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A humid walk from Sugarapple Hotel to Monkey Hill, where sweat, memory, and a bottle of Hairoun carried us uphill through family history and heat-struck silence.

A quiet Sunday with doves in the grass to rain on the bay—flamboyant trees, bitter melon, and barefoot walks threading the day together.

We left Bequia late morning on the Bequia Fast Ferry. Our bags were packed, fridge cleared, and checkout from the Sugarapple Inn was simple—just a few bottled waters to settle up. After breakfast, we walked over to the office, got a taxi called, and waited on the steps of the cottage with the air already heavy from the incoming rain. By the time we arrived in Port Elizabeth, it had started to drizzle. While waiting for the ferry, the drizzle turned to proper rain. We took shelter under the small bus stop near the outdoor market—just enough cover to stay dry, though water pooled around our feet. The rain kept coming. I gave up waiting for it to stop and crossed the open square to the vendors, determined to find a souvenir. I was looking for one thing: a T-shirt that said “Bequia.” Just that. Not “St. Vincent and the Grenadines.” Just Bequia. We found two. Wet but satisfied, we made our way to the ferry terminal. It was still raining when we boarded. Bequia Fast Ferry · Friday 16 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/2400 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 The ride to Kingstown was faster than the regular boat, but not exactly smooth. I had a hotdog and a Hairoun for lunch, mostly to distract myself from the sound of the hull smacking against the sea. The weather was nasty—windy and wet the whole way. Gulls and frigatebirds seemed unbothered, skimming beside us like they had nowhere else to be. By the time we arrived at the dock in Kingstown, the rain was still falling steadily. Ranchie met us there, as promised, and drove us back up to Dorsetsire Hill. We unpacked in a quiet drizzle, the sort that feels endless, and I didn’t bother going outside until the rain eased—around 4 PM. When it finally let up, I stepped off the veranda and walked down the slope toward the bougainvillea. Before we’d left for Bequia, I’d noticed a pair of bananaquits building a small nest in the branches. Now, the nest was on the ground, soaked and a bit flattened. I wasn’t sure if it had fallen from the wind or been knocked loose by something, but I was curious whether I could return it to the shrub. As I reached down to pick it up, something moved just beside it. Cane Toad (Rhinella marina) · Friday 16 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 12800 · 1/60 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 A squat thing, brown and mottled, trying to disappear into the wet grass. I crouched, pulled out my iPhone 16 Pro, and took a few photos to upload to iNaturalist. The ID came back almost instantly: Rhinella marina. Cane Toad. I jumped back. The Cane Toad wasn’t always here. It was brought to the Caribbean—along with much of the tropics—by colonial agricultural authorities in the early 20th century. British colonial administrators introduced the toads as a supposed solution to beetle infestations plaguing sugarcane plantations. The thinking was simple and flawed: Cane Toads eat insects; sugarcane has insect pests; drop toads into the fields and let them do the work. But the beetles lived high up on the cane stalks—out of reach—and the toads stayed low to the ground, feeding instead on whatever they could catch: native frogs, birds’ eggs, lizards, other toads. They bred rapidly and spread even faster, with no natural predators to check their growth thanks to the toxic secretions from their skin. Their introduction didn’t solve the beetle problem. It created a new one. I didn’t want to take any chances. I backed away and went up to the veranda to grab my Fuji with the 150–600mm lens. From a safe distance, I got a clear shot of the toad in its soggy hiding place. I watched it for a while. It barely moved. They’re nocturnal by nature, preferring to wait out the heat and emerge at night to eat insects, snails, even small vertebrates if they can manage it. They’re generalists—opportunists. And clearly, they’re surviving here just fine. As I stood there, camera in hand, I heard a sharp note that cut through the post-rain quiet. A single, fluty call, then another, and another. I scanned the wires and spotted a bird I didn’t recognise. Merlin ID called it a Spectacled Thrush—Turdus nudigenis. The name fit. It looked like it had tiny glasses painted on its face. Spectacled Thrush (Turdus nudigenis) · Friday 16 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 4000 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 I’ve seen and heard a few thrushes before—Wood Thrush, Hermit Thrush—and they all seem to have this mix of familiarity and strangeness in their song. This one was no exception. Melodic, but insistent. It sang and sang and sang. Flew from one end of the yard to the other, never shutting up. The Spectacled Thrush is more at home in this environment than the toad. It’s a native species, found throughout the Lesser Antilles and parts of South America. It thrives in gardens, forest edges, and even small towns. It isn’t shy. It eats fruit, insects, and the occasional lizard or frog if it can catch one. It nests in trees and shrubs, building cup-shaped nests like most thrushes. What surprised me most wasn’t its presence, but how relentless it was. That song never stopped. At first, I smiled. After a few hours, I wanted to clap my hands and shout “Enough already!” Joshua Gooding, Mom, Me, Bhavna, Cashena “Susie” Wallace, Dillon Gooding Paradise Restaurant, Villa, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines · Friday 16 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 320 · 1/5 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 That night, my cousin Susie (Mom’s niece) had invited us out to her favourite Friday spot, the Paradise Restaurant in Villa, for Friday BBQ. We met up with Susie and her family—her sons Joshua and Dillon, her husband Elvis, and Doug Williams, who’s definitely a cousin, though I still can’t quite remember exactly how. I’ve known Doug for years. We’ve shared drinks and stories before, and that night was no different. There’s a kind of ease that comes from sitting down with people who’ve known you most of your life. I enjoyed catching up with Doug—swapping updates about friends and relatives who weren’t with us, some still on the island, others far away. Names floated between us like old landmarks—points of reference, memory, humour, grief. We laughed about things that no one else at the table would have understood. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed that until I had it again. Joshua Gooding, Mom, Me, Bhavna, Cashena “Susie” Wallace, Dillon Gooding, Doug Williams, Elvis Gooding Paradise Restaurant, Villa, Saint Vincent and the Grenadine · Friday 16 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 640 · 1/18 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 2.22mm f/2.2 · 2.22 mm · f/2.2 It was also a pleasure getting to know Joshua and Dillon better. The last time I saw them they were younger, still growing into themselves. Now they were full of opinions, jokes, energy. I listened as they told stories, teased each other, asked questions. It felt good to be in the middle of that—a link between generations, part of the rhythm of family without having to perform anything. The air was warm, the food decent, but what stood out was the drink. Doug had just finished a pale yellow cocktail and was ordering another. I asked what it was. “Rum and coconut water,” he said. “Captain Bligh. My favourite.” I was sceptical but curious. He promised I’d like it. I ordered one. He was right. It was cold, slightly sweet, and surprisingly smooth. No sugary mixers. Just clean coconut water and a hit of rum, poured over ice. It was the kind of drink that made everything—rain, noise, toads—fade for a moment. The kind of drink that sneaks up on you, not because it’s strong, but because it settles into your memory. I ordered another. Before we even left the table, I was already making a mental note: bring back a bottle of Captain Bligh. Some tastes, like some birds, stick with you longer than expected. ### Like this: Like Loading... Family Travel Bequia Bequia Fast Ferry Cane Toad Captain Bligh Coconut Water Family Lesser Antilles Saint Vincent Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Spectacled Thrush Sugarapple Inn Windward Islands

The bird hung in the air, wings a blur, the metallic green of its body catching the sun in shifting fragments of light. Above its head, the small crest—dark at first glance—flashed deep blue as it tilted, each feather edged so fine it looked brushed by hand. Along its throat and chest, green-gold tones rippled and faded with every slight movement, as if the colour itself were alive. Bhavna and I were returning from breakfast at the Sugarapple Inn. It was our last day on Bequia. As we crossed the yard of the Bequia Beach Hotel, heading back toward the beach to reach our cottage, Bhavna’s gaze caught on a flicker of movement among the Ixora shrubs. She slowed, pointed, and there it was—the Antillean Crested Hummingbird, no more than a few metres away. Antillean Crested Hummingbird (Orthorhyncus cristatus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 8000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 It hovered with precision, dipping its long bill into a cluster of red blooms. Ixora, rich in nectar, offers the concentrated sugars a bird like this needs to sustain the constant motion of its tiny body—its heart beating hundreds of times a minute. In the wild, it would also seek heliconias, hibiscus, and other tropical flowers, each visit feeding it and carrying pollen between blooms. Small insects—gnats, fruit flies, tiny spiders—make up the rest of its diet, taken mid-air or plucked from leaves in quick, darting snatches. The garden around us felt unhurried, the colours deepened by the morning sun. Glossy leaves caught the light, the Ixora’s reds almost glowing against the green. A faint wash of surf came from beyond the sand, mingling with the dry rustle of palm fronds above. Antillean Crested Hummingbird (Orthorhyncus cristatus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 8000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 The hummingbird worked methodically, lingering at each flower for only a second or two before pulling back to hover, crest flicking with the movement. Each shift revealed a different facet of its plumage—sometimes brilliant and iridescent, sometimes muted—as the light caught or slipped away. Its wings moved too fast to see, more a tremor in the air than a sound, a soft pulse that seemed to hold the moment in suspension. We stood still, careful not to close the space between us. The bird’s movements were both confident and watchful, each hover no more than a breath before the next dart forward. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it rose higher, crest catching one last glint of light, and vanished over the shrubs toward the edge of the hotel grounds—perhaps to another garden, another set of blooms. The Ixora trembled faintly in its wake, the morning returning to its slower rhythm. * * * These photographs were made using the updated camera setup I described Birds, Bequia, and the Lens. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Travel Antillean Crested Hummingbird Bequia Bequia Beach Hotel Birding Birding Lifer Birds of the Caribbean Friendship Bay Grenadines Ixora Coccinea Lesser Antilles Orthorhyncus cristatus Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Tropical Birds Windward Islands

It was our last night in Bequia. The next day we would travel from Port Elizabeth on the “Fast” ferry back to Kingstown, leaving behind the rhythms we had settled into. Even so, the morning began as it always did, with the familiar company of animals that had become part of our stay. Out behind the Sugarapple Cottage, Zenaida Doves (Zenaida aurita), Common Ground Doves, and Eurasian-eared Doves were regulars. Stocky, with soft grey-pink breasts and a quiet way of moving, they foraged in the patch of grass by the back wall, picking through for seeds. The morning light was soft, just starting to filter into the shaded patch by the back patch of oleander trees. When they lifted off, the rush of wings was quick and low, barely breaking the morning stillness. Zenaida Dove (Zenaida aurita) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 6400 · 1/2000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 Some mornings, before breakfast was even served, Patches would appear. Bhavna gave her the name after spotting her patchwork coat — warm caramel and soft black stitched over white. She would stroll in from below the hill at the southern side of the verandah, climbing up the concrete step to the kitchen area. She always appeared nervous, and it took a few days for her to get used to us. Sometimes she would stop just short of the verandah steps, deciding. Bhavna named her patches. · Sunday 11 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 3200 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 294.5 mm · f/6.4 We got into a rhythm: Patches would arrive, wait, and we would give her the egg scraps from our plates. We ordered extra eggs when we realised she was pregnant. One day Patches arrived with what appeared to be a smaller version of herself — perhaps one of her older kittens. Behind them on the steps was a black cat that looked a lot like the male cat from the Bequia Beach Hotel, and behind him was a female orange cat. I think there was a pecking order, with Patches at the top. Tropical Mockingbird (Mimus gilvus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 250 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 High in the flamboyant tree at the edge of the verandah at the Sugarapple Inn dining area, the Tropical Mockingbird (Mimus gilvus) and a Eurasian-collared Dove were there almost every morning, often sharing a branch. The mockingbird was all restless energy, scanning the yard with quick, decisive turns of its head. The dove seemed more patient, content to sit and watch. Overhead, the Magnificent Frigatebird (Fregata magnificens) would drift by — impossibly long wings, a slow glide against the brightening sky. Magnificent Frigatebird (Fregata magnificens) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 After breakfast, arriving back at the cottage, we’d often find a Tropical Mockingbird perched on the fig tree or the fence. Sometimes, it was farther down, perched on a branch over the beach near the cottage, with the pale blue sea behind it. I liked to imagine it was the same one from the flamboyant, making its way down to see us again. It probably wasn’t, but I didn’t let go of the thought. Tropical Mockingbird (Mimus gilvus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 There were other creatures too, less familiar but still part of the pattern. The dog on Friendship Road barked at me almost every time I passed her house on my early walks. Once, in the early afternoon, I often saw her lying in the grass between the homes near Sugarapple Cottage, head lifted, ears pricked as if listening for something beyond. She barked at me almost everytime I walked by · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 2000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 520.2 mm · f/7.1 When we ate dinner at the Bequia Beach Hotel, other cats joined the evenings. A small black female with light brown marbling — a torby, perhaps — would sit quietly near Bhavna’s chair, waiting for scraps. She was patient, almost polite. The black and white male was not. He would push in, swipe at her, and try to claim her place. Bhavna gave him nothing, guarding the scraps for the one who waited. There was also an orange cat we spotted one day in the grass, while we were hunting for that “locals only” lunch spot — a brief appearance, just a still shape in the shade before slipping out of sight. The Huntress · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1600 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 These animals were not pets, not ours, but they shaped the edges of our days. On this last morning, they were there as they had been every day — in the trees, on the paths, under the verandah — going about their lives, untroubled by the fact that we were leaving. By the next morning they would greet other guests, and the rhythms we had slipped into would go on without us. I knew that when we stepped onto the ferry in Port Elizabeth, I would carry the sound of doves’ wings, the mockingbird’s restless gaze, and Patches’ slow climb up the steps with me — small, ordinary moments that had come to mean something. ### Like this: Like Loading... Travel Bequia Bequia Beach Hotel Friendship Bay Grenadines Lesser Antilles Magnificent Frigatebird Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Sugarapple Cottage Tropical Mockingbird Windward Islands Zenaida Dove

**_Day Twelve · Thursday 15 May 2025 · Friendship, Bequia_** The previous day, Bhavna and I had gone for a walk along Friendship Road. That’s when we met the couple—fellow guests staying at Sugarapple Inn—who were trying to find the Bequia Heritage Museum. We had chatted briefly, pointed them in the direction we thought might lead there, and then turned around and headed back to our beach cottage. The next morning, during breakfast at the inn, the same couple let us know they’d found the museum and discovered an easy way there and back. What we learned from them was this: there’s an unnamed road that runs north and uphill from the Friendship Bay Anchorage. It connects with Friendship Road, and the Bequia Heritage Museum is just a short walk southwest from that intersection. All we had to do was walk west along the beach until we reached the anchorage and then look for the road. It was our last day in Bequia. I told Bhavna we had to try to make it. We waited until after lunch before setting off, though I use the word “lunch” loosely. We tried going back to the “known only to locals” spot from earlier in the week, but we were too late. They’d already sold out of food. That’s part of the charm but also the risk of these kinds of places. I don’t remember what we ate instead—maybe fruit, maybe nothing at all. We started our walk along Friendship Beach, heading west. We passed the boat repair yard, The Sand Bar, and one of the 7,000-square-foot waterfront homes in Grenadine Hills. The path took us down to the anchorage, which isn’t the most popular spot for yachts. According to reviews I’d read on Navily, it’s known for being rolly because of the wind and swell. If you’re sensitive to that kind of motion, it’s not the anchorage for you. Somehow, though, it still makes the list of “10 of the Best Anchorages in the Caribbean.” Your mileage may vary. We ducked under the dock and came out beside what looked like an abandoned beach bar—Paradise Beach Bar. I checked Google Maps and confirmed what the couple had told us. There were some steep concrete steps just beside the bar that led up to the unnamed road. Bhavna shot me a look that said, This better not be a lot of uphill walking. It was. But it was short. I tried to reassure her by pointing out that the return walk would be all downhill. She was unimpressed but kept going. Once we reached Friendship Road, we turned southwest. The homes along that stretch are enormous. Not just large—massive. Rich European or Canadian expat massive — and they all had pools. Which, honestly, made no sense to either of us. You build a home on a hill overlooking one of the most beautiful tropical bays in the world, and then you install a pool? Why? Why do you need a pool when the sea is right there? We’ve never figured it out. Maybe it’s just a way to show off. When we arrived at the museum, I stopped walking. The sight of it—simple, low, weathered—hit me in the chest. I felt it before I even stepped onto the path. Bequia’s whaling heritage isn’t just part of the island’s history. It’s my family’s history. My mum’s uncle—my grandfather’s brother—Athneal Ollivierre, was a master whaler. He’s a legend here. When you tell someone you’re an Ollivierre, something shifts in the conversation. There’s a respect that comes with it. And like most island families, our history was built on the sea: boatbuilding, shipping routes between Trinidad and Tobago, Grenada, the Grenadines, Saint Vincent—and, for better or worse, whaling. The sign on the main entrance was disappointing at first: “Opening Hours: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays – 10am to 1pm (Out of hours tours available by prior arrangement)”. The museum was closed. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 80 · 1/4200 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 I hadn’t expected that. But strangely, it didn’t matter. The Bequia Heritage Museum[^1] isn’t big. I’d estimate the footprint is about the size of a 2,000-square-foot, two-storey townhouse in New Jersey. There are outdoor exhibits scattered around the grounds and a locked indoor gallery inside a large room. But the room has lattice walls on three sides—just enough space between the slats to see what’s inside. I could even fit my iPhone through for a photo. We walked slowly around the outside, reading every plaque and sign. I was seeing names I knew. Objects I recognised. Boats I’d seen built with my own eyes. At the entrance, mounted on the stone wall, is a welcome sign: “Welcomes you to The Bequia Boat Museum – Historic Boats of the Eastern Caribbean.” Next to it, another sign explains the origins of the project: “The Bequia Boat Museum This project is funded through the generosity of friends and residents of Bequia in conjunction with The Grenadines Partnership Fund and Action Bequia.” Conceived and developed by the Bequia Heritage Foundation Trustees: Herman Belmar, Pat Mitchell, Wendy Leighton, Owen Belmar, Louise Mitchell Architect: Thomas Dehen Contractors: Laun Leslie and Thomas Dehen Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 80 · 1/230 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 I recognised the names. Mitchell. Two of the Trustees listed—Pat Mitchell and Louise Mitchell—were my neighbours when I lived in Bequia as a young boy. Louise’s parents owned the Frangipani Hotel near Barclays Bank. My brothers and I played with Louise and her sisters—Sabrina and Gretel—on the beach at Port Elizabeth. We built sandcastles together. Her father was Sir James Mitchell, who served as the second Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines from 1984 to 2000. He passed away in 2021 at age 90. His death marked the end of an era—he had been the last surviving parliamentarian from the time of independence in 1979. He’s related to my mum, although the exact degree is a mystery. She just says, “The Mitchells are from Bequia. We’re family.” Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 125 · 1/240 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 There’s a rusted anchor leaning against the stone wall near the steps. A sign next to it reads: “The ‘Admiralty’ Pattern or AP anchor, first adopted by the British Admiralty in 1852, is similar in design to anchors dating back to the 4th century BC.” Donated to the Bequia Heritage Museum by Oren King Just off the path, beside a Silver Trumpet tree, there’s a memorial plaque for Patricia Mae Mitchell: “Pat’s passion for Bequia and its history, heritage and culture was a driving force in her life. She dedicated 29 years of service to the Bequia Heritage Foundation to make this museum a reality.” Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 100 · 1/100 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 15.66mm f/2.8 · 15.66 mm · f/2.8 Pat Mitchell is the ex-wife of former prime minister Sir James Mitchell, and mother of Sabrina, Gretel and Louise. A small white board offers practical information for visitors: Welcome to the Bequia Heritage Museum Exploring nearly 2000 years of Bequia’s unique history This is where it hit me hardest. Inside the museum, one of the main exhibits is dedicated to my great uncle, Athneal Ollivierre. There’s a photo of him aboard Dart, dated February 1972. The story tracks our family’s whaling lineage back to the late 1800s—Joseph “Pa” Ollivierre, the partnership with “Old Bill” Wallace, the founding of the Petit Nevis whaling station. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 50 · 1/180 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 You’ll find lots names of Scottish origin — McLaren, Hazel, Scoon, Wallace, Mitchell — on Bequia and in general the Grenadines. But the Ollivierre name, of French origin, stands apart. My grandmother was a McLaren, my grandfather was Louis Ollivierre. The Ollivierre name is especially prominent in Bequia and St. Vincent, where it is associated with maritime professions (e.g. boatbuilders and whalers), aligning with French coastal origins like Brittany and Provençal port towns. French settlement in Bequia took root during two main periods of French occupation, between 1719–1763 and 1779–1783. When Britain took control in 1763, many French families stayed, especially in the southern Grenadines and Saint Vincent. The Ollivierre family descends from those settlers, whose roots trace back to Brittany and the south of France, in the Occitan-speaking regions. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/120 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 Some French migrants first came to the Caribbean as labourers or servants to sugar planters in Martinique, Guadeloupe, and Saint Lucia. Over time, French Creole and mixed-race families moved between islands—sometimes from Martinique or Saint Lucia to Saint Vincent or Grenada—carrying their language, names, and traditions with them. My brother Shane named my nephew Loïc. In Brittany, Loïc is a local form of Louis, and in our family it feels like a small thread tying us back to those French origins. Scottish surnames, too, are common across Bequia, the legacy of 18th- and 19th-century migration from places like Glasgow, Greenock, and Dundee. They came through colonial administrators, merchants, and soldiers, and remain embedded in the island’s family names. Bequia, part of what is now St. Vincent and the Grenadines, has long been known for its boatbuilding and seamanship. Admiralty Bay offered deep, sheltered anchorages, and the island’s shipwrights—both free men of colour and European settlers—became known for their skill. Working with hardwoods like greenheart and white cedar, they built sturdy vessels for fishing, trade, and travel between the islands. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/1250 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, Yankee whalers from New Bedford, Nantucket, and New London hunted sperm whales and humpbacks across the Atlantic and into the Caribbean. Some anchored in the Grenadines to trade, repair ships, and take on supplies. A few stayed, marrying into local families and passing down their knowledge—how to spot whales, how to pursue them, and how to handle the fast, double-ended whaleboats needed for the chase. By the early 1800s, Bequians in villages like Paget Farm and Hamilton had adopted seasonal, shore-based whaling. They built their own double-ended, clinker-built boats, adapted from the Yankee design but made with local wood. Hunts were timed to the humpback migration between February and April. Catches were processed onshore, producing oil for lamps and lubrication, and meat—much as it was done in the old New England whaling towns, only on a smaller scale. Boatbuilding became a shared craft between Bequia and New England. Bequian builders incorporated American hull shapes and rigging styles into their own work, while American crews sometimes ordered repairs or even whole new vessels from Bequia’s shipyards. The Bequia whaleboat still seen today is a direct descendant of those 19th-century Yankee models. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/1250 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 Trade between the Eastern Caribbean and the young United States strengthened the connection. American merchants sent salted fish, lumber, and tools to Bequia, and in return took sugar, molasses, rum, and whale oil north. After U.S. independence in 1783, American ships gained wider access to the Caribbean through treaties and informal networks. Some Scottish and English planters in Bequia had business ties in Boston or Rhode Island and even financed whaling and trading voyages. For families like mine, with the Ollivierre name, there is a direct thread from those early New England influences to the boats and techniques that defined Bequia’s whaling for more than a century. My great uncle, Athneal Ollivierre, was perhaps the most famous modern continuation of this tradition—building and handling boats of that same Yankee-derived form well into the 20th century. Bequia is now one of the very few places outside North America where that heritage has survived into living memory. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/1250 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 The museum text says: “By the time whaling reached its peak in 1910, 100 men from Bequia alone were specifically engaged in whaling – about 10% of the population.” It goes on to describe the decline of whale catches, the drought years, and how Athneal broke that drought in 1958. There’s a long, detailed panel—one I read through a narrow gap in the lattice wall—that ends with this: “Athneal Ollivierre pursued the mighty humpback whale using only a hand thrown harpoon and line… for over 50 years he provided the people of Bequia with meat, oil and bone in abundance…” “He was the very portrait of a whaler, strong, bold, yet humble. He carried on the proud lineage of Bequia seamen, noted far and wide for their nautical skill, and bravery in the face of danger. Athneal contributed greatly to this legacy.” I don’t think I cried. But I got emotional. Shaded Pergola with Ocean View, Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 64 · 1/2500 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 I told Bhavna that Uncle Athneal’s boat, Why Ask, was built in 1982. I was there at the launch. The name was an inside joke—very much in his character. It was damaged in Hurricane Lenny in 1999, repaired, and returned to the water in time for his last whaling season in early 2000. The Ollivierre family stopped whaling in 1996. Bhavna had met him not long after that. I reminded her that today, members of our family actively promote whale watching and conservation. The historical narrative is written. The next one is ours to shape. I remember being with my grandparents when a whale was caught. The news travelled through the island like an earthquake, with La Pompe and Derrick as the epicentres. My uncle took us out to Petit Nevis, the old whaling station—no longer in use now. I watched the butchering, the smell heavy in the air. My grandmother and her sisters worked over large pots, cooking whale meat and blubber. I ate it fresh, still hot from the pot. The taste was unlike anything else I have ever known. Bequia Heritage Museum, Friendship Bay, Bequia · Thursday 15 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 100 · 1/690 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 And I remember what Uncle Athneal once said during one of his “on the stoop” chats: “Once you’ve heard a whale cry from a harpoon hit, once you’ve heard a calf cry out for its mother—you are never the same. Never.” Another display showcases the schooner Friendship Rose. The original greenheart rudder is mounted on site, with its iron brackets and faded blue antifouling paint. It was built in Bequia in 1966–67. “The Friendship Rose was launched in June 1967 as a cargo vessel. In 1968 she was fitted with an engine and began carrying cargo, passengers and mail up and down the Grenadines.” Later, she served as a charter boat, captained by her original skipper, Calvin Lewis. The rudder on display was retrieved from Admiralty Bay in 2017 and donated to the museum. Below the museum’s boat exhibit, a set of concrete steps leads to a quiet patio shaded by a wooden pergola. From here, the view opens to the blue waters and hilly coastline of Bequia. Sunlight slips through climbing plants that cover the slatted roof, scattering shifting patterns of leaves across the tiled floor. Potted plants and flowering shrubs soften the edges, framing the open space with colour and shade. Two curved wooden benches rest beneath the pergola. One, smooth and dark with a gently shaped seat and backrest, carries an inscription in memory of Morris Nicholson. It sits partly in dappled light near the foot of the steps, surrounded by green foliage. The other, also shaped in soft curves, honours Richard Dey, the poet of Bequia, with lines about the rising sun, Saint Hilaire Point, and the wind filling sails. Together they lend the space a quiet dignity, a place to pause and take in the view while remembering lives that shaped the island. Morris Nicholson was a British-born charter-boat captain, artist, and craftsman who made Bequia his home from around 1954 until his death on 24 June 2020, living on the island for more than fifty years. Known for his seamanship, inventiveness, and enthusiasm, he became a well-loved figure in the community, contributing both his skills and his creativity to local life. Among his artistic works was _Demeter_ , a sculpture carved from local white cedar and sold at an Action Bequia fundraiser. His life was celebrated in a service of thanksgiving at the Evangelical Church in Port Elizabeth, honouring his long connection to the island and his deep commitment to its people. As we left the pergola and its quiet memorials behind, the thought of departure settled in. There was packing to do before the ferry ride back to Kingstown. Tonight would be our last night in Bequia, and the island’s stories—like those of Morris Nicholson—felt all the more precious knowing we would soon be leaving them behind. [^1] Contact information for the Bequia Heritage Museum: (784) 458-3800 or (784) 458-3510, bequiamuseum@vincysurf.com ### Like this: Like Loading... Travel Athneal Ollivierre Bequia Bequia Heritage Foundation Bequia Museum Bequia Whaling Museum Caribbean History Caribbean Maritime Heritage Friendship Rose Grenadines History Holiday Lesser Antilles Ollivierre Family Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Whaling Whaling History Windward Islands

We left Sugarapple after breakfast with a loose plan and a hopeful appetite. My mum had given us a few suggestions—Petra’s for lunch, maybe Baywatch if Petra’s didn’t work out. She also mentioned that her cousin Fay had a little beach bar on Princess Margaret Beach and that we should stop in to say hello. So I called Curtis Taxi and asked him to drop us at “Princeton Margaret Beach,” a name I half-mangled from memory. Somehow he knew what I meant. When we arrived, we found Fay’s Bar—a loose collection of coolers, shade cloth, folding tables, and Fay herself, welcoming and full of good cheer. Her bar was nestled under a patch of seagrape trees, just beyond the beach umbrellas. To the left, we could see Jack’s Beach Bar, all polished wood and turquoise cushions, but Bhavna was set on finding local food, and Fay gently confirmed that Jack’s was more of a tourist spot. We stayed and chatted for a while before setting off across the sand toward Lower Bay. This stretch of beach—technically still Princess Margaret but also called Tony Gibbons Beach by some—was nearly empty except for a few families and a bar called Lion’s Den. Fay had said it was “just a little way up” to get to Lower Bay. She left out that the stairs were nearly vertical. Bhavna climbed slowly, her knees protesting, while I sweated through my shirt. At the top, we stopped in the shade of a power pole to catch our breath. A lone goat grazed between two hillside homes, completely unbothered. The view back down to the bay was worth the effort. The blues of the water changed from pale turquoise near shore to deep navy near the anchored boats. The path narrowed into an alley between two houses and led us out to Lower Bay Road. Thankfully, the rest of the walk was downhill. We passed a shuttered building with a sign that read “Provision Restaurant.” We pressed on, passing Baywatch Restaurant & Bar, its bright flags fluttering gently in the breeze. Then Keegan’s, with its cheerful patio and hand-painted signs, and finally De Reef, set right on the beach. But still no Petra’s. I started to wonder if it existed at all. Then we saw it—a small wooden sign pointing left: Petra’s. We followed it with a small sense of victory… and then disappointment. Closed. Next door was Dawn’s Creole Restaurant. A few people were eating outside under the shade of almond trees. Inside I asked about the menu. No vegetarian options. Not even fries. I learned from the hostess that Petra’s was closed on Tuesdays. I broke the news to Bhavna, who by this point looked wilted from heat and frustration. Back we went along Lower Bay Road, retracing our steps in the afternoon sun. At Keegan’s I asked to see the menu—nothing for Bhavna. The bartender didn’t seem to appreciate the question. We tried Baywatch one more time. A chalkboard menu had promised vegetarian roti, but inside I learned the chef hadn’t shown up that day. I must’ve looked defeated, because the owner—who’d been sitting at the bar—asked what was wrong. I told him the story: the walk, the heat, the string of closed kitchens. He nodded and said, “I’ll make you something.” He went home and cooked. Bhavna got steamed vegetables, plantains, pasta, and a small salad. I got the same, with grilled fish. We sat outside, watching the beach and nursing drinks while our bodies cooled. The food was fine—nothing amazing, but we were grateful. After lunch, Bhavna no longer wanted to swim. She suggested we walk to Port Elizabeth instead. The road out of Lower Bay was steep. A woman in a compact utility vehicle paused to chat with someone in a yard and rolled down her window when she saw us trudging up the hill. “Looking for a taxi?” she asked in a British accent. I nodded. “There’s a depot at the top of Heart Attack Hill.” We laughed, but Bhavna wasn’t amused. I convinced her to go back the way we came, through Princess Margaret Beach and then along the Belmont Walkway. At least that way we’d have the shade of sea grape and almond trees, the sound of waves, and the comfort of solid ground underfoot. We walked back down the steep stairs, along Tony Gibbons and past Jack’s Beach Bar. Bhavna’s mood lifted a little once we picked up the Princess Margaret Trail—a narrow footpath that hugs the rocky coastline between the two bays. It’s not long, but it winds in and out of coves, up small inclines, and through patches of trees and brush. In places, the trail narrows to just enough space for single file, with drops on one side and overgrown vines pressing from the other. There were handrails bolted into the stone in a few of the steeper sections, but most of it was just packed dirt, roots, and stone. Still, it was beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, and now and then the trail opened to a view of turquoise sea and anchored boats framed by almond branches. Birds flicked past—gulls, mostly. Bhavna paused often, sometimes for the view, sometimes for her knees. But she smiled now and then. We passed back through the boardwalk, the boats bobbing in the harbour, and the birds—brown boobies—resting on the docks. I stopped for a few minutes trying to catch them in flight. Their wings moved like kites catching sudden bursts of air, then dipping low over the water. Somewhere along the Belmont Walkway, between The Fig Tree and Whaleboner Restaurant, Bhavna spotted an ice cream shop. I think she mostly wanted to cool off. I don’t remember what flavours we had—something tropical, maybe soursop or coconut—but it was cold and sweet and helped soften the day. We kept walking. Near The Frangipani, I told Bhavna that when we lived upstairs at the old Barclays Bank, we knew the family who owned the restaurant. We used to play on the beach with their daughters—three girls who, like us, spent most of their time barefoot and salty. I don’t think I’d thought of them in years. The Frangipani is one of Bequia’s most enduring landmarks—built in the 1950s on the foundation of a former coconut warehouse, it was run for decades by the Mitchell family. My parents had known them. The verandah, the breezy bar, the wide plank floors—they all felt exactly as I remembered, though time has certainly smoothed a few edges. It’s the kind of place where you might overhear a sailor from Norway talking to a retiree from Ontario, while sipping a rum punch in the late afternoon light. I didn’t know then how much of a fixture it had become to travellers who kept coming back, year after year. We continued along Belmont Road, poking into shops and scanning restaurant menus. I stepped into Maria’s Café to see if their menu had anything to offer. It did not. Still nothing for Bhavna. That was the final sign. We gave up. I called Curtis again and we sat outside Maria’s Café, waiting for the taxi. The sun had dropped low by then. Shadows stretched long across the walkway. We had spent the entire afternoon searching for lunch, and while we had found a meal, it felt like something else had slipped through our fingers. ### Like this: Like Loading... Travel Beach WalkBelmont WalkwayBequiaFay’s BarFrangipani HotelGrenadinesHeart Attack HillIsland LifeLesser AntillesLower BayPetra’s RestaurantPrincess Margaret BeachSaint Vincent and the GrenadinesWindward Islands

By the third morning at Sugarapple, I had slipped into a quiet rhythm. Wake early, step softly past the French door, camera in hand, and walk the narrow path behind the cottage. The sky was usually pale and streaked with the last of the morning stars, but by 6:20, golden light was spilling across the grass. Each day began this way—standing alone in the damp field behind the beachfront cottage at Friendship Bay, camera raised, eyes alert, ears tuned. There’s a kind of joy in seeing something familiar and yet always new. The first to arrive were the doves. They showed up every morning like regulars at a café. The Zenaida Dove, stockier than the rest, with a soft pinkish chest. The Eared Doves, a bit sleeker, often in small pairs. Common Ground Doves, tiny and quick. Even a Eurasian Collared Dove now and then—clearly an import but comfortable among the others. They foraged in the low grass, sometimes pecking near each other, sometimes apart. It had only been three days, but I already knew the patches where the grass grew thicker and the little muddy trail to Friendship Road where I always stepped too heavily. This morning, though, there was a stranger in the mix. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 At first I thought it was a juvenile grackle. The posture was familiar: alert, slightly forward-leaning, eyes bright. But it wasn’t quite right. The bird wasn’t glossy, and the plumage wasn’t a solid black or blue. It was dark, yes—but flecked and soft-looking, a dusty brownish-grey that caught the morning light with a quiet texture. The beak was stout and a bit curved. She moved with a kind of nervous energy—hopping, pausing, scanning. I fired off a few frames. The sun was low but already rising fast, pushing sharp shadows behind each blade of grass. The temperature was just over 25°C, and there wasn’t a breeze. The air felt still but not heavy. You could hear the sea on the other side of the coconut trees, slow and even. The bird let me get three clear shots before she moved deeper into the grass. In one of them, she’s looking right at me—curious, not alarmed. I didn’t know who she was until later. I ran the photos through Merlin ID and cross-checked the guidebooks back at the cottage. Molothrus bonariensis—the Shiny Cowbird. A female. The name “cowbird” always felt oddly plain to me, especially for a bird that causes so much drama in the avian world. Shiny Cowbirds are brood parasites. They don’t build their own nests or raise their own young. Instead, the female lays her eggs in the nests of other birds—sometimes several hosts in the same season—and leaves the parenting to them. Some hosts reject the eggs. Others raise the chicks as their own. Sometimes, the cowbird chicks grow larger than the host chicks and outcompete them for food. It feels ruthless. But also strangely elegant. A survival tactic honed by time. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1000 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 The female Shiny Cowbird is quiet in her colouring. Her feathers are brown with subtle streaks, her body slim and watchful. The males, I would learn, are more striking—iridescent and glossy. But this one was no peacock. She moved like someone trying not to be noticed. It’s possible to mistake a bird like this for something younger or less sure of itself. I had wondered if she might be a juvenile—perhaps even of another species. But the structure was all wrong for that. The bill was fully shaped, the feathers crisp and even, and the posture deliberate. There was no fluff, no awkwardness. She was clearly an adult. A mature female, doing what female cowbirds do—watching, moving, considering. Standing in that field, I found myself thinking about presence and consequence. Here was a bird I’d never seen before—one I might’ve overlooked if not for the camera. And yet her brief visit added a new species to my life list. There’s always something slightly miraculous about a lifer—the first time you see a species. It’s not the rarity or even the beauty that makes it matter. It’s the realisation that the world is just a little bigger than you thought it was the day before. That there are still names you don’t know and songs you haven’t heard. Later that afternoon, I thought of the dozens of nests she might have visited. The hundreds of eggs she might have laid. The generations of birds who raised her young without knowing. And how quietly she stood there that morning, almost blending into the grass. ### Like this: Like Loading... 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Sunday started slow. The kind of quiet you only get when there’s nothing pushing at the edges of the day. I woke early and stepped out the back of our beach cottage. The air was still cool, the light pale and clean. The cottage sits amid a clearing of grass—part lawn, part scrub, a broader patch of dry grassland and lightly shaded trees. A few scattered palms reach just high enough to move with the morning breeze. The clearing is framed by a small house enclosed by a neat fence, a well-tended garden inside. Just east of it, a second house rests in contrast—unfenced, informal, almost blending into the open space between us. There’s no clear boundary between that dwelling, the grove of coconut palms, a few utility sheds, and the small boats propped in the grass nearby. Some of the boats sit under trees; others are tilted or partly covered with old tarps. The area feels practical, in motion—part homestead, part working yard. Further east still, Friendship Road curves into the shade of coastal vegetation. I would explore that another day. For now, I stood quietly in the back of the cottage and watched the birds. Doves. So many doves. Dozens. The back of the cottage was full of them. Some pecked at the sparse grass, others perched on the fence wires. I counted at least three kinds: Zenaida Dove (Zenaida aurita), Eared Dove (Zenaida auriculata), and Common Ground Dove (Columbina passerina). They moved with a calm order. The Zenaidas strutted and blinked. The ground doves flicked low between shadows, barely a flutter. A steady rhythm to their morning. Eared Dove (Zenaida auriculata) · Sunday 11 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1250 · 1/80 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 Near the edge of the property, I noticed bitter melon vines (Momordica charantia), their jagged leaves curling through a chain-link fence. Yellow blossoms caught the morning light. One unripe fruit dangled low, still small and green. I hadn’t seen one in years. The kind of plant that hides in memory until it appears again in real life, right where you least expect it. Zenaida Dove (Zenaida aurita) · Sunday 11 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/80 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 I went back inside and waited for Bhavna to wake. A little while later, as we left the cottage for breakfast, the breeze had picked up. I noticed a tidy crown of Manila palms (Adonidia merrillii) as we crossed the Bequia Beach Hotel property—dozens of them planted in regular rows, swaying slightly. They lined walkways and landscaped corners, anchoring the space between buildings and footpaths. Just beyond, in a slightly sloped corner near the main hotel pool, I spotted a sweetsop tree (Annona squamosa). Its broad leaves drooped with the weight of fruit—green, scaled globes. Near it stood a large mango tree, still heavy with unripe fruit. And just a few steps away, a cashew tree, unmistakable with its smooth, elliptical leaves and thick stemmed nuts beginning to form below the cashew apples. We followed the garden paths through the hotel grounds, heading toward the exit that leads to Friendship Road. But we didn’t go out to the road. Instead, we turned up a side track between fenced lots, passed through an old gate, and started up the cement path that leads to Sugarapple Inn. It’s not a long walk, but it’s steep. First a short incline, then a flight of stairs that runs past the pool. The path winds upward through scattered shade. On the way up, I stopped at the sweetsop tree again—this one growing on the sloped lawn of the Sugarapple Inn. I recognised it from the scent and shape. Below it, the grass was damp. A few fallen mangoes, unripe and split, lay on the slope. I noticed a few early cashews as well, hanging low on their stems. Something about that scene—the way the fruit trees shared space, their branches intermingled—felt familiar and ordinary in the best way. Near the walkway beside the verandah, a Tahitian gooseberry tree (Phyllanthus acidus) stood in full fruit. In Bequia, we call them “damsel.” The pale green berries hung in tight clusters along bare twigs. I reached up, plucked a few, and popped them into my mouth—sharp, tart, mouth-puckering. “I used to love these as a kid,” I told Bhavna. Some people pickled them in salt. Others made jam. I liked them either way. Tahitian Gooseberry Tree (Phyllanthus acidus) · Sunday 11 May 2025 Apple iPhone 16 Pro · ISO 100 · 1/1400 sec iPhone 16 Pro back triple camera 6.765mm f/1.78 · 6.76 mm · f/1.8 We reached the top of the path, where the wide verandah of the inn opens toward Friendship Bay. There, against the sun-warmed wall of the building, a climbing fig (Ficus pumila) had begun to creep up the stone, its tight leaves forming a dense green mosaic. I traced its shape with my eyes, watching where it split at the upper edge of the wall, curling in two directions. We paused a moment, then sat down for breakfast. View from the verandah of the Sugarapple · Sunday 11 May 2025 Apple iPhone 11 · ISO 32 · 1/5500 sec iPhone 11 back dual wide camera 4.25mm f/1.8 · 4.25 mm · f/1.8 The verandah overlooks the Bequia Beach Hotel and the curve of the bay beyond it. The flamboyant tree (Delonix regia) that stands beside the verandah wasn’t in full bloom yet, but red-orange blossoms had begun to open. Its long, dry seed pods hung like ornaments. While we ate, a Gray Kingbird (Tyrannus dominicensis) landed on one of the higher branches. It scanned the air with its sharp, slightly smug posture, flicked its tail, and held still. Watching us. Then it darted off toward the distant beach. Coffee came in a French press, strong and dark. I added eggs to the basic breakfast offering for ten extra dollars, mostly out of habit. The plate came with slices of coconut flour loaf—dense, soft, and perfectly toasted. I toasted it myself. Bhavna and I sat quietly, easing into the day. View of the hills from the verandah of the Sugarapple · Sunday 11 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/600 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 316.2 mm · f/7.1 As I sipped my coffee, a Zenaida Dove landed in the flamboyant tree, no more than a metre from where I sat. It tilted its head once, fluffed its feathers, and held my gaze for a few seconds. Then it turned and dropped into the branches below. We got to talking with Brian, an expat who had returned to St. Vincent after decades in the States. He spoke slowly, evenly. Said he missed the way things moved slower here. That, and knowing when to stop chasing. He introduced us to Michael, who runs private speedboat trips out to Mustique and the other Grenadine islands. Michael had that calm, weathered look of someone shaped by the sea. He didn’t need to tell his stories—they were written in how he carried himself. After breakfast, we called Curtice Taxi for a ride into Port Elizabeth. It didn’t hit us until we arrived at Knights Grocery that it was Mother’s Day—and a Sunday. The staff was already locking up. We begged for five more minutes, and they agreed. We rushed through the small store, grabbing bread, peanut butter, bottled water, rice, and dried pigeon peas. Enough to get by for a few days. The shop reminded me of the bodegas we used to visit in Corona, Queens, back when I lived with Mom, Shane, and Bruce in East Elmhurst in the late ’80s. Same quiet bustle, same quick decisions, same feeling of making do with what’s available. A group of tourists arrived just as the doors closed. I tried to explain in shaky French—“c’est fermé”—and they nodded, disappointed but understanding. There was something communal about it, all of us outside the shuttered shop, bags in hand, waiting for taxis under the hot midday sun. The ride back was quiet. I had leftover pizza from Mac’s for lunch. Bhavna and I lay still under the fan for a while, drifting in and out of sleep. It was that deep, loose kind of rest that only happens when you’ve already accepted the shape of the day. By mid-afternoon, the tide was out and the air had cooled slightly. We set out along the beach looking for a place called The Sand Bar. We went the wrong way at first—southwest, toward the rocky end of the bay, where reef stones break the shoreline. No bar. Just wind, shallow water, and a few birds picking through the shallows. Magnificent Frigatebird (Fregata magnificens) · Sunday 11 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/950 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 179.1 mm · f/5.6 Above us, two magnificent frigatebirds circled high on rising thermals. Their long, angled wings caught the light as they soared—sharp silhouettes against the soft blue sky. I managed to catch a clean shot with my Fuji X-T3 as one passed low above the beach. We turned back, passed our cottage, and continued walking past the small boats pulled up on the shore. A simple wooden sign finally pointed us toward The Sand Bar. A few men were working on a boat nearby. “Just there,” one said, nodding around the bend. On the way, just as we reached the last boat, I saw a dove sitting alone on a fence—an African Collared-Dove (Streptopelia roseogrisea). Pale grey-pink body, thin black collar. Not a native. Likely an escapee. But it looked content enough, blinking slowly, tail feathers twitching in the breeze. We arrived at The Sand Bar. It was smaller than I expected. Tucked just above the beach, with a low roof, rafters, ceiling fans spinning lazily. Part of the Bequia Beach Hotel, it serves the nearby condos—some still under construction. We took the swinging chairs—wide wooden seats, thick ropes—and faced the water. Bhavna ordered a rum punch. I got a Friendship Fizz—cold, citrusy, with just enough bitterness to feel grown-up. We sat for a while, quiet, watching the water change colours as the light shifted. Then the rain came. No warning. No drizzle. Just a sudden, full downpour—fat drops slapping the sand, soaking the deck. We finished our drinks and walked back through it, laughing a little, shoes in hand. It was warm rain. We didn’t rush. By the time we reached the cottage, the storm had already passed. The sky was clearing again—soft blue pushing through the thinning grey. We changed out of our wet clothes and went for a swim. The sea had calmed. The beach was empty. The light was gold and low. Floating there, in water that barely moved, felt like rinsing off the day. Back at the cottage, we made rice and peas with the dried pigeon peas we’d picked up earlier. The kitchen was small, but it worked. We ate on the verandah with plates in our laps. Barefoot. Still damp. The last light dipped behind the hills and took the day with it. The day had moved through stillness, birds, sun, conversation, errands, rain, and back to calm. It never felt rushed. It just unfolded. ### Like this: Like Loading... Travel African Collared-DoveBeach CottageBequiaBequia Beach HotelEared DoveFriendship BayGrenadinesIsland LifeLesser AntillesSaint Vincent and the GrenadinesSugarapple InnVacation JournalWindward IslandsZenaida Dove