View of the Grenadines and tropical blue water from the beach in Carriacou, Grenada West Indies. Photograph © Maureen Dilg

Island Bound
By Pat Kelly

Slow down, kick back, and drink in the Caribbean. Start with a sail through the Windward Islands—from St. Lucia, through the Grenadines, and on to Grenada—with the Skipper and Mary Ann.

My spanking-new deck shoes are glowing like electric marshmallows as I step off the dock in St. Lucia and board 50 Ways, the immaculate French-built Jeanneau International sailboat that will be my home for the next seven days. I quickly discard the footwear. No one in the Caribbean actually wears deck shoes. Not our British crew, Mike and Mary Ann, henceforth known as the Skipper and Mary Ann. Not my shipmates, Andrei and Irene Cherevaty, who said good riddance to their native Russia in 1979 (imagine a sweet, well-educated Boris and Natasha). Not even Will, the photographer. All of us are barefoot. And the six of us will spend the next week on this single-masted 50-footer with its four cabins, galley, and salon all done in rich, polished wood.

We'll be exploring the Windward Islands of the southern Caribbean—a 300-mile, 56-island chain that arcs from Dominica to Grenada. Formed by volcanic activity, the islands bristle with mountains that catch the clouds and precipitation that produces lush vegetation.

"There's no shame in getting seasick," the Skipper says during our shakedown cruise. "All I ask is that you do it off the stern. Same goes for smoking."

Irene looks balefully at me. I'm mouthing a cheap cigar. The Cherevatys don't smoke, drink, or care for that rock 'n' roll music—classical only.

The sunblock and Dramamine are wearing off as we drop anchor in the shadow of the Pitons, two volcanic formations that jut out of the sea like huge shark fins on St. Lucia, the second largest of the English-speaking Windwards. After a quick water-taxi ride, we are in Soufrière, on the southwest coast.

The Russians hike up the volcano to take in the sulfur-mud baths while Will and I get a tour from Benny, the harbor master. We pass some fishermen enjoying a riotous game of dominoes, then stop at a roadside stand for grilled fish and chicken basted in hot-hot sauce. A block away we hear singing: "Yeah, de pirates come to rob me." A man with dreadlocks and a set of choppers that could open a can of beans heads toward us. "My head is all wet, cause I jus' come from de jungle," he announces. Sunset, as he is called, is wearing about 20 necklaces. We compare St. Christophers, and I trade him my lighter for an African mask necklace. "Made it myself outta fish bone," he says, tying it around my neck with fishing line. "Dere, you really look wicked now," he says. He bums a smoke, then remarks: "You have a big nose."

"Thank you," I say.

He looks at Will. "And you have hair like dat composer—Beethoven."

Day Two will be the most demanding leg of the cruise—an eight-hour sail, half of it out of sight of land. Irene wears motion-sickness wristbands and has taken a double dose of her all-natural, ginger-based seasickness remedy. She and I both pop Dramamine. Suddenly, Irene loses her Mueslix-and-mango breakfast off the stern. Just how much fun can you have?

By mid-afternoon we've sloshed our way past St. Vincent and drop anchor in Admiralty Bay off Bequia (BEK-way), which has a wraparound beach, swaying palms, and a nice rock pathway landscaped with bright flowers. The island is virtually deserted.

"It's a holiday, mon," a fisherman says. "Every udder day 'round here a darn holiday. Everyone is next door on the island of St. Vincent, enjoying the carnival."

"Why aren't we at the carnival?" I ask Will.

"Because the Skipper probably knows better," he says. We split up, and I shoot some hoops with the locals. They're terrible—dribbling with both hands, dribbling on their feet, completely missing the backboard. I'm in heaven.

Later, while I await the dinghy ride back to the ship, I see a hand-scribbled sign nailed to a palm tree: "Cubans Available in Lobby." I investigate. Cha-ching—$60 U.S. for three Bolivars in handsome, vacuum-sealed tubes.

"I'm not letting you off this ship with your wallet again," Mary Ann says when I return. Before I can stow my latest treasure, a vendor boat painted in snazzy African racing colors pulls alongside. I buy T-shirts, earrings, a choker, a stunning beach wrap, an ankle bracelet, and a whale-tooth necklace—which, the Skipper remarks, looks like something off a German shepherd.

Tonight the stars seem as if they're spray-painted across the sky. We're all gathered around the boat's cockpit after dinner as Mary Ann reads from A Visitor's Guide to St. Lucia Patois.

St. Lucia is referred to as Set Lisi. A girl is a tifi, a guy is a bug. Is dinner ready? Es diné pawé? Mwe pedi!—I'm lost!

This handwritten book also offers proverbs.

"The day you dress up is not the day you will meet your mother-in-law."

"When goat gives a ball, sheep gets drunk."

And my favorite: "What's done in the dark will appear in the light."

Andrei shares a Russian proverb: "They say a husband is like a suitcase without a handle. Difficult to carry but you don't want to throw it away."

We beg him for one more before turning in. "Tomorrow," Andrei says. "One a day, only."

By the time we stop at Mustique, privately owned and dotted with the "cottages" of the rich and famous (Princess Margaret, Tommy Hilfiger) life on board has become a soothing routine. I awake to a gentle rocking that takes me back to the cradle. A sea breeze scented with tropical flora and fauna wafts through the open hatch (as does the sound of Will snoring). Topside, Irene reads The Agony and the Ecstasy. Andrei, his face and shoulders an angry red, slathers on the sunblock.

"You are supposed to do that before you take the sunburn," Irene tells him.

"I am not a child," Andrei mumbles.

Then another of his proverbs: "Why does man die before woman?" Pause. "Because he wants to." Bad.

I now scoff at Dramamine, spending hours riding the bow in the company of refreshing spray (sometimes a deluge), the sun, the wind, the blue sea, and my own thoughts. By early afternoon we've sailed south past uninhabited Catholic Island to Salt Whistle Bay off Mayreau, a small island with a few hundred inhabitants and one tiny resort.

Ashore, Andrei and I search for the perfect conch shell.

"It is a mystery,"Andrei says, holding a conch to his ear. "This has been on land for many years and yet there is the sound of the ocean inside."

I can't tell if he's serious or not.

Calypso music erupts somewhere up the hill, and soon revelers appear in pantyhose stretched over thongs, giant diapers, bikini tops, and wicked masks sporting feathers and plastic fangs. Our personal Caribbean carnival has found us. A song about Viagra blasts as I become sandwiched between the carnival queen and another girl who outweighs me by a hundred pounds. They undertake a lively dance involving much grinding of the pelvis. I am soon covered in body paint, glitter, and tropical perfumes. All I can think as Will fires off shots is that my wife is going to get the wrong idea when she sees the pictures.

We climb a steep trail and I drag myself into Robert Righteous and De Youth's Seafood Restaurant and Bar. Posters of Malcolm X, Bob Marley, and Troy Aikman compete with the nautical flags and a killer sound system. Two kids tag along. Glenmore would like a beer. "How old are you, Glenmore?" I ask. "Oh mon, I'm 14!" he says. "You'll have a nice refreshing Coca-Cola," I say.

The other kid, Nautica, is a stunning ten-year-old girl who, like most locals, looks as if she had stepped out of a Benetton ad, only with better fashion sense.

The baseline of Bob Marley's "Buffalo Soldiers" massages my rib cage as Robert Righteous serves up a rum punch that's deceptively sweet and refreshing—the kind of cocktail that screams for an umbrella. One minute you're waxing eloquent, then—MAYDAY! MAYDAY!—it's tourist in imminent danger of making a fool of himself. Will senses as much. He finishes his drink, then stands. "I'm getting my gear down that trail while there's still light," he announces. "And if you had half a brain you'd leave too."

Five hours later I attempt the trail alone and end up in someone's goat pen. Kids guide me a second time, but I pick the wrong moment to light a cigarette. It destroys my night vision just as the trail steepens. I'm soon running full-tilt. In a dazzling display of athletic stupidity, I make it to the bottom, trip, then instinctively land on my head to protect my vital organs.

The next morning we drop anchor in Tobago Cays for some first-class snorkeling. I hover above a sloping reef of boulder coral that resembles giant molars, pillar and plate corals in intricate shapes, sea fans big enough to hide behind, and brain coral that looks like, well, giant brains. The sunlight punches through the clear, turquoise water, giving everything a luminous sheen. There are fish that look like parrots, fish with stripes and geometric patterns that resemble designer purses, fish with huge heads, fish that look headless, eels with plier jaws floating vertically, even creatures that look like softballs covered in black spines—now hold on, these are sea urchins I'm brushing up against.

Later, I'm at the helm of 50 Ways, $400,000 worth of seagoing chutzpah. "Do I look at the compass, or the sails, or the GPS?" I ask.

"Let's start by looking where we're going," the Skipper says.

Irene wants to know where the life jackets are stowed. I put on my driving glasses to see what landmark the Skipper wants me to head toward. Forty minutes later I still haven't found it and we've sailed about a mile in a mine-sweeping pattern. Andrei takes over just as the sails fill and we heel way over. I start humming "The Ride of the Valkyries," and Irene tells me to shut up. "You are not helping!" she says.

About now comes the proverb: "He is a nice person," says Andrei, "as long as he sleeps with his teeth to the wall."

By late afternoon we reach Carriacou, an enchanting island that boasts one gas station and over a hundred rum shops. Led by Bubbles, a local mover and shaker, we climb a hill overlooking Tyrrel Bay. I can see 50 Ways below in a floating neighborhood of 30 or so vessels. Without seeing the ships' flags you can almost guess the nationality of the occupants. Someone bathing naked on the stern? Probably German. A vessel parked too close to another? French or possibly Italian. A yacht off by itself, with plenty of acreage around it? Likely a bunch of Texans grilling and carrying on.

"Might see de green flash today," Bubbles says. I've heard this all week. Evidently, when conditions are right, the last sliver of light before sunset illuminates the horizon with a brilliant green flash.

"Bubbles," I say, "we're only drinking beer here." There's no green flash—just a trip-topping scene of clouds and setting sun that looks like a hydrogen blast.

The next morning we reach Grenada. There are lush green mountains; rain forests; and bright red, orange, and yellow flowers scattered about golden beaches. We sail into the harbor at St. George's, which reminds me of a Tyrolean village—brick buildings with "fish-scale" tile roofs are stacked from the hills to the water. A half-naked Rastafarian stands in heavy traffic blowing a conch shell. Taxis with names like "No Prisoners," "Mongoose," and "Street Sweeper" career past pedestrians at close quarters without using their horns. After buying machetes in a hardware store, we stumble into the vast spice market.

We soon meet Prince Nna Nna, who is melting gold on a hard block with a bottle torch. "Were you here for the American invasion?" I ask.

"Oh yes," he says, turning off the torch. "But to me it was a liberation, not an invasion." Prince Nna Nna points to the prison on the hill. "I was in that place three years and nine months for speaking out against the communists."

Later, as I stuff a bunch of spice gift sets into my pack, a man tries to sell me coral and tortoiseshell jewelry. "No way, amigo," I tell him. "I'm an ecotraveler."

That night we have our last supper together. As custom dictates, we treat the Skipper and Mary Ann at a restaurant they choose—the True Blue Inn. Will and I dress in coat, tie, swim trunks, and no shoes. I complete my ensemble with cheap sunglasses and a Cuban stogie.

We eat crab-stuffed kingfish with some kind of beans. I down my Caesar salad, which comes with a tropical flower. It is halfway to my mouth before Mary Ann intervenes. "That's bougainvillea, not food." Why's it on my plate if I'm not supposed to eat it, I wonder.

At mid-morning we weigh anchor for a short hop to our final port of call—Grenada's Secret Harbour resort. Once ashore, we agree to meet at the Rum Squall Bar at 5 p.m. to say our farewells. I decide to call my wife to describe my cottage—private deck with a view of the water; a living room divided by rock archways; two huge, antique four-poster beds; a bathroom the size of our two-car garage; and an immense, Spanish-tile bathtub next to a five-foot porthole overlooking Secret Harbour. We can share an erotic Caribbean phone conversation, I think. I dial and a voice intones: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service...." I wonder if Will has already mailed those pictures.

The information in this story was accurate at the time it was published, but we suggest you confirm all details before making travel plans.