The barometer is rising and it will be a hot one today. Up at 8, after a hearty metamucil breakfast I am raring to go. Dave rightly observes that we have no food and cigarette supplies are getting low. No problem, I say, plenty of places up ahead. 80 miles to Rio. Glassy water mirrors the schooners, all now converted for tourist use. Foul mud brought up with the anchor.
We followed the north coast of Ilha Grande, one time leper colony and penitentiary, now a national park. Undeniably gorgeous, its steep granite mountains draped with Rousseau forest, the island waterways are called by one of our books “the filet mignon of Brazilian cruising”. Admittedly it is Sunday, but this Eden has more than a hint of clubmediness about it – the old fishing schooners are now dive vessels and there are too many speedboats being driven too fast by Bronzed Things. We anchored off the village of Abraao, swam, then rowed ashore for lunch in the shade of a huge hisbiscus tree on the beachfront. Chris would like this, I think to myself.
At 1830 we set off for Rio. A spectacular lightning display over the mountains lasted for hours, although the gentle beam breeze died after no time. As always.