Guadeloupe to Marie Galante

Guadeloupe to Marie Galante   We left the serenity of Isle Bay, Montserrat, at seven in the morning on Monday. One of the most amazing parts of sailing is the perspective. We had the great fortune of being able to sail along the coast of the buried Plymouth. When we last passed Montserrat from Nevis to Guadeloupe, we stayed well outside the restricted zone (yes, in the sea), but while onshore we noted that they did not label the coast as such. We figured with our visit to the monitoring station a couple days before, they would’ve had said something if the volcano was going to start spitting again, right?! Oh, and there was another sailboat headed down and along. 

Still it was unnerving to be within yards of the ash on a slow-going vessel. There was a barge, for loading of sand, at the mostly buried pier. This barge was accompanied by a speed boat and a huge insurance policy. Should the call come, and the barge too slow to escape, they had to abandon all and hop on the speedboat to get out. I hardly think our dinghy qualifies as an escape boat. 

Watercolor of the ash and lava flow

We saw an exposed Mansard roof, a steeple, and the partial remains of a town once prospering and now long gone. We viewed the wide mouths of ashen rivers and the overgrown vast vegetation that consumed many hillside communities. We passed Old Fort Point on the very southern tip of Montserrat but any fort there was no longer. We motored slowly out to sea, crossing what seemed to be the very line of settled spill of underwater ash. In the fight of Earth, Fire and Water, the sea won.

We planned for a calm passage. A few hours of motoring brought us to Deshaies for clearing into Guadeloupe. The anchorage this time was much more mellow. We did manage to just lay our anchor and put on the snubber when a lovely squall came rolling through. A few yachts and fishing boats were not so fortunate and they spent that time motoring about the bay, waiting for a break. Onshore, we settled into a late lunch/early dinner at a casual but lovely French seafood café. The fish, literally fresh off the boat, was much the delight of the adults and the kids enjoyed their freedom to explore on the rocks and bayside beach below the porch. We couldn’t see them but we could occasionally hear them. It was very French.

As we still lacked refrigeration, we opted for a long motor around the west and south side of Guadeloupe to Pointe-a-Pitre. The coastal view was truly beautiful. The lush mountainside lands reaching to the beaches and small towns, the stretches of farmland and craggy coasts with the steamy rainforest as backdrop made for a very pleasant sail. We met with a bit of wind as we rounded the point but soon found the chop abated as the eastern wing of the island (Guadeloupe is shaped like a butterfly) began to offer protection. 

We met the pilot to the marina just inside the harbor. There are some places that provide pilots that make me think a lot of charterers come through. This was definitely not one of those places. As we pulled alongside the Med mooring dock, the pilot began to signal for us that we were to pull in, stern-to. Justin and I have Med moored before (and actually it is rather fun). The issue was the space he wanted us to pull in was only 12’ feet. We have a 16.5’ beam. We waved and shouted, “No! Nous sommes trop grand!” Luckily he spoke English and pulled up alongside of us and said, “Let’s just try it. Go slowly.” He spoke with such authority and also said there was nowhere else. He did seem surprised that we were not 4 meters wide, but closer to 6 meters. 

Then began a rather bizarre method of squeezing a square peg into a round hole. The pilot literally grabbed onto the large yacht to our side and motor-tugged it out of the way. This was no gentle or simple maneuver. A hand stood at our opening on the dock and waved us in. “Really?!” The captain wore an expression of “I cannot believe we are doing this but let’s do this.” With remarkable precision, Justin backed her up. Passing deftly between the mooring balls and literally squeezing between two boats with only 6 inches on either side. 

The next few days were spent landside on Guadeloupe. We explored many parts of the island by renting a car. One day, we started at a waterfall in the rainforest, enjoyed lunch at Point Noir, toured Parc des Mammels (incredible swing bridges through the vibrant forest with lots of monkeys, birds and panthers!), and ended up in Basse-Terre (the town). We went in search of an early dinner but were stopped by the masses, wearing red and black, that were about to parade through town. We parked the car.

Ignorance sometimes works in your favor. We walked along a well-worn street where we were the only strangers. Men in camouflage swirled in a rough and proud dancelike fashion with long heavy switches. The ropes would sail high to the sky, hover, and then crash down with a smack so loud that the echo was lost. Groups in red and black stood by, gathered in the momentum and intent on the warming up. We moved toward the town center and encountered our first (of many) parades. Each group with its own music, at times instrumental heavy on guitar and drums, at times synthesized, at times vocal, but all in red and black costume, and all very loud. 

The kids were hungry but nothing was open. All were in the streets. Some vendors were out but only candy and popcorn was offered. At last, we stumbled into a small Syrian lunch counter. The owner and her brother were very friendly and made us some delicious Falafel wraps and ham sandwiches. The parting words, however, made us nervous. “You need to be careful in Basse-Terre.” “Theft?” we asked. “It can be dangerous.” 

[captains note] we never felt unsafe or unwelcome, rather accepted, although definitely the only “American blanc” for miles – which we really enjoy. It was just that when a Syrian refugee warns of danger after dark- we’ll not second guess. Strong proud black youths in camouflage with whips and face paint parading in the streets will never be forgotten. Even by children who occasionally forget what island we are on!

With the light starting to fade, we quickly moved the kids through the parade laden streets. The party was well in, but in many ways, was clearly just getting started. I held the rear, Justin the lead. The kids, with food in hand and in belly, were ironically really warming to the festivities. We ushered them along and encouraged swiftness as we stood out in our “whiteness” and naivety. We encountered no animosity, and perhaps the warning was excessive, but the fact was we had not read much about Basse-Terre and were not about to test the environment during a holiday that seemed to be as much about celebration as about revolt. This view was rather acutely narrowed as we literally narrowed our path over a bridge. The oncoming parade was one of the camouflaged men with whips cracking high and smacking down. Their numbers were many and the whips landed close to the street’s edge. At one point, Justin stumbled over a dead pigeon. We returned to the car safely. We exited Basse-Terre and began our hour-long ride back to Pointe-a-Pitre. Not to be outdone by the surreality of the day, the night offered a burning car. Recently aflame, the door ajar, the car was at a gas station and a man running from the vehicle. So that was weird.

Quinn, self-imposed exile after losing 50 cents of his bank account due to attitude

Che & Gherty sleeping during the passage

This morning, we are just south of St. Louis with only one other boat at anchor. The kids were dropped at the beach yesterday afternoon for an independent retreat (which they enjoyed; it wasn’t punishment) and brought back for a wonderful dinner. The day, at nine in the morning, is already hot. We plan to head ashore and explore Marie Galante. 

Much love and stay tuned.