WEEEEEELLLL, we decided not to overnight it to Bequia (pronounced BEK-way) from Dominica (pronounced dom-in-EE-ka) after all, instead taking the easier option of day sails through Martinique (mahr-tin-EEK) and St. Lucia (loo-SI-ah).  I was about to write that the islands get harder to pronounce as you go South, but Philip reminded me of Saba (SAY-ba), St. Barths (san bahrt), St. Martin (san mar TAN), Antigua (an TEE ga) and Nevis (NEE vis).

Anyhoo, back to the story.

We’re planning to high-tail it down the island chain over the next week because a tropical WAVE is on its way and will cause squally conditions that aren’t ideal for sailing.  Don’t ask me what a WAVE is.  Or a TROF.  The most I know is that they are tropical weather features that make things ugly for a while.  I think that they might be associated with low pressure systems, but not enough to have a real Tropical LO, which is much nastier.  If you do know, please educate me.

Anyhoo, back to the story.

We arrived at Martinique on Friday afternoon after a romp of a sail down from Roseau.  As usual, the island effect gave us strong winds on the nose as we rounded the southern end of Dominica, but these settled out to 20-25 knots 60 degrees of the bow for most of the trip.  Seas were moderate so we only got mildly soaked, and we were able to keep the heel to about 15-20 degrees by only using the mizzen and a reefed jib – but this killed our speed so the 35 mile trip took 7 hours, despite a fantastic last couple of hours approaching Martinique on a beam reach in moderated winds and seas when we were doing 5.5-6 knots.  All in all, a fun if challenging sail. The best part was that Philip actually enjoyed it, which may be the first time he hasn’t HATED sailing since, oh, the first Picaroon.

It’s too bad that we have to push South so fast, however, because it would have been fun to explore the St. Pierre area a bit.  We weren’t able to explore at all because the tourist office that handles clearing in (immigration/customs) has had no electricity, so we’re technically not supposed to be on shore.  There’s an entire bay full of boats flying the yellow quarantine flag here.   While our lack of clearance didn’t stop us from popping into the market to grab some vittles on the way back, we didn’t want to totally flaunt the law and go for a long, rambling hike up the volcano.

You see, this is the infamous town that was totally destroyed in 1902 by the eruption of Mt. Pele.  It was considered the Paris of the Caribbean at the time, and 29,000 people died immediately when the side of the mountain blew off on May 8, 1902.  There were two survivors: a man in jail for murder, and a cobbler who was in his cellar.  Everyone else in the town was killed by the massive fireball or lava flow.  The crazy thing is that there were copious warnings that the volcano was going to erupt, but the governor refused to evacuate because he was under pressure from plantation owners who didn’t want to lose money.  There’s a museum and archaeological site I would have loved to visit – next time, I guess!

So our plan now is to head down to the capital, Fort de France, this afternoon, which should be a quick 15-mile sail, and clear in and out of Martinique tomorrow.  We’ll take this last opportunity on a French island to stock up on the fantastic foods and wine you can’t get anywhere else then make our way, probably to St. Lucia on Tuesday.  We might stay there a day or just anchor overnight without even clearing in and head to St. Vincent the next day so we can make it to Bequia by Friday.  We’ll see.  Nothing ever works as planned on a boat, but it’s after a year that I’m finally totally at peace with that.

HAVE I mentioned that Dominica is AMAZING? Yes? Well, it bears repeating, because DAHMN, this place is literally awesome.  We’ve been busy exploring and hiking with new friends made at the beach barbeques and old friends met again after almost a year.

A few days ago, we took Dan and Rose of Exit Strategy and Florence and Peter of Filia Maris back to the natural hot tub we had visited the day before.  In a small clearing in the jungle, a hot spring has been dammed up to make a natural pool that is the perfect Jacuzzi temperature.  The six of us piled in, and Dan won the award for best prepared when he pulled a bottle of wine and six glasses out of his backpack.

Yesterday, Peter and Gail, our Aussie friends from Jabiru V whom we got to know in the U.S. last summer, joined us for our second attempt to walk to the Indian River. Our first attempt last week was a complete failure, but this time we met with more success because we had gotten directions from Bob and Cathy, a Canadian couple who’ve been here for 2 months.

However, we still missed the turn-off into the forest the first time, a mistake that – quite fortunately – took us a couple of miles out of our way, up to a small farm at the top of a hill with a divine view of the valley below and mountains towering overhead.  We asked a wizened old man with about four teeth but a beautiful, open, craggy face for directions, and after telling us how to find the correct path, cheerfully told us all about his farm.   Called Webster “Ti Babe” Brody, he showed us his taro, banana and yam fields, then fetched a long stick to knock down mangoes from his trees for us to eat.  We happily chatted with while slurping on the two kinds of mangoes, the first a smaller, sweeter but more fibrous one, and the second larger but less likely to end up between your teeth.

An aside: It’s mango season here, but it’s more like mango madness.  The hugely laden mango trees  are everywhere.  People are selling them on the street, but I can’t imagine why anyone would buy them, as you can simply walk up to a tree and pick up windfalls or knock down a ripe one with a stick.  Seemingly everyone you see, on their porches, walking down the street, or waiting for the bus, is slurping on a mango.  Some small children are completely covered in mango pulp, prompting me to declare, “If I lived here and had a kid, I’d ban mangoes until they were old enough to clean themselves up afterwards!”

We backtracked down the hill, laughing at the local man who passed us, a tire over his shoulder, a machete in one hand, and his cell phone in the other, chatting away.  Philip joked that perhaps he was on his way back from the rubber plantation.

We finally found the correct trail and the Indian River, and our minds were simply blown by the sight of the swamp bloodwood trees, whose massive, undulating root systems form surrealist sculptures on either side of the dappled river.  None of us had ever seen anything like it; the cruising guide’s admonition that the river was unlike anything in the Caribbean certainly proved true.

Then we rewarded ourselves for all the hard work with a beer at the bar at the end of the trail.  Oh, yes, a mind-blowing nature hike that ends in a bar.  What can be better?

(The bar actually serves as the destination for folks who take the guided boat tour up the river, which is something we would have done if we had more spare cash.)

On the way back, we met a charming young girl whose American mother owns the horse farm we were passing.  She introduced us to her dog, Mikey, and chatted away with us until she noticed that her other dog had stolen a mango and was holding it – with some obvious difficulty, as the mango was a tad large for him – in his mouth.   The girl put her hands on her hips and cried, in a very proper and old-fashioned manner, “Oh, Pocolino!  You’ve gotten into my mangoes again!  Just you wait until I tell Mama, mister!”  We laughed, and laughed and laughed, repeating her words all the way back to the beach.  Where we had another lovely beer and watched the sun set.

Yeah. Life doesn’t suck.