Bequia Easter Regatta 2008 - Caribbean Compass

APRIL 2008 CARIBBEAN COMPASS PAGE 30
I
stood waist deep in the ocean off a beach near Deshaies, Guadeloupe. The
water was still warm in October from the hot Caribbean summer. My 14-foot-
long, white fiberglass paddleboard bobbed and chuckled beside me in the wind-
rippled, moonlit water; it was two-thirty in the morning. I hoped to be the first
person ever to cross the 30-mile channel between Montserrat and Guadeloupe on a
paddleboard. By the light of a very bright full moon, I clearly saw the tall island of
Montserrat and its active volcano that were 30 miles to my northwest. Soufrière Hills
volcano lay heaped on the flat horizon and breathed out a white tusk of steam. It
reminded me of a fallen mammoth. But this historic creature was alive. I was glad
to see that, though besieged by technology and pollution, our planet was still capable
of a magnificent primeval display.
Paddleboarding
to Montserrat
by Susan Chaplin
Taking a break, with Montserrat and its sinister-looking volcanic plume
in the distance
Hot in the long–sleeved red surfing jersey and purple tights that I wore for sun
protection, then chilled by the cool northeast breeze, I sweated and shivered. I
smelled the briny, pungent ocean through the sweet-smelling zinc oxide on my nose.
I checked to see that my sports bars, water and sunscreen were secure in the mesh
carryall attached to the bow of my board. I cracked the chemical light sticks — green
for my bow, red for the stern — and then activated the two white light sticks that I’d
sewn onto my visor. The lights would help my escort vessel to see me in the dark. It
was my eighth Caribbean paddling trip. I’d paddled mostly without escort in my home
waters of the Virgin Islands, in the Bahamas and in the Turks and Caicos. I’d paddled
from St. Vincent to Grenada, crossed the channels between St. Lucia and Guadeloupe,
and between St. Lucia and St. Vincent. As far as I knew, none of this had been done
before on a paddleboard. Now, I worked to connect the Leeward Islands.
I had trained hard and I felt ready to paddle the Guadeloupe Channel. I was nervous.
I took a last look at the shore and saw two lovers dally on the pale sand in the
With my support team. Left to right front row: Ted Bull, Teresa, me,
Danielle De Rouck. Back row: Ulrich Meixner, Peter De Rouck
intense moonlight. Their dark hands darted over each other’s bodies. The whitetoothed,
slim boy wore a red Speedo brief; the smiling, plump, longhaired girl danced
in a black thong bikini. They stared into each other’s eyes. Between the crashes of
surf, I heard them whisper to each other in French. They reminded me of the New
York twin towers: innocent, about to be bowled over by a lethal flying object — in
this case, love. They sank slowly down together on a yellow beach towel spread
behind them on the sand.
Oh well, I thought, I would make love to the sea. A paddleboarder caresses the
ocean many times in a lifetime, and vice versa. Paddleboarding is primitive, like
lovemaking, or like a volcano. A paddleboarder uses no motor, paddle or sail, just
the bare hands and arms. Lovers either consummate their love, or not. Volcanoes
either erupt or they don’t. A paddleboarder either makes it across a 30-mile channel.
Or she doesn’t.
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