Christmas in Bequia: A Cozy, Slightly Terrifying Chaos from Start to Finish

“But… WHY?!” Espen asks, eyes wide with the kind of panic usually reserved for dragging anchors or dead batteries.

Honestly, it's been like this ever since the kids started school and got involved in a hundred different activities. You know the moment: the room falls awkwardly silent, eyes dart to the floor, and someone is foolish enough to ask, “Who wants to be class rep?” To be fair, I usually managed to say no. Usually. But every now and then, my hand would betray me—launching into the air like it had a will of its own. That’s how I ended up as an AUF representative, sitting in a meeting where we earnestly debated the appropriate length of overpriced pram dresses and whether there should be a red carpet… all while the school’s sports hall was literally crumbling around us. (Yes, I did that. No, I’m not proud.)

But every now and then, my hand would develop a mind of its own and shoot up like I was volunteering as tribute in the Hunger Games. That’s how it always starts.

This time, I’d read the post on Facebook several times. “Looking for someone to organise Norwegian Christmas in Bequia for the cruising community.” And in one reckless moment of holiday spirit—or possibly heatstroke—I thought, Sod it, how hard can it be? and typed the fateful words: I can do it!

Oh. What. An. Idiot.

Planning and organising Christmas started, as all great maritime initiatives do, on the kids’ dock in Las Palmas. It was the perfect spot to cast my net—figuratively speaking—and reel in unsuspecting fellow cruisers to join the madness. And who stepped up? All the ladies. Naturally. Plus Calle, bless him. And then there was Are—who gallantly told his wife he’d help out, and then vanished like a dinghy paddle in a night squall. Never saw him again.

So, what exactly were we planning? And more importantly… what did we actually know?

• It’s a 20+ year-old tradition, with the late (legendary) organiser’s ghost still hovering in spirit over every decision—and probably judging us.

• The person who asked for help? Sailing somewhere in the Med, totally uninvolved, throwing requests like paper planes across the sea.

• Last year’s event was reportedly a disaster—excellent, no pressure.

• Oh, and we estimated 120 to 150 cruisers in the area around Christmas. Casual.

It was shaping up to be an utterly manageable, not-at-all overwhelming, completely rational project.

Spoiler: it wasn’t.

With spirits high (and maybe a bit too much confidence), we agreed on a plan: Calle would make a spreadsheet and set up an online sign-up form. Simple, right? We even set a civilized deadline—around the 15th of December—with a section for dietary restrictions. Because cruisers are famously organized and definitely fill out forms on time. And of course, the locals are well known for catering to gluten-free vegans with nut allergies roasting pigs on a beach. All good!

Then we all happily set sail from Las Palmas to Cape Verde, convinced everything was under control. Calle delivered a brilliant spreadsheet. Morale was high. Confidence: misplaced, but thriving!

By the time we arrived in Cape Verde, I had done my homework. I’d read all about the early days of Norwegian Christmas in Bequia, lovingly organised by Mariann and Peter—cosy little gatherings with gingerbread, gløgg, great competitions, Christmas carols, and just enough food to call it a meal. Huge success, all of it. Inspired (and possibly delusional), I called for the second meeting of the self-appointed Christmas Committee.

Fueled by enthusiasm and tropical heat, we came up with a brilliant plan: a couple of whole pigs—or maybe a goat or two—grilled on the beach by locals. Cruisers would bring side dishes potluck-style or just fend for themselves. It was festive, it was simple, it was rustic chic.

Unfortunately, the dream was short-lived.

Peter and Harald (still coordinating from his throne somewhere in the Mediterranean) shot down the idea faster than you can say “multekrem.” They strongly advised using a local restaurant instead. But not the one from last year, because that had been a disaster.

So, with my tropical barbecue fantasy dashed, I did the only sensible thing: leaned heavily on the local wisdom—supported by my ever-loyal committee—and set off to figure out what could actually work.

It was agreed—I’d take charge of the sign-ups and the money side of things (what could possibly go wrong?), while the rest of the Christmas Committee would handle the fun stuff: kids’ games and volleyball for the teens and young adults. Perfect. All set. This is going to be great!

Peter suggested a local restaurant run by Petra, her ex-daughter-in-law, and Petra’s husband, who—according to Peter—operated with military precision. That sounded promising. I tracked down Petra’s place and was thrilled to find glowing reviews online. I messaged her on WhatsApp, and she replied immediately. Sweet, responsive, efficient—things were actually looking good.

She asked for a headcount, broken down by meal preference: chicken, pork, or fish. I added a note to the sign-up form asking everyone to include their choice when they paid. Kids were half price. Simple enough. Petra kept replying with cheerful thumbs-ups and heart emojis. I was optimistic. Dangerously so.

Then the deadline came and went. Five days ago, in fact. It was now December 20th—four days to Christmas—and I was lounging in the Tobago Cays, happily trying to suppress all thoughts of the growing monster I had created while feasting on lobster and snorkelling in the amazing cays.

That peace was shattered by a message from Peter:“Are you here yet? Christmas is just days away!”

Cue internal screaming.

I had asked some of the Norwegians arriving ahead of us to pop by Petra’s and check the place out. They… didn’t. Said it could wait. Meanwhile, new people kept asking to be added. We were now approaching 130 guests—no big deal, right? Also, I had invited our new best friends to join us for Christmas way back in early December. Small detail: they’re American.

Suddenly, the committee began whispering behind my back. This was meant to be a Norwegian Christmas! Danes and Swedes were being barely tolerated—but Americans? The horror.

I was definitely handling things well. Nothing like low-grade mutiny with four days to go.

The f.... Americans (mind you they also have 3 boys)

And just to really spice things up: our best friend JP was flying into Guadeloupe on the 22nd. His grand plan? To join us for Christmas in Bequia. Except that meant he’d arrive maybe on the 23rd… or more realistically, the 24th. Which, of course, is the big day for Norwegians. I mean, what’s Christmas without that sweet dash of logistical panic?

With no good options, we called up our friends on Born to Run—a boat heading our way—and asked if they could pick up JP en route. They agreed. JP, however, was not thrilled about being packed off onto a mystery boat with strangers.

That lasted about ten minutes.

Because once aboard, he was immediately charmed—especially by Helene, Calle’s girlfriend. Suddenly, Christmas wasn’t looking so bad after all.

Operation Christmas ham

And then I had another brilliant idea. You’d think I’d have learned by now. But no. Absolutely not.

In the wake of Hurricane Beryl, several of the Grenadine islands had been hit hard. So naturally, I thought: “What can we, as a cruising community, do to help?” A thoughtful, noble question. What could possibly go wrong?

I did the only logical thing: I asked Peter.

He thought it was a wonderful initiative and promptly suggested—of all things—that we give them hams. Yes, hams. I’m not sure if it was meant to be symbolic, seasonal, or just incredibly pork-forward, but I was too far in to ask questions.

So I sent out an email to everyone attending Christmas Eve and posted in Langturseilere on Facebook, asking if anyone wanted to pitch in. And to my surprise… they did! We raised 15,000 NOK. Victory!

And then reality struck again: logistics.

We now had to buy the actual hams, get them to the right islands, Mayreau and Union island—and somehow coordinate it all before Christmas, while also finishing Christmas dinner planning for 130 people, smoothing over the “American guest scandal,” and trying not to combust in public.

Because nothing says “festive spirit” like international pork distribution during hurricane recovery while hosting a mutinous Norwegian holiday on a tropical island.

At first, Peter suggested we buy the hams ourselves and transport them aboard Yggdrasil to the affected islands. In theory, it sounded simple. In reality? Not so much. Turns out hauling giant hams across the Caribbean is trickier than you’d think—especially when none of the boats (ours included) had freezer space even remotely capable of storing them. These weren’t delicate Christmas hams—they were serious hunks of meat.

Thankfully, Peter stepped in and took control of the pork situation. He matched the amount we’d raised, bringing the total to 30,000 NOK, and contacted a supermarket in Kingstown, St. Vincent. He told them exactly how much money we had, what we wanted to spend it on, and somehow managed to organise pickup and delivery to the islands in need from St. Vincent. He also took contact with the major Richard who agreed to pick up the 45 Christmas hams and delivered it to those who needed it the most.

Our job? Just hop on the ferry from Bequia at 6 a.m. on December 23rd. Easy! Especially with teenagers in tow—whose mum (that’s me) decided this was a perfect opportunity to teach them about compassion, community service, and oozing Christmas spirit before sunrise. They were thrilled. Obviously..

Meanwhile, we’d sailed from Tobago Cays to Bequia, spent one blissful night on anchor, and welcomed a super-happy JP, who finally arrived with the Born to Run crew. Honestly, I think he enjoyed staying on their boat more than ours. 😉 He even brought gifts—glowing reviews of Helene, a massive sunburn, and zero complaints.

As soon as we dropped anchor, Espen and I made a beeline for Petra’s. And the moment I saw the restaurant… my heart sank. It was tiny. Cozy, yes—but definitely not “Norwegian Christmas for 130 guests” tiny. At best, it could seat 20 people. If some sat on each other’s laps.

Petra, however, was all smiles and sunshine. “No problem!” she beamed, waving away my rising panic. “Everything will be fine!”

She was so lovely, so confident, that I almost believed her.

Still, just to be safe, I fired off a friendly little email to all the Norwegians, Danes, and Swedes. It gently reminded them about island time, lightly suggested they bring their own chairs and picnic blankets, and most importantly—emphasised the need for a positive attitude. Because at this point, good vibes and strategic seating were going to carry this party more than any Christmas miracle.

Bright and early on December 23rd, the whole gang—Espen, JP, Peter, the kids, and I—boarded the ferry to Kingstown. It was operation Ham Rescue, and we were on a mission. After picking up the Christmas hams, Espen and Peter heroically wheeled them down to the pier for delivery to the islands in need, while the rest of us took on the far more important task of securing a magical English breakfast in a charming old colonial building not far from the supermarket.

Espen and Peter joined us just 20 minutes later, slightly sweaty but victorious. Mission accomplished!

All 45 Christmas hams picked up

We followed it up with some serious provisioning at the local supermarket before heading back to our boat. Thanking Peter for making this possible!

Some of the lucky ones getting a ham:)

The next day, a few last-minute cancellations trickled in for the Christmas dinner. But honestly? At that point, I was like—whatever. We were still wildly overbooked, the hams were handled, and I’d reached the zen stage of event planning: acceptance.

Christmas Eve! We kicked off the day in style with fresh lobster—no, not caught by us (we tried, but let’s just say it was more of a snorkelling excursion than a hunting expedition). Thankfully, the local fishermen delivered, and so did JP, arriving with a chilled bottle of champagne. We were off to an excellent start.

Christmas lunch

The plan was simple: guests would arrive around 2 p.m., and dinner would be served at 4. Ha. Ha ha. No.

People started trickling in, forming casual clusters: adults with wine and beer, kids splashing happily in the water. Absolutely no sign of the planned kids’ games. I was about to panic, but then I looked around… and everyone seemed perfectly happy. So I took a deep breath and let it go. (Growth!)

Meanwhile, the volleyball crew texted that they were delayed but “on their way”—classic dragging-anchor energy. And then the clock kept ticking.

Petra’s promised space? Occupied by another group! Clearly not there for Norwegian Christmas. The “venue” we did have was… let’s call it rustic: palm leaf tables, sandbag chairs, maybe enough space for 50 people—if half of them stood. No bar. No BBQ smells. My heart started racing.

Holy. Shit. This is going to crash.

Then, like island magic, things started turning. Around 5 p.m., the cruise ship guests cleared out. Petra and her team moved in. Fires were lit, the grill was fired up, and—praise be—the bar opened. Teens headed off for volleyball. Someone got the kids' games going. It was happening.

At 7 p.m. (just a slight delay), the food was served. At that point, all pretence of who ordered chicken, pork, or fish was abandoned. The kids were herded to the front of the line. Peter radiated quiet horror at the chaos and glacial food queue. We waited until nearly 8 p.m.—by then, Petra was nearly out of food, and I was very much not out of rum.

Some guests had already slipped away to their boats, muttering about poor organisation. Fair. But most stayed. The bonfire crackled, torches flickered, and despite the madness… spirits were genuinely high. I thought the food was tasty (even if mine—and a few others’—was cold). But hey, this is island time, and we were feeding 130 hungry sailors in a jungle beach bar with folding tables and Christmas ambition.

I got delightfully drunk, made several new friends, and fed the fish with my hangover the next morning while Peter sent me a steady stream of “this was a disaster” texts. I also ended up paying for a couple of the attending guests, and forgot to refund some of those that cancelled last minute.

And yet—this is what made it all worth it: A message from one of the committee mom`s the next day:

“My daughter said: ‘Mum, this was the best Christmas EVER.’”

Honestly? That’s the only review I needed. To whoever’s brave enough to take this on next year: Good luck. Go big. Go goat. And please, for the love of gløgg—leave me out of it.