The passage from Virgin Gorda to St. Martin was difficult. Although we only had to cover 72 miles, it took us 32 hours of beating into wind, waves, and current before we finally reached our destination. For those readers who are not familiar with the concept of speed, 2.25 knots per hour (2.6 mph) is not fast, no matter what the mode of transportation. Experiencing his first passage, Zach must have felt that he had been shanghaied (so called for the drunkards who were spirited out of the alleys of 1920’s Shanghai and trundled aboard shorthanded ships, to awaken far out at sea).
Despite seeing land at 8:00 am on Wednesday morning, we didn’t reach the harbor until 10:00 pm. Typically, it is an ill-advised idea to attempt to anchor in a strange harbor in the dark. However, after having stayed awake for 50 continuous hours, I was in no mood to spend another sleepless night waiting for daylight. Fortunately, Baie de Marigot is a large, open bay and we were able to safely anchor in 30 feet of water before moving further into the anchorage area on Thursday morning. The lone highlight of this arduous passage was that we (i.e. Zach) were able to catch a 15-pound wahoo that made for several good meals. Needless to say, we were both happy to reach land where we were welcomed by plentiful wine shops, numerous gourmet restaurants, and hordes of beautiful people in Marigot, the capitol of the French side of St. Martin.
On Thursday morning, we attempted to embrace the French lifestyle by spending a couple of hours at a sidewalk cafe eating croissants and sipping espresso while reading the newspaper. Feeling confident of my French linguistic abilities after completing three lessons from my French language CD’s, I took the ambitious step of buying one newspaper in English and one in French. Unfortunately, the French language paper didn’t focus entirely on introductions and the weather in Paris during the summer, so my comprehension of current events in France is limited to what I could gather from pictures of Jacques Chirac. After getting a handcramp from thumbing through my French-English dictionary, we bought a baguette and cheese that we enjoyed after hiking up to Fort Louis overlooking the harbor.
The rest of the day was spent exploring the town, learning about wine, and being rejected by nearly every beautiful girl this side of Paris. During the week, I exchanged e-mails with the crew of Blatuur, the Norwegian boat that Brian and I met in Martinique last December. They wanted to know where I was currently located and whether I wanted to meet up to sail together. Unfortunately, they are now located in San Cristobal, Galapagos, so it is unlikely a reunion will be happening in the immediate future. Although we were both disappointed that we would not be sailing the South Pacific together, they were helpful in offering opinions on places that they have visited.
Among their recommendations, they suggested visiting Colon, Panama despite the fact that they were robbed twice during their three week stay. On Saturday, Zach and I rented a car to explore the island. The car rental agency was a bit questionable since a women at the dinghy dock offered us a car for the entire day for $35. It appeared to be her car and after showing a license and paying in cash, we were on our way. Our first stop was Oriental Beach, on the east side of the island. The beach is known as a clothing optional locale and it lived up to its reputation. As usual, the people who exercised their option were not necessarily the ones I wanted to see naked.
After a couple of hours of gawking interrupted by swimming, we drove into the interior of the island to hike to Paradise Peak, the highest point on St. Martin. The hike took us through a tropical forest and offered some breathtaking views of the coast, although it seemed liked quite a while since the trail was last used. Continuing our circumnavigation by land, we stumbled onto the Carnival celebration in Philipsburg, on the Dutch side of the island. A quick look confirmed that it was a smaller version of the chaos I experienced in Trinidad: flamboyant costumes, loud music with every fifth word reminding the crowd to “jump,” and far too much dancing.
We wisely backtracked and made our final stop at the Casino Royal where we played craps with Ja Rule. Sadly, my pop culture knowledge is not very current and I needed a 60-year-old man to identify the R&B singer for me. Apparently, Mr. Rule was in town for Carnival. While I was shooter, Ja won $200 before I crapped out. Zach was not as fortunate and I broke even by playing like a seventh grade girl.