I’m watching Snagg, waiting to see his face relax, waiting for a sign that everything’s okay. As if on queue, another wave comes crashing over the bow, drenching our little party of four as we rock wildly and bounce hard as the boat drops into the bowl of the swell. The engine of the 16’ fishing boat is working hard, and we have to shout to make ourselves heard.

Snagg leans in to Sarah, sitting next to him, gripping the side of the boat. He says something and they exchange looks. Not comforting looks. More like, ‘let’s hope we get to Union Island in one piece’ looks.

Up and down, up and down, we’re jarred by cross waves and we’re all cursing Ivan. Ivan lumbered across the Grenadines a few weeks ago, and Grenada took a direct hit. Carriacou, the tiny smaller sister island, just 30 miles away, fared much better, but the hurricane’s wrath is still evident out here on the ocean. The situation is dire enough that Snagg has instructed us to put on life jackets.

This is supposed to be a laid back, romantic boat ride, island hopping about the Grenadines. Not a scene from Titanic.

We’ve been on Carriacou for a week. Carriacou is famous for absolutely nothing. Most people bypass it in search of the more sexy Grenadine islands, like St. Vincent, Union, and Palm. Which is why Jon and I have come here for a 10-day escape. It’s a tiny island, and we’ve come to know a few of the local residents, like Sarah, who runs the Roundhouse Inn and Restaurant in Bogles.

Sarah is an eccentric who escaped her life back in England and finally ended up here on Carriacou. Life here suits Sarah. It’s simple, the people are friendly and hard working and there are lots of rum shops dotting the island, so no one goes dry for too long. Sarah is a party girl but a hardworking one too. She keeps her restaurant open every night, all night if necessary, to make sure passing tourists and locals are well watered and fed. She can drink most Kayaks (native Carriacouans) under the table and still whip up a gourmet breakfast the next morning for her guests.

One evening at dinner, Sarah suggests we take a day trip off the island.

“Why don’t you go over to Union Island, it’s very pretty and has some great shops. And the boat ride is quite romantic.” At least, that’s what I think she says.

So here we are, facing down 10’ swells, cutting through white caps and slamming hard into the pockets left by the tumultuous waves. Sarah sits at the bow, drenched, despite the yellow nor’easter that Snagg had chivalrously offered her for protection.

“Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing,” she screams over the roar of the little engine that could.

Cuthbert Snagg runs the boat taxi, among other enterprises. Like many unlikely friendships, Snagg and Sarah are vastly different from each other, but chance has brought them together, at least for now. And somehow, Jon and I – as we often do, have become entangled in their stories and now, Snagg’s boat.

Almost an hour into the 30 minute ride from Carriacou to Union Island, Clifton Harbour finally comes into view at. Suddenly Snagg cuts the engine. The fierce pounding of the waves has dislodged the chrome railing that should be attached to the bow and sent it flying into the angry sea.

We all scan the water, but the swells and the churn make the search impossible. I’m thinking, I’ll just buy him a damn railing, when Snagg decides to give up and keep going to Clifton.

We finally dock, and I resist the urge to drop to the ground and kiss it. Sarah announces we need a drink to settle our nerves (and our balance) and Snagg leaves us until we rendezvous for the return journey. After a quick margarita at the dockside bar, she leads the way to the main market area to inspect the local craft shops.

Menu board at Ada’s bar on Union Island

Before long we find ourselves in the Secret Garden, a weirdly delightful walkway covered by an archway of ivy and philodendrons, lined with works of art, crafts and a wonderful English garden bar. Time for more drinks. Sarah’s equally eccentric friend Ada runs the bar. Ada is about the worst artist I’ve ever come across but she concocts the best gin and tonic ever, served in a tall, chilled hi-ball. One G&T turns into two, and we’re in danger of spending the rest of the afternoon here in the garden and seeing nothing more of Clifton.

Someone finally checks the time and we rouse ourselves to move on and explore more of the town. Eventually we search out Snagg for the (dreaded) return journey.

We’re barely away from Clifton’s dock when Snagg turns to us. “Would you like to stop for a drink on Palm Island before we go home?” He asks.

Sarah answers for us. “Oh, that’s a lovely idea. It’s such a romantic island.” Having just forced down a shot of Jack Iron (Grenada’s answer to grappa, marc and raki all rolled into one heart stopping beverage), while we waited for Snagg to launch the boat, I wasn’t sure I could handle any more romance, but we agree to stop by.

Palm Island is ultra exclusive, ultra expensive and privately owned. We’re only allowed in the public bar, not having adequate credentials (or bank accounts) to be permitted entrance to the guests-only sections. Bracing ourselves for the rough seas ahead, we perch ourselves at the seaside bar, savouring our margaritas and watching the last of the beachgoers frolic on the imported sand.

The ride back home is almost an anti-climax as we very nearly glide over the swells towards the setting sun. The life jackets remain in the hold, Snagg doesn’t lose any more equipment, and it’s quiet enough for conversation. Except we’re all too tired to say much.

We arrive at the dock in Carriacou just as the crimson sun dips below the horizon.

“What a beautiful sunset,” Jon exclaims. “Um hum”, I murmur in reply. “Very romantic.”

.