March 3, St. Vincent

After spending weeks – nay, sometimes months – in the same place, we have reverted, out of necessity, to our former practice of anchoring for a single night.  For we must be in St. Lucia before Friday. So here we are in Buccament Bay, St. Vincent, flying our yellow quarantine flag in an effort to remain "legal" about not officially checking in to the country. If all goes as planned, we will depart again at o-dark thirty in the morning.

A peaceful place, this, with only one other cruiser in the small bay, plus three or four fishermen’s pirogues. High ridges to the north and south, and a surprisingly large (and scenic) valley stretching to the east. Almost like a Norwegian fjord, except the sides are tropical green and there is a conic remnant of a volcano right smack in the middle. Well, I said "almost". Plenty of locals moving about on shore, but not a single instance of the pesky row boating vendors for which St. Vincent is so notorious. Somewhere up on the hill to the north someone is playing at maximum volume reggae. By-now-familiar songs flood the bay.

It gets dark.  The music stops.  I grill some pork chops and some eggplant, and we eat in the cockpit.   Although we do not notice, while we are eating, a small charter sloop comes into the area just north of the new breakwater (cf. the first photo, below) and manages to get too close and get hung up on the rocks.  We first notice when we hear locals in a row boat trying to help them get off.   They don't succeed, and soon the locals are oaring over to our boat, asking if we could help.  "Should we get the dinghy down?", Barb asks, hoping to avoid getting our dear Tusen Takk II involved in a towing operation in the dark.  "Too light", they reply.   And so they row an enormously long line over to us and we go forward enough so that the anchor will not prevent us from moving backward, and we (eventually) tie the line to the yoke we normally use on the anchor line, and we put Tusen Takk II in reverse.   No luck the first time.  They row over again.   Do we have an underwater light?   "A dive light?", I ask.   "Ya, that's it, man," they reply.  Barb fetches my dive light out of the cockpit lazarette, and away they row.   Long delay.   They row back.  "Can we try again?"   Success!   Many thanks from the locals, who bring the light back and collect their long line and stay to chat awhile.  They tell us they used the light to see under water to remove some branches and rocks that were holding the keel, and we discuss American politics.  Meanwhile, the charter boat is careening around the area and acting as if  it will drop anchor right on top of ours.   I rush to get out our super-bright spotlight and shine to where I think our anchor is buried.   "That's where our anchor is", I shout.   The locals shout, "not there, that's where his anchor be!"  The charter boat careens off in another direction and drops anchor west of the breakwater.   Perfectly good place, and comfortingly far enough away from us that I can sleep that night.   Never a word from the charter boat.   Then next morning, as we are leaving early, Mr. Charter is up and on deck.  The boat sports a French flag on the left halyard, and he is raising a St. Vincent flag on the right.  No word, as we motor by.  Glances at us, and then quickly turns his back.   Barb calls out loudly:  "You're welcome!".

Hours later, she mutters, "I should have said, 'you're welcome, a**hole!'"

New breakwater which later "captured" a charter boat	Picturesque settlement in the sunset	Notice the blue-trimmed church	Fjord-like Buccament Valley	Locals are always willing to lend a hand
What is so important about the pointy end?	View to the west