CRUISES: Antigua, Yachting Where the Sun Meets the Sea

Story and photography by
Nancy & Eric Anderson 

 

The Ocean Mistral swings lazily at anchor, a black shadow against a copper sky.

A dark shape wheels high overhead, the oddly-bent, long spread of the wings betraying a frigate bird, that Man o' War said to sleep on the wing because if it landed it could never take off again. Tree frogs, jealous of flight, screech a cacophony of derision. The boat, however, mindful of the curse of the Flying Dutchman, nods in the water as if with sympathy. Three tiny flying fish attracted by the stern light do a pas de trois over water now on fire from the sunset. The beach glows ghostly white against the palm trees. The sea slaps suddenly against the bow, the dingy tugs for a moment at its rope and the yacht bobs briefly. The waters quieten again.

Ocean Mistral sways complacently on her chain "as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean." It is sundown at sea, a time of contentment in the Caribbean when the world seems weary of doing nothing. It's a languid, lazy life, this world where the sun meets the sea. It seems distant, improbable, unapproachable. Yet it can be touched, albeit briefly, by those who labor on a landlocked globe. They can charter a yacht, a time machine, and disappear for a magic moment to a far-off shore.

There are many locations available but it seems in chartered cruising that all winds blow to an island called Antigua and a family named Nicholson. You would think Nicholsons had been around since Noah but it was only in 1948 that Commander Vernon Edward Barling Nicholson, Order of the British Empire, retired after 30 years in the Royal Navy. For a while he seemed satisfied strolling around County Cork, Ireland -- after all, the first yacht club in the world had been founded there in 1720.

But the sea beckoned. The family bought an ocean-going schooner Mollyhawk and set off around the world. They sailed past France, crossed the Atlantic from the Canary Islands, cruised through the Caribbean and reached Antigua, a small island about one-third down the chain that runs from Puerto Rico to Trinidad. The Nicholsons intended to sail to Australia but somehow stayed on in Antigua. "We swallowed the anchor," explained Desmond, the Commander's older son. Desmond, who now runs the ship chandlery, was aged 21 when the family sailed into English Harbor, so-named because, although the island was first discovered by Columbus on his second voyage in 1493, it was the Caribbean base for the British Navy during the eighteenth century.

Indeed, the Mollyhawk tied down at the very spot where Horatio Nelson, the most famous name in British maritime history, had anchored the H.M.S. Boreas in 1784. Looking around, the Nicholsons found themselves in one of the finest harbors in the world, and in a perfect spot for sailing -- ideal weather, constant dependable winds, sheltered inlets and deep blue water. Looking further, the Nicholsons saw guests from the only hotel on the island, the Mill Reef Club, clambering down towards them - they wanted a sail on the yacht for the day.

Before the Nicholsons quite knew what was happening, they were in the charter business. They are now the largest and oldest established yacht brokers in the Caribbean. The Commander retired to Ireland, of course, but as in the old days the business is still run from the house on the hill above the harbor where "The Old Oak" as the locals called him built a home around the six foot thick stone walls of Nelson's powder magazine. The old days were uncomplicated. Now Nicholson Yacht Charters have more than fifty fully-crewed yachts ranging from those about 40 feet long which would accommodate a couple, to ones around 125 feet able to handle a dozen guests.

"It used to be cruise, booze and snooze," said Desmond, "but now we offer more. We have toys on board - gear for diving and snorkeling and equipment for water skiing and wind surfing. You can fish. You can even ride an aqua scooter."

Desmond stood in the chandlery beside cases of rum, cans of provisions, boxes of vegetables; amongst maps, magazines and sailing books, and offered "I know why you come to us. To get away from it all. Imagine. You get settled in. Your quarters go with you. You see all those islands going by  and the world can't get at you."

He went on: "It's romance. Beauty. Freedom. Something new each day. Each island is different -- some are French and some are English; some are flat and some are mountainous. Yet the attraction remains the same: being on your own with people you like.."

No island is better than any other although most captains have favorites. Desmond preferred the Tobago Keys and les Saintes off Guadeloupe; others favored Nevis, Barbuda and the Grenadines. "Don't worry," said Desmond, "Our skippers know where to go and hide themselves." As if to prove him right, the key at Nelson's Dockyard below his office scurried with activity as captains prepared their yachts for charter. Swinging in the gentle breeze, the boats seemed ready to grab the wind and take off for favorite faraway places.

There was little Serenity of Leigh, a 44 foot ketch, built, owned and crewed by Chris and Sandy Packer. Chris was an accountant and Sandy taught mathematics until they started their career on the seas many years ago. In contrast was Julie Mother, a 100 foot modern schooner with four double cabins and air conditioning.

And bobbing in between those two were several 60 footers: Scarlett O'Hara a name that belied her English birth; and Te Quiero whose British captain, Alastair Arnold, looked uncommonly fresh for a man just arrived the day before from across the Atlantic. Sister ship Ocean Viking was alongside -- with appropriately a smiling Scandinavian skipper, Palle Molle'stein. Next in line was Ocean Claire, a 71 foot ketch, whose captain Francois was not only a skilled sailor but an expert in the local tradition of opening a champagne bottle with an island machete. And finally Ocean Mistral, a 60 foot yacht, sleek yet spacious, luxurious yet comfortable, designed to convert any nonbeliever to the religion of ocean sailing, the sport of kings.

Sailing - the sport of kings, the king of sports -- became a royal pastime in 1660. In that year Britain, tiring of the consequences of its civil war, recalled Charles II back from Europe. The monarch had spent some of his exile in Holland, a country so criss-crossed with canals and waterways that every wealthy person owned a boat for transportation and sport. (The word yacht is actually the Dutch for "hunter.")

The Prince of Orange made a parting gift to Charles -- the 50 foot long yacht Mary. England's first yacht soon had company. Charles, infatuated with the sport, assigned a naval architect to build him a dozen more! Royal interest in sailing peaked with Edward VII’s 122 foot racing cutter Britannia, the most famous royal yacht of all time winning 231 first prizes in 625 starts. So in love with this sport was King George V that on his deathbed in 1936, aware that none of his sons shared his passion for sailing, he ordered Britannia taken out from Portsmouth and scuttled at sea.

Had George V lived, he would have approved of one of his subjects, a London lawyer and now captain of Ocean Mistral, Keith Treadaway.

Treadaway, born of a sailing family, essentially ran away to sea. And kept running, because then he had company, a fellow enthusiast who, though a farmer's daughter, had been a skilled sailor since the age of seven. Caroline Buckwell was a pediatric ICU nurse at the famous Brompton Hospital in London when she started helping Treadaway prepare his 39 foot sloop Wizard for an Atlantic crossing.

After a particularly hard day varnishing the woodwork she sat back exhausted. Treadaway came down with a strange grin on his face. He criticized the job she'd done on the varnish then suddenly produced an engagement ring and popped the question. It was probably the best decision Treadaway ever made on land or sea. Caroline was the treasure of the islands, a skilled strong sailor and a marvelous Cordon Bleu chef who disappeared at times into a galley the size of a cupboard and half an hour later produced a repast as good as any from the Ritz in Paris. In truth, the highpoint of any chartered yacht cruise for a family might be the unexpected pleasure at finding Nicholson chefs do such a magnificent job and the unanticipated discovery for passengers that a family can sit together for meals unmolested by telephone, television or newspaper to remember a forgotten joy.

To have a magic carpet and fly before the wind to any Caribbean islands whose names and legends beckon. To dally and anchor on any shore of silver sand. To lounge lazily under a warm sun, the water lapping below the hull, the cool trades blowing away the cares of civilization. To wonder indolently if anything is missing and suddenly find a nutmeg rum punch appear by enchantment. To hear for the first time in years the words of songs softly whispered on the yacht stereo. To communicate with children, to listen to a spouse, to find family again.

And the sailing! To beat to windward, the bow plunging into the swell, the spray cascading over your elated child perched on the bowsprit, the sails cracking like a whip, the yacht with canted deck running on the shrieking wind.

Feet jammed apart you fight the wheel, the taste of salt in your mouth, the smell of the sea in your nostrils, the glint of the ocean in your eyes. Like the boat you are suddenly astir, animated, alive -- as if there is no life but that of the crashing waves and no challenge but that of the restless sea.

You tack for the last time and Nelson's Dockyard looms dead ahead.

The yacht quivers. The wind sighs. The sails slacken.

A small brown gull, a booby bird, floats towards you. Serene on the water, it clumsily lifts its wings as if applauding, as if hearing Tristan Jones' words echo across the harbor: "Every time someone sets off under sail, no matter the distance, someone is making an endeavor to reach for the infinite."