“913. That’s a funny name for a boat.” We are in the harbour of SVG Sunsail, on St Vincent, looking at the maiden of our voyage-to-be – a big, white vessel called… 913.
“It’s not a boat,” says our skipper, a magnanimous local covered in tattoos of fish and assorted sea stuff, “it’s a catamaran.”
“Why doesn’t it have a name?” asks one of our party.
“Because it hasn’t got an owner.”
“Isn’t that a bad omen?” she persists. “Going to sea on a boat with no name and no owner?”
I maintain the same sort of silence I did when a woman in our flotilla asked me, during the sailing briefing, if I am “bare boating”. These sailors are a forward bunch.
As it turns out, there’s plenty of bare boating around these parts – mainly from the French, who think nothing of displaying their Moulin Rouge during their early morning dip. We have crew (well, one), however, and so are, it seems, not entirely “bare”. Lucky, since it’s our skipper who suggests we may want to purchase a little more than just a few croissants for a five-day trip to sea. We head off to buy beer and Angostura from the local Aladdin’s Cave and return to find a bottle of rum already in the fridge. Our skipper smiles: “In case you forgot it.” Indeed, we had.
Sunsail’s brand new Cat 913 is “large”. Allegedly. The four bedrooms are in the “wings”, each with its own shower and toilet somewhat incredibly crammed in. The galley is huge enough, and has heaps of freezer room (for all those fish we’re obviously going to catch), whilst the on-deck areas have seating and storage and… a trampoline.
Our first port of call – literally – is Port Elizabeth on Bequia, an island whose name translates as “Island in the Clouds”. There are no clouds on our journey so we spend the time sunbathing and getting our sea legs. Despite flat seas and being on a boat that doesn’t roll, I still find there’s an art to walking it takes a while to master.
To a land-locked Londoner, tide changes feel like a white squall, so I have a very uneasy night indeed, and sleep right through sunrise
We drop anchor off Princess Margaret’s Beach and swim ashore for a lunch of fresh tuna and a glass of wine under the deadly shade of the Manchineel, the most poisonous tree in the world (although the scratchy-itchy dog who lounges between tables seems to me to be slightly more of a potential hazard). It’s all very, as they say, “chilled”. But when we swim back to the catamaran, we discover that getting off it is a lot easier than getting back on. Serious Ashtanga yoga moves are required, although a hefty push on the butt or a plain haul aboard is just as useful. Dignity and decorum won’t be required on this trip it seems. Heels neither. We have to scramble out of our dinghy and over a number of others to make it ashore for dinner at Coco’s, a modest restaurant overlooking Admiralty Bay, a little further north up the island. Even after one day, the laidback atmosphere of Bequia has forged an attraction as strong as rum punch. How can I return to travelling to meetings by Tube after getting used to visiting restaurants by way of a small motorised dinghy?
Buccament Bay
To a land-locked Londoner, tide changes feel like a white squall, so I have a very uneasy night indeed, and sleep right through sunrise. Once awake, I have a pre-croissant dive in the refreshing waters, before heading off for Tobago Cays, a marine wildlife park that comprises a cluster of five uninhabited islands. Entry is between the two islands of Petit Rameau and Petit Bateau. Boys in colourful motorboats pull up alongside us to offer up lobster, fresh bread and t-shirts, but we decide on a beer and a swim instead. The sea is cerulean and the sky cobalt: this truly is perfection.
We dinghy over to Baradel – more commonly known as Turtle Beach – where we turn ourselves into Charlie’s Angels by donning flippers and snorkels. This is the moment I have most been looking forward to. Indeed, it’s the whole reason I’ve come: to swim with turtles as big as me. The experience doesn’t disappoint. They’re huge. And bizarre. And wonderful. And they’ve been around since the time of the dinosaurs.
They’re huge. And bizarre. And wonderful. And they’ve been around since the time of the dinosaurs
The wildlife around the islands is odd – and old. Pelicans fly overhead like small pterodactyls while medieval dragon-like iguanas observe from hilltops. Horseshoe Reef hosts a sparkling menagerie of delights: I see blue damsels, stingrays, trombone fish, trumpet fish (there’s a whole orchestra down there!) and lots of parrot fish – which apparently change gender to accommodate the lack of females if need be. I get stared at by a puffer fish and later share the excitement of our skipper when we spot a huge spotted eagle ray. My favourite creatures are the swimming humbugs: multiple shoals of black and white striped fish.
The following morning, we wave goodbye to the island of Petit Tabac – or “Johnny Depp Island” as it’s become known, purely due to the actor’s presence during the filming of The Pirates of the Carribbean – and head for Mustique, an island infamous for its rich and royal visitors. It proves to be a peculiar mix of the extravagant and the shanty. The world-famous Basil’s Bar – where a royal “jump-up” is not unheard of – turns out to be a rustic hut on stilts over the water, whereas the restored colonialism of the Cotton House hotel offers more obvious sophistication.
At last, we have our sea legs. I take a turn at the helm, slapping 913’s hull into the waves with the vigour of a wannabe Ellen MacArthur. There is whooping from my fellow passengers upfront as the waves crash over us. Our skipper whoops too. Is this what real sailing is about? Looking down from the top of a wave, ready to crash down into it and out the other side to collect your stomach again – it’s nerve-wracking, thrilling and exhilarating. And then, to top it all, we catch a fish.
It is our final sail, so we anchor up beside a huge rocky outcrop that was once a fort and leap off the back of our 913 one last time. We are finally busting a lime on St Vincy time! Our little group has only spent four days together, but it seems like longer. No-one wants to be the first out of the water, but we’re forced to leave by men in uniform who tell us we can’t stay here because it’s a protected reef.
Simon, the harbourmaster, seems pleased and perhaps a little surprised that we have enjoyed the trip quite so much. “We’d like to name our boat,” we say in unison. I see Simon wince, but I think it’s because we’ve called the 913 a boat again. You can take a group of Londoners to sea, but, well, I think that’s about it…
We started our trip at tiny, secluded Young Island, whose discreet cottages, private plunge pools and slightly weathered décor creates a real feel of Ian Fleming’s world. (The author lived in the Caribbean for nearly twenty years, and wrote many of his best-known James Bond novels here.) We end it at the new, modern equivalent over in Buccament Bay, a five star luxury resort. Arrival is across a wooden bridge and you’re given a strong cocktail before being thrown onto the back of one of the many golf buggies to have a quick tour with GM Christine. Emphasis on the quick: “Hang on, because this buggy gooo-oooes faa-aast!”
It is a little Toy Town here. The site is in the basin of mist-covered mountains, the service is perfect, food is delightful and the rooms have ginormous beds and rain showers. Still, I just can’t help think of The Prisoner and I’m relieved to find that my room isn’t Number Six. No matter: after two days of taking a surprisingly good cappuccino from the corner patisserie to my lounger to watch the crabs dance over the golden sand while the local workers in their brightly coloured shower hats bust a lime in the sea, I’m a convert. I know that this sand has been shipped in to disguise the black volcanic beach that lies beneath but I don’t care about the artifice, or indeed anything – I’m inebriated on the sheer beauty of it all. C
Visit the St Vincent and the Grenadines Tourism Authority at discoversvg.com or facebook.com/discoversvg or on Twitter at @discoversvg
Virgin Atlantic fly daily to Barbados from London Gatwick. virgin-atlantic.com
LIAT offer five daily non-stop flights between Barbados and St Vincent with additional services during the winter and festival periods in the islands. liat.com