THE FOLLOWING MORNING, we depart under clouds of meringue on a single tack for Bequia, jamming north-northeast at six knots. In addition to being browner and lower than Grenada, these hillocks belong to our new host country, St. Vincent.

Closing in on the turquoise waters of Bequia, Sam finds St. Vinnie's blue-yellow-and-green "courtesy flag" in the duffel of supplies provided by the charter company, but he fumbles as he tries to hoist it. We stare, mute, as it flutters away on the breeze.

There is nothing quite like the sight of something lost overboard. Whatever it is, drifting out to sea behind you, it quickly becomes so small, so insignificant in the froth and churn of the sea, while simultaneously your problems grow disproportionately large. Never mind smuggling and illegal employment—without that flag, we are now, according to seafaring custom, pirates.

At the colonial customs-and-immigration building shared with the police station, two uniformed men can hardly be bothered. They ask a couple of questions, I lie, and, though they're a little confused by my slipup on our paperwork ("No, no, sorry, we're leaving after we arrive"), a wobbly floor fan attracts more attention. The officers slide back our passports without opening them. If St. Vincent had a terrorist-threat-level warning, it would register somewhere between periwinkle and honeydew.

"Aargh!" I holler to Sam. And thus begin our days as buccaneer chocolatiers, hitting up all the gingerbread-house gift shops.

Almost half our inventory is now gone.

We pause to hang out with three hair-heavy Rastas supposedly cleaning a friend's yard. One of them lazily rakes while the other two, dressed in mismatched flip-flops and well-worn Carnival Cruise Lines jumpers, trade tokes off a spliff as big as a cannon. Eventually, they pool enough pocket change to buy the second half of our sample bar.