At anchor in Isle des Saintes this morning, Madame Geneva spins off the tail end of her scope. Literally. We don’t have but three feet left of the rode that extends from the two hundred feet of anchor chain. Surrounded by the peaks and crags of this cluster of islands, we are set in seventy-five feet of water. At sea is not too far away. The southwest tip of Guadeloupe emerges and hides in the haze as bursts of heavy rain deluge. Gusts of wind rapidly descend the slope of the steep hill of the Isle de Cabrits (Island of Goats) and cause Madame Geneva to hover between serene stillness and alert attention. She whips and holds but her swing is consistent. The anchor alarm is set and although her trail looks a bit like the early drawings of the most fastidious of children, there is a pattern to the madness and Madame Geneva does not cross the line.
We set sail from St. Pierre, Martinique at dawn thirty. The ride was anticipated to be a bit sporty, and what was expected was delivered. Close reaching our way through 25 knots of breeze with seven-foot waves, and a few ten footers, we took water across the bow, the deck and quite a few times into the cockpit. We had a reef in the main, and only half of the genoa out, and yet still Madame Geneva quickly made her way. The channel crossing was sloshy. The waves taken over the deck wept through the vents and drenched the salon. Iron stomach Gherty stayed below reading and occasionally reporting the various states of utter disarray from below. Cushions and pillows went flying. Untethered pencils, in the old steins from Beaufort’s pirate extravaganza 2015, amateurishly pitched. We dropped the sails just outside of Prince Rupert Bay in Dominica and were met quickly thereafter by Alexis, one of the PAYS trusted escorts.
Hard to write of Dominica and not feel the comparison to what was. Less than a year ago, we traveled this way and how different the experience. The once lush lands were decimated by Hurricane Maria. Six months after the hurricane came in fury, with winds over 200mph (a number simply inconceivable to most but begs of written words from Their Eyes were Watching God), the people of Dominica have been hard at work to remove the vast amounts of debris brought to the coast from mudslides and fierce winds. Some houses fared better than others but most lost their roofs. Many by the banks of what seemed a docile creek found their homes in six to seven feet of mud, trees, and various other things the raging river picked up. We heard tale of the ghostlike, the God-like, cries of the wind as Maria shifted from a Category 3 to Category 5 plus hurricane. All stayed home and expected that night to be their last.
The tours of the island shifted from the once prideful bounty the land and water offered to the resilence of the people and the awe of Mother Nature. The landscape has changed but already six months in, Dominica is still a beautiful island. It is just hard to know Heaven on Earth and find instead a land in limbo. http://fringesquirrel.com/madamegeneva/2017/04/04/dominica/
Of course, all of that did not deter us. We jumped the gorge, we dipped in the hot spring mineral baths (now tepid), and we traveled the Indian River. PAYS had an appreciation week for the boats so we found ourselves amongst many other traveling families, including one from New Zealand and another from France. The kids (and some adults) all engaged in wild games of Red Rover. Soccer, toilet tag, and other random spirited activities were met with screams of delight and yes, some tears. At the barbeque, we danced to long loved sounds of Reggae…lovely is the freedom in losing yourself to rhythm.
In no condition to be uptight: Captains Tim, Pete and Justin clear customs in a Dominican’s kitchen!
And when the weather window appeared for our exit, we took it. The wind and waves had been up. The trades were so strong that the prudent mariner must abide. Still the quietest day, a quick respite, was called for Wednesday. The choice to batter, pounding to weather, to Marie Gallante or to gracefully reach for the saints seemed rather simple. When you have been shown the beauty and destruction of God, you must go reaching for the saints.
We dropped our mooring lines at mid-morning. We raised our main, with the reef still tied, and let out the slightest of jib. Leaving the lee of Dominica, we were taken rather suddenly by a massive down draught that sent the lovely Madame on her side. She quickly recovered and we moved through the shifty breeze, wondering what the white caps of the channel meant…how high the sea, how strong the wind. The passage was only seventeen miles and we had prepared for the worst. We had sailed close hauled for so long, I had almost forgotten how pleasant it is to reach. While the wind was blowing hard in the upper twenties with gusts up to thirty, the waves were at the beam. Justin found a nice groove and we went sailing along, excitedly calling out speeds in the tens as we rode down some of the ten-foot waves. But wait, this one goes to eleven…(.8)!
Much love and stay tuned.