John Kretschmer Passage – Part 5
” A tourist remains an outsider throughout his visit; but a sailor is part of the local scene from the moment he arrives.” – Anne Davison
We remained on course, sailing forward with an eye behind, watching the large ship following us drift farther and farther away. We went about the process of eating breakfast, discussing our heading, course, boat speed and what the weather would probably bring that day. It was a normal morning, except for the fact that our passports were still in the hands of the Coast Guard. Two hours had passed and still no communication had taken place as to the status of our documentation.
I took the opportunity, John being slightly off guard and not in his usual pattern of educating the crew on some aspect of ocean sailing, to pick his brain about Dan’s and my future sailing plans. Our plan is to buy our boat, spend the first year or so getting used to the boat and sailing in the relative safety of the Caribbean. Islands are close together, there’s a lot to see and explore, and I feel safe hanging out where many Americans charter boats. Our experiences on this trip solidified the idea and gave me a taste of just how beautiful and exotic these islands are. I took the opportunity to ask John about the best spots to land, most exotic ports to visit and which places to avoid. Having spent only a few short days among the island, wet my appetite for more.
———————————————————-
The first island we landed on after our crossing from Tortola was the island of Grenada. Previous to this trip, all I knew about the island involved the invasion in late 1983. The bloody scuffle, along with a perceived threat to American students on the island provided the U.S. with an excellent excuse to eliminate a Marxist regime allied to Fidel Castro’s Cuba. Other than that, the island was a mystery. Upon our arrival, we entered the port of St. George’s and took the luxury of renting a slip for the night rather than anchoring. This would allow the crew access to much needed showers and permit time to tour the island and of course, have Captain’s Hour poolside. John went to check us into customs while the rest of us were set free to explore the exotic island.
While walking along the docks and reading the boat names and countries from which they hailed, it was enlightening to discover the diversity of sailing humanity gathered in the quaint harbor. Gigantic yachts lined one side of the docks while every size and shape sailboat occupied the majority of the slips. It was humbling to know we were among sailors who had arrived from much greater distances than our own; Asia, Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia, South America, United States. As we walked along the docks admiring the various sailing vessels, it was interesting to listen to the conversations as people passed. Most spoke in foreign languages and thick accents. If their language was English, I strained to catch a glimpse inside their dynamics. What were all these people doing on this island? What had made them sojourn to this port in this part of the world?
Our first stop was the bathhouse. While we had shower capability aboard Quetzal, there is nothing like languishing in the powerful, hot stream of a non-moving shower. John had touted St. George’s showers as some of the finest in any marina. Dan and I carried our bags of toiletries along the dock and followed signs, past the harbor master where John was checking us through customs. Cascading in full bloom, flowers lined the walkways and green geckos darted across the pathway as if on some important mission. Each building we passed was painted in a decorative pastel. We passed by the pool and bar area and finally arrived at the bathhouse. We entered the building and headed into the adjacent Men and Women shower areas.
John was not fabricating the luxury of the facility as the room contained about half a dozen individual shower areas, each complete with sink, toilet and stone tiled showers. I was alone and had my pick of rooms. I selected one and prepared to take my time and enjoy the luxury. I undressed, grabbed the items I needed for the shower and gazed up at the giant disk that would be releasing my watery massage. As every set of shower handles has different modes of turning on, getting to hot or cold temperatures, I expected to have to take a moment and figure this one out. I just knew the small island of Grenada would have some configuration I had never encountered. Mechanical stuff is not my forte and embarrassingly enough, I have struggled trying to master a shower at the Holiday Inn. I didn’t disappoint the side of myself that considers me a moron when it comes to figuring out showers. Try as I may, I couldn’t get a stream of water to erupt from the shower head. I tried every combination I could imagine, and no twisting, turning, punching, pulling and swearing could elicit more than a trickle. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps there was a problem with this particular shower so I took a chance and streaked naked to each of the shower areas and repeated my attempts to make the other showers work. No luck. I returned to my own shower, feeling defeated and inept and stood utterly disappointed under the slow trickle of cold water.
My highly glamorized shower experience quickly faded into a cold, dripping, disaster. I managed to get my hair wet and just as I got my head nice and soapy, the water stopped all together. I pursed my lips in frustration and stared at the shower head, now sending one intermittent drop at a time. Admitting defeat, I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me, and exited the Womens room in search of my husband. Pounding on the Mens room door, I cracked it open, hoping Dan was as alone as I was in the Ladies room. “Dan!” I yelled. “I need your help. Now.”
“What do you want that can’t wait?” he responded, irritation abounding. “I can’t get the damn water to work. I am all soapy and now I can’t get any water to come out of the stupid shower!” He delivered the shocking response, something I had not even considered, “Welcome to the club. Me neither.”
I threw my hands up in despair, slightly relieved that it was not my ineptness that was the cause of the problem. Little comfort. I marched back into the Ladies room for plan B. I had no idea what plan B was, but I’m nothing if I’m not resourceful in a crisis. I returned to my private quarters and dug through my duffle until I found the plastic bag I used to store my liquids at the airport. I knew there had to be a small amount of water in the taps, and sure enough, when I turned the faucet on at the sink, a small amount of water came out, enough to fill my baggie. Poking a hole in the bottom corner of the bag, I walked back into the shower and started the process of rinsing. Each time the baggie emptied, I ran to another shower area and refilled the bag. It worked. After three or four trips, I felt clean! Miserable victory.
I got dressed and was about to begin drying my hair and putting on some much needed makeup when Dan’s face peered at a crack in the door. “Come in,” I invited cheerfully. “I can rinse you off if you want. There is no one else in here.”
Dan had been having his own adventures while I was playing water shower relay. Being the problem solver that he is, when the water ran dry, he put on shorts and went on a pilgrimage to fix the problem. Good thinking! He walked out onto the property and sure enough ran into a nice worker lady with her crisp white linen shirt, mahogany skin and alluring accent. Dan stopped her and broke the news, “There is no water in the bathroom. I was taking a shower and the water just stopped.”
Flashing a beautiful white smile, the kindly women replied, “No water.”
“Yes, we have no water in the bathroom.”
“No water,” she mimicked and smiled kindly as she went on her way.
Dan stormed off toward the Harbor Master building we had passed on the way to the bath house. He arrived at the doorway and halted abruptly. The large sign on the door read, “Proper attire required”. Dan paused briefly and looked down at his bare feet, lack of shirt, and hair slicked back still sudsy from the shampoo. Throwing caution to the wind, Dan entered and apprised the people at the desk that we had no water in the bathhouse.
Dan returned to the bath house to see what fate had left for me. When he dared make his appearance in the Ladies room, I described the cleaver system I had developed for rinsing. I grabbed his head and shoved it under a sink in the main room and prepared to give him the baggie treatment. I was only on my first baggie when without warning the water came back on, full force. Dan pulled his head out from the sink and looked at me, dripping now like a drowned, soapy, rat. “I’m going to finish my shower now,” he announced, then left. I had already dried my hair, put on lotions and makeup and was not going to get back in the shower. Besides, I had to walk around the bathroom and turn off all the faucets and shower heads that were now streaming with warm, powerful streams.
Island time. I’ve heard it mentioned and I knew it referred to the relaxed and slow paced atmosphere one finds in the islands. We have no such phenomenon in New Jersey. In fact, I am guilty of moving as quickly as possible in everyday life so I can get more in, do more, get places quicker. I walk quickly, cook a meal in 10 minutes, drive fast and live a fast paced life. It took a woman from Grenada to make me realize that I violate “Island Time” and that my fast way of doing everything is going to have to change when I become a full time sailor.
Dan and I had rushed back to the boat to grab a few things and another crew member who agreed to share a taxi to tour the island for a couple of hours. We only had three hours and John mentioned that we might want to visit one of the island’s historic waterfalls. I also wanted to see some monkeys as I had seen pictures of other people from John’s trips with the indigenous creatures. In order to find a taxi, we had to locate an area behind the cluster of buildings that would supposedly have taxis waiting. I strode quickly, following signs but not seeing any with words “taxi area”. Finally, we came to a parking lot with a few mini vans parked, but I couldn’t see any people around. A small white building that resembled a guard house was situated near the parking lot. When I peered through the window, a native in her immaculate white shirt was standing behind a desk. I knocked gently on the door, and although she gave no indication she had heard me, I ventured to open the unmarked door.
“Excuse me,” I burst out. “Is this where you get the taxis? “ I inquired with my usual rush.
“Good afternoon.” The woman replied solemnly.
“Could you please tell me how to get a taxi? We would like to take a quick tour of the island.”
The woman stared and me and paused. “Good afternoon,” she replied a bit louder.
I was taken back. I stopped and stared for a moment. I realized this woman was not going to cater to some foreigner, rushing into her office, demanding answers, before she received a proper greeting. She was on island time.
I paused, slightly embarrassed, took a breath and said with as much relaxation as I could muster, “Good afternoon. Could you please tell me if this is where I might get a taxi?”
The island was rich with heritage and resources and our taxi driver was going to draw our 3 hours out to the last possible minute. We asked to go to a local restaurant to get a quick bite to eat. First mistake was using the word quick and eat, being on island time. He brought us across town and slightly up into the winding roads of the green hills to a local shack. Mother, sons, and no other patrons (probably his relatives) sat in a small room with a few picnic tables that served as the dining area. They glanced up at us nonchalantly as we entered, and there was some dialogue between them that we non-islanders couldn’t decipher. The taxi driver had assured us this was the best place to get grilled jerk chicken. Unfortunately, mother and sons hadn’t had enough customers to fire up the grill, so we were out of luck. Twenty minutes later, we were back in town, passing the marina in the other direction. There went a half hour of our 3 hour tour.
Next, we were dropped off at a more upscale restaurant, sporting a beautiful deck and outside dining. It was a little more formal than we were anticipating, but at this point, we were starving. I’m not sure if they had to go out and catch the fish for the fish tacos, but they certainly had time to do so. It was an hour before we got our lunch and being the antsy, fast-past New Jerseyite that I am, it was all I could do not to stand up and start yelling. Dan had to pin me to my seat to prevent me from getting up and asking where the heck our lunch was. I glanced around at the people eating in the restaurant, late in the afternoon, and could tell they planned on being there for hours, with no rush, and no sense of wasting time waiting. This was island time.
Our meal was finished and we had about an hour left to get to the water fall. As we climbed the mountainsides into the thick foliage and ever diminishing pavement, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. The roads narrowed and when we encountered vehicles on their way down the mountain, I was sure there was no way we could pass without one of us careening off the hillside. Since they drive on the left in those islands, we were nearest to the cliffs. I tried to glance at the magnificent view spreading out before us as we made our ascent. Brilliant views of bays and lush valleys loomed into view after each hairpin turn. I tried to snap a few pictures but the view appeared and then retreated much too quickly to get a good shot. Finally, we arrived at a small pull off area, just large enough to park one or two mini vans. I wanted to get out and kiss the ground with gratitude at having arrived alive, but we were finally at our waterfall and had only a few minutes to take a look.
Before both feet had landed on the ground outside the van, a man and monkey appeared as if out of thin air. I LOVE MONKEYS! It was all I could do to keep from squealing with delight. I’ve never held a live monkey, only viewed them from behind their cages in zoos. I asked the man if I could take a picture and before I could say, allashazam, the monkey was sitting on my shoulder. It was a little unnerving at first, and after being assured that this was a non biting variety of monkey, I began to feel more at ease and make friends with my hairy little partner. I handed Dan my phone and he snapped a few photos to commemorate my first monkey holding experience, and then we passed the man a few green bills of Granada currency in appreciation of sharing his monkey with me. On to the waterfall!
Wait. The tables with handmade Granada jewelry lined the path to the waterfall. Since we did not have many shopping opportunities on the trip, I had to at least make a purchase while the opportunity presented itself. More currency was spent and finally we descended a steep path leading into a dense, green, moist valley. A stunning waterfall cascaded from the hillside and into the shimmering pool beneath. A walkway had been built for tourists to stand close to, and view the falls. We arrived on the wooden platform to be instantly greeted by some very enthusiastic cliff divers. The leader of the group immediately began a monologue about the lack of jobs in their current island economy. He, and a small group of men, relied on the kindness of tourists to make donations in return for their cliff jumping to keep them from a life of crime and allow them to make an honest living.
Dan was trapped, listening to the entire speech, when I tapped the man on the shoulder. The adjacent rock the man was going to jump from did not look very high to me and I asked him, “Hey, why don’t we give you a donation and you let ME jump off the rock.” Big mistake. I had to spend the next 5 minutes giving this overeager cliff jumper all the reasons why I didn’t really want to jump from the cliff. Apparently they have no problem with law suits like we do in our country and the man was quite willing, with no signed releases, life jackets, life lines… to let me jump from the cliff. I respectfully declined and Dan paid the man to give his performance.
Time was ticking down and I knew we would not be meeting our three hour tour time frame. In island time, 3 hours meant we take our time and maybe get back in 4. Our taxi driver had to take us to (what I am sure was another relative’s hut) a presentation about the islands 2 exports, cocoa and nutmeg. We pulled next to a tiny house built merely inches from the edge of the road. The front of the room of the abode had been transformed into a store of sorts. A few shelves line the walls and there was a counter, which the owner stepped behind, disengaging and dismissing the small girl that clung to his shorts. He gave us a very thorough presentation on the nutmeg plant and cocoa plant. We sampled some of his wares and then were clearly expected to make a purchase. We perused the shelves and each came away with several items manufactured on the island, items like ginger, turmeric, hot sauce and chocolate. We were assured that the quality of these items was above and beyond any we could purchase in our own country. I glanced at my watch as we loaded back in the van, very aware that we were running late. It’s ok. If we get back a little late, we can just say we were running on island time.
——————————————————–
Back to our adventure on the high seas, John was getting more agitated by the minute and finally couldn’t stand it anymore. Three hours had passed, and not a word from the Coast Guard. He hadn’t wanted to call them and irritate them, but we had waited patiently and it was time to find out what was going on. John excused himself as I sat with pen in hand, writing down the inside information on the names of the best ports and islands to visit in the Caribbean. John retrieved the radio and hailed the mother ship. The terse and official voice that answered, assured John that a crew was being assembled as we spoke, and that we would be met shortly with an explanation.
More than a half hour later, the RHIB was on its way to rendezvous with us one more time. Five figures were on board, the two drivers, and three officers. As they approached, an older officer accompanied the two young men that had boarded us over 4 hours ago. The RHIB matched our sailing speed and once again mated with our hull while the nimble officers leapt over our lifelines. Dan and I, having gotten very little sleep the previous evening, had retired to try and nap when the men arrived a short time later. We were so exhausted that we didn’t even bother to go up on deck and listen to their explanation. Besides, voices could be clearly heard from our berth so all we had to do was tune and listen and we could get the scoop with our eyes closed, not having to leave the comfort of our bed.
A deep voice hailed, “So you are the famous John Kretschmer. I am a big fan of your books.” Apparently, the captain of the Coast Guard cutter decided to personally share why the process of checking our documentation had taken so long. I’m quite sure he also wanted to meet John in person. I heard bits and pieces of the explanation, relaying the fact that satellite reception was very poor in the middle of the ocean and the computers were not able to verify our information. I faded off before I heard much more, and slept soundly for a few hours knowing our passports were safely back on board.
In retrospect, while initially scary, Dan and I now know what to expect if we are ever boarded by the Coast Guard. We will make sure we have the list of required items for offshore sailing handy and ready for inspection. And as Dan points out, while their boarding may be an inconvenience at the time, they are the first people we will be calling if we ever need assistance at sea. We will be praying they show up quickly if we are in distress. They are the good guys and the seas are safer because of their presence.