Call me Dave. This is my story. There were times when times were tough. It was often hot or rainy, or the sea was churning and sickening. Times when I hung over the rail and fed the fish. Times when nothing worked. Times when we had no power, or not a drop to drink. There were sleepless nights when the sheets stuck together like celophane and the the anchorage rolled and threatened to throw me off the bunk. There were mornings spent hungover and soar. There were times when I was bruised and battered. I was always sweaty, always dirty, always salty, and often soaked. There were times when the water was full of stinging jelly fish and the air was thick with mosquitos. The trails were often steep and always muddy. I was bit, stung, bruised, burned, chaffed, cut, sliced, stubbed, and sickened. The only true adventures are misadventures, and misadventures are never ever fun. But there were lots of good times too. And good people. To Anne, Percy, Chris, Jill, Ivo, Laurene, Meredith, Ginny, Abby, Ellie, Sandy, Mary, Tony, Jeanie, Bud, Leslie, Ed, Betsey, Chuck, Anne, Hershel, John, Sue, Gay, Di, Steve, Penny, Lyle, Vitoria, Jon, Cynthia, Carol, Thor, Mike, Judith, Francis, Virginia, Dr. Elvis, Lloyd, Vision, Charlie Brown, Alby, Jambo, Bertrand, Justin, Alexis, Jason, Gregory, Ben, George, Lynton, Mr. King, Lincoln, Ben, Mathew, Phillip, Iry, Ronnie, True True, and Pancho; Thank you all! You made this trip what it was. It wasn't all glamorous, or even fun, but there were good times. Amazing times! Times worth living for! This story is about those times. Begin at the beginning, and please enjoy!

The next day we sailed south again past Carriacou (pronounced "Carry-coo") to Grenada. We anchored just outside of St. George's harbor. We went ashore the next morning to explore the waterfront and do some provisioning. We intended to stay another day in Grenada and explore inland, however, a weather report showed Hurricane Emily headed for Martinique, as Ivan was predeicted to do last year when it turned south and ravaged Grenada. So we bumped our schedule ahead to leave that night for the passage to Trinidad. As the sun was setting, we pulled up the anchor and headed down the coast and offshore under full sail. A small flock of boats with similarly motivated crews was beginning to form, and it appeared that we would have company on the voyage. Dinner was simple, and we ate in the dark cockpit. Around 9 p.m. we began to fall into our casual watch schedule, each trying to grab a little sleep. Around 11 p.m., a bumping and sliding sound on deck, accompanied by the smell of diesel fuel, "woke" Mom, Ellie, and I, and we were dressed and on deck and harnessed in record time. A couple of the fuel cans that were lashed in pairs to the railing near the bow had come loose and overturned. With harnesses clipped to the lifelines, the deck covered in spray, and a pelting rain just starting, Dad and I made our way towards the bow. It took several minutes to sort out the cans and lash them securely. Next I crawled to the bowsprit as the spray splashed up all around me. With the flashlight in my teeth, I braced against the bow pulpit and proceeded to get soaked as I willed my hands to work quickly tying the extra safety line to the anchor chain. Securing the anchor was always my responsibility, and in pounding seas like this, my biggest fear was that my handiwork would fail and the anchor and chain would be tossed overboard and swiftly punch a hole in the fiberglass hull. Perhaps this concern was unfounded, but the little extra line tying the chain to the steel stansion provided a little peace of mind, if nothing else. I tied as quickly as I could make my hands (trembling with excitement) work; cow hitch, half hitch, butterfly, trucker's hitch, half hitch, half hitch, out with the knife, cut the tail end, away with the knife, brace for impact, SPLASH!, spit out the flash light, grip with the toes, turn around, brace for impact, SPLASH!, run for the cockpit, not enough time, too late, brace for impact, SPLASH! To be fair, the seas weren't really much worse than what we routinely sailed, but at night, everything seems a little more ominous, and adventurous! I was loving it! By the time I "officially" went on watch, around 2 A.M. or so, my self-imposed sense of importance had me ready to climb the rigging or cut loose a broken mast! I contented myself instead to talking to a passing merchant ship on the radio and making frequent trips to the deck to "make sure everthing is okay". A flying fish somehow boarded us without notice, at least until something in the cockpit started to stink. At sunrise, everthing looked normal and benign again, and Trinidad was soon faintly visible on the horizon. By midday we had reached Chagguaramas Bay on the northeast corner of Trinidad. We picked up a mooring in the busy little harbor and went to visit customs and immigrations. Lunch at a nice restaraunt at one of the marinas had us feeling better. That afternoon, Mom, Ellie, and I hopped a cab to a nearby shopping mall (just like in the States!). I had discovered that my field guide to the birds of the West Indies did not contain any Trinidad species, and my goal was to find a bookstore and an appropriate field guide. I saw two new species during the cab ride. With our mission completed, we returned to the marina restaraunt for dinner. The next morning, Ellie and I packed bags and headed ashore for a long cab ride to the famous Asa Wright Nature Center. Asa Wringht is well known internationally by birders as one of the best wildlife viewing spots in all of Trinidad. We had a reservation to stay there at the lodge that night and I was very excited to sample this world class birdwatching (and monkeywatching, and reptilewatching). By and by, as we arranged for a taxi, we happened to hear about a certain Hurricane Emily that was due to arrive around midnight. Very quickly, the Asa Wright reservation was cancelled, and we began preparations for the storm. We had to bring water aboard by dingy, in jugs 20 gallons at a time. Also, the sails had to be taken down, the canvas bimini and dodger, as well, and everything had to be tied down or battened down. We tripled our mooring lines, and Trinidad braced for its first hurricane in 34 years. The weather got nasty, and though it never reached full-on catastrophic levels in the harbor, the rolling and pitching and swelling and swinging around our mooring made for very unpleasant sleeping and continued well into the next day. Neighboring Tobago got slammed by Emily, and in the mountains of Trinidad, winds were clocked in excess of 100 mph. The bulk of the hurricane passed to the north of Trinidad, and Grenada was somewhat worse off. Power outages, flooding, and downed trees had things on shore on Trinidad pretty well shut down. However, the next day, Ellie and I packed our bags. I said my goodbyes to Little Seal and the Tropics, boarded a plane in Port of Spain and headed back to Virginia. Thus ends this chapter of my saga.

Early in the morning, we met Vincentian guide/boat vendor/mechanic/restaurant owner Ronnie at the docks on shore. After changing the taxi’s flat tire, we were driven into the interior mountains of St. Vincent in the upper reaches of the Buccamont Valley. Here, within the National Parrot Reserve, we began our search for the St. Vincent parrot. When I first came to the Caribbean, I read about the islands that I planned to see and I had happily discovered that many of these are volcanic in origin and thus mountainous and forested. Islands such as Saba, Guadeloupe, Dominica, Martinique, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent boast some large stands of tropical rainforest that play host to a wide variety of avifauna and a wealth of flora, from the wide buttressed chataignier trees to the delicate orchids and hearty bromeliads. Of great interest to me were the colorful parrots that dwell in this environment. There are nine species of endemic parrot in the West Indies, four of which are found along our route, all belonging to the neotropical parrot genus Amazona. Of the other five endemics, two are in Jamaica, one in Puerto Rico, one in Hispaniola, and one is a native of Cuba, the Bahamas, and the Cayman Islands. In recent years, 15 species of West Indian parrot have been driven to extinction primarily by loss of crucial rainforest habitat, hunting for colorful feathers, and, to a lesser extent, capture for the pet shop trade. Found along our route is the endangered red-necked parrot (Amazona arausiaca) and the critically endangered imperial parrot (Amazona imperialis) both found only in Dominica. Also on our route is the endangered St. Lucian parrot (Amazona versicolor) and the critically endangered St. Vincent parrot (Amazona guildingii) found only in St. Lucia and St. Vincent, respectively. I determined, prior to my arrival in the Caribbean, to attempt to see, in the wild, all four of these very rare and unique endemic species. I decided not to include the introduced orange-winged parrot of Martinique and Grenada for reasons of “authenticity”. My attempt began in Dominica, where red-necked parrots fed in fruit trees in the Northern Forest Reserve, and imperial parrots flew across mountain drainages that we watched at a distance. One imperial landed in a treetop affording us a long, though distant, view. In St. Lucia, a pair of parrots squawked raucously as they cleared the treetops and flew into the open air of a forest clearing where I stood on the side of Piton Flore. In St. Vincent, the day was not very promising as the rain poured and the wind shook the tree branches and raised so much noise that my comrades and I were forced to shout just to make ourselves heard over the melee. Through the entire first half of the hike I didn’t see or hear a single bird or other creature. ‘Well, Dave, you’re luck has finally run out!’ I thought to myself as I leaned into the wind. Ronnie and I walked in front, and as we crested a ridge and began to descend, a slight lull in the zephyr allowed us to hear the flap of large wings and the rustle of leafy branches. Looking down a small drainage at the treetops I just caught a glimpse of yellow and brown wings as they disappeared below. “Close,” I said, “but not quite good enough.” I held out my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart to show how close we had been to a “good” sighting. We walked farther down the trail which dropped out of the wind somewhat. As we approached the official “Parrot Lookout”, a wooden platform on a spur ridge that offers views of a forested valley, we could faintly hear the rising gua, gua, gua of the parrots in flight. Ronnie turned to make eye contact just before we both broke into a run. We reached the lookout platform and threw our bellies against the railings, straining our necks to see over, around, and through the overhanging canopy. Mom, Dad, and Ellie were there swiftly as well. The calls grew louder until a pair of large birds appeared against the gray skyline. Soon another pair joined them, followed by four more. Over the next several minutes, about a dozen small groups of parrots flapped across the valley, some just silhouettes against the clouds, others quite close or flying down below us affording glimpses of yellow and orange markings. A goal achieved! Several early mornings had been spent sweating up muddy trails, being soaked by rain showers and bit by mosquitoes. I returned to the trailhead with a puffed-out chest and a quiet satisfaction that caused irrepressible fits of goofy smiles throughout the day. After the parrot trail we had a brief tour of downtown Kingstown and the oldest botanical gardens in the Caribbean. The rain really settled in in the afternoon and we spent the balance of the day quietly around the boat. Our anchorage, Wallilibou Bay, was a major set in all three Pirates of the Caribbean movies and the whole shoreline is developed in suitably “piratey” buildings with thatched roofs and gray stone facades. Of course it is all thoroughly abandoned now, though we found a trio of squirmy mutt puppies living between some decorative wooden barrels that had straw spread beneath them. The next morning we set sail for Bequia (pronounce Beck-way) in the Grenadines. Bequia has a rich history as it was an old whaling station and whaleboat manufacturer in the heyday of that profession. Today, Bequia is a hub for cruisers that draws major crowds to the only town of Port Elizabeth. The waterfront of Port Elizabeth is lined with restaurants, bars, shops, and boutiques that seem to cater especially to “yachties”. Though the whaleboats are no longer built here, per se, a new tradition of intricate model whaleboats made by talented craftsman around the island has developed. The Bequian whaling tradition is also kept alive by regulations allowing the harvest of four whales each year by Bequian vessels implementing the traditional techniques of hand-thrown harpoons and sail or manpower driven whaleboats. Likewise, local artists have created a market for traditional scrimshaw designs engraved in whale bone or camel bone or micarta plastic. We set the anchor in the busy harbor and went ashore for dinner. In the morning we caught a taxi to the other side of the small island to see the “famous turtle guy”. Mr. King is a native Bequian and fisherman turned conservationist. The scruffy, gray-haired man speaks with an island lilt and can tell visitors how he has steadily watched the development of the Grenadines many beaches and the decline of the local sea turtle populations. He speaks passionately about the protection of sea turtles as he stands in a shed-like structure surrounded by shallow concrete pools and plastic tubs filled with turtles of various sizes and species. He collects the turtles just after they hatch on the beaches, he rears them, and releases them back into the wild when they reach maturity. It takes a sea turtle 25 years to reach sexual maturity, though King releases them far sooner. In general, only about one out of a thousand baby sea turtles will live to maturity. King boasts that 300 out of every 1000 of his turtles reach maturity. He releases these all over the Grenadines, and he regularly entertains school groups from all over the Caribbean. Most of the turtles are hawksbills, although he does raise some green turtles as well. We spent our time listening to King expound on the plight of the turtles while we looked at the turtles of all sizes in their tanks. Mr. King introduced us to his pet turtle, Busybody, an adult female hawksbill that weighed at least 50 pounds. We petted her and he showed us the “ticklish” spot on her shell where, if you rubbed up and down, she would wag back and forth with her whole body while slapping the water with her front flippers. We headed back to Port Elizabeth for lunch and some boutique browsing, and in the afternoon I went for a dive with Dive Bequia. We went to an area called Devil’s Table and made a dive to about 45 ft. I saw several spotted morays and a couple of gold spotted eels and also a large scorpionfish. That evening we all went to the Frangipani Restaurant for their Thursday night all you can eat buffet and steak barbeque. We had plates heaped with green salad, dasheen salad, chickpea salad, spicy tuna salad, pasta and shrimp salad, rice, bread, and rolls plus steaks from the grill and homemade key lime pie for dessert. A steel band played throughout the meal. Next day we again moved on, this time to the Tobago Cays. The Tobago Cays is a small archipelago of tiny uninhabited islands within the Grenadines and enclosed in a horseshoe-shaped reef call Horseshoe Reef. They have postcard-perfect white sand beaches, turquoise water, and colorful barrier reefs. After anchoring and lunch, Ellie and I dinghied to a small beach on one of the islands and while Ellie read on the beach, I explored the reef via snorkel. I saw large schools of doctorfish and blue tang, a spotted moray that slithered across the open sand, and an octopus living in a small hole in the coral. I also saw a small (18in.) gold spotted eel that I picked up off the bottom and let slither through my hands. We bought an albacore from a fisherman who came by the boat and Mom cooked it up for dinner. I finished my book Congo Eden by Mary L. Jobe Akely the other day. I found it very informative and generally interesting, though dry at times. Today we were visited by Robert, a French artist and liveaboard who came to our boat by dingy. He was peddling his water color paintings which were absolutely first class, beautiful artwork. I bought a small painting of a sea turtle swimming in turquoise water. Ellie bought a small painting of a sailboat at anchor in the sunset. Mom and Dad bought a painting of Marigot Bay, St. Lucia. Between squalls we weaved our way out of the reef and motored to Union Island, the southernmost of the Grenadines. We went ashore for a pizza lunch and I have taken refuge from the storm in the internet cafe.

We returned to Rodney Bay to have some electrical work done on the boat. We docked just a couple of slips down from our old berth at the marina, and it was as if we had never left. That afternoon we all dinghied to the beach at one of the many resorts for a swim and a little beach time. I donned my snorkel and mask and explored the sandy bottom of the beachfront. I found a large spotted snake eel about three and a half feet long that was burrowed in the sand. I dug my hand into the sand until I found his slimy body which caused him to rush out of his hole, swim a short way, and bury himself again. As he backed into the sand he struck at my hand with his open mouth like a snake. He missed, of course, but I was surprised by his aggression, though it was not unwarranted. I proceeded to locate an eyed flounder, a small, sandy brown flounder that is almost invisible unless it moves, quite in contrast to the peacock flounder which is ridiculously conspicuous despite its habit of believing itself to be perfectly camouflaged. Next I spied a small sea star, not the reticulated sea star which is so common in these waters, or the brittle star that hides in the reefs and only comes out at dusk, or even the exotic-looking basket star that spends its days inside of tube sponges looking for all the world like a growth of branching coral, but a variety I was unfamiliar with (did you know there are over 1,500 different kinds of sea stars?). The next morning we all met Lloyd and Ben in front of the marina for some early morning exploration of the rainforest with an emphasis on birds. We returned to the slopes of Piton Flore and though we were unsuccessful in finding the parrots (always a crowd favorite), we did have some excellent bird watching with good views of the colorful Antillean euphonia, the lovely purple-throated carib, the ever-present gray kingbird, and the new crowd favorite, the scaly-naped pigeon. We also had good but fleeting glimpses of the endemic St. Lucia pewee and St. Lucia oriole, both of which had eluded me on my previous foray. After birding we spent a relatively relaxing afternoon around the boat followed by a farewell dinner at Café Claude where I had the stuffed chicken breast. In the morning, Ginny and Abby caught a cab to the airport for the return trip home. Mom, Dad, and I left the marina after another trip to the grocery for provisions, and anchored in Gros Islet Bay. After a failed anchoring attempt in which we caught an old lobster pot (a fact I discovered on one of my regular skin diving expeditions to check the anchor) we found good holding just off Pigeon Island. Though it was not a green flash sort of evening, we had a very nice cocktail hour on the bow while the sun went down and the weather was cool. The next day we got an early start and had a nice motor sail down the coast to Soufriere, where we picked up a mooring just off the quaint little Hummingbird Beach Resort in the SMMA Marine Reserve. The mooring was at the base of a high cliff with a world class view of Petite Piton and excellent snorkeling literally just off the stern. I immediately went into the water amidst schools of sergeant majors and brown chromis. Sea fans were abundant and I saw a chain moray eel and several brittle stars amongst the coral. We went to the Hummingbird for a drink and after a short while Ellie arrived from the airport for her sea duty. We had dinner at the Hummingbird where I had a sirloin steak in garlic butter sauce mopped up with chocolate rum cake. After dinner we were returning to the dinghy when Iry, the hotel beach security, came out of the shadows and said, “Don’t be surprised if you see something on the beach.” What will we see, I questioned. “It’s a surprise!” he said, “give me your torch!” He snatched the flash light and we followed him out onto the dark beach where, as I had guessed, a large sea turtle lay. I had guessed that the surprise might be a nesting sea turtle since they frequent these waters and breed at this time of year, but still I was shocked to see it. I was shocked because the turtle was upside down, on its back! We were all shocked and horrified to near speechlessness, though a quick inspection proved that the big girl was still alive. It is traditional practice, and still somewhat common though highly illegal, for natives of many of these islands to butcher (I use the term literally, not dramatically) nesting sea turtles on the beaches. The meat is eaten or sold to hotels for turtle soup. The eggs are likewise eaten, and the shells are sold whole or made into jewelry for thoughtless tourists to buy. All of this is entirely illegal but lucrative. Iry proceeded to tell a large story which may or may not have been entirely accurate, about how the security guard at the neighboring hotel had flipped the turtle and gone off to find a knife because Iry would not lend him his knife, and Iry said that he had pleaded to the hotel desk clerk to call the marine reserve office to come and deal with ‘this guy’. “I have a knife right here,” he said, drawing a long kitchen knife shoved haphazardly in his back pocket, “but I won’t give it to this guy because to me this is like killing a human being, you know.” The whole story seemed subject to change with each retelling and we were skeptical as to the truth of it. There are many possible reasons for why the turtle had ended up as it was, and Iry himself seemed as likely a suspect as anyone especially since he already had the knife (not your average belt knife) virtually in his hands. Normally I am always one to believe in leaving the locals of any region or culture to their own devices, but if that attitude had been adopted in this situation and others like it, there would be no mountain gorillas, no Bengal tigers, no crocodiles, no American bison, and no sea turtles. Dad and I proceeded to roll the big turtle (easily 200 lbs.) back to its right side, at which point that “slow and steady” turtle, so often characterized as “awkward” on land, headed straight for the surf with tremendous speed and endurance. So she did not lay her eggs that night, but at least she will live to lay again. This morning we checked out of St. Lucia customs and before leaving, Dad and I took the dinghy to the large bat cave that was in the cliff just a stones throw from the boat. While Dad maneuvered the small inflatable just inside the cave, I snapped pictures at full zoom of the thousands of hairy bats that hung from the walls in a living fresco of flapping wings and squeaking bodies. We left St. Lucia by mid-morning and set sail for St. Vincent. The passage was a series of rain squalls and some seas of eight feet or so, but we arrived in Wallilibou Bay, St. Vincent around five o’clock and were immediately set upon by a throng of boat vendors. After an hour or so of looking at homemade jewelry and “No, thank you’s” (did we want bread from guy #1? No, thank you. Did we want bread from guy #2? No, thank you. Did we want bread from guy #3? No, thank you. How about ice from Guy #1? Guy #2? Guy #3? What about mangos? Etc. …ad nauseam…) we finally got all moored and were left to ourselves. Tonight is rainy and cool and we are eating aboard.

I woke up at 5:15 a.m. and at 6 o’clock I met Lloyd and Ben in the van in front of the marina. We drove for about an hour to the little inland village of Forestiere, which sits on a high ridge overlooking the banana-covered Roseau Valley and the coastal village of Cul-de-Sac. As the road turned to steep dirt (mud really), Lloyd and I got out and continued on foot. We were partway up Piton Flore, the small mountain whose upper reaches comprise the Forestiere Reserve. We walked up the hill, stopping now and then to listen or scan the trees for birdlife. Within minutes we’d seen the first bird that was new to me (Lifers as the really cool birders call them), the St. Lucia warbler, one of the fifty species that nest on St. Lucia and one of nine endemics found only on the island. We continued along the trail which took us up the hill, along a sidehill, and back down on slippery log steps. We saw six new birds I hadn’t previously seen: the ruddy quail-dove, St. Lucia black finch, St. Lucia warbler, 2 different gnatcatchers, and the endangered St. Lucian Parrot. Also we heard the St. Lucia Pewee, red-necked dove, blue-headed euphonia, and St. Lucia oriole. Everywhere there were Antillean crested and purple-throated carib hummingbirds. We waited in one area for about half an hour so that I could photograph a particular purple-throated carib that repeatedly drank nectar from a red heliconia plant. The rainforest here was slightly different from that of Dominica in that it was all growing at a very steep angle along the mountainside, but it was just as tall and dense. By noon we were back at the road and headed down off the mountain. We stopped briefly at a small zoo that was run by the Forestry Department. Here I was able to see up close the colorful endemic St. Lucia Parrot as well as the orange-winged parrot of Martinique, the St. Lucia boa constrictor, the guinea-pig-like agouti, the green monkey of Barbados and St. Kitts, the South American hyacinth macaw, and a South American tortoise species. That afternoon and into the morning of the following day I spent cleaning and preparing the boat for the return of the captain and his mate. Mom and Dad arrived along with my aunt Ginny and my cousin Abby in the mid-afternoon of the following day. After provisioning the following day, we left the marina and dropped anchor in Gros Islet Bay, just outside the lagoon. That night we went into the town of Gros Islet for the weekly Friday night jump-up. We walked the streets and sampled the food that the vendors dished out, while we listened to reggae tunes on the speaker system. Mini quiches, saltfish roti, BBQ chicken, BBQ pork, BBQ beef, rice, dasheen, macaroni pie, and Chinese noodles made for a great meal washed down with Piton beer. The next day we took an island tour with our guide, Vision. We explored Castries and threw mangoes at the trees that overhung the road, knocking down more mangoes which we kept. I shimmied up an avocado tree and picked a few to take along. For lunch we went to the village of Anse la Raye and ate Rasta food (fried tofu sandwiches with BBQ sauce and mango juice; all “true” Rastas are Vegan) at a local back-alley food joint. We then went to Anse la Raye Waterfall, a series of cascades that pour over rocks and form small pools at their base where we swam. Vision cracked open a dry coconut so that we could drink the milk and eat the flesh. We headed down to Soufriere to the Diamond Botanical Gardens where we saw a variety of tropical flowers that were frequented by hummingbirds. The waterfall here was featured in the movie “Romancing the Stone” with Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas. In “Superman III”, Christopher Reeves flies between the Pitons and lands in these gardens to pluck a heliconia flower for Lois Lane. We went to the Drive-in Volcano with its desolate boiling sulfur springs and vents. A good view of the Pitons and then we circled back north to Rodney Bay, where we arrived just after dark. The next day we spent around the boat. I snorkeled off and on for hours, diving down to the deep spur reef just under the boat. I saw a large southern stingray which I followed for some time, and I also found a dumping site for emptied conch shells. Under one large rock I found a city of lobsters, about two dozen large ones all huddled together. In the afternoon, Dad, Ginny, and I went to Pigeon Island and hiked to Fort Rodney and the Lookout Hill. That night we had dinner aboard, an excellent “cheesy chicken” with salad. The next day we left for Marigot Bay after final preparations. We arrived in Marigot Bay in the mid afternoon and picked up a mooring just off “Doolittle’s Big Bamboo Bar”. Continuing the Hollywood love affair with St. Lucia, Marigot Bay’s claim to fame is that it was the setting for the Rex Harrison film “Dr. Doolittle” (remember the search for the Great Pink Sea Snail and the floating island ruled by a young James Earl Jones?). Hidden in the mangroves that fringe the bay is the posh new Rainforest Hideaway Restaurant. We dinghied across the bay to the dock of the Hideaway and were shown a table in the open air dining area. Tree frogs chirruped in the mangroves and land crabs crawled in the mud just outside. I had the rum glazed duck breast and the others had scallops and stuffed pork tenderloin. For dessert I had strawberries sautéed in balsamic vinegar and black pepper. We sat in the bar drinking nightcaps until late in the evening. Yesterday we met the dive boat at the main ferry dock for a ride down the coast to Soufriere Bay. Mom, Dad, Ginny, and Abby donned snorkeling gear and explored the coastal reefs and caves while I took the plunge into the deeper waters with scuba apparatus. During my two dives I saw several spotted morays and one small goldentail moray as well as huge schools of blue and brown chromis, a large-winged scorpionfish, and a tiger’s tail. The tiger’s tail is a fleshy species of sea cucumber (related to sea stars) some 4 to 6 feet in length that protrudes from beneath coral shelves and mops organic matter from the sand. When I touched it, it quickly withdrew under the coral. I had read of these but had yet to see one. We returned to the Little Seal and spent the afternoon relaxing and emailing. In the mangroves I spotted a yellow-crowned night heron, rare in these parts. It was trying to crack open a large land crab with its beak, though it seemed to be having a tough time of it. Today we had a leisurely breakfast, Mom flambéed bananas in rum and brown sugar. We will probably just relax and take it easy today around the boat.

Yesterday I met a van in front of the marina for a drive down to Soufriere on the southeastern coast. We left the pavement just south of Soufriere and continued on a dirt road through stands of cocoa trees. Cocoa pods hung from branches where mongooses crawled and mangos were crushed all over the roads. We forded two streams and crossed a small bridge before reaching the tiny community at the base of the Pitons. Gros Piton and Petite Piton are volcanic mountains that rise steeply from the shoreline (picture Grand Teton x2). They are separated by 3 miles of dry forest and cultivated lands. Today my goal was set: to climb Gros Piton. Though larger, Gros Piton is slightly less steep than Petite Piton and does not required ropes and vertical rock climbing to reach its summit. Upon my arrival I was introduced to Virginia, my trail guide. We started up the trail around 9:30 a.m. The trail started out with a benign rolling topography and we walked through the dry forest of wild mango, cedar, and “Peeling Tourist” trees. Soon however, the trail turned sharply uphill as we began our ascent. The steep, unbroken ascent continued over rocks and boulders to a first lookout point. Here was a nice view of Petite Piton to the north and Virginia and I rested a bit. A short while later we came to a second lookout with a southerly view towards Vieux Fort and the island of St. Vincent. This was the halfway point and from here the trail became steeper. We hiked up into the rainforest where the rocky trail became treacherously slippery and wild tobacco and elephant ears crowded us on all sides. When we reached a huge 600-year-old mango tree, Virginia said, “This is the point of no return. There is no turning back from here. It is just another 25 minutes.” I was dripping sweat and out of breath by the end of those 25 minutes as we topped out on the peak. We went first to the south side for a view towards St. Vincent, then to the north to see Petite Piton from above. We sat and took in the sight we’d worked hard to see. As we started down the trail it became apparent that going down would be just as hard as going up. The trail through the high rainforest was both the steepest and slipperiest part and required some very careful footwork. We reached the bottom around noon. I had good reason to puff out my chest and crow a bit, but my pride was humbled by the fact that Virginia had made the whole rocky and muddy trip barefoot! It may have been more fitting if I had sat down to a Piton beer but I opted instead for a water bottle and a can of orange juice. I had had virtually nothing to eat for 24 hours and I put away a hearty lunch of fried calamari and cheeseburger panini. I even ate the leafy garnish.

The following entries of June 18 are meant to be read from top to bottom.

The next day I went with Sandy and Mary from the Island Packet 350, Skye, to Mamiku Gardens on the eastern side of the island. These gardens are all that remains of an old estate that was burned by the brigands (armed black slaves or freedom-fighters, depending on who you ask) during the 18th century slave rebellion. Today the gardens are well maintained as a National Heritage Site and paths and forest trails crisscross the estate grounds. We wandered these paths and followed the trails to the site of the old plantation home. Many of the flowers and shrubs were labeled and the whole place had a Garden of Eden feel. My goal for the day was to find a species of hummingbird I had not yet seen, the green-throated carib. Though not rare by any means, this little bird had eluded me throughout the voyage. We had been exploring the gardens a while when something buzzed past my face. It perched on a tree branch and I could see it was a hummingbird. A quick look through the zoom lens of my camera confirmed the blue tail, dark green wings and back, bright green throat, and indigo breast patch of the green-throated carib. It posed for several minutes and was a perfect subject as I took several photos. We stopped at the center’s Brigand’s Bar for lunch. I ordered the roast beef sandwich and expected a very simple affair. What I got was a gourmet dish of warm, fresh-baked bread with a heap of salty roast beef, homemade mayonnaise, lettuce and cucumber in the middle. This was served with a salad on fine china that looked antique. I washed it down with a Ti-punch (a mixture of cane syrup, lime juice, and rum), and I was ready to see the rest of the gardens. We returned to Rodney Bay and the three of us had dinner at The Lime. We all got the BBQ ribs and it was very nice though the night was very hot and still. Early on Tuesday morning I met a bus in front of the marina. It took me to a small dockyard just north of the capital of Castries. Here I hopped on a boat different from any I’d ever been on before. This was a dive boat and I was starting the process of becoming Open Water Diver certified. Actually, the process began more than a week earlier when I started reading the textbook that I’d bought in Virginia and doing its exercises. Then I had watched some six hours of instructional videos. Now was the time for me to make my first dive. Before the boat left the harbor, my instructor, Lincoln, showed me how to assemble my dive equipment. I repeatedly assembled and disassembled the BCD, air tank, low pressure inflator, and regulator until both he and I were sure I had it down. On the drive down the coast, Lincoln and I sat at the bow and reviewed the underwater skills that I would be working on as well as various hand signals. Today I would have to make a controlled swimming ascent, do partial and full mask flooding and clearing, practice underwater cramp removal, remove and put on my weight belt and tank underwater, remove and put on my weight belt and tank on the surface, perform an emergency swimming ascent, practice breathing and swimming with my mask off, regulator removal and recovery and clearing, underwater snorkel to regulator switching, buddy-breathing ascent, low air test, tired-diver tow, neutral buoyancy test and fin pivot, hovering, and a dive to 40 feet. After the review, I spent the rest of the drive filling out paperwork and signing my name and address over and over and over ad nauseum. We reached Anse Cochon in the St. Lucia Marine Park and it was time to suit up. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, all I was missing was the speargun. I wanted to feel like Jacques Cousteau or Captain Nemo (or Dustin Hoffman in The Sphere), but I just wasn’t getting that vibe. I guess I expected more of a lesson, but I was basically told to just jump in. Would I float? Would I sink? All this gear seemed so heavy I was sure I would sink. I put a hand over my mask, raised one beflippered foot at a 90 degree angle in front of me, and took a leap (or giant step) of faith. I hit the water with a splash and… I floated! Amazing! “Okay. Now we’re going down,” said Lincoln. I guess I’d expected a little more instruction. Nonetheless he disappeared under the water so I imitated him, raising my low-pressure inflator high over my head and pressed the button I’d seen him press. Something behind my head started bubbling and I began to sink. Oh my God! I was sinking! “I’m gonna die!” I thought to myself disappointedly. I took a deep breath and held it. Then I remembered the first rule of scuba diving, “You do not talk about scuba diving!” No, wait, that’s the first rule of Fight Club. The first rule of scuba diving, what was it? Oh yeah! “Never hold your breath!” Oh my God! I was holding my breath! “I’m gonna die!” I thought. I exhaled quickly, more like blowing bubbles in milk. Now the moment of truth, I inhaled! Air! I was breathing air! I exhaled again. I inhaled: same effect. Marvelous! Glorious! Stupendous! I was underwater, breathing air! What did I expect? I did come to scuba dive, after all! Hadn’t I read the textbook? Yes, cover to cover. Hadn’t I done the exercises? Yes, all of them. Hadn’t I watched the videos? Yes, every night before bed. Hadn’t I taken the quizzes? Yes, I aced them. Hadn’t I read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? Yes, I love that book. Hadn’t I seen Thunderball? Oh yes, many times! WELL… what did I expect? I suppose I expected to breathe air, but was I prepared for it? How could I be? Now that I wasn’t dead, I continued to sink to the bottom. Maybe it’s my light-hearted nature, but I tend to float. When we reached the bottom in about 20 feet of water, Lincoln motioned for me to kneel, but I seemed more inclined to float away. After some difficulty with kneeling, Lincoln grabbed me and shoved another weight in the pocket of my BCD. Now I slowly drifted to the sandy bottom and, with some fancy acrobatics, got my legs underneath me and performed a sort of drunken-man-leaning-to-one-side-and-about-to-keel-over kneeling position. Lincoln used a butchered sign language, a sort of scuba-speak, to signal “Are you okay? Are your ears okay? First exercise. Watch me.” He performed the exercise, then motioned that it was my turn. I performed the exercise and got an underwater applause and a handshake for my efforts. Next exercise, same results. We continued and I performed virtually all the day’s exercises. Now we went for a tour of the reef. We saw two spotted morays like the ones I’d seen while snorkeling. We saw several little eyed flounders. We saw huge schools of sergeant major fish. We saw a spotted snake eel with its head sticking out of the sand. Lincoln dug his hand into the sand about two feet behind the eel’s head. The eel slowly worked its way out of the sand and swam off. It was about four feet long, the longest eel I’d seen in the wild. It swam a short distance and then stopped, put itself in reverse, and swam backwards directly into the sand. Tail first it disappeared inch by inch into the sand until only its head remained! Then, that too disappeared. Very strange! We swam a little ways farther. Two large fish were hovering just outside a small cave in the coral. I recognized them from my snorkels in Falmouth Harbor, Antigua. They were whitespotted filefish. Lincoln swam over to them and herded them into the little cave. His hand disappeared into the cave and a second later came out holding the two filefish! They were side by side, held like two pieces of bread from a sandwich. He swapped one of them into his free hand and handed me the other. I took it from him and was shocked to find that it felt like sandpaper, like shark skin, like a nail file. The fish, meanwhile, didn’t move, didn’t struggle, didn’t try to get away at all. It was like holding some inanimate object. Only the movement of the gills betrayed that it was, in fact, alive. Lincoln, fish in hand, began to swim ahead of me. I looked at my filefish, and I looked at Lincoln swimming away. I wondered if this was to be the lunch that was included in the dive package. Just as I was starting to worry, Lincoln turned to face me and held out his filefish. He removed his hand as if he were trying to balance something. The filefish didn’t move. It just hovered right were he placed it, as if suspended on a string. I reached out and placed my filefish right beside his, and it too just hovered. We watched the two magically hovering filefish for a minute before carrying on. As I swam past, the trance was broken and the two filefish returned to their cave. Now it was time to surface. Back on the boat I chatted up the other divers and drank some lemonade. Soon it was time for dive number two. This time I strode confidently, if clunkily, to the stern platform and made my walk off the plank like an old salt. Lincoln and I again descended to the sand bottom and I reperformed my skills that I’d learned on the first dive. After a few new skills, we explored the rest of the reef. We saw two respectable barracudas and Caribbean king crab. Upon reaching the boat, I was disappointed to learn that some of the other divers had spent several minutes watching a spotted eagle ray (which can have wingspans up to nine feet. This was apparently a big one.) . Though these are somewhat locally common throughout the Caribbean, I have never seen one and have always wanted to. It seemed a shame to be so close and just miss such a good sighting. On the drive back to Castries we had lunch (fried chicken, rice, and coleslaw, with local Piton beer) and I took my exam. I finished the exam and Lincoln graded it. As we pulled into Castries, I learned that I had passed. After two more dives I would be fully certified. That night I went to Skye, anchored in Gros Islet Bay, for sundowners and ended up being virtually forced to stay for dinner. Dinner was no hardship, however, since Sandy had made Banana Chicken and Mary had contributed a green salad with pistachios, mango slices, and vinaigrette dressing. After dinner we played a cutthroat game of cards. It was late when I left them and dingied back toward the marina. Out in the middle of the bay, I cut off the motor and drifted awhile while watching the stars.

The following morning I again caught the bus to Castries and met with the dive boat. This time I got to sit at the bow and watch the scenery on the ride down the coast. We picked up more divers in Marigot Bay, passed lots of picturesque island beaches with small resorts and tiki bars, and again stopped at Anse Cochon. Once in the water, I set off with two other divers and a divemaster to explore more of the reef down to 60 feet. In Dominica I jumped off the dingy to swim briefly with a sea turtle. Now I topped that experience a hundredfold! We were swimming along without much excitement, when the divemaster waved me over and pointed to a sandy break in the coral. Sitting there was a hawksbill turtle! It was about the same size as the one in Dominica (about 30 inches from the front of the shell to the back). We swam all around it as it slowly moved along. As it passed me I reached out and stroked down the length of its algae-covered shell to the leathery hind flipper. We didn’t go much farther before encountering another turtle of about the same size. This time we swam along above it, just watching the way it moved through the water. We returned to the boat with the best story of the morning. Now the diveboat continued south down the coast to Soufriere Bay. As we entered the bay I got my first view of the famous Pitons, a pair of steep conical mountains that stand as colossal sentinels guarding the bay (apparently, Oprah Magazine recently rated them as the number one must-see attraction in the world. I have to admit I wasn’t THAT impressed by them, but they are very beautiful and probably should not be missed in a well-traveled lifetime.). We jumped overboard for the final dive of my training. After demonstrating my underwater navigation skills, all that was left was a fun swim around the reef. We saw giant basket stars and brittle stars, a goldentail moray, a pair of large lobsters, a roostertail conch, and another smaller sea turtle that was somewhat skiddish but allowed me to approach to within a few feet. We were diving along the edge of a huge drop off that fell away beneath us. Down below it was dark and cold and mysterious for hundreds of feet (Lincoln said it was a 4,000 foot trench, but I’m not sure if that’s correct). My dive certification trains me to go to 60 feet. Further training would allow me to go to 100 feet. The absolute limit of recreational diving is 130 feet, below that only military, industrial, and scientific dives take place. Being at the edge of that steep drop off, I had an overwhelming urge towards exploration. 130 feet couldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the mysteries in that deep gloom. There is more known about distant galaxies thousands of light-years away than is known about the depths of Earth’s oceans. Fantastic species, the stuff of strange nighttime dreams, are being discovered by those who push the envelope into the unknown abysses. As the boat returned to Castries, I ate BBQ chicken, pasta salad, rice, coleslaw, tuna fish and dasheen salad. I drank a rum punch that tasted like cough syrup and was congratulated by all present on my dive certification. That night I drifted in the dingy beneath the stars and tried to identify new constellations. The past few days have been quiet again. I’ve been working around the boat and just attending to errands and business. Last night I sat on the dock with my spotting scope and, between the passing clouds, watched the stars. The light pollution, the clouds, and the moon made for some pretty poor conditions but I did see one new galaxy. I also donned my sunglasses and looked at the moon on high power. I could see every detail of the various craters and mares very clearly.