Courtesy of my father, who wrote about our trip earlier this year. Some of this might resonate with you all.

A Neophyte’s Visit to The British Virgin Islands: June 2018

“ Call me Ishmael…Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth…then I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can…almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.”

“Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries…all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks…And there they stand—miles of them…Inlanders all…

“… in the country…Take almost any path, and it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water… (Melville’s“Moby Dick”)

Like Ishmael I have observed those who cannot let go of water. Watch the many vehicles that swing by the boat ramp in Port Chester. They detour on their way home from work where they’ve been “clinched to their desks”. Go to the Point and see those parked to view the river. Look at the numberless runners and bikers traversing the causeway heading to the Point for a view of the Sound.

Tom keeps his boat ready for fishing; joins a sailing club. And this is a compromise with his former life in Sag Harbor where he owned a power boat, a sailboat, a kayak, a small sailboat and possibly more. Bill keeps his boat ten minutes away and only pulls it when the marina closes. He and Tom have the worse case. Jack moves from Pasadena shore to Texas near Galveston Bay to continue his surf casting. And Jason, I hope, has found some water in Georgia after enjoying that yacht club outside of Montreal. Ben lives next to the water; keeps his lobster boat on a mooring in front of the house. Jeremy enjoys a lake outside of Austin. I “captain” a 24 foot pontoon boat for 30 second rides.

Unlike Ishmael, I was not “growing grim about the mouth” in the spring of 2017 when Bill called urging me to join all my sons for a week of sailing in the British Virgin Islands. I had 24 hours to answer, but Jill told me I had to go so, being a man not easily swayed, I called back immediately. From then on I thought of that sun hitting me for 5 days. Tom and Bill mailed me sun protective shirts. Jack emailed me to dream about my stateroom and Bill and Jason reminded me to think of the roofs over both bow and stern.

By June of 2018 Jack has already called more than once about all the fishing gear he’s bringing—laughing at himself about how he’s spending extra money to have bait and lures driven across island so he can have the best. I drive to New York to spend the night with Bill and Tina and family. While Ishmael enjoyed fish chowder before departure, we have Bill’s homemade pizza at 10 or 11 PM. And although Ishmael shared a bed with Quequeg at the Spouter Inn, I get a private room and a bed to myself. Only for a short time, however. Our schedule requires a 3 AM departure to catch a 5 AM flight from Newark to Puerto Rico.

Up at 2:30 with an attempt to slide on my long black socks. Ouch! A cramp in my left leg. It’s not easy hopping out of bed and dressing immediately when you generally laze about for 2 hours before dressing. There’s Bill in the living room already working his phone. He’s in shorts, flip-flops, light shirt and carries a bag so small it couldn’t hold either a change of clothes or sufficient underwear. Well, he DID have a bathing suit in there.

Off we go in a private car seamlessly delivering us to the airport. Jason arrives soon after dressed as Bill yet carrying a smaller bag…like something Sarah might use as a purse. And I thought I had a small bag. I watch as Bill performs miracles on his phone with tickets and whatever else we need. Jason has a newly minted passport that doesn’t “compute”. We wait while one security person after another scratches his/her head until, after quizzical frustration, they agree to send us on our way.

I am likely the only one on the flight to Puerto Rico who remains awake. Jason has been up all night with Dan. Their friendship goes back to pre-school. Bill has about 3 hours of sleep under his belt. Most of the passengers are sleeping while I am reading a book about Nixon. A book way too fat to be brought on this trip.

At the airport we hunt for the storage room to check our bags…hiking back and forth and waiting for someone to open the door. Then off for a visit to Old San Juan for breakfast and a walk to the waterfront with a view of the Coast Guard brig “Eagle”.

Back at the airport, after waiting again at the storage room, we head to our gate. We hear that Jack, who brings enough gear to open a small shop, has to store a couple fishing rods in this same storage room as they are too long for the smaller planes to BVI.

Passing a restaurant I spy a guy who really resembles Ben Jones. It couldn’t be him. He’s in Maine. It does REALLY look an awful like Ben. Knowing full well who it is, Jason nudges me. “Is that Ben Jones?” My god it IS Ben and I am amazed at this marvelous coincidence and wondering where he might be going. With my superior speed at understanding all this, I say, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” And in fact it takes more than just a minute for me to gather the truth: Ben is coming WITH us. Bill makes a video of this with his magic phone and sends it to Tom and Jack and everyone else in on it.

There you have it. Not only Ben has kept this secret for close to a year, but so has Bill, Jason, Tom, Jack, Jill, and and who knows how many others. The people closest to me cannot be trusted.

Officials at Tortola’s small airport are louder and bossier than elsewhere shouting to have this and that ready. The taxi to the boat is an adventure. With an American vehicle the driver propels English style on the left of the winding road speeding while Ben engages him in questions about the island and I’m thinking, “Please don’t distract him.” At least Ben doesn’t follow up each question with “Hmmmm. And how did that make you feel?” The driver tells me I don’t need a seat belt as I am not in the front seat—this to a man who feels naked and vulnerable without his seatbelt fastened backing down the driveway. Sometimes the ride seems like a game of chicken with on-coming cars and crossing pedestrians.

We arrive at Road Town and find Tom and Jack already there. The boat is ready. I get a stateroom. So do Ben, Tom and Jack. It’s not clear where Bill, Jason and Jeremy will sleep. Soon the food and alcohol arrive. Countless containers stacked high and Jason is worried that there will not be enough. Foolish boy. There will be plenty with lots left over. I think he’s over-done it. As usual I am mistaken. (I’ve forgotten what seven men can eat and drink without their wives to look on as scolds.) By our third day out, we need to re-supply. And Ben bemoans the lack of peanut butter. Thanks to Tom, however, we have martini glasses lined with gel so they can be frozen.

Jason needs to fax birth certificates to Sarah so she and the baby can get new passports. There are no fax machines here—or likely anywhere in BVI, but Bill has a super phone and job is done. Ben can’t get his phone to work. Bill fixes that with his phone. When Jason needs his plane ticket to buy a duty free hat. Bill’s phone produces one. I, on the other hand, turn off my flip phone. I assume Tom, master of security, has a phone that works and that Jack, lover of gadgets, also is all set. Not sure about Jeremy. He may have sensibly turned off his phone.

We all go to the captains’ orientation, but leave before it’s done. “We know all that stuff,” Tom claims.

We perfunctorily go through the required introduction to the boat and its systems. “We know all that stuff.” As it turns out Tom, Bill and Jason DO know all that stuff. I feel like I’m aboard with three professionals. We depart with a good three inches between us and neighboring boats on port and starboard. Tom is at the helm. After hoisting the dinghy a second time because we got it backwards the first time, we set the sails.

While Tom hoists the sails with the push of a button, Jason skitters about topside to guide them as they unfurl. I enjoy standing on the port side deck watching all the action and enjoying waves. That is the first and last time I go on deck under sail. I become somewhat woosey during each sail after that. I look aft and there is Bill hopping back and forth on the stern with rubber bands, fishing poles and devices attached to the hand rails so we can have no less than 4 lines trolling off the boat. Maybe it’s 6 lines. Jack has brought out his tackle box. Actually more like a small bureau with four or more drawers for lures. I think it measures about 2 feet long, 1 and a half tall, 1 and a half wide. I am unsure how he manages all this on an airplane.

Ahab was driven to catch the white whale and Bill and Jack are driven to catch fish. During the entire 5 days the “boys” are frustrated because they catch more Sargasso than fish. Undeterred when teased by Tom, Jack declares, as he often does, “It’s called fishing. Not catching.” They do catch three fish. The first is colorful, the second I don’t remember, the third is a skate and it provides the most exciting fight. Lots of noise. Shouting. Yelling directions. None of the fish are edible such as peanut butter might be.

Soon we are at our first mooring field for snorkeling. Everyone except me hops in the water—Ben among them. I remain on deck in my stylish long black socks—the only pair I have since I’ve forgotten to pack other pairs. I don’t care for salty water on my body and I hate sitting around in a wet bathing suit. Especially in the sun. Am I cut out for this or what? I sit aboard while everyone heads in different directions and I worry about safety. No buddy systems. People just head anywhere separately. Hell, I don’t even know where the life jackets hide on the boat. I can tell I’m a joy to be with.

Everyone returns and Bill declares he’s thrown up into his face mask. Now that must be pleasant. We are off to a good cruise. We set off for another location. I remain in the cabin with one eye on the horizon and another on “Why Read Moby Dick” holding it so I can see the pages and the horizon at the same time to keep my stomach stable. That son-of-gun Ben simply works his phone as he pleases. Never the least bit sick. I am jealous. And who’s that he talking to? It’s Jack. Ben likes to catch up with these “children” whom he’s known from birth. We find a mooring and make lunch. Bill, Jeremy and Jack head to the beach in the dinghy while Jason launches the paddle board to get there under his own steam. Tom, Ben and I stay aboard and enjoy the wafting sewage smell coming either from the boat in front of us or from the restaurant ashore.

We head out for another mooring and supper and the night. Once secure Jason breaks out the food and begins cooking on the charcoal grill that hangs on the stern. He’s a good provider. When he’s not cooking and arranging food, he’s criss-crossing the boat to open the pepcocks while underway then closing them when we moor. Who’s that on the bow? Oh, it’s Ben talking to Bill. Tom turns on the generator and we enjoy air conditioning for the night. This is especially good for me as I cannot slide my long black socks onto my legs if they are damp. I hang them to dry each night in my stateroom.

Crawling into bed. The first night I resemble a stricken fish out of water or a worm. Because of that cramp back in Old Greenwich, I am afraid to bend my leg so, lying on my stomach, I pull myself on and off the bed with my arms. Each night becomes easier, but I make sure no one can see my bug slivering state. Always to bed early and sleeping well, I am usually the first up in the morning. Bill and Jason sleep in various places depending on the chance of rain. Once Jason is sprawled on the table inside, but usually spreads out on the foredeck. Bill sleeps in a hammock on the fantail and both continue to wear their bathing suits and sun protective shirts 24 hours a day.

I usually get up around 4 in the morning. Coffee is always ready to perk because Tom ensures that. All is peaceful and I sit outside while Bill sleeps in his hammock nearby. With a headlamp I continue reading: first finishing with Nixon and then enjoying why I should be reading “Moby Dick”. One morning I discover Bill has left a small light
glowing about 3 feet down into the water. In the light I watch about 15 or more large—three foot long Tarpon chasing smaller fish. It is a show worthy of a commercial aquarium. All with gentle breezes about the boat. Magical.

Usually Tom is next up and we whisper in the morning quiet. Then Ben, and soon Jason and Jeremy—who pops up from his berth like a jack-in-a-box each morning. Generally Jack enjoys sleeping late. Jason brings out the food for breakfast, Ben usually insists on cooking the eggs and I often do the dishes. Soon we are underway to our next stop and beers are opened long before lunch. So far no peanut butter to Ben’s chagrin, but there he is talking to Jason on the bow.

We visit two restaurants and something that represents itself as one. Using the dinghy to reach the first restaurant is smooth for everyone except me. Knees can’t be trusted so they help me aboard the inflatable and push me up the ladder onto the dock. A nice open-air restaurant and Ben inquires about peanut butter. No luck. Two nights later we try another on the island of Anegada—a place with an elevation of about 10 feet. The three 30 somethings go ashore, rent motor scooters and visit every beach and bar on the island. The four 50 and 70 somethings remain in the shade aboard the boat. This restaurant is actually outside and rain sprinkles on and off during the entire meal yet the food is better.

The next day we stop to re-supply. Beer. Gin. Something to eat. And peanut butter. Next we go, at Ben’s request, to see what the hurricane did to Bob Z’s favorite place, The Bitter End. There really is no Bitter End. Lots of platforms that were once cottages. In fact during our entire sail we see boat after boat beached, ruined and deserted. The verdant hills are more brown than green as if there had been a forest fire and this is the new growth. And there is Ben sitting with Tom at the helm catching up. They’re history goes way back to when Jack and Tom, about 8 and 10 years old, would pretend to be psychologists interviewing each other in Ben’s office.

Our third restaurant isn’t really a restaurant. It’s a converted boat. It floats at anchor. Ben and I go early. It’s black and accessed by a ladder on the hull. It has not yet opened its bathroom. The bar does NOT have the makings for martinis. No bathroom, no martinis. What are we doing here? We return to the boat to have Tom deliver us our hamburger meals later. We are so comfortable back on board we wonder why we left. For the others, however, this may be the best night. With the exception of Tom and Jack, NONE of them remember how they got back to the boat.

Next day we head back to Road Town. Bill catches me that final morning: “I’m glad you came and I’m glad Mom made you.” Ben leaves early for his flight and the rest of us ride in the same taxi we’d used to get there. We have plenty of time to catch our flights. Jack, the constant traveler, has arranged to spend the night in San Juan to relax and the rest of us catch our flights home. Thanks to Bill’s planning, we never feel nervous about connections. We land in NYC, Jason splits for Dan’s, Bill and I take Uber back to New York. By now it’s 11:00 PM and pizza awaits us and so does the family and so does bed.

Very well written. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing.

dreamin42long

A lovely read. Thanks for posting.

Couldn't get through it.

Loved this!