Chased by crowds in The Grenadines

With hurricane season upon us and the weather being pleasant at higher latitudes and sweltering in the tropics, crowds are supposedly thinning around here. Somehow, the few remaining ones seem to be stubbornly following us. There’s a strange unevenness to it, though. In Mustique, for instance, one day we had the entire bay for ourselves, and the next we shared it with seven other boats. In Tobago Cays, when we moved to a mooring buoy in the turtle area few buoys where available, and our closest neighbors were two boat widths to our side. The next day there was a massive exodus and we got some breathing room.

Salt Whistle Bay

A friend had mentioned that he wasn’t sure he’d recommend Salt Whistle Bay in Mayreau Island, our intended next stop, and also part of the Tobago Cays Marine Park. On the one hand, he said, it’s a gorgeous bay, but on the other, it’s small and popular with reckless charter boat skippers who follow dubious anchoring techniques, so it’s hard to have a good time if your boat is at risk of being smashed by a rental boat on the loose.

We decided to try Salt Whistle Bay anyway. We got there early and space was abundant. We picked the mooring buoy that was closest to the beach. Perfect spot in a beautiful bay! We even thought of telling our friend how wrong he was. Ha! Perfection lasted only one night, though. The next day boats started to arrive as if it was the only place on earth to anchor, and they dropped their anchors haphazardly, left and right. One boat anchored right in front of us, in the minimal space between the beach and Ñandú. We felt social rules had been transgressed, as when someone cuts in a line.

People say that how close is too close depends on where you are from. Europeans, and French in particular, seem to feel the most confortable with closeness. Actually, in our experience, Quebecois also are relaxed and confident with togetherness (is it something with the language, perhaps?).
We, and many of our American friends most definitely aren’t. We have, however, learnt to pick our battles: if you suggest to the newcomers that they are too close and succeed at getting them to move, you can just have the next guy use that vacant space to anchor even closer. When the next boat dropped the anchor behind and only slightly to the side of the one in front of us, we picked that battle. That was too much. They did reanchor slightly farther away, but now very close to another boat whose crew didn’t seem bothered at all. Maybe they were French too.

Just minutes later, a huge 70-foot catamaran (for reference, Ñandú is 41 feet) made its way barely fitting between us and our newest neighbors, and then past us to the front row where there was barely enough space to turn around (for the non-sailors reading this blog, and also for the benefit of some boat charterers out there, you can’t park your boat as if it was a car: you need space, first to backup a couple of boat lengths after dropping the anchor, and then to swing around your anchor). Luckily the captain came to his senses and moved to a slightly less crowded space, where they had to use a stern line to the beach to keep the boat from swinging. It seems that they really, really wanted to be close to the beach.

Even though we had already paid the buoy for a second night, we got ready to leave, but we reconsidered and stayed. We spent the rest of the day sulking and bitching, nostalgic of the past when the beach wasn’t crowded.

Union Island

The next day we moved early to Chatham Bay in Union Island. A review we had read said that Chatham Bay was a relief from the Cays, because you are separated from your neighbors by yards instead of feet. It is a large bay that could fit a hundred boats, and we found only six when we arrived. It was indeed a relief… which lasted only until mid-afternoon. We had chosen the right place for peace and solitude, only at the wrongest of all moments. A fleet of forty catamarans, each crewed by six to ten young and energetic partygoers, started arriving one by one. And they were French! Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but as I’ve just said, they seem to have no problem with boat coziness.

It was the Hippocup Rally, “the national nautical rally of the interns and doctors of France”, 24th edition. I have the hunch now that Hippo is short for Hippocrates, not Hippopotamus. The winner of the previous edition gets to organize the next one. Given that each boat was ornamented as if it was a parade, I presume judging to determine the winner was not based on speed. We were literally in the middle of it all, because we had anchored by the beach where preparations for the all-night party were taking shape. So, there we were, separated by mere feet again, surrounded by the BDSM-themed Fistiboat, the Greek-themed Poseidon, the cocaine-themed Pablo, the Pussy Wagon, the Unicorns and Rainbows, and many more, with their crew dressed (or undressed) accordingly. If Waterworld had spring breaks this is what it would look like.

The other cruising boat in that corner of the bay decided to leave. We do love quiet nights, but this was getting too interesting to pass.

“Are you leaving tomorrow (please)?” we asked our closest neighbors.

“Oui”. Alright, the decision is made: we’re staying to enjoy the show, and will rest the following night on a quiet Chatham Bay.

“Where are you going next?”

“I don’t know” answered one. “Union something” said another.

“This is Union Island.”

“Oh. Then I don’t know.”

They invited us to the beach party, but anchored where we were, it was just a formality since we felt we were already part of it. For the party they rented the installations of a small beach restaurant, to which they added concert-sized sound systems, stage, and screen. It’s a fairly isolated beach which by land can only be accessed through a terrible mile-long thing that was once a road, which takes twenty minutes on a 4WD. My hat off to the organizers that pulled that feat.

For us spectators, the wild and pristine scenery siding with a dark night to confine a rebellious microworld of laser lights, outrageous customs, techno music and modern revelry was a unique and surreal experience.

The music stopped at 5AM sharp, with the first signs of daylight. For many, though, the party wasn’t over, and they continued dancing on their boats until the sun was well up.

Petit Saint Vincent

After a finally quiet night at Chatham Bay the last thing we wanted was to bump again into the Hippo rally. We had no idea about their itinerary (neither did they, apparently) , but Petit Saint Vincent sounded safe, as it is a small anchorage on a private island that caters to affluent guests with its exclusive boutique hotel.

We were right: no hippopotamuses in Petit Saint Vincent. However, we still got crowded in a strange and ghostly manner. I woke up past midnight and went up to the cockpit to make sure we were still in the same place. Still half asleep, I looked out and didn’t recognize the place at all. Where I expected to see a small wooden dock, I was now seeing a building. A huge building, just a couple hundred feet from us. It was so large that I had to hunch to see the top of it through the window. Oh my god! I almost panicked. Have we dragged all the way to Florida?? Where the fuck are we?

Once fully awake thanks to the shock, I could make sense of the situation. No, we hadn’t moved towards a building. We hadn’t moved at all. Rather, the building stealthily came to us. Only it wasn’t a building but the bridge of a cargo boat unloading construction materials to the island. My hat off this time to the ship’s captain, who managed to position the large ship in the little space between us and the tiny dock, throw a bow anchor and then back up to the dock, all without even waking us up. I said to myself that it was going to be interesting to see them maneuvering for casting off the next day… only that when I woke up in the morning the ghost ship had already vanished, as silently as she arrived.

The abnormal seems to be the new normal for us.