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Guy Grieve and his family explore the Dutch Antilles as their Caribbean voyage moves through the gears.

# Guy Grieve's previous column
# Caribbean booking guide

It was midnight and time to go. With something approaching reverence, we flicked on the spreader lights, followed by the instruments that would tell us our heading, speed and depth. We then switched the internal lighting to red, which ensures that night vision is not reduced when you move from wheel to chart table and back again, as well as being more considerate to the sleeping members of the party. As we slipped the mooring, I let a warm breeze blow our boat, the Forever, backwards before turning the wheel and moving slowly off into the night.

The first stage of our journey would take us along the south coast of Bonaire, in the Dutch Antilles, where we would be sheltered from the full force of the sea before heading out to the open ocean. Our first destination would be Islas de Aves, 50 miles east of Bonaire, and we expected the journey to take around 10 hours. By setting off at this time we were ensuring that we would arrive in good light, which is essential when navigating these shallow coral islands.

Down below, the boys were in their cabin fast asleep, as was Juliet, who would be taking the "graveyard" watch from 4am until 8am. We passed out of the lee of the island and, as if at the flick of a switch, the state of the sea was transformed.

With the wind against the current, it was tumultuous, indecisive, irritable and, worst of all, likely to stay that way for the next 10 hours. The boat swung up and from side to side, fell back, rolled, juddered and surfed before repeating the cycle again.

As I sweated over the chart table a kind of yellowness descended on me, and with an air of mournful resignation I realised that at some point I was going to have to indulge my inner ear with a bout of pointless vomiting. Towards the end of my shift, at about 3.30am, I accepted the inevitable and wearily settled myself at the port side of the cockpit to begin the tiresome job of vomiting. As I lay slumped in the cockpit feeling sorry for myself, I wondered why I had allowed us all to wallow into debt to buy a boat.

Juliet took over at 4am, as agreed, and I collapsed for a couple of hours' sleep. Some heavy squalls rolled in, and from time to time I would look up and see Juliet at the helm, clad in waterproofs, occasionally with one of the boys by her side.

At around 10am, we spotted a kind of unevenness on the horizon (about five miles from sea level) which I realised with joy was the first group of islands that make up the Islas de Aves. We continued past the first island, Sotavento, making for Barlovento which is 16 miles farther east. Islas de Aves means "islands of birds", and sure enough as we approached Barlovento we heard the chatter of countless birds, and saw the red feet of boobies sheltering in the deep-green mangroves.

When we found a spot we were happy with - clear of any coral that could be damaged - we dropped the anchor and sat back in the cockpit, looking around in awe. All around, tempting little channels disappeared into the mangroves, and I was just planning a foray with my son, Oscar, when a swift launch appeared from nowhere. My heart sank. The area we were in, although beautiful, was also in Venezuelan waters where episodes of piracy are not unknown.

As the boat approached, I wished that I had a shotgun or even a flare pistol just in case, but being unarmed, had instead to opt simply for a wide smile. Four deeply tanned, strong-looking men looked up at me, openly assessing. The oldest smiled and with a querying expression lifted up a crayfish and a crab. "Dollar?" I asked. They shook their heads and motioned drinking. I went below and opened the chiller. They went away happy with their cans of beer.

That night we sat in the cockpit, trying to take it all in. Eight hundred yards away we could see a line of white as waves broke across the reef. Above us, the occasional star shot and fizzed to nothing while all around phosphorescence sparkled as water sucked at the sides of our floating home. No charter yachts ever see these islands, and we felt privileged to have the chance to rest within their shelter for a night.