A.J. Sendall
Four or five years ago, I was anchored off Petit Saint Vincent in the Caribbean, a small privately owned island lying a few miles northwest of Carriacou. A mile to the west was another small island called Petite Martinique, AKA Smugglers Island.
At around 11 pm, an unlit boat moved slowly and silently into the anchorage, stopping a couple of hundred feet behind my yacht. Using binoculars, I could make out it was a fishing boat of around 50 feet. There were low voices, and the occasional glow of a cigarette.
Within a few minutes, several small boats arrived alongside the fishing boat from the direction of petite Martinique, all unlit, all quiet. Unusual in the Caribbean where loud music and loud voices are the norm. It was hard to make out exactly what was happening, but one by one, the small boats rowed silently away towards Petite Martinique.
The following morning I departed that anchorage bound for Tyrell Bay on the southern side of Carriacou. When I got close to Carriacou, I was surprised to see the fishing boat from the previous night washed up on a rocky headland on the northern tip of the island. As I sat in the cockpit looking at through binoculars, the fishing line screamed out. I grabbed the line and started reeling in. It was heavy, but not kicking and fighting like a fish…
At around 11 pm, an unlit boat moved slowly and silently into the anchorage, stopping a couple of hundred feet behind my yacht. Using binoculars, I could make out it was a fishing boat of around 50 feet. There were low voices, and the occasional glow of a cigarette.
Within a few minutes, several small boats arrived alongside the fishing boat from the direction of petite Martinique, all unlit, all quiet. Unusual in the Caribbean where loud music and loud voices are the norm. It was hard to make out exactly what was happening, but one by one, the small boats rowed silently away towards Petite Martinique.
The following morning I departed that anchorage bound for Tyrell Bay on the southern side of Carriacou. When I got close to Carriacou, I was surprised to see the fishing boat from the previous night washed up on a rocky headland on the northern tip of the island. As I sat in the cockpit looking at through binoculars, the fishing line screamed out. I grabbed the line and started reeling in. It was heavy, but not kicking and fighting like a fish…
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