Port Antonio, Jamaica: Part 2

Continuing on from our stop at marvelous Hogsty Reef, we pulled up anchor at 1:30 a.m. on March 5 under the star-studded sky and sailed close-hauled through the night with a light SE wind south toward Great Inagua, the southernmost island in the archipelago. After a couple of hours of motor-sailing at the end on the voyage, we dropped anchor at 9:15 in 4 meters of water on the north end of Man of War Bay with clear skies above and pure seawater below. It was time to snorkel again on the reefs and coral heads all around us. The coral, the sponges, the fish--they never cease to delight me!

Man of War Bay with the ruined Episcopal Church

Peter, Sherri and Ula on the foredeck

Peter and Sherri on the aft of Mantra

We weighed anchor at 4 p.m. and eased into a slip at Inagua Marina in Matthew Town at 5:45 p.m. We passed an enjoyable evening on the boat next to us, the S/V Alabama (with "Roll Tide" emblazoned along the mast). The captain, a Brit named Blondie and his partner from Canada, Natalie, invited us and the dock master for dinner. The saloon and galley as well as the cabins are larger than ours with beautifully maintained teak everywhere. We spent a lot of time discussing wonders of untouched (well, except for the numerous wrecks!) Hogsty Reef. Natalie, a professional photographer, had captured wonderful images of the terns at the rookery. We had only seen a few, although we heard hundreds after sunset. Blondie has a great sense of humor and kept us entertained with his accounts, sometimes ribald, of his adventures as a marine salvager and a sailor.

The next day, March 6, we were walking to the customs and immigration offices when a man in a pick-up stopped to give us a ride. On the way, he told us about how he was a "broke millionaire," land-rich with property on Inagua and Long Island but cash-poor with minimal employment opportunities in the Bahamas. After an expeditious clearing out at the office, we walked into the small town, past small, humble homes and narrow streets until we reached the general store, where we stocked up on sodas. We wanted eggs also, but there were now to be had.

On the way back to the boat, we stopped at a tiny restaurant where orders are placed at the window and one table seating four occupies the small patio in front. Macaroni and cheese is only baked on Saturdays, so no luck for me again! Enis, Ula and Peter ordered fried chicken and fries, which they shared with me. The cook must have run out of flour to bread the chicken, because a neighbor showed up with a baggie of it after we ordered. Considering the abundance of the sea, we are always amazed that chicken seems to be the staple on menus, with conch being a close second.

Peter at the General Store in Matthew Town

Enis, Peter and Ula at the one-table cafe

Around 2 p.m.we cast off, with the dockmaster and Alabama folks tossing on our lines and waving goodbye as we went through the harbor entrance. We provided them with a bit of amusement when I untied a fender and it plopped into the water. Quickly we circled around and retrieved it with great finesse. We'll call it a man-overboard practice maneuver!

An hour later, having passed the Great Inagua Lighthouse on the southwest point of the island (one of the three remaining kerosene-burning, hand-cranked in the Bahamas), we dropped anchor behind Molasses Reef. It was a rocky anchorage, with a southeast swell and winds from the north, but we only stopped for one last snorkel excursion in the Bahamas. The usual suspects--fish, barracuda and a shark--were present. Parrotfish gnawed at the coral, and glimmering ovoid blue tang swam in large schools around us.

Great Inagua Lighthouse

At 6 p.m., we pulled up anchor and set a course for Jamaica, one we were unable to follow directly because the wind was directly behind us but just inconsistent enough not to allow running wing and wing. We jibed across the rhumb line, changing tack about every two or three hours through the night, throughout the next day and into the morning of Friday, March 8. Still, it was great sailing at six to eight knots most of the time, with periods racing along at 10 knots.

The mountain peaks of Jamaica appeared on the southern horizon a couple of hours before we reached the dock at the Errol Flynn Marina in Port Antonio, on the northeast shore at 10 a.m. Sunlight was glistening on the palms surrounding the marina.  The red, pink and apricot blossoms of bougainvillea fluttered in the breeze, and the verdant Blue Mountains towered behind the low hills along the coast.

Peter at sunrise north of Jamaica

Land Ho!

Sunset at Errol Flynn Marina, Port Antonio, Jamaica

The lush, appealing, restful vision was counterposed by the noise from town. Two candidates are running in a fierce--and loud--race against each other for a position in the Jamaican Parliament. There are marches and parades and gatherings on most days, accompanied by cars with enormous loudspeakers mounted on their roofs, blaring political promises. This is in addition to music that usually starts in mid-afternoon but sometimes earlier, coming from the bars, restaurants and gaming halls in town, continuing into the early hours of morning. There is always a booming bass obscuring most of the voices and instruments being played. Sometimes there are actually vaguely discernible songs but often there is just strident yelling being accompanied by the throbbing bass. In addition, the noise is not confined to one source. Every venue makes a different contribution to the cacophony, competing for dominance. Sometimes my ears hurt!

It took a few hours to clear in.  There was a sheaf of papers, some duplicates, to complete; this took about an hour. Ula tidied up the boat before officials arrived--first a health official to lift quarantine, followed by two men from the Coast Guard, then one from customs and finally, after a while, two officers from immigration. Finally, we were free to get off the boat and head to the showers! By late afternoon, we were clean and everything was ship-shape, and we set off walking to explore the town of Port Antonio. We walked along the waterfront, with its crumbling low wall serving as a walkway between the sea and the street. Locals were just hanging out there or eating cooked food wrapped in paper purchased from hole-in-the-wall shops across the street. The concrete buildings are in various stages of falling apart. Windows, bricks, roof tiles, ornamentation and other parts are sometimes missing. Most were once painted bright colors, and a few still stand out, but most of the hues have faded in the tropical sun. There was not much litter, but the impression was still not one of cleanliness.

As the wall ended, we came to a more upscale-looking restaurant on the waterfront which included craft stalls, but we passed it by to find Anna Banana, a place that had been recommended to us. As darkness descended, the sea was separated from the busy street, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, by an endless row of small shacks, eight to ten feet wide, sometimes with no space in between. Each one is a bar consisting of a cheap linoleum covered floor about six feet deep backed by a wooden bar with rows of liquor arrayed behide it. The night must have been young; there were few patrons although the street was full of people.

We found Anna Banana, where we had our choice of tables, since the restaurant was empty, so we picked one overlooking the water. In an unhurried manner, the waiter approached to take our drink order. I asked for a bottle of Red Stripe, the local beer. When Ula ordered the same, she was told that no, she could not have one. We were confused until the waiter explained that there was only one, and I had already claimed it! The choice of entrees was similarly restricted. We wondered why they could not just walk to one of the adjacent bars and obtain another Red Stripe. Raised eyebrows, head-shaking and wry smiles aimed at each other, it turned out as the days passed, would be common reactions among us as we explored the area.

Well, it is time for another writing break. Later, mon!