1st Place:  Stag, 85 points

2^nd Place:  Heineken, 70 points

3^rd Place:  Hairoun, 69 points

4^th Place:  Carib, 55 points

Kids pick up a lot by experience and osmosis. But picking up books along the way perks up their sense of place—and increases their vernacular vocabulary. Wandering in little island book stores is a treat, too. The better ones do a fine job of providing local lesson materials, and make book browsing fun. 

Here’s just some of the stuff we’ve stumbled on that even the parents can appreciate…

• Children’s Stories.  Often written with some dialect and new words, they bring a child’s perspective to the big, old world.  “Away to Bequia” takes a quirky family sailing from St. Vincent to little Bequia.  “The Nutmeg Princess” features three haunting, local legends that make CurlyGirl’s blue eyes go wide open. 
• Adventures.  AllBoy devours anything with some suspense and sea drama.  An adapted version of “Treasure Island” made him love a book his dad has never finished, while a Hardy Boys saga set on St. John brought new drama to familiar sites. 
• Reference sources.  Fortunately, the better places you stay have stacks of guidebooks, nature books, maps, atlases, and more.  We thumb through those, plus pick up the likes of “A B Sea” for the little one and “Beneath Tropic Seas” for the tween.
• Art materials.  Just handing out paper and pens to the kids brings forth some impressive interpretations of fish, plants, and local colors.  A coloring book like “Wet, Wild and Rare” not only provides fun drawings, but brief copy about the wildlife (non-human) of the Caribbean. 
• Music.  Ears getting filled with song is the most ongoing and obvious proof that we’re far away.  It’s everywhere, all the time.  And although there is surprising variety, most of it is island-centric.  We pay attention in the buses and stores, go to hear it live, buy CDs, and even make our own with guitar and riddim instruments. 

“I’d rather be at work doing nothing than sitting at home spending money.” 

Leaving the past behind…”  

What I get is the feeling that folks are happy to see me, even if they see me on occasion as a human dollar sign.”  

The intervention.”  

Islanders have savored relaxation so heartily…”  

An air of gratitude that suggests they couldn’t have enjoyed the freedoms of today without the despairs of yesterday.”  

We stop half a dozen times.”  

More hypocrisy in the churches than in the rum shops.”  

From the hilltop jail, convicts enjoy the best view of the island.”  

I could spend all night at Patrick’s, and with Patrick himself.”   

Put simply:  We had the exact opposite experience.  The worst night, worst food, worst encounter with a Grenadian.  Maybe it’s because I don’t write for The Times?  Or perhaps it was just fate. It matters not.  Travel teaches us that bliss comes in 555 forms.  And letdowns happen.  Even his waitress couldn’t handle Patrick that night, and our cabbie (nobody special) was embarrassed upon hearing our story.  We were the only table in the joint that evening.  But were also told that the previous night had been packed with naughty yachties.  Hmmm.  I’m glad the NYT writer had a good experience; that gives me simultaneous skepticism, hope, and—maybe—a reason to try again.

…endure a lot of stares and the occasional shout of ‘White man!’ even as I sit safely in One Dog’s passenger seat.”  

We reach a spooky town…”  

Obama!”  

              

Frank, France, Juliette, Jeanne & Colin, Lifehackers extraordinaire

At first it was just my dream, but then it got shared by the whole family.  I wanted to show the kids that if you have a dream, it takes time—year after year.  It’s important to keep it, even if you’re not realizing it.  But if you want it bad enough, and work hard, you can usually achieve most of your goals. 

 

My dream was a big sail.  I’ve had it for 20 years.  The family became part of it 10 years ago, because we had children.  5 years ago, I made it a real project.  And three years ago, I told my business partner and company we need to make this possible.  To not disturb the company was important.  And yet, my customers were actually impressed, not upset. 

 

I made a deal with my partner:  I do this, and you can also have a year off to use however you wish.  He still has that to look forward to. 

I work a lot.  The average week is 60 hours, I’d say.  A big awakening moment for me was realizing that I’d almost missed the births of two out of my three children.  I realized:  These are the big occasions of your life.  You have to be there.  They won’t happen again.  I decided if I wanted to see my children grow up, it was time to recalibrate my priorities. 

The timing was based largely on the children.  We figured that our oldest, 12, would be harder to remove from her social life at 13 or 14.  During planning, she did think a year would be too long.  But now that we are doing it, she keeps asking if we can keep sailing for another year! 

 

We had to convince them that this was our big chance for time together.  For exciting exploration—which I think is more important than school. 

 

The transition was difficult for all of us.  Being on a boat 24/7 with no escapes, well, sometimes that led to big explosions.  It’s easier now.  We’ve found ways to give free space and time.  Navigating.  Photos.  Art and play.  We all work on a website about the trip.  And of course, home schooling eats up a lot of time. 

As French citizens, to leave for a year, we MUST educate our children through a program called Centre Nationalee D’Enseignement a’ Distance.  There are 200,000 French students all over the world!  It goes as high as Ph.D.  We are registered to two different schools.  We belong to classes with teachers.  It’s very challenging and administrative. 

 

There are many, many books and supplies on board.  We have to do things like record music lessons on cassette and send it to France.  There, a teacher listens, records comments, and sends it back.  They even expect us to do chemistry experiments!  We’ve gotten bad grades and been scolded in e-mails for being late.  It’s taken much more time and focus than we expected, but we keep at it and do our best. 

The nice thing about life on a boat is that you can go anywhere.  It’s like having a move-able house on water.  We started from France, of course, and have done stops in Spain, the Canary Islands, Senegal, the Capo Verde islands, Barbados, the Grenadines, and Bequia.  We’ll spend some serious time in the French-Caribbean islands and Cuba before crossing the Atlantic to go home again. 

 

As for rough moments—besides privacy and home schooling.  We did have a medical emergency while crossing in September.  For a few hours, it was very scary.  One daughter got seriously ill, with many symptoms, and we thought it might be appendicitis.  That would NOT be easy to handle alone in stormy seas. 

 

Another terrible moment was going through customs on one particular island.  We made a simple mistake:  We had a friend on board—who had helped us cross over.  We arrived late, after customs was closed, and he had an early flight out the next morning, so we didn’t declare him.  Bad idea.  Customs figured that out and five agents surrounded, shouted, and grilled me for thirty minutes, like a scene from Midnight Express.

 

They told me the penalty is $5,000, one year in prison, or both.  Somehow, I kept my cool.  And they eventually backed off.  The calendar helped save me because, in the end, they said, “You’re lucky tomorrow is Christmas and we’re closed, so we’re going to drop the whole matter.”  That is NOT a good memory, though. 

First came planning, and then the trip itself.  But the part that may be most difficult is going home.  We get back in July and school begins in September.  So for the kids, that transition will probably be easier.  But some of their friends may have moved on, so there could be other issues. 

 

I fear going back to work, I guess.  What if people have taken on too much autonomy and won’t listen to me any more?  I may have to refocus some people, or even ask if the company still needs me at all.  And my partner and I will need to learn to work together again after all this time and change. 

 

I don’t look forward to the weather, of course.  Where we live in France has a long, gray winter.  Would you believe I prefer this beautiful tropical season? 

 

• But more than anything, I worry about ennui—being bored.  After a dream-come-true like this, will routine and work feel worthwhile and satisfying?  We will see. Perhaps to start thinking about the next big dream will be one way to survive the transition…

Thanks for the reminder.  Our Sabbatical ends months before you sail back across the big pond. So yes, it’s time to savor every setting, prepare for the impending re-entry, and start working toward the next big BreakAway.

What a glorious Sunday!  Days like this—exactly like this—float like fantasies in the mind when one is plotting a BreakAway.  So when they finally happen, the pleasure feels both familiar and profound.

Grenada’s sailing festival is a big event, running over several days, with yachties from all over the world filling the harbors, hotels, and bars. That’s fun.  And in our resort, it was easy to make new friends.  Heck, a team from the Shetland Isles of Scotland invited me to join their team for two races.  Unfortunately, the timing didn’t work out. Dang!

But the real action—at least for the locals—is the “work boat” races on Grand Anse beach.  These are traditional, home-made boats, with plywood for the body, bamboo for the mast, and sponsor-donated sailcloth for the one mainsail.

The towns and outer islands (Petit Martinique and Carriacou) race each other, and yes, there is rivalry!  The race begins on shore with a LeMans-style start, heads out to sea for three turns around buoys, and then returns to shore again.  When the boat hits sand, and a sailor scrambles out and crosses the finish line–and runs to the stand for a shot of rum–we have a winner.

The festival features all the sights, sounds, and smells that make events like these so sweet…

• An MC sets the stage and keeps things moving and dancing; his subwoofer is the size of an SUV and keeps all three miles of the beach bobbing in riddim.
• There are junior races (sorry, no rum for you), so the families can get giddy and noisy.

• There are rivalries, sure, but also times when a whole team goes missing and the race gets delayed.

• The occasional “man overboard” makes for lots of excitement, as the waterlogged sailor swims as quickly as he can to catch up with his craft.
• Kids play in the sand and swim right around the start and finish lines and couldn’t care less about no races.

• Vendors line the beach selling bbq, oildown (the national dish), souvenirs, hand-made crafts, cold bevies, and lots and lots of beer.
• Young men gather in groups under seagrape trees to catch a buzz and be cool.

• Pale tourists chase around with bazooka-sized cameras choking their necks.

When it’s time for this fam to sail away, this guy doesn’t want to.  But our bags are again packed, and it’s time to move to our next home in Gouyave, a little fishing village half-way up the island.

Frustrations proliferate, from kids over-acclimated to island time to music books lost in the mail. Still, we agree with the many (also biased) families we meet who say, “Kids get more education from seeing the world than from sitting in a classroom.” And a beloved part of this trip is watching them take it all in. Let us count a few ways…

• AllBoy has become a master snorkeler who can dive deep and spot findings he will research later.
• CurlyGirl has gone from water-wimp to water-bug, calmly jetting underwater like a little dolphin.
• AllBoy can be a finicky reader, but he’ll now rip through a book in one day if he likes it.
• CurlyGirl writes with confidence and abandon. In BB’s Crabback—where guests write on the walls—she grabbed that marker and left a legend.
• Both enter “local” places without a flinch. Before this trip, such atypical settings would have given them pause for concern.
• AllBoy explores new surroundings by himself, blind to fears and stereotypes.
• CurlyGirl’s self-reliance has also exploded. When we lost her on a crowded ferry, she showed up after being in the lady’s room with the message, “No toilet paper!”
• They both eat countless things they would have only sniffed at before: Conch, okra, curry, soursop, and much more.
• They now effortlessly leap over language barriers that previously would have stalled them. In the past 3 days, they’ve found ways to communicate–and play–for hours with children from France and Sweden who speak very little English.
• They (finally!) assist with domestic gruntwork. She likes to clean and help with clothes; he loves to cook and tends to their endless snack needs.
• While they still enjoy their digi-toys, their favorite things of late have become coconuts, seashells, strange fruits, a feltboard—or activities that aren’t “things” at all.

This blossoming has its poignant moments; it happens so fast, a doting parent can begin to feel obsolete. Like a slap to the head, it hit me yesterday that AllBoy will likely be leaving the house in just over six years. That’s too soon. Better start scheming another Sabbatical—before it’s too late.

Only rarely can I offer them a stretch of time to grow like this BreakAway. But how sweet it is to see that their minds, bodies, and hearts are expanding in ways that only such experiences can provide.

The alarm chirped at 5:55, long before sunrise, but this insomniac had already been stirring for hours.  So we arose fast, snarfed food, and began this Sabbatical’s most ambitious day of travel. Taxi Calvin to downtown.  Friendship Rose schooner to Tobago Cays.  Water taxi to Petit Martinique.  Ferry to Grenada.  Taxi to our next home. 

Taxi Calvin was uncustomarily late.  But after our requisite (and passionate) dispute (that he “won”) a few days earlier, this was a predictable rebuff.  Yet he got us to port, whereupon we and our large luggage boarded the stunning old schooner and enjoyed the generous continental breakfast that was awaiting. 

• The Promises of Sail:  Get Bliss or Seasick

The trip exceeded expectations of beauty, service, and comfort—for the first half-hour or so.  Then the dark clouds began to roll in.  It rained.  Hard and long.  Stinging and cold.  Captain Lewis had all sails up and engines on and tried every maneuver, but the clouds followed us like pesky dogs. 

Elegant white pillows filled like wet sponges.  The deck turned into a skating rink. Crew donned raingear while the rest of us had none.  (Note to posh boat:  Keep cheapo ponchos for your customers, please.) 

The mammoth vessel had space to burn, but only two places to try stay dry:  Under a little canopy on deck; or in the cabin below.  I avoid cabins in choppy seas—in that way that I avoid puking when possible.  But my family descended into the dry but perilous purgatory. 

For a while, that is.   Then, naturally, they came up and started belly-aching.  My sick 5-year-old, CurlyGirl, collapsed on my lap as I sat under a corner of the canopy on the hard, drenched deck.

And there she stayed for, oh, an eternity or two.  My squished body went from uncomfortable to miserable.  But she fell into a shaky sleep, after much moaning and whining, and a few hours later woke up giggling about a few “little burps.”  In no time, she was ambling her way back to stability—and I was happily munching more ibuprofen. 

That was a big, messy bullet to dodge, as our 11-hour travel day was mostly on boats.  In the worst-case-scenario fearbook, she could have been green and groaning all day. 

• A Day of Island Hopping

Thanks to motor-sailing in uncooperative but heavy winds, (so loud, so unromantic), we made it “on time” to the Tobago Keys—a surreal preserve of tiny, beachy islands plopped atop a shallow reef and loved to near-death by 100s of yachts.  A dinghy took us to a tiny secluded islet.  A place where you can stand on a strip of sand, face out, and see nothing but uninhabited cays. 

The trip was off to a so-so start, but that moment provided the payoff.  This was the edge of the earth.  A place where simply standing makes your spine tingle.  A snorkel revealed dozens of endangered hawksbill turtles; even CurlyGirl saw several and felt the enchantment.  Then we were rushed back to the boat for lunch, as we’d soon be picked up by a water taxi right here, in the middle of nowhere. 

• Island Time Knows 2 Speeds

The thing about “island time” is that it’s very digital.  Usually it’s on “LOW”—slow and sluggish; don’t even try to rush things or people and powers conspire to gradually assimilate you.  But when someone in charge of your destiny gets a bug up their butt, and there are a lot of bugs in the tropics, they get ants in the pants and make you dance. 

So it was when our dinghy driver asked us if we wanted to snorkel some more, a mere rhetorical question.  Because then, he abruptly shifted to “HIGH” and started barking at us to get our stuff and get back to the Friendship Rose.  Speedi (the taxi driver) had arrived.  Very early.  But he too was on “HIGH.” 

Indeed, there floating about 12 feet off the stern of the FR was a sorry tub painted pink, and one sunglassed race-driver with a hand on the ample motor.  Back on the Rose, I pulled aside Captain Matt (an acquaintance from long ago that we did NOT know would be on the boat, but that’s another story), “Isn’t Speedi early?”

Matt confided, “Yes, and that’s unusual.  He must want a little something to eat.”  And sure enough, Speedi boarded after us, shook our hands, and got a bonus lunc,.  As we gobbled (a yummy chicken dish with Calypso sauce) and gabbed, “island time” hit the “HIGH” button again, and the crew started throwing our luggage down to Speedi’s boat.  Everyone started hollering commands about needing to set off before the dinghy got to the boat with the rest of the remaining, and staying, passengers. 

Captain Matt did some quick Q&A and PR work on our behalf with Speedi, some of which went something like this…

M:  Speedi, do you have a tarp if it rains?  These people have electronics gear.

S:  You doan need to worry yo’seff about no rain!

M:  I’m not worried, Speedi.  They asked me so I’m asking you.

S:  (Quick glance at sky)…I doan tink it gwine rain.  If it rain, we figga some-tin out. 

M:  Well, we have some large garbage sacks…

S:  Yeah-yeah-yeah.  Give me sum dem big socks, mon. 

Speedi moved full-speed at distributing our stuff and our persons for weight and mind control.  My “seat” assignment was beside clingy CurlyGirl, and on the edge of the boat—ensuring that I would endure nonstop ocean spray plus the sensation that I was about to fall off. 

• High Seas Ahead

Our new, now-rosy friends on the Friendship Rose waved with one hand (while the other clutched drinks)—just like in the movies—while Speedi hit the motor and we lurched into the seas.  When I enquired about the gnarly conditions, he shouted, “Yeah, it does be pretty choppy out dere today, but I does have some life preservers.”  I’m sure he did, though I couldn’t say where. 

But away we went, into the rocking and roiling blue abyss. 

To be fair, we took air only five or ten times.  The kids loved it, sometimes.  I found it frightful and delightful, and kept reminding myself that since I signed up for this at great cost, surely I could soak it all in and keep fear, if not seawater, at bay.  That worked mostly, though less so when AllBoy would thrust his arms in the air as if we were riding a roller-coaster.  “Boy Overboard!” was not on this itinerary! 

Speedi spent most of the time selling us, his captive audience, on taking a full day trip with him to study all the sights we were buzzing by—bellowing in harmony with his big motor. 

• The World’s Tiniest Port?

Finally, we slowed, and started entering the world’s smallest port, Union Island.  Speedi babbled about this taking “maybe 3, maybe 5” minutes, which I know means add a zero to both numbers and start to pray.  I asked if this was the customs stop where we’d have to pay a fee.  He replied, “Yes!  $68 EC”—different from what others had quoted—but added, “Maybe since you wid me I git you outa dat money today.”  My eyes rolled, both from the rough ride and his expected comment.

Frozen-in-time (or was it ice and rum?) yachties watched us drift in, while the little boys fishing on the dock stopped to stare.  Speedy tied up loosely to a slivery dock, left all our stuff, and commanded, “Follow me.”  Island time was still on “HIGH.”  We scampered for several blocks on a muddy road—past dead shops, tiny bars, a neglected “Yacht Club,” and shanties. 

Once inside the world’s smallest airport, it was clear that we would undergo some sort of customs thing here, as there was an 8” x 10” yellowed, ripped piece of paper on a door that said “Customs In Here.”  But that’s another story, too, this surreal customs encounter. 

At any rate, and by that I mean at least 30-50 minutes (and only a few “Please dear Gods…”) later, we emerged—having gradually been granted permission to leave the north end of the Caribbean and enter the south end.  An invisible line in the sand and surf that says:  Good-bye, St. Vincent Grenadines; Hello, Grenada Grenadines. 

Best of all, they waived the fee.  Speedi gave himself the credit, but it didn’t hurt that the kind lady was smitten by our rare, blonde, little CurlyGirl. 

• Riding the Waves

Speedi pushed us back into his giant floating bathtub, and off we returned to the wild blue yonder for more thrills and chills, as waves and swells grew to several feet and Speedi zipped around them like an Olympic bobsledder, or else over them like an Olympic ski-jumper.

As with the first leg, the middle of the voyage was the worst—once protection from islands and reefs disappeared.  We watched our luggage take a sea bath.  Sunglasses became salt-glasses.  And we passed some surreal sights:  Abandoned homes built on remote, unreachable precipices; bedroom-size islands with one palapa and a chaise lounge; peninsulas piled high with precious conch shells, some ancient gray, some fresh pink. 

Who ARE these people!?!  I kept wondering.  What do they “do” for a living?  Or are they on a secret, perma-BreakAway?  Before I could figure all that out, Speedi mercifully slowed toward a dock on Petit Martinique, population 1,000 (as if!).  Thanks to Island Time on “HIGH,” we had arrived an hour and 15 minutes early.  Go figure. 

PM (as its called down here) had not a lot of “there” there.  So AllBoy went exploring a dirty beach with 1000s of forgotten conch chunks.  CurlyGirl needed a bathroom, which set off an lengthy expedition.  And I rested on wet baggage and watched this little world go by—a few loud fishermen coming in, a curious boy not in school, and some Bible-toting ladies sauntering off to do the Lord’s Work. 

• Ferrying the Final Leg

Finally, the impressive Osprey Express tooted its arrival and came slamming into the dock, looking out of place on this Gilliganesque island.  At most, 5 or 10 of us boarded.  My children chose the air-conditioned indoor area. Partner and I took choice seats on the deck. 

One more stop before Grenada:  Carriacou.  This time, 100 enthused folks piled on, including a rowdy cricket team celebrating victory (or loss), a dozen international tourists, and one large motorcycle.  The ride was fast and smooth, with myriad, mysterious flying fish soaring, veering, and skipping over our wake like so many waverunners. 

Speaking of, two rambunctious waverunners DID soon find us, and join the flying fish in riding the waves.  The world being a small place, they occasionally rode right up to the deck and had conversations with friends on board.  They all but passed along beers. 

The emerald, craggy west coast of Grenada provided entertainment.  And by the time the sun was setting, we pulled into the handsome port of St. George’s. 

Taxis fought over us, almost literally, and the one who won was yelling, “STOOPID!  STOOPID!” to the loser (who was yelling more and shouting much naughtier phrases) until we drove out of sight.  (He kept his language G-rated on account of our children.)  As usual, this driver sold us nonstop on his island tour while repeatedly pushing biz cards into my palm. 

Then we checked into our little resort, a lovely and refreshingly sleepy place.  Land felt good, but that wavy sensation took hours to subside. 

After a day like that, the buzz wears off slowly.  So unpacking clothes and gear and taking an enthusiastic swim in the cool saltwater infinity pool were good ways to wind down.  Overpriced Sauvignon Blanc was room-serviced to our villa.  The restaurant took its sweet, “LOW” Island Time to feed us supper.  And we toasted our adventurous day. 

We did it.  We’re drained, but still in one piece. 

Grenada looks grand.  And we have about 27 days to make ourselves at home.