Cruisers merrily claim they âgo where the wind blows.â Itâs sort of true, but implies a more laissez-faire approach than migration patterns belie. On the day we departed â just as hurricane season is waning – we saw more boats sailing north and away from Grenada with us than we saw during entire stretch from Tortola down to Grenada a few months ago, at hurricane seasonâs peak. Weather patterns are shifting, and the fleet is on the move!
Provisioning up for our own departure at the bustling Saturday farmerâs market in St George is a treat for the senses. Aromas of spice waft from streetside hawkers with the cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and more grown in Grenada. This lush island produces a wealth of produce; weâve been here just long enough that I want to see and thank a few particular vendors before sailing away, like the Rastafarian farm stall, where they make perfect selections for me (two avocado ready to eat today please, four more to ripen during the week). Â Or smiling vendor of tasty vegetarian roti, dubbed “Blessed Love” in my head for theÂ phraseÂ he warmly repeats. And Jessie, who sells a variety of produce and spices in her stall, and patiently instructs me on how to prepare mauby bark into a tasty beverage…the moment captured by our friend Tony from the Wauquiez 38, Sage.
Our destination a few months from now is Panama,butÂ instead of startingÂ westward Totem has also joined the seasonal migration and sailed north. The primary reason is for Jamie to fly back to Puerto Rico for a follow up with the dermatologist (kids, wear your sunscreen!); Martinique’s busy airport makes this easier. But heading north also allows a stop in Bequia, an island that figured meaningfully in the long-ago dreams Jamie and I had to go cruising…one we passed by on our rush south to run away from the ‘canes.
For Jamie, a small boat shaped Bequia dreams: when he worked at the Fort Rachel marina in Mystic, Connecticut, he was given a wooden dory that needed repair. Six feet long, maybe a little more, it was alleged to date from the 19th century and came with a history that included months at sea becalmed in the south Atlantic. Wooden oarlocks, traditional fasteners, chipped layers paintâ¦and the tales of origin from a small Caribbean island where whaling was still practiced, and wooden tenders like this built on the shoreline.
An apron was the unexceptional source of my Caribbean dreams: nearly two decades ago when we had babies instead of teenagers, my mother found an apron proclaiming âBEQUIAâ in uneven stitching at the top, appliquÃ©d with designs depicting island life scattered over the cotton cloth. Colorful fabric shapes formed women at work: one pounded grain, another carried a basket on her head. Birds swirled over the silhouettes of the island, and fishermen lured their catch from a small boat. Someday Iâd visit this Bequia, and see what Caribbean life was like for myself.
As if confirmation that this apron is at least as much folk art as utilitarian, stitched at the bottom hem was the name of the artist: âR Williams.â With Bequia in reach: could I possibly find this person?
In fact, what seemed an insurmountable task for a short stop (2 nights, fewer days) was manifest into reality shortly after setting foot on the island. A charmed series of referrals spaced in mere minutes lead to two women in the craft bazaar. Turning the lightly soiled apron over in their hands, they murmured over the design before proclaiming âthis here is Miz Ritaâs work,â and told me how to find her – leaving me speechless.Â R had a name. Not only that, but Rita Williams lived just a short walk away! Less than an hour from arrival in Bequia I had the gift of thanking Rita Williams, and telling her how much I loved this cotton cloth sheâd years ago stitched into a functional work of art, and how it played a part in fueling my dreams to sail away. Sitting at her bedside, Rita sharedÂ about her life, about Bequia, about the stories behind those appliquÃ©s: men talking while they fish, women cooking whale meat in a coal stove, the effort and celebration of a community when one of the grand mammals is taken.
It opened a whole new world, and put Bequia in a whole new light. I returned the next day with the rest of the family. Rita graciouslyÂ retold her stories, teaching the intangible truths about her culture, offering the treasure of human connection and sharing we seek in this nomadic life. In one fell swoop she’s one of the unforgettable figures shapingÂ our time in the Caribbean.Â She’s a window into the past: crafts bazaar now has few locally-made items, featuring instead a lot of generic Caribbean-themed shirts with scenes of rastas and ganga, referencet to rum and pirates, made in another continent and stamped “BEQUIA” (and probably repeated for JAMAICA, ST VINCENT, DOMINICA, andÂ others). Bedridden after having her foot amputated a few years ago, Rita’s no longerÂ sewing.
We skipped a lot of anchorages, passed up a lot of “must-do” experiences. A few cruisersÂ asked why we were moving so fast.Â For boats that don’t expect to leave the Caribbean, I guess it is a dizzying pace. AndÂ while I do wish we had time to explore more of the Grenadines, and I do wish we had the budget for a lobster BBQ on the beach, and I do wish we could have done more of hiking on these inviting ridgelines, we are at peace with how we travel on our terms. There is always more than we can possibly see, but I’m so glad we didn’t miss Rita’s stories.