Pub crawl-stroke.

This morning we woke on Canouan, weighed anchor, and headed to Mayrou Island, where we swam along a reef to a rocky cove where everyone (except guide Heather) decided to climb and take in the view. Then back along a white sand beach lined with palm trees. Stopping for a break, we heard a steel drum band practicing nearby, and with the swaying palm trees and turquoise water, everything felt just right. 

We’re making medium-sized leaps today from Island to Island our way to Grenada. Another hour sail to Union Island where we check out of St. VIncent at the customs office. I grabbed the binoculars to check out the shoreline, where a dozen or so tents are still set up, temporarily housing some victims of 2024’s hurricane Beryl. I saw a family having lunch in the tent, a little girl in a pink dress, a Dad trying to organize their possessions. 

John set the tone for our Union Island Pub Crawl-Stroke with his outta sight googles. He didn’t know what he was saving them for until today’s afternoon fun swim became a thing. - HP

This group needs a party, and from what I saw in the Harbor, this Island could use some cash, so I planned a last-minute pub crawl on the back side of Union, in Chatham Bay. Mind you, almost everything on this island was completely leveled in Beryl, almost every leaf was stripped from every tree, the storm surge swept hundreds of buildings off their foundations, roads washed away, power systems decimated. Yet these Islanders, like so many others, are resilient. The restaurants that lined the shore prior to Beryl are gone, but the people that run them are still here, and they’ve built crude but quaint structures from materials salvaged from the storm and donated items. Old sails serve as canopies. USAID crates and grain bags form walls.

We swam up to the first place where we met the proprietor Vanessa, and Tracy bought us all a couple of rounds of beer and rum punches. Some of our guys helped move a picnic table for them. We worked our way down the beach to another beach bar hut, this one run by Phillip.

More beers and rum punches as the sun began to set. Our last stop was at a floating bar with a thatch roof and a glass window in the floor to see the sea below. Much hilarity ensued. I stuck a flashlight into my swim float bag, and we drifted back to our yacht in the dim.

Jemima’s famous Jerk chicken dinner arrived, laughter peaked, then we all settled in for the night. John and I swung in our hammocks in the swift gusts of the night.

Hopper