May 7, 2010 - Portsmouth, Dominica

Early this morning, before upping anchor and sailing north to Dominica, we went ashore in St. Pierre one last time to run some errands. We have finally used up the last of the gasoline we purchased in the Seychelles last August, so Sten went to the gas station to fill a jerry can with some very expensive fuel (28 Euros for 23 liters) for the dinghy. Meanwhile, I stopped in at the patisserie to get a baguette for our lunch and a few pain au chocolat for a mid-morning snack. Between the rum (which shockingly has as many calories per ounce as butter) and the bread products, we're both packing on the pounds here in the French islands. But we're not worried; we've got those long passages to Bermuda and Newport ahead of us to melt it all off.

Sten caught up with me at the growers market on the pier. I already had a bag full of little green cucumbers, plump red tomatoes, crisp lettuce, and some very sharp watercress. When he found me, I was sampling the mint offered up by one of the vendors. I turned to him and said something about it being too bad that we didn't have any of the fresh sugar cane juice we had enjoyed at the distillery the other day. If we did, we could make an authentic mojito. Sten pointed out that there was a sign above my head advertising that the booth next to me was selling "Jus de Canne." What a handy guy to have around. I'd been too distracted by the beautiful fresh veggies to notice anything above waist level.

To make a mojito, a real mojito, like the ones that Hemingway used to drink at La Bodeguita in Havana, one needs to have access to guarapo, which is just the Spanish word for freshly squeezed cane juice, or as the French would say, jus de canne. Unfortunately, cane juice sours very quickly. We love the refreshing zippiness of mohitos, and drink them whenever we have access to fresh mint and fresh limes. But I always made ours with sugar, muddling the mint against it to release all those yummy oils. I never expected to have access to both cane juice and fresh mint at the same time. And I just happened to have a quarter bottle of Havana Club rum and a bottle or two of sparkling water on board. Things were shaping up for us to have some very excellent sundowners when we dropped anchor in Dominica.

We had a stunning sail from Martinique to the southern tip of Dominica, during which we had perfect sailing conditions of light seas and 15 knots of wind on the beam and saw boat speeds of up to 9 knots. And then we sailed into the lee of Dominica, and lost the wind. We fired up the engine and Sten made us some tasty baguette sandwiches for lunch. By the time we reached Portsmouth at the northern tip of Dominica it was late afternoon; and, we were hot and tired and had had too much sun. We chose a spot to anchor on the south side of the bay, far away from the mooring field filled with charter boats and boat boys. We needed a swim and a drink to cool down, not necessarily in that order.

Mata'irea's Martinique Mojito

In a glass put 10-20 mint leaves and the juice of one lime. Muddle vigorously. Add 3 ounces Jus de Canne and 1.5 ounces Cuban rum*. Stir. Add ice and soda water and stir once more.

*with apologies to the distillers in Martinique, but I don't want rhum agricole in my mojitos. I want a smooth, round, well aged Cuban rum. For those of you in the States, where such necessities of life are prohibited, Mount Gay XO (not Eclipse) will do.

May 6, 2010 - Fort de France, Martinique

One of the curious things about this lifestyle is that Sten and I spend all of our time together. Before we left on this trip, we were lucky if we had one waking hour together a day. Now, we go days and sometimes even weeks without spending any time apart. Luckily, it turns out that we like each other.

Today, for the first time since the girls' spa day last November in Richard's Bay, I left Sten and Mata'irea for several hours, but not for a reason as fun as pedicures and facials. There is supposed to be a clearance office here in St. Pierre, the northernmost anchorage in Martinique, but the Customs Department has suspended service in St. Pierre. So today, while Sten worked on a myriad of niggling maintenance issues on board, I took the bus down to Fort de France to clear us out of the country.

I took care of our outwards clearance, then wandered down to Rue Victor Hugo to check out the boutiques. In a very cool little shop I found a few things to supplement my threadbare wardrobe and handed them to the shop girl so that she could ring them up. I reached into my bag to pull out my wallet, but couldn't find it. Had I dropped it? Been pickpocketed? A brief moment of panic was quickly replaced by utter embarrassment as I tried to explain in broken French that I wouldn't be taking those items after all. Out on the sidewalk I determined that I had just enough coins in a ziplock baggie labeled "Euros" to grab lunch at a hole-in-the-wall (a far cry from the sushi feast I'd been looking forward to) and get a shared taxi bus back up to St. Pierre. Not quite the girl's day out I had planned. Back at the boat, I was very relieved to find my wallet sitting on the nav station, right where I'd left it.

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May 5, 2010 - St. Pierre, Martinique

Anchoring under Mt. Pelee

Back in 1902, this town was the bomb. Actually, it was "the pearl." That's what they called it - The Pearl of the West Indies. For 250 years the French had been building churches and theaters and distilleries in St. Pierre. By 1902, there were 30,000 people living here. It was the biggest city in the West Indies. And then the mountain that lurks over the town blew its top. Every single person in town was killed, except for one very lucky prisoner whose tomb-like jail cell protected him from the worst of the lava and ash.

Today, only 6,000 people live in St. Pierre. There is still a church and a distillery, but the theater has not been rebuilt. We spent a morning walking around town, visiting the ruins and the museum. These days St. Pierre is an atmospheric little town, with many houses sharing walls with ruins from the eruption.


During the hottest part of the day we hid out on the boat. Then late in the afternoon we returned to shore to walk up to Depaz. According to our cruising guide, the walk up to the distillery is 30 minutes. We got a little lost, stumbling across a few more ruins before we found the road up to the distillery (Rue Schoeler), and so it took us 45 minutes of walking up hill before we reached it.


There wasn't anybody at the entrance desk, or any brochures in English, so I grabbed one in German and we wandered off to check out the works. We checked out the paddle wheel that used to power the plant, which has long since been replaced by a steam engine. We waded through the chaff from the crushed cane. We enjoyed a glass of fresh cane juice while we checked out the stainless steel tanks used for fermenting the juice. We admired the copper still pot where the mildly boozy fermented juice is turned into something much more potent.

We peeked into the cask room, where rhum vieux ages in old whisky and bourbon barrels until it is time to be bottled. And lastly, we wandered through the gift shop. But with memories of that awful hike from the Mount Gay bottling plant fresh in our minds, we decided not to purchase anything at this distillery. Somehow, distilleries are not as charming as vineyards. I know fermentation is at the heart of it all, but the very industrial evaporation process takes a bit of the magic out of it.

When clear white rum emerges from the still pot, it is 70% abv. It is cut a little bit before it is bottled, but the grocery shelves here in Martinique are stocked with plenty of bottles of 50%, 55% and even 60% abv rhum agricole (rum made from sugar cane juice, as apposed to rum made from molasses, which is common on most other islands). And the folks in Barbados thought they were happy!

Crazy Tree

Some of the rum produced and sold here in Martinique is aged, but most of the local consumption seems to be rhum blanc, which is herby and floral, like a really good blanco tequila or cachaca. And the favorite way to drink it in Martinique is in a T-Punch.

The first time we sat down at a restaurant here and ordered a cocktails, Sten ordered a Planter's Punch and I ordered the T-Punch. Sten's cocktail came out as expected - rum and juice served together in a glass. But my drink arrived as a work in progress. The waiter set out a glass, a wedge of lime, some raw sugar, and a bottle before me. Then he left, leaving the quantity and proportions completely up to me. I stole half of the ice from Sten's glass, then it was off to the races.

May 3, 2010 - Anse Noire, Martinique

Earlier this afternoon we rounded Cap Salomon on the west coast of Martinique. Cap Salomon is certainly not one of the world's great capes. From a sailing perspective, it is an innocuous little bump on a coastline. But for us, it was a momentous rounding. The moment we sailed past Cap Salomon, we completed our circumnavigation.

Three years and three months ago, we sailed south from Fort de France, Martinique to Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, sailing past Cap Salmon. At the time we had no idea that the cape would be the location where we would eventually cross our outbound track and, as an old salt would say, tie the knot. But leaving Marin this morning we were prepared for the occasion. The champagne and shrimp dip were chilling in the fridge and we'd picked a snug little bay just past the cape to tuck into and celebrate.

Anse Noire turned out to be a beautiful, tiny little bay. We were beguiled by its palm fringed, volcanic black sand beach, which reminded us of the Marquesas, half a world away. The wind funnels down the hills surrounding the bay, requiring lots of swinging room for boats at anchor, which makes this small bay only big enough for two or three boats. We dropped anchor in the middle of the bay, had a late lunch, and went for a snorkel along the colorful cliffs surround the bay.

As the afternoon wore on, we decided to spend the night. That evening we were treated to one of the most spectacular sunsets of our entire trip. As darkness fell, we could see the lights of Fort de France, the biggest city in the Eastern Caribbean, twinkling in the distance. But in our private little harbor, we felt a million miles away from civilization.

May 2, 2010 - Marin, Martinique

We had an easy overnight run from Barbados to Marin, Martinique, arriving in this huge natural harbor just after dawn. As we approached the anchorage we were shocked by the number of boats around us. Between the anchorage, marina and haul out yard, there must be a thousand boats here. We found a spot at the back of the pack, next to the biggest yacht in the harbor, and dropped anchor. We figured that their big black, four-spreader mast would be a good landmark (or is it a watermark?) for us when we needed to find our way back to our own boat among the hordes. What we didn't expect was that the "professional" crew would use their emergency strobe light as an anchor light. Ah, it is good to be back in the Caribbean.

Shortly after we anchored Sten was cooking up our breakfast when he said "it is so flat, I don't know what to do with myself." Every task is much easier when you don't have to brace yourself or keep things from flying about. Not moving is such a nice change after two and a half months of constant movement. We can see why so many boats seem to have gotten stuck here. It is an awfully nice harbor.

It is so nice to be in France.

Everything in Marin is orientated towards sailors who are reliant upon their dinghies to get around. There are four dinghy docks, lining the harborfront. One is in front of the Customs office, making clearing in a snap. The next, in front of the new marina extension, provides easy access to a bakery, grocery and laundry. Down by the haul out yard, another dock provides access to the chandleries, another grocery store, a self-service laundry, a boulangerie, a patisserie, and a rotisserie (Is this heaven?). The fourth and final dock is the newest one, recently built by Leader-Price to provide yachties with easier access to that supermarket. Being able to wheel a grocery cart directly to ones dinghy makes doing a big provisioning much easier. This last dock also provides access to the McDonald's across the street ("Deux Royales with Cheese, please, err, pour favor, err, I mean, s'il vous plait."). All of this makes Marin a great stop after a transatlantic passage. And for being French the locals are surprisingly accommodating about our fumbling attempts to speak their language.

After four days here our fridge is restocked with local pate, fromage, saucisson (cured sausage, sliced and eaten with baguette and cheese), poulet fume, a surprisingly affordable leg of New Zealand lamb, and some gorgeous local veggies. Once again we have a linen closet full of clean sheets and all twenty-two ultrasuede cushion covers are fresh from the laundry. We've gorged ourselves on baguettes, fresh from the oven, and sampled the Ti Punch (a powerful cocktail made with the local rhum agricole, a dash of simple syrup and a squeeze lime), which we can report packs a wallop. We've had a few good nights sleep (despite the strobe light). And so it is time for us to move on.

We're pretty excited about our next leg (all 30 miles of it). We'll be crossing our outbound track and completing our circumnavigation. The champagne is already chilling in the fridge.

April 28, 2010 - Barbados

We've really enjoyed some aspects of being anchored in Carlisle Bay. The water is so clear and warm that we swim every day. So do the locals. Every morning we wake to the sound of Bajans coming down to the beach for a swim before work. The jockeys from the local track bring the horses down for a sea bath at dawn as well. All of this would be more charming if the nightclubs that line the beach hadn't been going until 4:00 am. But even so, this is an uncommonly nice white sand beach.

Unfortunately, it is not such a great anchorage for a monohull. We spend all day and night rolling in the swell. If we had come to Barbados from a flat anchorage, we wouldn't have stayed more than a day or two with these conditions. But since we've either been underway or anchored in open roadsteads for the past two months, we're quite acclimated to the motion. But when the swell built to the point where the waves crashing into the beach became surfable, it was time to go.

If the swell hadn't gotten to us, the dismal selection of staples and produce at the central grocery store in Bridgetown would have forced us to move on. Our provisions are running low and Barbados is an obscenely expensive place to restock. As one expat told us, by way of explanation, "It's Barbados, Old Boy!"

Since the fishing was so unproductive during the two months it took us to travel up from South Africa, we've decimated our frozen meat supplies. With no chicken and only two steaks left, we turned to harvesting the local fruits of the sea. We're pretty sure it is legal to take conch here, but just in case, we're not posting any incriminating photos.

With visions of deli cases filled with pate and French cheese, we are headed to Martinique. The 112 mile trip is too long to do in a day, so we'll overnight it.

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January 25, 2007 - Fort de France, Martinique

We had been planning to stay in Roseau for a few days, to use it as our base for exploring the Southern end of the island, but the lack of rental car had put a damper on our plans, and the noise from shore that kept us up most of the night was just a bit more than we were willing to put up with. So we headed down to Fort de France, Martinique.

I was skeeved out enough by the last anchorage we were in in Dominica (Roseau) to go to a "personal protection" store in Martinique and pick up some pepper spray. Actually, the sales lady didn't speak English, and my French is so bad that I very well may have purchased tear gas. Either way, I feel a bit safer sleeping with it next to my bed. We ended up striking out on finding a French press to replace the one that broke in Barbuda, but we were able to stock up on some more yogurt and fresh eggs, so after just one night we moved on down the chain towards St. Lucia.