052 – Paradise Found & Lobster Dinners
- Heath Tredell
- 2 days ago
- 8 min read
Welcome back to the weekly shakedown of Sawasdeekat tales. In a long overdue office sort out, I noticed a daily calendar from some years back. It was one of those post‑it note things that give you a new word for the day. The calendar is from the days I wrote a novel entitled Heaven, so it is long since past its use. I thought I would set myself a weekly challenge to include two of the words in each blog hereafter until it is used up. The two words on the top two notes were compunction and visceral. See if you can spot them. 😊
There is something about weighing anchor in the fresh light of a Caribbean morning that makes you feel impossibly alive. The heat has not yet clamped down and the water lies flat and inviting. After our brief refit of propeller and spirit in Port Louis we turned Sawasdeekat’s bows north with renewed vigour and a simple ambition. We wanted to see what this corner of the world had been keeping from us.
Our first stop was Union Island and more specifically Chatham Bay. We had heard the whispers on the net. Hurricane Beryl had come through the year before and she had not been kind. The accounts spoke of devastation and we motored in with a sense of quiet reverence for what we might find. The bay opened before us green and lush but when you looked closer you could see that many trees were alive but lying on the ground. The whole scene along the shore told a different story. Buildings that had once stood proud were now just skeletal remains. It was a site that had clearly been hit hard and, like the foliage that surrounded it, it was still fighting its way back. There was a visceral rawness to it all. The sort of gut‑level understanding that nature does not care for our structures or our plans.
We had also heard that the locals offered a service to visiting boaters that seemed almost too good to be true. You could hand your passport to a man on the beach and he would jump on his motorbike and ride over the mountain to the customs office. He would get you stamped in and then bring your passport back to you on the sand. All for a small fee that saved you the headache of moving the boat and finding a mooring in the Atlantic facing port.
We dinghied over to the island’s pontoon ready to find our man. Pookie waited patiently as I realised I had forgotten to make a note of our Sail‑Clear number. No matter. I could sort it when I got back to the boat. I pulled the cord on the outboard to head back. The engine coughed once, twice, and then refused to play. I pulled again. I fiddled with the choke. I muttered a few words that would have made my mother blush, and, after five minutes of this mechanical tantrum I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to row.
I set off in earnest and I do not use that word lightly. The oars bit the water and I pulled with the sort of grim determination I used to reserve for the last few minutes of a bike race. After ten minutes of hard rowing I looked back and noticed I was not getting very far. The boat appeared to be stationary and the shore was barely any further away than when I had started. I had made a rookie error that I would only discover once I had reached Sawasdeekat: I had left the outboard in the water, acting like a drogue anchor. To say I was like a wheezing marathon runner when I finally reached Sawasdeekat would be an understatement. I was the kind of marathon runner you usually find stuck inside a dinosaur costume at a children’s birthday party. Red faced and utterly spent. I felt no compunction whatsoever about collapsing onto the deck and letting Pookie handle the rest of the check‑in. I sent the code via WhatsApp to her and she gave the man the details.
An hour later he returned with the passports stamped and approved. Pookie took the chance to walk down the beach towards the far end where a small hut sat nestled amongst the palms. It had been hit badly by the storm and now consisted of half‑ruined walls with a tarpaulin stretched across the top for a roof. Plastic chairs and a mismatched table became the bar and the bottles of rum and gin on offer were donations from passing boats. Owners Adele and her sister wore T‑shirts donated from a visiting yacht and were laying out also donated fairy lights on the beach rocks to make the place look prettier. I managed to revive the engine and went to meet Pookie. The left photo is before, the others after.
We ordered a meal and waited as they cooked it on a camping stove inside the ruins of the building. Their father built a bonfire nearby and I got chatting to our culinary neighbours. The couple were from Charleston in South Carolina. The most wonderful thing about the sailing community is that they are on the whole super friendly and happy to listen or share stories as though you are a close friend. This time was no exception and before the night was out we had been invited to their boat the following day to go scuba diving.
I used to teach scuba diving when I was at university in my twenties and I relished the opportunity to get back on the tanks. The following morning one of their crew collected us from our boat and whilst I went diving with the husband and two crew members, Pookie stayed on board their stunning and huge sailing yacht. No doubt she was talking about food and sailing which are her two favourite subjects. I cannot say the scuba diving in the bay was the best location but I was very grateful for the opportunity and had a fantastic time. They even invited us for lunch afterwards. Lovely friendly people met by total chance in a remote location. We were going to like the Caribbean.
After Chatham Bay we sailed north to Mayreau where a tiny bay became our home for a couple of days. Here I got involved in a boat rescue that had driven onto the rocks. I jumped into our dinghy and tried to push the stricken vessel further away from the beach. I doubt my ten‑horsepower engine made much of a difference in the grand scheme of things but the effort and the thought were there. We ate out at the local beach shacks and then weighed anchor again and set off for the Tobago Cays.
Maryreau..
We left early with quite strong wind and a cross tide. It was rough that day. The bows pounded into the waves and Pookie went quiet which is always a sign that she is focusing on not being sick. But we pushed through because we knew what was waiting for us. The Tobago Cays are an archipelago of five small uninhabited islands located in the Southern Grenadines and they are now protected as a marine park. We entered the lagoon and the water transformed before our eyes. It turned that shade of turquoise you see on travel brochures and think must be digitally enhanced. It is not.
We dropped the hook in the lee of the islands and stayed for three days in the most stunning water in this whole area of the Caribbean. The cays are sheltered by a four kilometre long horseshoe shaped reef that encloses the lagoon and creates a natural aquarium of astonishing beauty. The sand is white and fine and the water is so clear you can see the bottom ten metres down as though you are looking through glass. We spent our days floating face down with masks on watching the world go by beneath us. Turtles were everywhere. Green sea turtles drifted lazily past grazing on the seagrass beds that lie within the shallow lagoon. Eagle rays flew through the water with a graceful flutter of their wings and stingrays buried themselves in the sand with only their eyes and tail visible. The coral reefs are the most extensive and well developed in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines and they are home to a kaleidoscope of fish. Parrotfish in electric blues and greens crunched on the coral and surgeonfish drifted past in shimmering schools. It was paradise found and we soaked up every minute of it.
Our next stop was the nearby island of Canouan. Here, out of the flight path of the nearby airfield, we lay the anchor once again. 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. We ate like royalty that night with garlic butter dripping down our chins and the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
From Canouan we headed to Bequia where our friends Sue and Steve were on their boat Bonnie Doon. She had been one of the boats in the Viking Group crossing and Steve and Sue took it upon themselves to show us the best places to eat and the best things to see and do on the island.
They arrived for sundowners and the night started with such promise. We were still anchored off Bequia and the sun was doing that thing it does in the Caribbean where it turns the water into liquid diamonds. Pookie was in the galley doing what she does best. She was creating magic in a space no bigger than a wardrobe.
Our galley on Sawasdeekat is compact to say the least. Pookie has cooked in professional kitchens that are bigger than our entire boat but she has adapted with the kind of grace that makes me fall in love with her all over again. She chops and stirs and seasons using the induction hob that has its own opinions about temperature control. I was in the cockpit arranging drinks and pretending to help when I heard the yelp. It was not a dramatic scream. It was more of a sharp surprised sound that made my blood run cold.
Pookie was standing with her hand held out in front of her like it was a foreign object. Her fingers were already turning white where her finger has rested on the hot glass serving dish trying to hold it level. The blisters were forming as I watched. They rose up like tiny white mountains on her fingertips and I could see the shock in her eyes.
We grabbed the first aid kit and ran cold water over her hand while she stood there completely still. She did not cry which is typical of her. She just stared at her fingers and muttered something in Thai that I am fairly sure involved the pan’s parentage.
We ate under the stars that night with Pookie using her left hand to scoop up food with the awkward determination of someone learning to eat all over again. The blisters on her fingers glowed in the moonlight like some sort of bizarre trophy. She had sacrificed her fingertips for the sake of hospitality and our friends ate every last mouthful in appreciation.
The sailing community is full of small moments like this. The moments where something goes wrong and you just adapt because there is no other option. Pookie’s fingers healed over the next week and she now has a small patch of scar tissue on her index finger that she says will remind her to take more care every single time. I suspect she will forget by next season but I will not remind her of that now.
Steve also took me snorkelling along the coast near a famous building called Moonhole. This settlement was the dream of a couple named Thomas and Gladys Johnston who retired from New York in the 1960s and decided to build a home beneath a massive arch in the volcanic rock through which the setting moon is sometimes visible. Using whalebones, native hardwoods and objects recovered from the sea they built large open rooms with magnificent views. It is now a private nature preserve and trust dedicated to preserving the unique architecture and protecting the wildlife on the peninsula. Some of the homes are now available to rent which would be an extraordinary way to experience the island.
Right, I have ran over my usual "10 minute read" guideline and so I will bid you all farewell and hope you take the time to visit next week for another edition. Did you see the words? Of course you did.. bye for now!
Comments