SawasdeeKat

Turtles glided past with ancient indifference, their shells almost brushing against our hull as if we were nothing more than curious debris. Stingrays ghosted beneath us, their wings undulating in slow, hypnotic pulses, totally oblivious to our presence. Puttering along barely inches from the sandy bottom, the channel became so narrow in places that we could have reached out and touched either bank.

Lush green hills tumbling down to beaches so white they hurt your eyes and turquoise waters so beautiful we literally couldn’t stop looking at them.

Jost Van Dyke is the smallest of the four main islands, barely three square miles of rugged beauty with a population of fewer than three hundred souls. Its name comes from a Dutch privateer who used its harbours as a hideout. Pirates, it turns out, have excellent taste in real estate. Here we planned to eat out in the evening, finding a nice restaurant and sampling whatever scrumptious creations the BVI kitchens could conjure up.

With winds howling and me shouting at Pook to pull this rope, let that one out and get me something to tie this damn thing up, my mum's maiden voyage on a boat was not going well.

The whole world seemed oblivious to the angst inside us. Life went on for everyone else, the sun rose and set, the birds sang, the neighbours went about their business, and we were trapped in a bubble of grief that made everything outside seem unreal.

here is what I have learned in this adventure. Boats cost money. They cost time. They cost patience. And sometimes they cost your sanity. But they also give you moments like this......

A Weekly true to life blog with this week's episode in St Barths and Deshaies.

Terre de Haut in Guadeloupe is beautiful. The kind of place that makes you understand why people write poems about islands. We walked its streets. Ate a nice meal. Drank wine that cost about what it should have and drank cocktails on the beach as the sun drifted majestically beyond our view. We even saw our very first St Francis cousin.

The new colour scheme turned heads at every anchorage. The black stripe gives her a sense of purpose that the plain white hull lacked. The new kitchen doors make cooking at sea almost a pleasure. The new fans keep Pookie cool while she chops and stirs and creates magic from whatever fish we have managed to catch or trade or beg from fellow cruisers.

I can navigate a catamaran through a Mediterranean storm despite having no business being behind the wheel of any vessel larger than a bathtub. But put me in front of my own family and ask me to express genuine emotion and I fall apart like a cheap umbrella in a hurricane.

this City of Angels is forever changing. New restaurants sprout overnight. Old temples paint their gates fresh gold. The sky train extends another stop into the suburbs. You could live here a lifetime and still turn a corner to find something you have never seen before.

This real life weekly blog has more adventures each week than most do in a year. Take a seat, relax and hear how others have fared.

She had carried us faithfully across an ocean, through the Mediterranean’s glittering playground, past the Rock of Gibraltar and the African coast. She deserved better than to sit neglected while her crew nursed their wounded bodies.

Something was very wrong. Pookie started researching. She has always been the brains of this operation, the quiet detective who solves problems while I am busy being the main character in my own head. She typed symptoms into her phone. She read forums. She found articles. And then she found the word that would haunt us for weeks...

The words of the week are Scaramouch (which reminds me immediately of the brilliant Bohemian Rhapsody song by Queen) and Emancipated - So look out for them! There are moments in this wandering life when the universe taps you on the shoulder and whispers, go on, be reckless. This was one of those moments. We had Sawasdeekat settled nicely in Prickly Bay. The anchor held. The dinghy sat on its davits like the Wishing Chair from Enid Blyton's stories, patient and waiting for

.. the island is better known for its model boat building, with prices that make you wonder if the boats actually sail themselves to your home, and the local currency of turtle money.

You could show someone a photograph and they would assume you had enhanced the colours. You had not. The café itself sits at the edge of this perfection serving cold drinks and good food to people who have stumbled into paradise and are still blinking in disbelief. We ate and sat there for a few hours watching the water do what water does best which is to look beautiful and make you forget every problem you have ever had.

At three the music finally softened and by four there was blessed silence. We fell asleep as the first hint of grey appeared in the eastern sky, that particular shade of blue that exists only in those moments between night and morning and when the world seems to hold its breath.

As if by magic and very reminiscent of Mr Ben, a local fisherman appeared in his boat alongside us and held up a glistening spiny lobster. He sold Pookie on the idea that she should serve it for dinner. It was not a difficult sell.

The switchback road climbs steeply through dense forest, and even inside the bus you feel the altitude pressing against your temples like a small but determined Peruvian thumb… that is until your ears pop.