Monday, January 25, 2010

ST. LUCIA TO GRANADA

Was That A Volcano?
6/13/92 Lat. N 12 20.0  W 62 36.8' Near Kick'em Jenny, Grenada

All was going along fine. We were having a great sail on almost a beam reach and eating up the miles from Carricau, where we had entered Grenada, on our way to the big island of Grenada. This would be our stopping point for a time. The waves were three feet high and not giving us much trouble. The Cruising Guide said to watch out for heavy currents and warned us that southeast of Kick'em Jenney, near The Sisters Rocks, there was an underwater volcano that had erupted now and again.

I knew we wouldn't have any trouble. The day was too great, sunny, with scattered clouds. Wind was from the east at twenty knots. What could be better?

My log reads that at ten-forty we experienced "steep breaking waves," which was an understatement. Without warning we found ourselves in nine-foot chop. They came three at a time. They lifted the boat up and dashed it back into the water as if attempting to throw us all the way to the bottom of the ocean. It was like a great hand grabbing the boat and shaking it with all its might. It was indescribable and unnerving.

All I could do was fall off every two minutes when a set of these monsters came along. Forty minutes later the sea was back as it was before, but I wasn't…nor was Judy.

"Was that a volcano erupting?" she asked me, her face pale.

"I don't know," I replied. "We were at least ten miles away from The Sisters."

"What was it?"

"Perhaps it was just a counter current or tidal rip; something like that."
But deep down inside I wondered if it really had been a volcano erupting.


Life In The Lagoon
6/14/92 N 12 00.O' W 61 46.8' St. George’s, Grenada

Getting into the lagoon was not easy because of the shallow water at the entrance, but one inside the bottom remained fairly the same depth. Our main problem was to find a resting place amongst the multitude of boats anchored here. Ketches, sloops, cutters and cruising catamarans all snuggled together.

I surveyed the harbor and noticed some burnt out buildings on a ridge to the west. Probably, I thought, part of the destruction of when we invaded the island in late 1983 under President Reagan. There had been a bloody coup and a friend of Fidel Castro became dictator. Under the guise that U.S. students in Granada were in danger we sent in the marines. My thoughts were disrupted by Judy.

“Ames, am I having hallucinations or is that a grocery store over there?”

I grabbed the binoculars to see that she was talking about. It was hard obtain fresh meat on the way down here. You could generally find a frozen (many times over) chicken; one who was too old to outrun the butcher. We had been relegated to mostly a vegetarian diet, although I got fancy with cooking Southern Fried Spam, a delicacy the crew did not enjoy.

Through the lenses I saw a medium sized building with a dingy dock in front of it.

“That does look like a grocery store.” I refocused the instrument. “Yes! Indeed! That is definitely a supermarket.”

“Get the dingy down. Hurry. We might have some meat tonight.”

“I was planning to have meat. I was going to cook my specialty: County Fried Spam.”

“If you do, I’ll jump ship. Hurry! Let’s see what they have.”

We dinged over found the store was fairly complete, having a large choice of meats. We bought some steak, potatoes, and a six pack of Carib, and headed back to the boat. On our way we stopped at the boat of one of our cruising friends we had not seen in months.

“I am afraid,” he said, “you will have to lock up your boat at night here. There have been a series of thefts. The guy sneaks aboard, steals what he can find and leaves before you wake up. Otherwise it is a very charming island.”

We discussed other cruising friends and where they were and where they were headed for a half an hour. But most on my mind were the steaks, what I would do with them on the BBQ, and the meal we would have this night. At the same time,I was shocked that we would have to lock the boat at night.

The next morning, we headed in the dingy to the other lagoon where the city of St. George’s sat with a great gray fortress looming over it. As we entered the harbor Judy turned to me.

“There is another one.”

“Another one what?”

“Another supermarket. Let’s go and see what they have for sale. We can dock our dingy right in front.” Judy was so excited I thought she would fall out of the boat.

As we tied up the dingy a half dozen taxi drivers converged on us offering us a tour of the island. But Judy only wanted to tour the grocery store.

The Real Story Of The Mystery Volcano
6/18/92 N 12 00.O' W
61 46.8' Prickly Bay, Grenada

One morning, Judy and I went into town to the see the central market. I stopped at a little stand where a knurly old woman, in a ragged black dress and long gray hair, was selling herbs.

“I can see you need my help.” This question was directed to Judy.

“What do you mean?”

The old woman slowly looked at me and then at Judy. “I have special herbs for the lazy man.”

“I’m not lazy,” I stated, feeling very defensive. How dare this woman whom I had never seen before make such accusations. The wrinkled face and her penetrating eyes were focused on me for a minute. Then she turned back to my wife.

“There herbs will help you with a lazy man at night.” She grinned and her only tooth stood out like a beacon at night. “You know, the man who would rather sleep than…”

After a moment I understood her insinuation and I began to blush. Judy just laughed and said in a loud voice,

“How much are they?”

I ducked into a small bar to get out of the sun and my embarrassment while my wife continued her shopping. It was really just an excuse to quench my thirst with a Carib beer. This "bar" was a shack that could hold maybe four or five people.
Besides the bartender, whose chocolate face had a crooked smile, and me, there was one other person attempting to cool off. We balanced, rather than sat, on rickety stools.

He was a toothless old fisherman, his face wrinkled like a piece of balled up foil from a candy bar. He gave off the air of a fisherman; he smelled like fish.
We got to talking and I told him of my experience near Kick'em Jenny.

He smiled a toothless smile, which wrinkled his face so much that his eyes almost disappeared.

"Mon, dat is interestink. A long tale," said he, "it makes me thirst."
I bought him a beer.

"Yes mon, dat dangerous place, dat Kick'em Jenny. She have volcano, you know."

"I had heard that," I said.

"But you neber hear how dat same volcano hate the ships. No you neber heard of dat now, did you?" He took a long pull on the beer, almost emptying the bottle.

"The volcano hates ships?"

"Dat right mon. She chase de ships. When I was a young boy, I go to sea. Working on a little brigantine called the Marylee. She go up and down islands from Trinidad to Antigua and back. A good ship she was, but dat volcano hate her. We usually pass way to leeward of Kick'em Jenny, but there was times when we got close, 'cause we was late or somethin' and jus' about every time we have troubles. We have waves like you and break rigging, or we got dead calm and we goes in circles. Dead calm when ‘afore the wind be twenty-five knots, mon. It were sompin’ strange, mon. I no like dat place.” He finished his beer and I bought us another round.

"But one time, the las' time dat Marylee sailed. De waves bad, mon. The Cap'n, he knows we don't like that place, but he decides he hafe to get close. I thin' he like tempt the devil, mon. That's what, tempt de old devil hisself, mon! But we went anyway, too close and dat volcano knew it was we. The wind died down and all the sudden there was a roarin'. Made one hell of a noise, mon. To starboard we sees the huge tower of fire coming right at us. De cap'n calls to tack, and we sure wanted to tack, but we barely had way on and it took us long time. The ship moved out of de way of dat fire for a space, but the fire changed its course to follow us. We was barely doing three knots, and dat der fire coming close all de time.

"Ole Sam, de cook, he got down on his knees and prayed to he God, and any other gods he know, to save us.

"De Cap'n he yells for us to tack again, dis time we did a little faster. You know, mon, when the devil is chasen' you, you move real fas'.” (he chuckled, which sounded like a rumble in his chest) and then finished his second beer. He slammed the bottle down to get my attention, and I bought him another).

“Well, dat fire disappeared and we all were feeling better, when der was a hissing noise, which sounded like it came from under de boat. In our wake, the sea bubbles up and it smell like eggs left too long in de sun. Smell bad, mon. And then, a cable length behind us the bubbling turned into another tongue of fire. Now we all on deck praying, but not the Cap'n. He shake his hand at dat debil. He say he goin' to get away.

"Just then de wind pick up and we move out from there.

"When the Marylee get to Trinidad, we drop de anchor off Port au Prince. De Cap'n go to his cabin. Hour later, I went to get our orders for unloading. I knock on de door, but no answer. I open it just a little and de Cap'n is on bed, asleep I t'ink. But no…he were dead, and his hair had turned white. He neber got away from dat devil at all. No mon. De devil got he at last.

"Dat ship never sail again. No one would work her with de devil aboard."
He took another long swig of his beer.

"You lucky mon, dat de devil not get you too!" he said with a grin

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