beefed up by dozens of Olympic athletes flown in for the event. When I saw their hulking bodies board for a pre-race practice, I started looking elsewhere. The Carriacou boats, my favorites, were appealing. One 50-foot schooner was desperate for crew, so I had options! But when Lone Fox pulled in and owner Ira Epstein welcomed me aboard, I knew my search was over. At the end of last year’s Classic Regatta, Ira expressed a desire to race again with the same crew and, amazingly, eight of us showed up. The 10 who couldn’t make it were replaced by an ocean of experienced sailors, and together we represented nine nations.

Day one, everyone reported for duty at eight sharp. Everyone except the stragglers who witnessed the finale of Mt. Gay’s lethal Red Hat Party (buy three rum drinks, get a free hat). Thankfully, no hats were in sight, but there were plenty of red eyes, which started our daily pre-race ritual of late-night true confessions. No doubt I was with a polished party crew. As we readied the boat and cast off from the dock, half a dozen standby wanna-be crew dejectedly wandered off. Ira passed out Lone Fox hats (the shirts, stuck in customs, would come later) and we received our assignments.

The seas off Falmouth Harbor were jumpy and confused, which sort of matched our moves as we sailed our first rehearsal 45 minutes before the start. Ira and first-mate Guillaume Touhadian, accustomed to handling the ol’ girl alone, gave instructions and directed us toward gear until our tactician, Mad Dog Mark St. John, put us on the line for a near perfect start. The “Old Road” course gave us a chance to get to know the boat. We popped the chute once, but heavy winds kept the mizzen stays’l in the bag. Mistakes were made all day: clumsy tacks, sail trim slow, too many cooks stirring the stew. But what felt like a practice turned out to be the number two spot when we finished right behind the 65-foot beauty, Rahda.

Left to right: Ema Heard, Mad Dog Mark St. John, Aine Hanery, Ira Epstein.

Memories are made at the Classic and ours came early on race day two. Five minutes before the start Lone Fox was maneuvering off Black Point. Fluky winds forced three boats
dangerously close to each other, with negligible steerage and little weigh on. Like a movie in slow motion, we watched as Radha’s bow swept inches from Lone Fox’s belly, moving back … back … back … until finally hooking the mizzen rigging, ripping it and half the boom away. My two aft-deck companions and I hit the deck as ropes, splinters and some loud obscenities rained down.

Ira was trying to drive us away, but the two boats were attached by a line from our mizzen, wrapped hard on their bow anchor. Long seconds passed with no knife in sight, until finally the boats parted. Ira and most of our crew thought we were done for the day, but Mad Dog and our weather guru, Gerry Robertson, coached him toward the start. Hands and bodies worked furiously to lower the flogging sail and tame the dangerous debris. The starting gun sounded and we hit the line with Radha hot on our tail.

The “protest” word started flying around. Will we? Should we? But Mad Dog reminded everyone, “It’s a gentlemen’s race. Let’s just out-sail ‘em. Besides, you have to give the committee a case of champagne when you file. We’d rather drink it ourselves, right?” The man’s a genius. Right!

Gerry added, “We don’t need that mizzen anyway.” And I guess we didn’t, because we finished the race in first place, minutes ahead of Radha.

Back at the dock we pulled off what was left of the boom, sent it packing to the woodworker’s shop and headed to the Pimm’s party to re-live our harrowing event … complete with embellishments, of course.

Three parties later, we were back on board in the morning, strapping on the bandaged boom to sail the spectators’ Cannon Course. Twenty-four miles of reaching back and forth, boats passing dramatically close, cameras flashing in the hot sun. A fleet favorite was a porky old gaffer named Old Bob, and each time we crossed paths it was obvious that, although they were slower than skaditch, they were the party to beat. Lone Fox crossed the line, collecting another first, and we readied the boat for the proper Parade of Classics, past the reviewing stand in English Harbor.

The waters around Antigua are full of lobsters, but the state of Maine (the state!) flew in their own to cook up a cauldron of lobster bisque for a raucous crowd of hundreds. That event segued into the Laurent Perrier Champagne party and we all had to agree … the racing schedule was exhausting but the party agenda almost killed us.

Race day four dawned with a deluge that filled dinghies and washed away the sins of the night before. Wet crew shirts were shrouded with rain gear and garbage bags. The VHF weather report sounded bleak; more rain and six knots that might fill in. Might not. We joined the group of slatting sails on the course, listening for word from the gentlemen on the committee boat. They were fielding a barrage of goofy questions until they simply had enough and we heard, “We will not make another announcement for 40 minutes. Over and out.” True to their word, those minutes ticked by until finally the radio came to life and announced, “The race today has been cancelled!”

After a few fake, “Oh, that’s too bad,” remarks, we all jumped around, high-fiving each other, knowing we were winners. Ira and his Lone Fox were victorious.

Hard to believe, but four days of racing and six of serious partying just weren’t enough. The following morning 20 boats headed out for the single-handed race, including Old Bob. That boat had been a bit of an irritation to the committee, as they had to wait patiently for Bob to finish before they could pull the marks and join the fun on shore. After all entrants finished that day, except Old Bob, we saw his red sails hanging on the horizon and heard on the radio, “Committee boat, committee boat, this Old Bob. Should we leave Montserrat to port or starboard?” A very long pause was followed by, “I’d leave it to starboard, skipper.”

At two that afternoon, an eclectic collection of dinghies gathered at the Admiral’s Inn for the Gig Racing, coinciding with British tea and scones served by ladies in bouffant hats. I entered my old El Toro in the sculling race before I realized the unusual rules. They call it the Don Street Race, and each contestant must scull the course as Don would, holding an open Heineken. You can’t drink any beer before the start, but you must finish it before the end. Though I was the first woman to finish, my performance was definitely hampered by the beer and I wondered if the local brew, Wadadli, might have given me more speed.

Our other dinghy, a two-bow boat from Petite Martinique, was raced all day by Bruce, blinding people with her new lime-green paint and matching sail. Funny World must have bedazzled the committee, because they chose her over several gold-leafed beauties as winner of Concourse D’elegance … first place!

Funny World wins the Concourse D-elegance!

That night, captains and crew gathered in Nelson’s Dockyard for the awards ceremony. Regatta Chairman Kenny Coombs took the podium and the hooting and hollering began. He started by thanking the generous sponsors, Panerai Boat International, and a dozen others. Next he thanked the owners, skippers and crew for sailing a gentleman’s regatta that ran without a single protest. Captains, one by one, took the stage to claim prizes until the entire crew of Radha marched up for their second-place award. We could barely contain ourselves, until Kenny announced, “And in first place, the lovely Lone Fox!” Behind proud Ira, 17 of us gleefully followed him onto the stage, shaking any available hand on the way. And that was it … the end of an exhausting, exhilarating, unforgettable week, and I can hardly wait for the next one.

The Lone Fox crew stands at attention for the Parade of Classics.

Jan

To Market, to Market

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Mon, 05 May 2008 19:14:00 +0000

Caribbean cuisine calls for fresh tropical ingredients, and there’s no better place to find them than at a West Indian marketplace. These colorful shopping venues, the inspiration to many an artist, are found throughout the region on the islands blessed with hills, mountains and rainfall. Larger islands have bigger markets, offering cooks a wider variety of vegetables, fruits, spices, herbs and surprises. Always surprises.

Market shopping is not related to fast food in any way, shape or form. It’s not the sort of place to pop into for a quick last-minute purchase. Finding, selecting, weighing, negotiating and paying for produce, all laced with polite conversation with the vendor, takes time. Lots of time. Some folks head in with ordered lists of recipe ingredients but leave with a collection of whatever is fresh today. When shopping island style, patience is a virtue; spontaneity is advantageous; flexibility is paramount.

There are also some important rules about market shopping in the islands … unwritten, of course … that you’d be wise to use and follow at all times. First of all, produce is sold “by de heap or de pung (pound),” apparently due to some mystical reason unknown to
me. The point is, always ask. A “heap” might be four mangoes, maybe five. Could be six. A pound is typically measured by a vintage counter-weight scale; the produce is set on a brass receptacle then counter-weighed with marked lead weights.

Sometimes different items are inseparably “married.” Don’t be surprised if the purveyor says, “Ya can’d buy jus de tommahtos,” and informs you the tommahtos must be bought with cucumbers, even if you don’t want the green things. I learned about this concept in Nevis, after going round and round with a lady. She was right, though. I couldn’t buy just the tomatoes.

You’ll be able to smell any market items on “special” – they’ll be in season, overly ripe and plentiful. What those items are, though, might not be as obvious. And that’s why the second rule of island market shopping is also, ask. After years of island shopping, I still encounter products I’ve never heard of. The most recent was a softball-sized fruit covered in a tough skin, similar in color to the outside of a kiwi. I asked the market lady what it was and she said, “It a mahmmy ahpel.”

“A mommy apple?,” I asked.

“No, a mahmmy ahpel.”

I moved on. “What do you do with it?”

“Ya peel it. Peel de skin wid a knife. Inside it sweet. It got a beeg peet, jus like de mongo.”

I bought one, brought it home, set it on the counter and poked it every day, trying to determine ripeness. When I finally cut into it, the flesh was rotten and I realized I should have asked, “When will it be ripe?”

Rule three is … you guessed it … ask again. Ask what it is, how to peel it, how to cut it, how to cook it. I’ve tried the self exploration method of preparing strange roots and ground provisions, all to the chagrin of my family. But by asking and listening carefully to the cooks in the market, I’ve turned the homeliest vegetables into downright tasty dishes.

Antigua’s capitol, St. John, has one of the
Eastern Caribbean’s best open air markets. The people who sell their goods there, mostly women, used to set up their wares on groundcloths shaded only by large umbrellas. A few years back the government built a huge two-story building that houses everyone and their precious commodities. The ground floor resembles an airplane hanger with high ceilings, huge doorways and a cement base. Shops on the second floor perch on balconies with a series of steps leading up and down to each.

Though there’s always room available inside, some prefer the old ways, setting up shop outside in the sun. Parked around the fenced square, farmers sell abundant quantities of tomatoes, peppers, sugarcane or whatever is falling from their trees or bursting from their gardens straight from their trucks.

On my visits to the market, experience has taught me to first scrutinize the place, looking for perfectly ripened specimens, a friendly face and an aura of cleanliness. After all, there are signs still posted that read, “NO SPITTING.” I figure they’re there for a reason.

Recently, I found several ladies who kindly mentored me, answering my many questions. Mrs. Douglas, whose market stall is painted hot
pink, explained that each vendor is allowed to paint his or her own space. Those loud colors, along with the colorful fruits and vegetables and the purveyors themselves, are just calling out to be captured on film. But photographers beware! Most West Indians do not appreciate uninvited cameras. Some believe it steals their soul, while others simply resent the rude intrusion.

Case-in-point: a friend of ours on a photo shoot at St. Vincent’s marketplace aimed his huge lens, ready to record the spectacular scene, when … WHAM! A stealth tohmmato bomb hit him in the side of the face, sending red fragments everywhere. After hours of cleaning it from every cranny of the camera, he vowed to remember the final rule … before taking photos, always ask! I, too, had to relearn that one this winter, when a fish butcher in St. Marten, sensing my camera 30 feet away, turned toward me and arced a cutlass-sized knife through the air, as if to cut me in half. I had neglected to ask. His “teaching” method was so riveting, though, I probably won’t ever make that mistake again!

On a recent trip to Antigua’s market, part of my mission was buying fresh everything, but I also wanted to take away some photos. After paying for my purchases with Mrs. Douglas, I said, “I have a favor to ask. I’m writing a story about the market. Would it be OK if I took some photos?’
“Ya, no problem. Dat ok.”

“Is it OK if I take your photo, or just the food?”

She blushed and gave the answer I expected, “Not me. Jus de tings.”

Not willing to give up easily, I tried one last tactic. “Your fruits and vegetables are pretty, but not as pretty as you.”

She laughed, but held her ground. Two other ladies acquiesced,
though, and in return I promised to send them copies of the photos.

That afternoon, I boarded the bus, my canvas bags heavy with passion fruit, plantain, bluggo, mangoes, nutmegs, scotch bonnet peppers and, of course, a few surprises. And that evening I did as the ladies told me. I “put it all to cook.”

Jan

The Man, the Boat & the Race – Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 19:28:00 +0000

The second and third races of the season for the Class A, 28-footers were scheduled for Easter Sunday and Monday. Beggar was counting on Bruce as crew for rigging and racing and we were looking forward to seeing his boat under sail.

The day before Easter we anxiously awaited the arrival of the new
and improved Blue Bird, but she didn’t appear until 11:30 ... on Sunday. She was proudly towed to Sandy Ground for her grand re-launching. Tropical flowers were taped to the bow and topsides, accenting the shiny new paint and graphics. With crew lounging in the truck bed, some in the boat, Beggar backed her down the driveway toward the sea. And then the waiting began …

The fellows limed around, drinking beers, drifting up and down the beach. Some slept on the bar, others rested under trees. A truck backed in with the lead ballast bars and men got busy offloading them onto the beach. The Boatmen’s Lunch arrived and the crew spent another hour eating and liming some more. In between it all were spirited discussions, arguments and betting, all about the boats.

Beggar was waiting for the minister to come bless the boat, and when she appeared at 3 p.m., his crew quickly gathered around Blue Bird, placing their hands on her with bowed heads. The minister spoke about the glory of the fine vessel, her able builder and the men who would take her to sea. She blessed them all and asked God to bring them back safe. The minister tossed a
glass of sanctioned water onto the bow, her “Amen” was echoed by the crew, followed by whistles and shouts. Beggar hopped into the truck, fired it up, shoved it into reverse and when he slammed on the brakes, Blue Bird slipped in, alive and afloat once again.

The jobs began with hauling and loading ballast, carrying and stepping the mast, toting and attaching boom and rudder and sails, all of which filled more hours. Throughout the day the 16 crewmembers came and went. At 5:30 everything was ready, but several of the crew were missing. Beggar, like a cat herder, ran down the beach to collect them. A crowd had gathered to watch the setting sun and as it was about to disappear, Blue Bird’s guys climbed aboard and she was finally released from the mooring, sailing toward the orange orb in the sky. The Easter Sunday race never materialized because of the winds again, which had been abnormally strong for most of the day.

Banners around the island had been flapping for a month heralding the second biggest race of the year; “EASTER MONDAY BOAT RACE 2008, In Honor of Mr. Egbert Connor.” That morning we headed in at 10 a.m., certain the action would start early, but found the beach empty, save for the sleeping dogs. Beggar and the boys rolled in around noon and the liming commenced. Winds in excess of 20 knots and a mean ground sea were attempting to scuttle yet another race. Phone calls were made (to whom, I wondered, as there is no race committee), hours passed, guys came and went.

Sometime during all this Blue Bird was rigged to sail and at 5 p.m. the crew began to board. If they weren’t going to race,
at least they could practice. They returned in the dark, unlit, tacking carefully through the crowded anchorage. As Bruce was helping pull sails from the boat, Beggar told him, “De race next Sunday. You come wid us. You me pardner.” With so much hype and work put into an event that had yet to happen, we decided to stay, despite our need to push on.

Time in the Caribbean has issues. If something doesn’t happen when it’s scheduled, it’s “no problem, it come soon, comin’ tomorrah.” So on the following Sunday we were skeptically hopeful that the race would finally come to pass. The all-night Moonsplash event was the evening before and it seemed unlikely anyone would be showing up bright and early. Around 11 a.m., Beggar’s crew filtered in and slowly got to work getting their girl ready. The wind was still up, but two other boats were being rigged so it looked like Blue Bird would finally have her chance to shine.

Anguilla race boats work off a different set of rules. There is no “starboard” right-away decree; the winner must physically touch the finish pin. Sometimes a gun marks the start, sometimes not. I had been making my way up and down the beach taking photos of the pre-race action when Blue Bird headed to the far end of the bay. Light and Peace shot off joining them. I could see De Tree was already there and realized I’d better get a move on. I turned my stroll into a fast walk, a trot and finally a run when I knew I might miss the shot I’d been waiting for all month.

And sure enough, they started the race silently, without fanfare, without me. With 57-foot masts bearing 40-foot booms on 28-foot boats, the sails, spread wide, looked like the wings of three gigantic butterflies, headed west. That was the last I saw of them until they returned four hours later, wet and exhausted. Blue Bird came in a disappointing second. De Tree was the victor that day.

Those four hours were supposed to be the main event. But they weren’t. They were merely the end to a story, a wonderful set of memories of boat builders, sailors and people who love life. Lucky us to have been along for the ride.

Jan

The Man, the Boat & the Race – Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce and Jan Smith) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 19:08:00 +0000

The late Egbert Connor was one of Anguilla’s most legendary boat builders. He had an innate sense for how a boat should be formed and shaped, so it would slice effortlessly through the seas. In addition to understanding the elements of design, he also wielded an adz, auger, hatchet, saw and all the tools needed to build a boat from fancy to finish. His skills today would be considered artful, but in his day they were merely a means to survive.

So often these kinds of treasured talents die out, smothered in our modern, mass-produced world. But not in Anguilla. Boat building on that tiny island thrives, and among its most talented artisans
is a handsome and thoughtful young man named Devon “Beggar” Daniels. Some might say Beggar comes by it naturally, since he’s Egbert Conner’s grandson. Perhaps that’s why he began building model boats at age 11 … not the kind that sit on shelves, their bits held together with gobs of smelly glue. His models were strong and large enough to race against others in the island’s salt ponds.

When we visited Beggar recently at his boatyard, several of his 40-inch models sat in the yard, nearly obscured by creeping vines. Through the green veil we could see the bow of Creep Up and Angel propped off the ground on their 4.5-foot keels. Beggar explained how he built them and how they led him to build his first large boat at the age of 19. Lady Elvira, a 22-foot fishing boat, was the first … but there was a beautifully designed fleet constructed after her, including a 40-foot long-liner.

Happenstance is how Bruce met Beggar last year during a local boat race. The Sandy Ground beach was alive with crew hauling ballast, masts, rudders, sails and gear from trucks to the boats tethered in shallow water. Bruce heard Beggar announce that one of his crew was missing, so he asked if he could join them. He did, and a friendship was born from their shared love of boat building and sailing. After the race that day on the 21-foot R.O.B.B. (Return of Blue Bird), Beggar recognized Bruce as a good hand and invited him to race again. Although 10 months passed before our next meeting, the invitation was still alive … and not just for one race, but for all we could make.

The first competition of the 2008 season was to take place in late February, so we dashed there from St. Barts two days before the race, anticipating a day of rigging and practice beforehand. By race day, though, we hadn’t heard anything and watched the beach for the action to begin, but gave up by 4 that afternoon. We later learned the race was cancelled because of a combination of strong winds and a feud with the boats from Island Harbor.

Not long after that uneventful day, Beggar came by to invite us to his boat-building shop to see the remaking of Blue Bird, his 28-foot race boat. “Come today,” he said. “Today she cut. Tomorrow she back together.” Anguillan race boats, all built of
wood, are rebuilt almost as often as they’re sailed. Beggar, in an effort to gain more speed, had removed every frame and cut every plank seam. Blue Bird sat on her keel looking like a bony turkey carcass after a Thanksgiving feast. To explain the transformation, he pulled out the line drawings and I could see where, frame by frame, the boat had undergone a metamorphosis.

The next day we returned and were astonished to find Blue Bird’s planks glued up and the last frames being set in. With several helpers in and out, they had worked half the night like doctors in the E.R. Their patient, with a new coat of paint, would be good to go.

Jan