We managed to get across in one piece, and actually surprisingly very dry, in all our “gala dinner finery”(the tucking up the maxi into one’s knickers works a treat).  The Gin House, the original old part is delightful, the modern extension over the road looking out to sea, modern and well designed.  We sat at our table drinking cocktails watching Windy’s mast thrashing about like Poldark’s arm as he scythed the grass (if anyone was looking at his arm).  Dinner was unremarkable and we felt like dog’s dinners amongst the clientele, of mainly Americans, slopping about in their beach shorts.  The crab cakes were tasty enough but lacked any excitement in presentation or ingredients combination.  Our lobster mains were nice enough, very buttery but again just plain ordinary, I felt, but Bob enjoyed his and his garlic mash.  I felt too overloaded with fattiness to even contemplate pudding and Bob was just plain full.  We blobbed back in the dinghy and with immense strength, courage and conviction managed to board the buckaroo.  We decided to sleep on deck.  Bob was like a new puppy who couldn’t decided where to have his bed and moved about cushions, added pillows, bunged in a blanket until he was completely satisfied with his nest at which point he wondered if perhaps a night cap might help him sleep.  “Go to sleep Bob!”  He did and had created a much better nest than mine  whereas I seemed to be in a permanent state of muscle tension trying to stay in one place and relieving the pressure sore points where the wheel was digging in to my hip.  I dozed fitfully and awoke not in the best humour.  We cast off, with much relief to be leaving such a rolly anchorage and with high hopes of some wind.

The wind started out with its cynical little blast of 12 knots (“I don’t think we should put out too much main, do you?” says Bob) once again lulling us into a fall sense of security, before dropping like a bloody stone.  It was “right up our chuff” again and we tried goose winging to gather every little last drop that we could.  Motoring was inevitable.  To add further bad humour to an already unhappy situation we were then dogged by a sulky black cloud (almost as sulky as me) which rudely spat at us.  As we neared Saba (pronounced as in light sabre rather than Abba or barber apparently) it decided to go into full tantrum and threw the works at us.  We checked out Fort Bay which looked even worse than Statia (is this possible?) and decided to go on round the corner, hopefully out of the evil swell.  We motored on and on, and on and on, cagoules lashed with rain, until we found us in the relative calm of Well’s Bay.  We hooked up a mooring buoy and sat down for a good sulk.  Mr Doyle says it is possible to get round to the only landing point, at Fort Bay, in a small dinghy.  In that swell? That far? Bob really doesn't think so.  We saw some intrepid Antipodeans hammering their way round as we came in.  They didn’t look very happy.  After an arrival beer, a nice lunch (Bob’s fave) and a catch up snooze life has looked a lot better. The sun came out and our surroundings are idyllic.  Great big soaring cliffs tailing off into jaggedy rocks, houses perched precariously above us (must have amazing but vertiginous views), sea birds wheeling about looking like specks of dust against the grandeur of the scenery and the odd baby goat plaintively calling for its Mum. 

Saba is renowned for its diving and snorkelling and Wells Bay is “the best spot”.  It had to be done and Bob kindly chauffeured me over to a diving buoy, offloaded me and supervised my progress.  I fooled him by nipping through an incredible archway and popping out the other side.  The snorkelling was interesting enough, over great big boulders where very large blue grunts and those inky blue fish swished about, but not quite all it had been cracked up to be. No rays, no turtles, nothing out of the ordinary.  Returning to Windy was more extraordinary.  Getting me back on to the dinghy in swells, let alone getting me back into the dinghy in a flat calm, was considered an impossible feat so Bob rigged up a towline keeping me well clear of the prop.  This resulted in a most interesting experience somewhat like waterboarding, I imagine.  However I survived and didn’t tell anyone anything.  I recovered on board, a near death experience can be very exhausting, and eventually felt strong enough to watch the sun go down G&T in hand.  Feeling much perkier now.