The Tobago Cays is an archipelago of five small uninhabited islands, which is now part of a stunning Marine Park created by the government of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. For good reasons, many people call it the most spectacular anchorage of the Eastern Caribbean. The extensive coral reef that surrounds the islands, the sandy beaches, and the huge number of turtles that thrive in these waters certainly help. What doesn’t help is the problems that the park’s own popularity brings: kiteboarders zipping by in the area demarked to protect turtles and swimmers, drones flying low above your boat, idiots anchoring in the mooring field having plenty of space behind, and rangers turning a blind eye to all of the above. But even if it was high season with five times as many boats as we had, Tobago Cays is still worth a visit.
Since we were still in full zen mode after all the tranquility that Mustique Island had infused on us, we chose to anchor on the side of Baradel Island that everybody shuns. The south side is where the action is: the mooring field, the best beach, the protected turtle area. The north side has, well… nothing, but we flourish in nothingness and isolation. We were completely alone and the reef was a short dinghy ride away anyway. The reef protects the anchorage from the waves, but there’s no such thing as wind protection, which is bad for sleeping but great for windsurfing. We where thus perfectly positioned to enjoy some world-class snorkeling and windsurfing. Unfortunately, neither went very well.
The snorkeling expedition was quickly aborted by the sighting of a moderately-sized and unfriendly-looking shark (“funny how that rock looks like a shark” was my first thought; I won’t say what my subsequent thoughts were).
The windsurfing venture started bad (I had to jump into the water in my “street” clothes to retrieve the sail, which went flying early by itself), continued worse, and could have ended terribly.
As soon as I started sailing, the wind dropped. To make things worse, there was a tad of current in the same direction of the breeze. I lost some ground on my first couple of rounds trying to get my board to take off planing, but there was just not enough wind to get comfortably planing and counteract the current. Instead of spending the next two hours going slow in marginal conditions trying to get back to Ñandú upwind, I decided to signal Kathy to launch the dinghy and come pick me up, which she did faithfully. But then we found it almost impossible to tow the board and sail behind the dinghy. (Note number one to self: half-assed rescue plans are as bad as no plan).
By the time we finally figured out a way, the wind and current had pushed us very close to the rocky and hostile shore of Petit Rameau Island. Kathy put the electric outboard in full power to escape… but the battery died! It supposedly had 91% charge a minute before, but it went straight to zero. (Note number two to self: we need a new battery).
I frantically grabbed the oars and rowed not towards Ñandú, but parallel to the shore to at least clear the island and remove from the equation the immediate threat posed by the rocks. I succeeded, but we were then in deeper water with stronger current. It was impossible to make progress dragging all that crap behind. I jumped back to the water to derig and roll the sail while Kathy rowed to minimize our drift. (Note number three to self: bring a knife to cut the downhaul line if the need to derig quickly arises).
After we had the rolled sail, the boom and the two-piece mast in the dinghy, I resumed rowing, already exhausted, towing the board. Negative progress—Ñandú farther and farther away. The wind and current were stronger than me: I could at most reduce our backwards speed to a slow drift.
It was time to forget Ñandú as a target and come up with a new plan. (Note number four to self: always, always bring the portable VHF radio, no matter how protected the waters look). We pointed the dinghy now in the opposite direction of Ñandú, around Petit Rameau, towards a group of boats. It looked like the current could still make us miss the boats, but hopefully we’d get close enough to catch their attention. I kept rowing while Kathy made hand signals—the rescuer calling for rescue. Ñandú had already disappeared behind the island when a local fisherman saw our predicament, and came to the rescue on his panga. He got close, grabbed the towing line I threw, tied it to his boat’s transom, and towed us back home, without speaking a single word. He had the demeanor of someone resigned to his destiny of saving clueless cruisers from their own stupidity. Had he said anything it may well have been “oh no, not again”. I gave him a good tip. (Note number five to self: rethink hobbies—consider chess).
