Windjammer Cruise

(Note: Clicking on any image in this travelogue will bring up an enlarged version of the image.)

Wednesday, March 12
St. Kitts

And, for a change, we actually were sailing into St. Kitts. They had hoisted sail sometime during the night or morning, and it was an uplifting sight. (Although we were still motoring in addition to the sails. I suspect it was the sails that were assisting the motor, rather than the other way around.) St. Kitts is only a hop, skip, and a jump from Nevis. You will note the photo in yesterday's account of St. Kitts taken from a high vantage point on Nevis.

Each morning we were given information on some of the sights and attractions at our current port of call. This day, I was intrigued by a tour to an 18th Century British fortress called Brimstone Hill. Jenny wanted to visit Caribelle Batiks, one of the few island industries that continues to do well post-sugar era. So we each pursued our own fancies. Jenny lent me her binoculars, a nice compact folding pair that would fit in a belt pouch. We figured I'd have more use for them than she on our morning's activities.

Those headed for Brimstone Hill piled into the appropriate van, and trundled north along the coast for a half hour or so. As we approached, we could see it atop the mountain, dominating the landscape and the harbor below. I had read Bernard Cornwell's "Sharpe" series of historical novels. They were sort of the army equivalent of Patrick O'brian's Aubrey-Maturin naval novels dealing with the same time period, the Napoleonic Wars. Cornwell had penned some graphic and well researched descriptions of attacks, defences, and sieges of such fortresses. And this physical manifestation of such a fortress from that era solidified those descriptions in my mind. It must have been a fearsome undertaking to try to take such a fort. In my mind's eye, I put myself in the boots of the attackers and defenders, and quailed at the thought.

On the way back, I asked to be let off in the town of Basseterre before we got to the dock. I wanted to wander around Independence Square a bit and see some of the sights. The Catholic Church on the Square was particularly impressive. The two "traveler" palms (big fan-shaped palms) flanking the entrance gave it a demeanor at once festive and of a solemn grace. It followed the general style of the great European churches, although not so large, with a peculiar variation common to the Islands. The tall windows are not decorated with elaborate stained glass designs, but rather left completely unglazed, allowing light and breeze to enter the building. The windows are also fitted with shutters that can be closed during hurricanes.

We returned to the Sagitta for lunch. I reached for Jenny's binoculars to look on shore for something, and discovered they weren't there. That surprised me because I had been wearing the case on my belt. And then I knew what had happened. The only time I had opened my belt was to use the toilet at the Brimstone Hill Fortress. They must have slipped off there. We called the fortress, and sure enough they had found them. How to retrieve them? The boat was due to sail to our afternoon of swimming and snorkeling in Frigate Bay. With the help of Leah, the Sagitta's passenger liaison, I arranged for a taxi driver to go pick them up and meet us at Frigate Bay. We sailed south around the isthmus of St. Thomas Lowland, through the Narrows separating St. Kitts from Nevis, and back up the other side to Turtle Bay. We rode the dinghy to shore. And while Jenny snorkeled, I hung around the "Shiggedy Shack", a beach bar, and again caught up with correspondence via their WiFi until Tatum, the taxi driver, arrived with Jenny's binoculars. The Sagitta's crew prepared a barbecue for us on the beach for dinner.

That evening, while waiting on the dinghy ride back to the ship. Waiting for the dinghy on the dock, I was alerted by a cry of "Sting ray!" from one of the party. Sure enough, right below our feet in the dark water only 2 or 3 feet deep was a ray that must have measured 6 feet across cruising the bottom. I tried to get a picture, but the light was too dim. And by the time I messed with settings on the camera, it was gone. (Honest! It was this big!)

Thursday, March 13
St. Barthe

(Or St. Bart's. Or St. Barthelemy. Very confusing.) The playground of the rich and ostentatious. They have it and they flaunt it. It's sort of entertaining at first, and then it gets old. I used to say, "You can't have too much money, but you can have enough." Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you can have too much money.

So, I figure, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

We anchored far offshore outside the harbor where we wouldn't pollute the scenery, and slunk ashore in the dinghy trying to be unobtrusive.

Disembarking, we immediately noticed a big difference from the other islands we had visited. For one thing, it was French, which was evidenced by the signs and women's beachwear. I got to dredge up some of my junior high school French from the dark recesses of my memory. It wasn't really necessary; everyone spoke English. But it was sort of fun. But even stronger was the general ambience of the island. Rather than a cordoned off section for the tourists, the entire town of Gustavia, and maybe even the entire island for all I knew, seemed to be for fabulously wealthy residents and guests. It was de rigueur to display one's self and one's accoutrements for all and sundry. The first to display himself to us immediately after we disembarked from the dinghy was a handsome fellow named Malcolm, wearing a stunning tail in fashionable peach silk. The various craft moored in the harbor were all fabulously flashy and impressive. As we walked through the town, that aura was omnipresent. The shops were fashionable. the houses were fashionable. The cars were fashionable. There were no scruffy areas where the "real" people lived.

We walked over a low hill to Shell Beach, which was probably the most beautiful beach of the whole trip. However, true to its name, the beach consisted not of sand, but of tiny shells which were hard on the feet. We decided not to swim there. We hiked back to town, and then up to the top of a higher hill to view the airport, notorious as having one of the most difficult and dangerous runways to land on. Due to prevailing winds, the approach is over a hill several hundred feet high, followed by a dive under full flaps and perhaps negative pitch on the prop, to keep the speed low enough so as not to overrun the end of the runway into the bay. There's a convenient roundabout right at the top of the hill where I could stand and take photos of the planes landing. It was a pretty strenuous hike up that hill, but I got there and didn't have to wait for more than 10 or 15 minutes for a plane to come along and get me these shots.

Approach

Clear the crest

Geronimoooo.............

.............ooooooooooo.........

...............oooooooooo!!!

I had used my new camera's "continuous" function of holding down the shutter button and letting it take shots as fast as it could process them. Between the 2nd and 5th photos above, there were actually 24 shots taken. I thought that was pretty nifty. But then I said to myself, "I ought to take a movie of the next one." But we had to get back to the ship for lunch. So we hitched a ride back down with another fellow who had also stopped to take similar photos. But I resolved to go back there in the afternoon and try for the movie.

As we came to the dock to pick up the dinghy back to the Sagitta, I noticed something interesting in the parking lot, which I document below:

I just wanted to offer photographic evidence that the Mini Cooper, which I've been driving since 2003, is the most popular car in trendy St. Barthe. You can always count on me to be ahead of the curve when it comes to knowing what's cool.

We went back to the ship for lunch, and I returned to shore afterwards bound and determined to get a movie of another aircraft landing. I did not relish the prospect of hiking up that long hill again. So, encouraged by the ease in which we got a ride down the hill, I stuck a thumb out and was soon picked up by the driver of a truck that brought me back to my vantage point at the traffic circle. I planted myself in the ideal spot and waited for the next plane to come along. One did shortly, and it was then I discovered that I did not know how to operate the camera in movie mode. When all else fails, read the directions. Which were back at the ship. Oh well. I hitched a ride back down and got the dinghy back to the ship. I didn't have enough time to make another round trip, so I'll have to wait for my next trip to St. Barthe to get that movie.

That evening before dinner, I gave another little mini-concert in the dining area.

When I had gotten back to the ship earlier in the day, I read up on the movie function of my new camera, and found an opportunity to use it that evening after it got dark. The ship was equipped with a couple of powerful underwater lights on her port side, which attracted some large tarpon. These are about 4 or 5 feet long, and look to my inexperienced eye somewhat sharklike, although I'm told they are harmless to humans. They would cavort in the illuminated water to our unceasing entertainment. here's a video of them. Ignore the sounds you are hearing. That was just one of the crew members inflating the dinghy with a hand pump. Sure sounds like it could be whales or some sort of aquatic donkey or something.

Friday, March 14
St. Barthe

Friday morning we weighed anchor and steered a course to Anse Colombier (Colombier Beach) at the northern end of the island. This was a beautiful and somewhat isolated beach, accessible by boat or footpath, but not by road. Consequently it was lightly populated. Also consequently, there were no amenities, such as food, water, bathrooms, or shade. It was a lovely beach, though, and the snorkeling was good. (Again, Jenny engaged in that, but not me and my moustache.)

.

At anchor, we saw sea turtles surfacing briefly. Too briefly for me to get any better photo than the one above. There was also some strange pyramidal structure on the rise above the beach. No one had a clue as to what it was. There was no dock at the beach, so it was another "wet" landing, where we scrambled clumsily out of the dinghy into the shallows.

The water was warm and pleasant, but without any surf to entertain me. I espied a couple of pretty 20-something women running on the beach, which reminded me that I hadn't had a run since we boarded the Sagitta. I had hesitated to run on beaches before because of the unsure footing. But I gave it a try, and found it quite suitable as long as I stuck to the wet portion at the verge of the strand. The ladies and I waved to each other as we crossed paths. We were both doing laps back and forth along the 1/4-mile length of the beach, and at one point I found myself behind them. Which gave me an incentive to put on a little speed. We continued companionably together for a bit. After two complete back-and-forth passes, my usual mile, I was about done, and peeled off, asking them how long a run they intended to complete. "5 miles." was their reply. Oh well. so much for impressing the ladies.

The beach was bordered by a bluff about 50 or 60 feet high with a path along the top. A set of crude steps led to the top. Jenny and I climbed the steps. But neither of us had brought shoes to the beach, and the stony path was not comfortable to walk along. There was a nice view, though, with ocean on both sides of the bluff.