A Grenada Sailing Adventure Part 3: The Long Haul and a Rainy Goodbye

This trip was born from a sudden change in plans three weeks before departure: our original 41-foot monohull was replaced by a massive Moorings 5000 catamaran. A whirlwind scramble to find crew commenced, and within a week, against the odds, we assembled a five-person team ready to embrace the unknown.

What follows is Part 3 of 3 in our Grenada Sailing Adventure series. In this chapter, we tackle the most challenging legs of our 100-mile circuit and embrace the authentic magic of the islands with a tongue dip of “under the counter” spiced rum.

See A Grenada Sailing Adventure – Part 1: Finding Our Sea Legs.
See A Grenada Sailing Adventure – Part 2: Island Rhythms & Safety Drills.

Day 6: Castaways

On Tuesday, January 13, our fifth full day of sailing, the morning began around 7:00 AM with our usual coffee. After breakfast Kent drove the dinghy to the Canouan customs office to check out of St. Vincent & the Grenadines and back into Grenada, but learned that the staff was occupied checking in a cruise ship anchored offshore. Rather than wait, we decided to push on to the Union Island office. We weighed anchor and departed by 9:20 AM, reaching Union Island around noon. The process was surprisingly quick, taking only about 30 minutes, and we were on our way again to Petit Saint Vincent.

No Umbrella, No Nothin’

At 2:00 PM, Kent navigated us to a spot in the open ocean where we dropped anchor. Situated between Union Island and Petit St. Vincent was what appeared to be a tiny sandbar rising up in the middle of the ocean. Mopion Island is a cay, a small, low-elevation, sandy island on the surface of a coral reef, and its size fluctuates significantly with the tides.

Mopion is iconic for its single thatch umbrella, originally placed so sailors could spot the low-lying sandbar and avoid the surrounding reef. But the structure is frequently swept away by seasonal storms or high swells. On the day we were there, the umbrella was gone!

Kent, Ron, and I dinghied out to the island to explore, check the anchor, and dive on the lobster trap that was nearby. We were careful to bring the dinghy well up onto the beach and anchor it into the sand. Standing on that shifting sandbar without a single piece of man-made shelter felt truly wild, just three people on a patch of sand in the middle of the sea, surrounded by nothing but blue water and the sound of waves.

That afternoon, we arrived at the pristine shores of Petit Saint Vincent. One our guides mentioned that the beach at the anchorage was private land belonging to a resort, but the resort had been destroyed by a hurricane. Consequently, we were not certain about whether we were even allowed on the beach. But Katie and Ron decided to risk it and took a sunset walk.

Day 7: The Long Haul

Wednesday, January 14, was the day of our longest haul. We pulled anchor at 7:00 AM for a 40-mile trek back toward the main island of Grenada. This would be the most challenging leg of the trip. The catamaran handled the rolling seas beautifully, but the physical demand of the journey was real.

That morning, Kent chose to take the Spindrift along the east side of the islands, steering us out into the vast, open water where Africa was the next stop. The sea state was undeniably big that day, with 8-foot swells coming out of the southeast. Kent found the pitching motion of the 50-foot catamaran exhilarating, but I found myself succumbing to queasiness. It was the end of the week, I was feeling sun bleached, and I had opted not to apply a second scopolamine patch. I retreated to the salon for a nap. 

For an hour, as I lay on the settee in the salon, it wasn’t my life that flashed before my eyes, it was my future. This is the thing we’re banking on, it is mapped, we are down that road. Can I handle some sea state? The whole thing hinges on this question. 

We’ve invested every free moment, every spare dime in this sailing endeavor for the last 6 years. It’s all we think about, it’s all we do. For a moment, I imagined that it all fell apart, that I literally puked my guts out, and with it, our sailing dreams. 

I felt like I was seated next to the grim reaper, we were benchmates. The second hand was coming ‘round the clock and when it did, I would find out. Was he going to take me by the hand and walk me out the door? Or would I look him in the eye and wave him off, point him toward the exit?

I wasn’t the only one suffering. Maria, who’d re-upped her scopolamine patch, was laying on the bench on the aft deck. I recalled the first time this had happened to me. We were in sailing school, it was our last day, the day we’d get to test out everything we’d learned out in the open water. We’d been out in the sun getting bleached for several hours, and suddenly it hit me. I excused myself to the other sailors and took about 45 minutes to rest in the cabin, just like this time. I didn’t know what else to do, wasn’t sure if it would help. But it did, and it felt like a miracle. I imagined, hoped, that Maria was experiencing the same thing.

Above deck, Kent, Ron, and Katie were doing the work. Kent and Ron were at the helm, their hands on the wheel, aware of every detail about the conditions. Their voices, though muffled through the noise of sailing, were warm and reassuring. 

Alone in the salon, I had the unusual feeling like I was at a crossroads, like this moment could be the turning point. And in my own fashion, that moment took a full hour to pass. I lay there with my eyes closed. Under my cap, behind my lids, dual movies played in my head. On one screen, Becca is a competent sailor. She is aware of her surroundings and she knows what to do. She needs rest, she takes rest, she sails on. The other screen is black, the theater is emptying, the movie is over. 

This duality is unnerving, but I’m not the nervous kind. At this point, I’m choosing to see screen one. I watch as Becca’s body and mind repair. I watch as she notices she’s only a little queasy now and decides she can live with it. Becca tells herself that seasickness is integral to sailing. It means she’s sailing, and she’s a sailor. 

I opened my eyes. The seasickness hadn’t completely gone away, but instead of wishing it gone, I adopted it. Because sailing is what we were doing. (Thank you, grim reaper, you may exit starboard.)

We arrived at Dragon Bay at 3:00 PM, where the water sat in a leeward calm. That afternoon, we took the opportunity to snorkel in the Moliniere Underwater Sculpture Park. It was a hauntingly beautiful experience, made even more thrilling when I spotted stingrays and a giant barracuda drifting among the submerged figures.

“Under the Counter” Spiced Rum

As evening approached, we dinghied to a shady hut on the beach. The scene was pure island style—a shack with a window overlooking the sand where a man stood inside smoking a joint the size of a cigar. He pulled a massive jug from “under the counter,” a local Grenadian tradition. The jug was a wild collection of roots, seeds, twigs, bark, and spices backfilled with potent white rum. One by one, Ron, Katie, Maria, and I cautiously dipped our tongues into a small paper cup to taste the fiery liquid. When it reached Kent’s hands, down the hatch it went. I worried for hours that he might have been poisoned.

As we made our way back to the dinghy, a local man approached, eager to talk and full of energy. My read was that he was harmless and friendly, but not everyone shared my read. Kent offered him a few dollars in exchange for help launching the dinghy, a fair trade that felt right to everyone.

Day 8: Mission Accomplished

Our final morning on the water, Thursday, January 15, we’d made plans for one last snorkel through the sculpture garden. Instead, the weather would have her way. The day began with a tropical rain that washed over the islands.

I was below deck when the rain came. The clouds emptied, massive downpours gushing down the lush, green mountains.

What a privilege to see a rainy day in Grenada. It felt so intimate and sacred, as if the island, having spent a week basking in the sun for our pleasure, had finally turned inward to tend to herself, washing her own peaks and valleys in a quiet act of self-care. We were fortunate wanderers, allowed to witness her rejuvenation.

When the rain finally settled, we were gifted a full, vibrant rainbow.

We weighed anchor at 7:00 AM, sailing the final five miles south along the scenic west coast. By 10:00 AM, we arrived back at Port Louis Marina. Just as they had during our first exit, a harbor pilot met us to guide the catamaran through the tight moorings and back into the slip. The checkout process was easy, marking the official conclusion of our life aboard the Spindrift.