Beach Combing

Greetings, landlubbers. I recently had the enormous good fortune to find myself aboard a privately chartered yacht in the Leeward Isles. When cruising in such exotic climes, one can’t help but concede the difference between the Caribbean and the North Sea. Crystal water, playful pelicans, turtles and dolphins, shallow turquoise bays with white coral dust for sand and a perfect sailing breeze...

While Cap’n Jack Sparrow was sadly absent, this place abounds with names that smack of piracy. Dead Chest Island. Pull And Be Damned Point. Throw Way Wife Point. Nasty Dog Rock.

But step ashore and disappointment awaits. True, the hammocks are comfy, the rum is fiery. The painkiller cocktails are memorable and the locals even more so. But the beachcombing is not half so interesting as the shores of the North East coast of Old England where I first learned to paddle. Here be no fascinating strands of orange rope. No green-tinted old plastic bottles. No rusted cans. No sanitary products among the slimed kelp. No kelp at all, in fact. Occasionally a pink and pristine conch shell and once (great excitement) a floating coconut, gently rolling in and out with the lapping wavelets.

The last straw for me was the stunning Dead Man’s Bay on Peter Island, a broad curving beach with thatched sunshades and luxurious loungers. And a man in a white uniform actually combing the beach. With a comb. It’s a hard life.

Carrie
Copywriter