No time to read? You can listen to this newsletter below! Trigger warning: I do briefly start singing James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover at one point which could be quite upsetting for some listeners.

Hey ppl! Hope life is good. Spring in the UK! How glorious. Sounds like the last few months have been rough, but if it’s any consolation, we’ve experienced our fair share of downpours too - not to mention some pretty gnarly issues with the boat. But really, who needs a propeller anyway?

But before we get into all that! I must update you on where we’ve been. Our epic cruise through the Caribbean kicked off in Grenada - the Spice Isle - so named for its production of nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger. Indeed, it was here I first discovered the revolutionary act of sprinkling fresh nutmeg over rum punch. It really is very good. We’ve (I’ve) decided that we’ll serve it at our wedding.

Yes, the rumours are true. The skipper and I are affianced. Without going into too much nauseating detail, he knelt down on a Grenadian beach at sunset and softly said to me that if we could make it through two months on a boat with his father, we really could make it through anything. It was great timing because we were able to hijack the ARC’s programme of post-Atlantic Crossing soirees and turn them into a series of elaborate engagement parties. I felt like a celebrity: total strangers sidling up to me and whispering; “Is it you?! Are you the girl who got engaged?!”. Why yes, yes I am. Sure, I’ll have a rum punch if you’re offering - extra nutmeg, thanks so much.

Bathed in the bliss of our recent betrothal, we rented scooters with Alec and some ARC pals and zoomed across the island to take in some of the key sights. These included an underwater sculpture park made up of 75 only slightly creepy concrete figures. Also some very nice waterfalls (inevitably enclosed within a slightly less nice tourist facility/gift shop) and the deceivingly named Grand Etang Lake - a muddy body of water that has somewhat implausibly become a popular attraction (what have I told you ppl about not believing everything you read on the Internet?!).

Eager to set sail, we left the marina one sunny morning in mid December - having lost one member of crew (Charlie’s dad flew back to Blighty) (but boy oh boy he wouldn’t be away for long…) and gained two more. Our ARC pal Meike was hitching a ride up to Martinique, while returning guest Charlotte (of disco shower fame) got FOMO, so spent all of Alec’s Avios on a flight from the UK, with a plan to accompany us up to Saint Lucia.

First stop, however, was the SPECTACULAR Tobago Cays - a small but mighty archipelago, brimming with coral reefs and all their associated wildlife: turtles, rays, lobsters and - my personal fave - porcupine fish, which though technically toxic, really are adorable.

Still, there was little time for fawning. We had many miles to cover, so set sail to Bequia, a small island 25 nautical miles away, the next morning. Of course, no sooner had we hauled out the sails, the heavens opened and it proceeded to piss it down for four hours - the rain so heavy it hurt to open our eyes.

Luckily, Al had his trusty goggles to hand - thrusting them onto his head, then standing on the transom, peering over the bimini, like a pervert peeping over a garden fence. I, meanwhile, was on music duty - a role I took very seriously - blasting out Dido’s White Flag while everybody sat there, wet and miserable, wishing that the ship actually would just go down, taking me and my sailing-themed Spotify playlist with it.

Spirits were lifted towards the end of the passage when we reeled in a wahoo almost the length of Charlotte and forced her to lay down next to it as proof. She tried to resist for fear of ending up on some kind of PETA-backed hit list for cruelty to fish, but Charlie can be highly persuasive when wielding a gaff.

Photoshoot complete, Charlie filleted the fish, then we dropped anchor and zoomed over to a vn establishment called Jack’s Beach Bar, where the chef agreed to cook a side of it for us, grilling half and frying the other, serving with chips and mash and spicy mayo. Apparently it was the best meal in the whole of human history but I wouldn’t know because over the course of our sad, damp journey, I had developed a cold and couldn’t taste a single thing.

Still, I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of one final cockpit karaoke session - serenading Alec with James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover ahead of his and Charlotte’s journey home. No doubt threatened by my performance, his wife then broke into full river dance to B*witched’s C’est La Vie, before Meike offered up a spirited take on Natasha Beddingfield’s Unwritten.

The following day, we deposited Alec and Charlotte in Saint Lucia - me devastated at the thought of actually having to pull my weight without our trusty deck hand on board. Luckily, that very same day we gained two new crew - in the form of our good pals Chuck and Emma.

Their stay started off well enough, as we effortlessly glided from Saint Lucia up to the French island of Martinique. Here, we (I) made a beeline to the supermarket to stock up on French delicacies, before swiftly returning to the Turtle to quaff Beaujolais and watch Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest on the big screen (a highly sophisticated and culturally significant choice based on the fact that we were off to Dominica the following day).

Much of the film was shot on the “Rainbow Isle” (so named on account of it having a lot of rainbows) (and also, it turns out, quite a lot of rain) - and 20 years later people are still banging on about it. None more so than Daniel, a local tour guide who - somewhat menacingly - zoomed over to us on his motorboat as we sailed into the town of Portsmouth (which actually was quite similar to the eponymous town in the UK) (in that it was extremely wet). Turns out he was just very eager to invite us on a river boat tour - and that’s how we found ourselves in a small wooden vessel, being rowed up the estuary, while Daniel pointed out egrets, iguanas and crabs (there were many crabs). After that, he dropped us at the riverside Bush Bar, where we were coerced into ordering several glasses of dynamite - a rum punch so potent that one sip might have you hospitalised (and Johnny Depp’s favourite, apparently).

Back on board the Turtle and only slightly off our tits, we cruised onward to the French island of Guadeloupe - arriving in the SPECTACULAR Terre-de-Haut in the afternoon. Sadly it is here I must interject with a quick lesson on sailboats. Though they are called sailboats, they do also have engines and propellers - which are essential for use in light winds, as well as when entering an anchorage. The usual protocol is that when we get close to our destination, the sails come down and the engine goes on - propelling us into our parking spot of choice, where we drop anchor and crack open a beer.

However. On this fateful day, when we switched on the engine and thrust the prop into forward motion, the boat remained eerily still. The skipper stayed serene: it’s probably a bit of rope wrapped around the blades, he said. So, he pulled on his goggles and dove in to investigate. When he emerged some 40 seconds later, he was visibly pained, shocked, disturbed even. WHAT IS IT???! I cried. A SHARK? A BODY? Worse, he said: our propeller is gone. Reader, it had fully fallen off. Disappeared. Vanished.

With nothing else for it, we hoiked the sails back out and begged the lord for mercy as we cruised into the extremely busy bay - which to top it all off it turned out was a no-anchor zone. So, while Chazzle tacked his way back and forth in order to capture the wind - I hopped on the tender and tied a length of rope to a buoy. Then, as the Turtle approached, Chaz and Chuck hauled in the sails, while I threw the loose end of rope to Emma, who secured it to a cleat (wow that was a lot of sailing lingo - hope you’re still with me).

The whole procedure was flawless. Epic. I’ve never felt so punk. Until, that is, I clambered back onto the Turtle and - during a misjudged high-five - proceeded to drop my phone in the sea. Without a second’s hesitation, Charlie dove in, reemerging with the device. Sadly, the saltwater had already infiltrated the motherboard and his valiant efforts were in vain.

But my phone felt like a small price to pay. We’d made it onto a buoy! With no mechanical device to aid us! We were complete heroes! Legends! Somebody get me a rum punch! Also what a place to be stranded: Terre-de-Haut is unbelievably beautiful (if you have seen the film Moana, just picture that) (and if you haven’t seen it, I really do insist you watch it immediately).

Obviously most normal people would opt to remain in such a spot until they had, you know, secured another propeller. But - though it’s painful I must accept it - my betrothed is not normal people. Instead, he insisted we push north the next morning - propeller be damned. (In fairness, his family were flying to Antigua to spend Christmas on the Turtle and it had been almost a whole week since we had last seen his father).

With 90 nautical miles between us and our destination, we had two ambitious days of sailing ahead of us. Mercifully, the wind was kind - and we effortlessly glided up the west coast of Guadeloupe. Well. Until sunset - at which point the breeze decided to completely die - leaving us stranded several miles from that evening’s anchorage. We radioed our nearest boat and asked for a tow, but the captain was in a rush and refused to turn back. Panicked, Charlie hopped in the tender and attempted to drag the Turtle behind it. But we were carrying quite a lot of camembert at that point and the boat refused to budge.

Old Zeus was no doubt smiling down on us when we spotted a catamaran in the distance - and Charlie zoomed over and offered them our first-born in exchange for a tow. Its owner, a friendly Frenchman (who knew?), agreed - and dragged us all the way into the delightful bay of Deshaies.

Of course, once we’d untethered ourselves, there was still the small matter of securing a buoy. So, up went the sails again, and we tacked our way over to the last one available. At this point a bespectacled Canadian zoomed over to us on his tender - ostensibly to assist us with the ropes. Reader, let this be a reminder not to trust strangers, especially not of the bespectacled Canadian variety. The man was an imbecile - and as we approached the buoy, he inexplicably zoomed away - taking our rope with it.

On our second attempt, we were about to pull in the genoa when it got jammed and started angrily flapping about - the sheets thrashing my thighs as I tried to rein them in. Of course, at this point Charlie chose to trump my injuries by stubbing his toe on a metal winch - ripping off the nail and leaving a little trail of blood as he ran up and down the deck, yelling things and looking generally panicked.

Eventually - by some miracle (and in no thanks to our Canadian friend) - we made it on to the buoy. At which point two blokes rocked up on a commercial catamaran and told us it was their spot, so we’d have to move. It was then I looked over to Chuck and realised that he was… smiling?! I asked him what he could POSSIBLY be happy about. “I’m just so glad I don’t own a boat,” he said.

Anyway, we made it to bloody Antigua in the end, where needless to say I consumed many rum punches. Although by that point I really could not be arsed with the nutmeg.