Martinique and Saint Vincent

Early the next day, we raised anchor and made a short passage to Saint-Pierre, close to the northern end of Martinique, another overseas territory of France. After Guadeloupe, I had a certain expectation of what Martinique might be like. As we approached the wide bay surrounding Saint-Pierre, we saw numerous cruisers, something I hadn’t witnessed since leaving Saint Martin two months earlier. It seemed we had caught up with the tail end of the cruising fleet. Once anchored, we headed ashore.

Saint-Pierre carries those unmistakable French early 20th-century features. Its beautiful main street is lined with public stone buildings, high ceilings, concrete steps, and classic French-style facades. Public squares, cafés, and meeting places add to its lively atmosphere, and even the customs building has a sense of grandeur and style.

Much of the architecture dates from the early 20th century, largely because the entire town was destroyed in a series of violent volcanic eruptions from Mount Pelée in 1902. A visit to the Volcano Museum provided us with a vivid sense of the horror surrounding this event. I hadn’t truly understood the scale of the devastation. The only survivor of the catastrophic volcanic gas explosion, comparable in power to a nuclear blast, was a prisoner who was shielded by four-foot-thick concrete walls that enclosed his cell. You can still visit the site today.

Initially, we eased into a slower pace. We were making good progress, and with only a few miles left to Grenada, about three days of sailing, it felt natural to pause. We decided to stay a week, but soon after, we learned that a system had formed and been classified as a tropical wave with the potential to develop into a hurricane, heading directly toward Martinique.

Our mindset quickly shifted. We made our way to Fort-de-France, a larger city on the southern end of the island. The busy anchorage just outside the port proved to be an excellent place to resupply. After several trips to Super U, the laundrette, and running errands, we decided to depart that evening for our first night passage, planning to bypass Saint Lucia and sail straight to Saint Vincent.

The crossing was illuminated by a full moon, with the now-familiar 18–22 knots of wind on a broad reach—sometimes edging toward a close reach. Michelle and I took turns sleeping and keeping watch. We arrived in Saint Vincent after a swift twelve-hour sail. By now, we all seemed to take these passages in stride. The children slept in the cockpit, and I took the forward cabin. There is a lot more movement there, but it somehow aided a deeper sleep.

In the early hours, we arrived at Chateaubelair, Saint Vincent, a small waterfront town set along a stunning bay surrounded by cliffs and lush green jungle. The anchorage was quiet, with no other boats in sight. As we entered the bay, a small rowboat approached us—a traditional wooden boat whose operator used an unusual rowing technique. The boatman appeared to “walk” his oars in an alternating rhythm, making the boat’s movement seem almost accidental from a distance.

For a moment, I wondered whether he was a fisherman tending his nets and whether we needed to alter our course to avoid them. But as we drew closer, he stopped rowing and called out to us. That’s when I realized his movements had been entirely deliberate.

The boatman greeted us: “Hello! I’m here to help you find a safe place to anchor. It can be dangerous here so I can guide you to a secure spot.” I began to understand the exchange—unsolicited assistance with an expected payment, even if none had been requested.

It can feel frustrating, especially when travelling on a tight budget. Yet it quickly becomes clear that these communities rely heavily on tourism, and small groups of locals acting as informal custodians or guides use opportunities like this to earn a living from passing cruisers. After several experiences like this one, I’ve come to accept that this is simply the reality of visiting certain parts of the Caribbean,  particularly the former English colonies that often struggle with limited infrastructure and funding. By contrast, in the French territories, we experience none of these interactions.

Once anchored, our family headed toward the main dock near the customs building. As I looked toward the small town, I noticed a group of young men waiting nearby. The atmosphere felt awkward. Two pairs of hands immediately reached out to help us out of the boat.

It was another instance of unsolicited help, this time with a more obvious desperation for cash in exchange for unnecessary assistance. The young men weren’t threatening; in fact, they seemed kind and well-meaning. Still, there was a quiet desperation in the exchange that left me uneasy and unsure how to handle the situation.

We found the customs building—a worn, concrete structure that looked almost abandoned—near the waterfront. We waited outside a padlocked metal gate until we heard footsteps. A customs official appeared and greeted us. “Hello. Come this way.” He led us down a dim corridor to a small kiosk. Michelle completed the check-in process while the kids

discovered an empty room with two rolling desk chairs that echoed loudly across the bare concrete floor. After what felt like two hours of keeping them quiet and entertained, the customs process finally came to an end. I stepped outside to check whether our dinghy was still tied up at the dock.

As I approached, I saw a group of men gathered at the end of the concrete pier, including the 2 young guys who greeted us as we arrived. Avoiding eye contact didn’t seem appropriate; it would have been obvious that I was checking on my dinghy, so instead I walked straight toward them. The clear leader—a tall man with a commanding presence, bloodshot eyes, and a clearly unsteady demeanour—stepped forward. He smiled and moved close.

“Hey, I’m the Mayor,” he said, offering his fist for a bump. “But you can call me Mr M”   

I smiled and returned the gesture. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tim.” His grin widened into a laugh. “What do you think of my island?” My brain scrambled for a response. “It’s very green,” I said. I was being sincere. It’s so lush and green!

He laughed louder, seemingly pleased. “This is my life,” he said, stepping even closer. Just then, Michelle and the kids passed by on their way to the dinghy. The two young men accompanying “Mr. M” lingered near us as we walked. An awkward moment followed when Michelle pulled out her purse. Their eyes locked onto it like Gollum staring at the ring—an unsettling but telling glimpse of the energy surrounding money.

Despite the constant offers of assistance, we never felt threatened. We realized that many people here have limited sources of income, so visitors naturally become opportunities for them to earn a little money. Many cruisers warn against visiting Saint Vincent out of fear for their safety, perhaps overlooking the fact that crime exists everywhere, including at home. The fear of the unknown while at anchor can be unsettling, but choosing not to go may mean missing out on something worthwhile.