I'm trying to get over major pangs of bitter envy after having drinks with some other cruisers on a brand-spanking-new Hunter Passage 42. The last time we were on another boat that I was ready to trade in ours for, it was a Prout 45 catamaran costing roughly half a million dollars. What makes me seethe is that the Hunter, brand new and loaded with gear, cost several grand less than our 3-year-old boat plus all the toys we installed. (And that doesn't count the value of our labor!)
They have an aft cabin the size of Montana, with a centerline berth they don't have to crawl over each other to get in. Their main salon is plush and spacious, with lots of windows to let in the light. They have a refrigerator with a freezer which supposedly uses only 60 Ah (amp-hours) a day -- our no-freezer fridge uses 36, not that much less, so they must have an efficient system plus far better insulation. They have a washer/dryer! (They need to run their generator to use it, though.) They can sail, or so they claim, at 45° to the wind. They can sail faster than us, and motor faster than us while using less fuel. (Same engine, lighter boat.)
Britt patiently listed all the ways in which our boat is superior. Yeah, yeah, we can carry more fuel. We need it, because our boat's so pathetic to windward. He thought they didn't have enough ventilation (none of those nice windows actually open) and pointed out that a lot of their gear isn't as high quality. The main salon settees might have been a tad short for comfy sea berths. Their underbody (fin keel, spade rudder) could be more easily damaged in a grounding, with more serious consequences. But ah, that aft cabin!
I suppose I am most seriously lusting after that washer/dryer since laundry is one of the least fun aspects of cruising life. That's not really an integral part of their boat; we could rip out the aft head and install one too, I guess. But then we'd need a generator, and it's hard to justify spending those major bucks for something we hardly need otherwise.
Feelings of discontent and unease come more readily these days, as we grope our way down the coast of Guadeloupe. In Saint-Martin, it didn't matter that we don't speak five words of French, as everyone there connected at all with the tourist industry spoke English. More importantly, we got the impression that they didn't mind speaking English, they were accustomed to it as the language that travelers have in common, and we were never made to feel awkward or unwelcome by our lack of French.
Guadeloupe is a different story. Perhaps it's because the tourist industry is less developed, or because most tourists here are from France, but very few people here speak English. Except in Iles des Saints, most of the people are black, and there's a lot more poverty evident. We can feel the resentment coming off people in waves, at our ugly-American lack of the language, at our relative wealth, maybe just simply at our skin color. But we can't blame them, because we're certainly guilty. I spent so much time preparing for the Spanish-speaking countries that I completely forgot about the French-speaking ones. Both of us have a little background in Spanish, so it was easier than starting from scratch. In French, we can only manage a weak "Bonjour" and "Merci". But travelers ought to be able to communicate, at least rudimentarily, in the languages of the countries they visit. We should have bought a phrase book, or brought along a French-Canadian friend!
The "language" of sailing here is giving us trouble too. The low islands of the Bahamas blocked the waves but not the wind, and we loved the days we could zoom along in the lee of the land. But this mountainous coast plays games with the wind, bending it, swirling it, stopping it cold in places and accelerating it in others. Too close to shore (measured in miles, not just in yards) and sailing is a frustrating exercise. One moment thirty knots, the next moment three; you turn the wheel away from the wind to avoid stalling out, and the next thing you know you're in an accidental jibe.
So you head away from shore. But as soon as you're clear of the island's effect on the wind, you're clear of its effect on the waves. This time of year, the tradewinds are east to east-southeast, so until Martinique it's a beat into the wind, and for the past several weeks it's been howling at 25+ knots. The big waves slam the boat around, and it's a slow, wet, uncomfortable ride. Plus, heading away from shore at the beginning means more heading towards shore at the end, directly into the waves and wind. You can't win.
On the way down the coast we stopped to snorkel in the Jacques Cousteau Marine Park at Pigeon Island, and then anchored nearby for the night. As usual, we rinsed out our wetsuits and hung them on the stern rail, but somehow my wetsuit didn't get tied on, and in the midnight gusts it blew away. So the next day we stopped by Basse-Terre, the capital, to try to buy another one.
We got there around lunchtime and figured on walking the mile from the dinghy landing to town; since we only had about $2.50 worth of leftover francs when we arrived in Guadeloupe, we counted on finding an ATM or a restaurant which would take credit cards. In Saint-Martin there are lots of ATMs and banks for getting francs, and dollars and credit cards are accepted just about everywhere, but that's not the case in Guadeloupe. We couldn't even find a bank, which wouldn't have helped anyway because it was Saturday; nobody took credit cards or dollars, and nobody spoke any English, and the only dive shop we found didn't sell gear, and the neighborhood was a little dicey, and we were hot and hungry and thirsty, and we ended up going back to the boat for a late and meager lunch underway as we got the hell out of there. Not our favorite kind of adventure.
Since we really enjoy snorkeling, getting a new wetsuit is a priority. (I'm a real wimp and can't last very long without one, even in this 82° water.) It looks like there's a good dive shop in Anse Mitan, Martinique, so we'll head there and hope to find something not too pricy. While we're there, maybe we'll be able to wash some of our vast piles of laundry, and we'll also try to locate what passes for propane on the French islands (apparently their cooking gas is mostly butane, but works in boat propane stoves) since we are just about cooking on fumes.
Our watermaker stinks for five minutes every time we use it, our dinghy leaks air with amazing rapidity, nobody here uses an anchor light except for us, our bottom paint isn't even slowing down the grass and barnacles, the wind is still howling, and we're out of fish.
Okay, I'll stop whining now. I think I've gotten it all out of my system, and I promise that with the next log entry I'll be back to my usual cheery self -- provided the wind drops to 15 knots!