_link_: Read about our sailing trip in the Caribbean

Here is an extract from our voyage.
We settled on Grenada, where its massive runway – as large as LAX’s -
absorbed our little commuter plane like a flea on a Persian carpet, its
grandiose scale the direct by-product of the US invasion a decade earlier in
what turned out to be the first in a series of provocative international
military incursions. Now the US could station C-130 Hercules transports and in
short notice thwart any efforts the diabolical Caribbean Communist Conspiracy
might dare to instigate. Evidence of battle was still apparent in the capital’s
outskirts where bullet pock-marked buildings stood derelict ten years after
they’d assumed ground zero in the brief turmoil. I _frame_d Babe standing in a
bomb-holed wall and next to the perforated hulk of a rusted, half-sunk trawler.
Our taxi driver proudly pointed out the prison high on a prominent ridge where
the locally infamous disc jockey ‘Block D. Roads’ was still under detention, a
nick-name he’d earned after shouting that phrase ad nauseum on the air the first
night of the attempted takeover. 
We found St. George wrapped around one of the finest deep water bays in the
Caribbean, with our choice of crescent beaches on the islands west side. The
vertical terrain emphasized the beauty of the place as if holding it up for
display from any angle and seemed to have gathered the population at its
southern end. We spent only brief intervals in the capital - as pretty a city as
we’ve ever bothered with - exchanging dollars for the kaleidoscopic local
currency and bickering with officials only to find that securing visa’s for
Guiana would be a lot easier than for Surinam, as we’d originally hoped for, the
first in a long list of Plan B’s we have to fall-back on. 
Seeking desolation on the islands southern shore required testing our
fortitude in one of the suicidal local buses – tiny toaster-like things, the
first of which we crammed in to with ten or so other potential victims, the
Reggae music close to ear-splitting, the driver laughing uproariously at his
sidekick’s smart-ass remarks, each taking turns sucking on a cigar-size ganga
joint as we careened around cliff-top hairpin turns at absurd speeds blind to
on-coming traffic. Guardrails had yet to make their debut in Grenada, upping the
insanity factor. Down below some of the sharper turns remnants of vehicles lay
crumpled like the carcasses of dead chicks fallen from high nests, mute
reminders of gravity’s unforgiving terms. 
At one otherwise secluded bay, we couldn’t seem to shake a local cop who,
owing to the nominal crime rate seemed to have nothing better to do than trail
behind us like a lost spaniel. Subtly attempting to ditch him, we ducked behind
the thick foliage where eventually the bugs drove us back on to the beach, then
into the water. Plopping down close by in the shade weaving origami figures out
of palm fronds and making idle chit chat, he was eventually distracted by a fast
dingy that pulled into the far end of the beach from one of the off-shore yachts
at anchor when its two occupants unloaded a picnic lunch and the comely female
stripped off her top. We’d intended to go naked on this otherwise empty expanse,
but couldn’t hardly with a tedious badge in such proximity, and resolved to
sample only the most secretive of venues thereafter.
Attached is a picture from the Tobago Cays