Mary Constance and Blackwattle finish the ARC

by Nancy Knudsen on 23 Dec 2006 DAY 172 – 19th December, 2006 – WE CAN SEE LITTLE LIGHTS!

The last successful days of our trans-Atlantic journey occur as our balefully staring albatross predicted. We have had strong winds, with miserable seas, and squalls, followed by days of blue sky and innocent wandering clouds, followed by still more gray days, and squalls.

But nothing occurs to hinder our mounting excitement at reaching the other end with two boats and two standing masts. Mary Constance sails and motors carefully, and as Justine and Pippa are on their way to bed on the evening of Day 24, they radio with great excitement.

‘We can see little lights! Look quickly, we can see lots of little lights!’

It’s Martinique, next island to St Lucia, and they go to bed in great excitement that their long bruising saga will soon be over.

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DAY 173 - 20th December, 2006 – ARRIVING ST LUCIA

Just before daylight, we round the point at the top of St Lucia, and call ARC Finishing Line – a group of valiant volunteers who have been manning the finishing line 24 hours a day in a local yacht, for as long as the yachts have been arriving. There’s no wind and we sneak along, creeping towards the torchlight flashes from the ARC Finishing Line to show us the way – it’s hazy and dark ahead, and St Lucia’s high tropical mountain peaks loom behind, tall silhouettes against the slowly whitening sky.

Suddenly, breaking the soft calm of the morning, there is a blurred flurry of activity beside me.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think – putting up the main! We’ll never get across the line at this rate.’

So for the first time in two weeks we have the main up, for 200 metres to drift across the line.

But the surprises aren’t over – suddenly, out nowhere appear two dinghies full of cruisers from boats we have known – Zulane, Steamy Windows and Osprey –

‘What are you doing out of bed at this time?’ I shout, remonstrating, teary with joy at this unexpected welcome. They zoom around us and then speed off to welcome Mary Constance, who, unable to put up her main, makes a longer time of it.

Finally we are motoring down a lush waterway, already the contrast between sights showing that we are in a very different world from the one we left only a few weeks away. Tumbledown shacks nestle among the rich vegetation, and ordered gardens surround opulent mansions.

All is green, lush and luxuriant looking. Handsome black faces in colourful clothes lounge in the early morning air.

Now as we turn the corner to the marina, we start to hear a cacophony of fog horns from somewhere seems to be heralding our arrival, and boats in the anchorage (Not in the ARC) wave an enthusiastic welcome, while as we enter the marina, people are climbing out into their cockpits to wave.

On the wharf at our berth are dozens of people, clapping, smiling, and the ARC Angels – those yellow shirted guys we saw so much of in Las Palmas – are there with rum punch and baskets of tropical fruit and bottles of rum.

It’s hard to tie up from excitement, and with all the dozens watching, I get my lines all crossed, giggling in embarrassment. After the first blur of faces, I can make out so many friends we have made, and many others we don’t know.

But soon, they are making themselves known – ‘We are the crew of Meitli!’ and ‘We are the crew of Messenger!’ and ‘We are from Galatea!’ and while we drink our – very strong – rum punch (at 7.30am) we hug and swap stories with these people we have only known as wonderful saving friends on the radio.

It’s not long, however, before the biggest reunion of all – walking along the dock we now see a family of husband, wife, and older man, and two little girls. It must be, it has to be, it’s definitely - the Crew of Mary Constance! No, we didn’t know them before.

Two bottles of champagne and lots of Sangria later, it’s still only 0930, and we have hardly touched base with all the things we want to discuss.

But that’s okay – now there’s plenty of time, and as we leave the boat to go check into St Lucia, the wharf has a definite wobble…….. too long at sea? – or just too much rum champagne and sangria?

'Hold my hand, Ted – there’s something wrong with the wharf here!'