“Improve it!” she said bitterly. “How could I? I couldn’t understand a word she said, and she couldn’t understand me!”
We decided to stop the next day in Dominica, a British possession just 50 miles upwind, which is not too accessible to the tourist. It promised to be a good day’s sail, so we weighed anchor at Fort de France at dawn, passing Saint-Pierre Bay by 0730. Crossing the Dominica Channel in moderate seas, we passed close up the west coast of the island and anchored in Roseau Road by midafternoon. Since the bottom slopes steeply here, it was necessary to come close in. By 1500 we were cleared and on our way ashore.
It was obvious, from the attention we commanded at Roseau, that visitors are much less common here than in Barbados and Martinique. A herd of small boys waited at the dock and vied for permission to “look after” our dinghy—which they did by overloading it almost to sinking point and rowing happily around the harbor. A sizable crowd followed us around as we wandered through the narrow streets where we heard our first West Indian calypso singers—on a jukebox. When we returned to the dock we crossed thirteen eager palms with copper in order to ransom our dinghy. Several older boys applied eagerly for a berth on the Phoenix. “I work for you cheap,” one pleaded.
“I work more cheap!” another countered.
Ted grinned at them as we shoved off. “We’ve already got a crew that works most cheap,” he told them. “For nothing!”
Though we found Roseau attractive and worth exploring further, we decided to move on the next day to Portsmouth, another 20 miles up the coast. That evening, after dropping the hook, we had a swim in the beautifully clear water of Portsmouth Bay and then spent a wonderful evening aboard, playing Hawaiian and Tahitian records.
The next morning we went ashore. It was market day, which meant an unusual bustle in town, or so we were told by the young Britisher in Barclay’s Bank, a one-room, clapboard shack at the end of the dock. We visited the open-air market and had the pleasure of buying an entire stalk of bananas for “30 cents Bee-wee” (B.W.I.), or about 24 cents American. My most vivid memory of Portsmouth is of three young girls, with shining black skin and kinky hair, strolling home from market, each wearing a hand of green bananas on her head, like a hat.
During the day we stopped frequently to drink “punch,” which turned out to be made with the local rum. Punch, at 10 cents B.W.I., was by far the most economical drink, as soft drinks cost 14 cents, gin and brandy 18 cents a shot, and beer a prohibitive 42 cents.
A couple of little girls attached themselves to Jessica and followed her about all day. Instead of asking (or demanding) “few cents,” as children had done during our tour of Roseau, they asked, wistfully, if we had “an old dress.” When we said we could probably find something, their faces lighted like a sunrise.
“I bring you something!” one promised. “I bring you coconut!”