It’s 4:30 a.m. I can’t sleep. I’ve been wide awake for an hour. It’s a gorgeous night: the decks shimmer pale white in the half moon, brighter stars stand out clearly, a thin veil of cirrostratus drifts across an otherwise clear sky. A light breeze moves across the still anchorage. A dozen boats tug at their chains, swaying back and forth as if in some choreographed dance.

There’s nothing to hear but a few roosters crowing, the distant hush of swell washing ashore, and the occasional soft clank of halyards. It’s a balmy 23 degrees. I sit on deck, bare-chested, feeling the wind on my tanned skin.

I love this lifestyle.

It’s Friday. Today we sail to Antigua. At nearly 50 nautical miles it’s one of the longer legs. The weather has been extraordinary — not a drop of rain in over two weeks and mostly light winds. Today the easterly trades are supposed to fill back in. We’ll need them, or it will be a long day.

On Wednesday evening we bid farewell to Bini and Amelie. We’ve had a marvelous time together — all four of us. I love my sister dearly, and over the turbulent past couple of years she’s become an even more important presence in my life. Seeing her here again, so at ease and enjoying this rhythm, means a lot. And Amelie brings a younger energy aboard — curious, open, and fully present.

In my last post I left off with tuna dinner in Dominica. The following morning we weigh anchor after two splendid days in Prince Rupert Bay, shout “until next season” to Alexis as he dinghies past us, and set sail for the Îles des Saintes in a steady easterly breeze.

“The Saintes” are a unique little place — a small group of islands just off Guadeloupe’s southwestern tip, forming several well-protected bays. Too small and rugged for plantations, they’ve long been a retreat: once for wealthy French colonists, now for an eclectic mix of sailors from around the world. Terre-de-Haut feels distinctly French — a church in the town center whose hourly bell tolls sound oddly European here, cafés and boulangeries lining the main road, and a timeless, unhurried feel.

We spend two nights. On our snorkel-and-chill day we move the boat across the bay to be closer to the best snorkeling. It turns out to be a winning move. We’ve barely arrived when a dolphin appears next to a neighboring boat. That family is in the water instantly — and to our amazement, the dolphin stays. It swims with them, curious and unafraid, nudging swimmers and allowing itself to be touched.

We don’t need an invitation. Amelie goes first but is a little intimidated. Encouraged by Karin and Bini, she moves closer, and soon they’re all in — capturing incredible footage. Seeing dolphins is rare enough. Swimming with one, being nosed and circled, is something else entirely. We’re exhilarated and feel immensely lucky.

To celebrate, Bini treats us to an elaborate French fish dinner in town. And as if that weren’t enough, the dolphin appears again as we dinghy ashore, swimming alongside and beneath us, just inches away. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

With four aboard, frequent swims, and generous showers, our water tanks are running low. We’ve made some water, but not enough to keep up. With good wind and time on our hands, we decide to sail back to the marina in Pointe-à-Pitre to refill — with the added bonus of a hypermarket nearby.

The marina is full, but they allow us a temporary berth just to take on water. It’s tight, but with teamwork — “Bini, another fender on the port bow,” “Amelie, belay the stern line” — we work our way in and later back out again. The harbor master even treats us to 800 liters of free water. A small kindness, much appreciated.

The remainder of our time together takes us around Guadeloupe’s western “butterfly wing,” first south and then north up the lee coast. The sail is lively — close-hauled, heeled 20–25 degrees, tacking a few times and even racing another boat that left when we did. Rounding the southern tip, the wind fades and we switch to the iron sails, motoring up to Pigeon Island.

This spot is famous for its reefs and turtles — and for good reason. We spend all of Tuesday here, their last full day. The three ladies snorkel for hours, dubbing it “the aquarium” for its clear water and abundance of fish and healthy coral.

Wednesday morning brings laundry at a small coin-op ashore, one last swim, lunch, and then a short motor to Deshaies near the northern tip. At 5:30 p.m. the taxi arrives.

Here we are. One last hug. And we wave them goodbye.

Ten wonderful days fly by far too quickly. In the close quarters of a sailboat, you might expect friction, maybe a bit of tension. But not with us. It’s been relaxed, harmonious, and simply good fun. Thank you, Bini and Amelie, for making the long journey. It meant a lot to have you here.

And now it’s Karin and me and JACE alone again. Two more weeks — Antigua, Barbuda, then St. Maarten.

But that’s for the next post.