Moruga Bouffe - The Trinidad and Tobago Field Naturalists' Club

Page 20 THE FIELD NATURALIST Issue No. 2/2011WE GO TO GRENADA 1975 Hans Boos(Continued from page 19)to ourselves, sharing it with the occasionally complaininggoats.I felt better immediately as we found a place on theforward hatch cover, and as the sky darkened intonight we forged into the increasing sea and wind.Then I was torn with indecision and doubt thatthough we had quit what little space we had in thestern, because of my very real fear of impending seasickness, we might have exchanged it for a night ofbeing soaked by the spray that was now being blownby the wind over the heaving bow.I looked wryly at Julius and he shrugged his shoulders,saying, "We may have to spend the night withthe goats in the lee of the bow."The thought of actually doing this was not in myimagination, for the smell of these animals, as well astheir copious pelletized droppings around themwhere they were tethered, would deter even themost crazed soul. We sat as far back as possible toescape the spray and settled as best we couldamongst the boxes and bales. The "Starlight V"heeled over, as gusts of wind seemed to grip herand push her violently forward, angled against theoncoming forces. The sail above us would slackenfor a second and then with a great cracking"thwack" would refill, shaking down spray that hadaccumulated on the canvas. We were getting wetanyway. Becoming colder and more cramped by theminute, and it was only about half past nine. Thetrip to Grenada would take all night. We were expectingto sail into St Georges Harbour at dawn. Itwas going to be a long night. Grim at this prospect,and questioning our decision to travel by schooner,we tried to make the best of it. Then, to make mattersworse, it suddenly began to rain. Silver curtainsof water were added to the spray from each wave."See if there is a place to keep dry," I asked Julius,who struggled aft. He came back to tell me that itwas drier in the stern and there was a small spacebehind the cook house where there seemed to be alittle shelter for our bags. Fearing the worst andresigned to what I knew would happen if I went aft, Inevertheless had no choice. So with rising gorge Imade my way sternward, passing people already inthe throes of their misery. Seated between twostacks of square Crix biscuit tins, where he hadwedged himself, sat Michael St John. His normallyhealthy shiny black face looked gray in the dim lightof the tossing light bulbs that lit this passageway."You alright, St John?" I managed to ask. His eyeswere stark as he could only gasp out, "Oh Gord, MrBoos," before he pitched forward, and I barely gotout of the way as he added the contents of hisstomach to the swill — a mixture of sea, rain, anduntold ejecta — that, I noted, was now flowingdown the passageway, and out the scuppers. Ibarely made it to the side and added mine to thegreenly passing ocean. It had started. I passedthrough the area where the traffickers still slept ontop of the engine hatch, Terry was there, a smile onhis face, unaffected. I made it to the back of thecook house, and barely had time to pull the packsaway and lean over the gunwale. Those who havebeen sea-sick will understand what I was goingthrough. For those who have not, no descriptionwill suffice.I lay on top of the jumble of pots and pans, and hungmy head over the stern. Here at least I was dry, butany effort to open my eyes which let in the view ofthe field of the waves and the tossing horizon — forthe delineation between the starry sky and the darksea was clearly visible — I was wracked with a freshseries of spasms that had long since emptied me ofany and all food I had eaten earlier, until my beardand moustache were encrusted, and I no longer hadany desire or will to wipe them clean.In between episodes, I managed to reach my packagesand unroll a pallet of vinyl-covered foamrubberand lay it over the pots and pans. On this Ilay, and it was only a short roll over to once morehang my head over the stern. There I lay in what Iremember as the most abject misery and desperationin my life. I was pressed up against the twocold propane gas cylinders boring into my lowerback and the pots and pans below me were nosofter than a jumble of sharp, quarried, bucket-sizedrocks.(Continued on page 21)