Dreaded Island Fever<br><br>We hadn’t planned to go down island again this year before our planned trip in November to Cat Island in the Bahamas. Summer is a delight to me, and I eagerly await it, never needing to escape from it. Yes, I even like humidity. We’d planned to sail our boat on the Chesapeake for several days in July, giving ourselves a break from work but without enduring the trials that always seems to bedevil our travel to the islands.<br><br>Alas, Belize in February was about the last time we saw sun until mid-June. The President’s Day snowstorm (30 inches!) was just a taste of the unseasonable seasons we would endure thereafter. The prior years’ drought ended with a vengeance, with an uncommonly cold and snowy winter, followed by an endless soggy grey “spring.” At first my flowers flourished in the plentiful rain, but soon they drowned in it, mirroring my spirit. By the beginning of June, I had a case of Dreaded Island Fever that left me feeling like it was January.<br><br>The siren song of the islands was calling me once again, and a surfeit of frequent flier miles in my account was taunting “Use me! Use me!” I was surprised to find tickets available to a number of appealing destinations. Rick suggested we add another day to our planned 5, making sailing (what else!) a possibility. A call to Moorings/Footloose sealed our fate, and soon we were booked for 5 days on a 402CC in the British Virgin Islands.<br><br>Naturally, with our plans now in place, on the first official day of summer, summer arrived with a vengeance. We now had August weather in June. My blues were vanishing, but the end-of-summer weather would have made Chesapeake sailing miserable. So, even though we were no longer escaping from the cold, we were still headed for better sailing weather. Nevertheless, we still had to keep an eye on the weather in the tropics (me being who I am – the bringer of bad weather…). For weeks, the weather in the tropics was free of disturbances. But, true to form, the day before departure something has to pop up to remind us who’s boss. Luckily, Tropical Storm Claudette is south of Jamaica and heading further west. I’m hoping nothing follows in her path!<br><br>Wednesday, July 9, is departure day. To get our frequent flier tickets, we have to follow a somewhat convoluted route to the islands. We fly to Miami tonight, and then on to San Juan and Beef Island the next day. Our flight doesn’t leave til 5 p.m., so we’re both able to work better than half the day. We arrive at BWI the prescribed 2 hours early, and it’s utter chaos at American Airlines. There’s a Barefoot Man song called “The Biggest Box in the World” that takes place at MIA, where an island lady is trying to check a HUGE box full of food and stuff as luggage, and objects to being charged for overweight baggage. Seeing the people checking in for this flight has this song looping through my brain. As we wait in line, I’m getting steamed for other reasons: people arriving at the airport just 30-45 minutes before their flights are getting pulled to the front of the line ahead of us (the obedient ones), and then hustled through security to make their flights (some of which are being HELD for them). This is a major pet peeve for me!<br><br>I’m worried about thunderstorms, and it seems that my worries are justified. We board the flight on time, and are ready to go – early even – when air traffic control puts an indefinite ground hold on our flight: the East Coast re-route corridor around the thunderstorms is full, so we’ll have to wait til the storms clear. The gate is needed for other flights, so the plane pulls away and we sit and sit, with no word on when we will depart. We finally depart at 7:30, for a pretty turbulent flight. Dare I hope this is the only weather delay or problem we’ll face on this trip?<br><br>We finally reach Miami close to 10 p.m. and taxi to our hotel, the Ritz Carlton in Coconut Grove. This is a new hotel, and it is spectacular. The usual excellent service is overlaid with the lovely Latin manners of the staff. Given the late hour, we didn’t have much opportunity to enjoy the hotel, or have our planned dinner out, but at least we had a nice late-night room service meal before sinking into our delicious downy bed. I would choose Ritz Carlton hotels for their luscious beds alone!<br><br>
Back on Island Time<br><br>Miami may be in the United States, but once you hit its airport, you feel transported (and not necessarily in a good way) to another country altogether. Lines for everything: to check in, to have your bag screened, to clear security, to use the restroom. Thankfully, however, once we are through the lines, we are on our way and reach San Juan without trouble. At San Juan, we grab what passes for lunch, and board our Eagle to Beef Island on time as well. In no time, we are descending over Guana Island, the northeast coast of Tortola, and finally Beef Island. This is our first time to see this new, modern airport (blessedly, NOT air conditioned), and I get to see more of it than planned, since our sole piece of luggage is lost.<br><br>After clearing immigration and customs (and joking with the customs agent that we would have to sail naked because our bag is lost), we and a Miami businessman head to the AA counter for assistance. Our bags are not “in the system,” so the agent suggests that we wait for the next flight to see if they made it. It’s already 1 p.m., and I’d had the hope – which is now fading fast – that we’d be able to sail off by 3 p.m. today. Maintaining a shred of that hope, I send Rick off to the Footloose base without me to check us in and start our boat briefing, while I wait around for the next Eagle.<br><br>When the next Eagle arrived, my Miami compatriot and I went back into the customs and immigration area – through the out door. Happily, my bag arrived on this flight, and I breezed through customs yet again. Soon, I was enroute to Footloose. By the time I arrived, I found Rick and base manager Julian Hodge (formerly of the Moorings) halfway through the briefing on
Happy Chance and my provisioning order from Bobby’s already delivered and partially stowed. Miraculously, we push back from the dock at exactly 3 p.m. and are on our way to The Bight at Norman Island.<br><br>
Happy Chance is a Moorings 402CC (a Beneteau 40CC customized for the Moorings fleet). Thanks to all on TTOL who reported their impressions of this boat, as they were right on. Like all boats, the design is a compromise between performance, comfort and aesthetics. While
Happy Chance wasn’t perfect, she was comfortable and seaworthy, and did the trick for us for 5 days. Being part of the Footloose fleet, she was likely more than 5 years old, and the years of hard use were evident with respect to some cosmetic issues: a few areas of dinged varnish and sun damage which could have used some refurbishment, a few gouges in the upholstery, and a beat-up dodger which we folded away anyway. Mechanically, however, the boat was in great shape, other than some batteries that didn’t hold a charge as long as we might have liked and a broken oven which we never would have used anyway (as long as the stovetop functions, we’re in business).<br><br>Tropical Storm Claudette, though hundreds of miles away, is impacting sea conditions here. The seas are rough and confused, even in the Drake Channel, and the wind is fresh and gusty. I promptly become seasick, and spend the better part of our sail to Norman Island feeling green, but our first sail is soon over and we are hooked on a mooring in The Bight by 4:30 p.m.<br><br>Right away, I notice several things about this anchorage. First of all, at this relatively early hour on a weeknight, it is about 2/3 full. Second, there are about 8 large boats (50+ foot monos and 45+ foot cats), carrying about a dozen teenagers each; they are likely here for the youth regatta. Unfortunately, these boats elected to anchor throughout the mooring field. While I have no objection to their saving a buck or 25, what they’ve also done is rendered the 2-4 moorings within their swinging radius unusable by other sailors who may have wished to do so. I think this is poor form. <br><br>Finally, there are two rafts of large power boats flanking Pirate’s on the beach. Generally, I have no problem with the “Puerto Rican Navy” (as this contingent is sometimes called) – they have as much right to be here as the rest of us. However, I note the following about these boats that demonstrates a certain lack of consideration for others: The larger of the two rafts is tied stern-to to trees on the beach – I thought tying up to living things was not permitted in the BVI. Both rafts have led many, many lines to the beach, effectively excluding others from using the beach unless they want to climb over and between moving ropes. A number of the large boats have with them Boston Whaler type boats which are being used to pull knee-boarders throughout the anchorage. (Rick threatens to buzz them with the dinghy early in the morning…) And finally (and this doesn’t concern me other than to offend my tendency to follow rules), one of the rafts had 3 charter boats from Virgin Traders – I thought most charter companies prohibited rafting…<br><br>Of course, my observations are just that; they are not about to spoil my evening. Before dinner, I serve up sundowners (rum and Diet Coke) and smoked oysters and cheese. We arrive at Pirate’s for our 6:30 p.m. dinner reservation; Thursday is buffet night. Before claiming our table, we chat with a pair of Houstonians who are sailing with their families – there are a lot of families with children here, and the Willie T gets virtually NO action tonight. Dinner, at $25 per person, includes salads, vegetables, mahi mahi, chicken and ribs and is topped off with a dessert of soursop mousse. By 8:30, I’m falling asleep; the sun has been down for at least 30 minutes!<br><br>
Jost Van Dyke<br><br>In my travels, I find that for most destinations, there is usually something which is so evocative that it triggers a flood of memories – which may or may not have anything to do with the trigger. Just scraping a nutmeg, even if it’s into a Painkiller, reminds me of Grenada. Even if I’m picking them off a South Carolina beach, sand dollars make me think of the Abacos. And in the BVI, hearing “This is David Jones, your Zed-BVI weatherman,” reminds me immediately of past journeys to the BVI. No BVI sailing trip has really started until I’ve picked up that first weather report. David is not sounding as robust as on past visits, and later in the week he intrepidly reports the weather from the surgical ward at Peeble’s Hospital. Today’s weather is partly cloudy, and we’re hoping that an oncoming tropical wave will pass south of us.<br><br>Since we only have a few days here, we have to decide now whether we want to head to Anegada. After a breakfast of berries and cream, we conclude that we missed going to Jost Van Dyke last time we were in the BVI, and decide to focus our efforts there this time around. The wind is fresh and gusty from the ESE and seas are 3-4 feet with whitecaps. I take a prophylactic Dramamine II. By 11:30 a.m., we’ve navigated the Little Thatch Cut and are attempting to anchor off Sandy Cay, which we’ve never visited before. With the wind and seas, it takes 3 tries before we manage a good set.<br><br>After a lunch of chef salads, we go ashore. The beach is gorgeous, with a steep drop into the water. Swimming is not as fun as I might have been because we sight a good number of jellyfish. We walk the botanical trail, making it almost all the way around the island except for a rocky patch our bare feet can’t tackle. By 2 p.m., our bottoms are sandy and we’ve had our fill – for now. Next stop: Great Harbour.<br><br>In 4 past visits, we’ve never managed to visit the legendary Foxy’s, but not for lack of trying. A couple of times, it was off-season and he was off-island. Another time, we tried to anchor in Great Harbour but failed. Last time, the weather marooned us for a couple of days in the Trellis Bay/Marina Cay area. This time, we are going to give it another try. We cautiously scope out a spot to anchor, but after 3 attempts, we can’t get it to set. So, we choose another spot, close to a sailing mega-yacht with a dark blue/black hull named
Rock Me (does this belong to someone famous?). The people on
Rock Me have decided we’re just too close to them, so they stand on deck, arms crossed, glaring at us, as if the force of their negative energy is enough to get us to leave. Of course, I can hardly blame them … how many clueless morons have anchored right on top of us? How is the crew of
Rock Me to know we’re not
clueless morons (just
regular morons)? This attempt to anchor fails, so we turn tail for Little Harbour, though I’m sorely tempted to motor alongside
Rock Me to ask them if they wouldn’t mind us rafting up with them…<br><br>Theoretically, I suppose we could have moored in Little Harbour and taxi-ed over to Great Harbour. But Little Harbour has its pleasures as well, and once settled in, I’m not in any hurry to move. We dink ashore to Harris’ at 3:30 for a few drinks and to make dinner reservations. Cynthia greets us warmly and is excited to have lobsters for dinner – so are we! A bushwhacker and a Carib and we find ourselves deep in conversation with another group on a 402CC,
Grand Cru in the Tradewinds fleet. These BVI veterans have a few stories to share with us! We match their Hurricane Bertha with our Hurricane Georges experience, but their lightning strike (!!!), following a crew member’s complaint about all-day-gospel music instead of weather reports on Sunday, can’t be topped. We head back for showers and sundowners. We are joined yet again by the PRN boats – this time tied stern-to the dinghy dock at Sidney’s and knee-boarding through the anchorage.<br><br>We set off for our 7:00 p.m. dinner reservation. En route, we have some dinghy problems, but the German guys from the next boat over offer us a tow. Perfect timing, since Rick gets the motor going for good just as they arrive. (Ladies: isn’t that just like having great hair days once you make that salon appointment?) We enjoy the fresh lobster and banana caramel pie for dessert. This is a relatively late night for us; bedtime is about 9:00 p.m.<br><br>Saturday morning and we are up-and-at-‘em pretty early, in the hope of beating the crowds to Sandy Spit, where we saw a dozen or more boats anchored yesterday. We’re out of Little Harbour by 8:00 a.m. Two other boats are already anchored here, at least one of which seems to have spent the night. I love this little islet, but the years have really changed its contours. 3 steps from the water’s edge and you’re in up to your shoulders. My favorite leaning palm is no longer there, and the other palm tree, on the south end of the island, is losing ground. After a thorough visit, we dink over to the largest, westernmost beach on Little Jost Van Dyke for some
privacy. Good swimming, good sunning, and no one here but us!<br><br>
The Lure of the Soggy Dollar<br><br>By 10:30, we are headed for White Bay, under jib alone. It takes some doing, a lot of inching around and watching the depth sounder and looking out for rocks on the bottom, but we find a safe spot to anchor. In theory, we are only here for lunch and a few hours of playing; in practice, we know that a few Mellow Mango Magics and we could be here for the night. Hence, good anchoring is essential. Rick dives in and directs me from the water as the anchor skitters across the bottom as I reverse, and then digs in for good. It’s a 35 pound CQR – smaller than I would like – but we also lay down 50 feet of chain.<br><br>At last, we head to my favorite beach bar, The Soggy Dollar. One of the prettiest beaches anywhere, paired with one of the friendliest, most laid-back bars anywhere. Does it get much better? Beckoning hammocks; bar games that get more difficult as the day wears on; an eclectic collection of people – you just can’t beat it. It’s Saturday, and it seems like a lot of people have the same idea we do. There are probably 20 or more boats in the anchorage, though when we arrive, the bar is largely empty. One of those Mellow Mango Magics (painkiller mix and Artic mango vodka), some friendly conversation, and sand gravity sets in. All of a sudden, I’m not worried about weather or anchors: we’re not going anywhere.<br><br>Lunch (flying fish sandwiches and conch fritters) follows bar games and more mango madness. We chat with a mother and daughter from Missouri staying at the Sandcastle, capping off a stay at their villa in St. John; a businessman sailing a catamaran with his brother and son, leaving wife and baby at home; a young family from San Diego who’ve come down to purchase their sailboat; and many others. Soon the Soggy Dollar is jam-packed with day trippers, so we settle up and cede our coveted bar stools. I need a swim anyway, so we dink back to the boat to drop off our stuff, swim to the beach to snooze a bit, and swim back.<br><br>I’m curious to visit the east end of the beach, so we dink over to have a few drinks at Ivan’s Stress Free Bar. Unlike the Soggy Dollar, there are few tourists here and mostly islanders and their kids. The walls are covered with shell artwork and photos of past visitors. The bar is an honor bar, but I didn’t know that, so one of the teenaged girls made me a painkiller-type drink with banana rum. She sings like an angel along with the radio and mixes a great drink to boot.<br><br>By 4:00 p.m., the anchorage is clearing out. Only those seriously bewitched by this spot (or seriously confident of their anchoring abilities) are staying the night. Showers and cocktails precede watching the Anchoring Olympics. (Subtitle: There But For the Grace of God Go I). Some roll in dangling their anchor off the bow (wonder why they have no bottom paint there?). Others scream futilely at each other, not having worked out hand signals. Finally, the ones who make me question our overly conservative methods: they zoom in, heave the anchor overboard heedlessly, and consider themselves set. Dinner is jerk pork, curried cauliflower, and cucumber salad. The weather worsens, with big gusts of wind and lots of swinging around the anchor. Our anchor feels secure, but we can’t be over-confident because it looks like the tropical wave is going to have an impact tonight.<br><br>
Shipwrecked!<br><br>It’s just after dark on Saturday night, and the nearly full moon peeks out from between the clouds from time to time to illuminate our surroundings. About this time, with the Anchoring Olympics concluded, we see a blue-hulled boat, probably not a charter, approaching the anchorage. They have no running lights nor, apparently, much of a clue, because no one with a clue would attempt White Bay under sail after dark. It’s a very narrow and shallow anchorage, bounded at the north by the beach and rocks, at the east and west by rocks, and at the south end by a reef, which has two marked – but NOT lit – openings. The boat is headed not towards one of the marked channels (not that they could see them anyway), but right for the middle of the reef. Sure enough, the boat hits the reef and is hard aground with storms coming.<br><br>Rick can’t sit still and watch, so he heads off in the dinghy with a flashlight and our handheld VHF, while I am to man the VHF and cell phone on the boat. A Hatch Drill ensues, as the first of many rain squalls hits just as Rick reaches the reef. A few other dinghies join him, and they try to talk the foundering captain off the reef. They try kedging him off, and heeling the boat by pushing the boom out, but nothing works. Meanwhile, they learn that the boat doesn’t have a working engine (the owner uses his dinghy motor if necessary, though I’m not sure how … as a tugboat, maybe?); he has no working spotlights or flashlights; he has only a 15-20 pound anchor; and judging from his attempt to anchor in White Bay under the circumstances, he has no chart or cruising guide.<br><br>You can hear the boat pounding on the reef with every surge. Rick radios over and asks me to call VISAR. I can’t raise them on the radio, so I call on the boat’s cell phone. VISAR is all volunteers, and I talk to the guy on duty tonight, but this is not a VISAR rescue situation, as life or limb is not at stake. The VISAR volunteer does contact a towing/salvage company for me, who calls a few minutes later. Given the situation, he asks me to get confirmation from the boat’s owner affirmatively seeking help. I get confirmation, but the boat’s phone is only set up to call Footloose and VISAR. Luckily, we are in sight of St. John, and my Verizon cell phone works here and I make the call for “assistance,” quickly correcting my initial choice of words: “salvage.”<br><br>An hour and a few more squalls pass, and Rick returns to the boat, having done all he can. No one has arrived to help, so I call the salvage company on the cell – no answer. A call to VI Radio indicates that the salvors had almost arrived by 11, but someone called them and told them the boat was off the rocks – which was far from the case. This delays assistance til around 1:00 a.m.; though I am not sleeping, I’m semi-conscious and don’t watch what happens.<br><br>The night is very stormy, and all night I’m wishing I were on a mooring instead of a meagre 35 pound anchor. The distance we left between our boat and the reef seems so insubstantial right now. I can’t sleep with all the lightning, thunder, rain, and wind roaring through the rigging. While another boat in the anchorage (the cat whose captain we talked to at the Soggy Dollar) broke anchor around 4:00 a.m., ours held heroically.<br><br>Morning dawns dreary and stormy, and the grounded boat is now in the anchorage. Our decks are covered with a greyish gritty film – we’re surprised that pristine BVI rain would leave such a mess on our boat. The skies are dark, but not just because of the tropical wave. Unbeknownst to us, the Soufriere Hills volcano on Montserrat started erupting on Saturday and was spewing ash all over the northern Caribbean, including us. Scores of airline flights over the next few days are cancelled.<br><br>
(Falling) Down Time in Soper’s Hole<br><br>Because of the passing storm and the ashy haze, Sunday just doesn’t look like a beach day. Due to the religious programming on the radio, we can’t find a weather forecast to help us decide where to head. I finally catch a relayed weather report courtesy of Virgin Islands Radio on VHF 85, which ended with the suggestions that we get “in the lee of something big” today. (In retrospect, this sounds suspiciously like Saturday’s forecast…). We decide to head for Soper’s Hole.<br><br>It’s not a long way to Soper’s Hole from White Bay, so we motor. Seas are very choppy today. Everyone seems to have the idea of heading somewhere sheltered today; when we arrive at 10:30, only 4 mooring balls are available; by day’s end, even with turnover, there is not a mooring to be found and marina slips are full as well. We are on the mooring closest to the Soper’s Hole Marina and Pusser’s, offering front row seats for people-watching. Not only charter boats coming in and out for water and provisions, but cruise ship daytrippers as well. White socks with sandals and fanny packs are a dead giveaway! (I defy anyone to find a sailor with socks – any socks – in the islands!)<br><br>For lunch, we head to the Jolly Roger. It’s Sunday afternoon quiet here, with only a handful of table occupied. I have a mahi mahi sandwich while Rick has a roti. We head back to
Happy Chance to collect our trash, and dink over to Soper’s to dispose of it and do some shopping and pay for our mooring. I pick up some gifts at Latitude 18 to give to my neighbor picking up mail, my assistant, etc. Over the years, I’ve collected so much stuff in the islands that I hardly bother anymore. I’m better off with beach glass to adorn a picture frame, or shells to fill a bowl, though I will admit to a weakness for pareos. More people watching and hanging out follows. The sun tries to poke out, but it has no chance getting through the sheer curtain of ash. We decide to head to Pusser’s for sundowners and munchies.<br><br>Rick has an innate sense of balance and grace when it comes to boats, and has always been a bit amused by my cautious attitude when climbing in and out of dinghies. Over the years, I have perfected my technique and while not jaunty or swift, it is effective. But Rick wants me to be bold, so he directs (dares?) me to step on the bow seat with one foot (with painter in hand) and to follow immediately into the dink with the other – all with no hands. Incidentally, it seems that we have the ONLY hard dinghy in the BVI. Naturally, my own hesitation and the elements (ash and moisture on the bow seat) conspire against me, and as I plant my foot on the bow seat, it slides out from under me and I land, un-lady-like, on my rear end and left arm. Since I already had Dinghy Butt from the ride over to the Jolly Roger earlier, the incremental direct on my butt mattered not, but I sure have a doozy of a bruise! (I expect that Rick will leave me to my own methods for dinghy entry and exit for a while…)<br><br>After my humbling descent into the dinghy, we get to Pusser’s and claim front row seats, ordering up #3 Painkillers, wings and calamari. Service is predictably leisurely, leaving us to watch the comings and goings in the anchorage and on the docks. The sounds of people and dinghies challenge the clearly confused roosters to crow even louder. Every mooring is full, and arriving boats resort to anchoring. We return to
Happy Chance for a dinner of beef and mushroom stew and a Rosemount shiraz. Despite the entertainment all around us, we are exhausted. For the first time since we’ve arrived, the water and wind are relatively calm and we make the most of our spacious aft cabin to get a good night’s sleep.<br><br>
Beach Time<br><br>Monday morning’s sky is still hazy and ash-filled, rendering the whole day black-and-white except for the vivid turquoise of the water, which nothing seems to dim. After an early stop at the Ample Hamper, we sail off for Peter Island, making 2 long tacks towards Deadman’s Bay after clearing the Little Thatch Cut. This is one of my favorite beaches in the islands, and we share it with only one other boat. The anchor sets in a sandy patch on the first try, and we dinghy ashore for some quality beach and swimming time. The water is lovely and free of jellyfish, and we are the only people on the “yachtsmen’s” portion of the beach. We sit for a while among the rocks , letting the surf wash over us.<br><br>Out of an abundance of caution (OK, maybe paranoia), we leave for our intended overnight destination of Manchioneel Bay at Cooper Island at noon, and find ourselves snaring a mooring by 1. The sky is finally clearing, though islands in the distance are hard to make out. Eagle flights, which can be seen landing at Beef Island, seem to have resumed. It’s very windy and rolly here, which does not bode well for a restful night. Lunch is chef salads, and then we go off to Cistern Point for snorkeling, tying up on the dinghy line. The conditions are too rough for me, so I stay in the dinghy and keep an eye on Rick.<br><br>After snorkeling, we go ashore to the Cooper Island Beach Club to pay for our mooring, reserve dinner, and have a drink or two. We are joined at beach bar by a sailing couple from Raleigh and end up talking and sipping until 4:30. Then it’s time for a nice long swim off the transom, our last boat showers, and cocktail munchies that clean out the larder. As we are getting cleaned up, Rick notices a moored boat in the anchorage with its jib partially unfurled and flogging in the smart breeze. He doesn’t feel like he should simply climb aboard and furl it in, so he takes a dingy over to CIBC in search of the boat’s crew. He finds them, and they sort of shrug their shoulders as if to say “It’s a rental,” without moving to deal with it; in the meantime, a pair in a kayak take the initiative, climb aboard, and furl in the sail.<br><br>Dinner is nice: conch creole for Rick, chicken roti for me. Every table is full. We watch the sky for a while afterward, and then head to sleep, which evades me. It’s a very rough night, with the wind roaring over the hills like a rollercoaster, and through the rigging. Waves slap the hull and we swing around and around. At 11:00 p.m., a Hatch Drill. Even though it’s our last day, I’m happy to see the sunrise.<br><br>
Why Does Going Home Have to Be So Hard?<br><br>Tuesday morning, and the volcanic haze is clearing. We hang around Manchioneel Bay til about 9:30. Rick makes another run to Cistern Point for snorkeling, but it is now infested with jellyfish. We pack up and clean up. Under normal circumstances, Rick might have cleaned the decks, but with all the ash, a few bucketsful of water wouldn’t have done much good.<br><br>We have a lazy downwind sail to Roadtown and are dockside by 11:00. I check us out, we take showers and say our goodbyes. We have lunch at the Mariner Inn and watch now-Hurricane Claudette on the news. At 1, we are picked up by our open-air taxi-bus and head to the airport, where we are scheduled on a 3:35 p.m. flight.<br><br>It never fails. Travel “adventures” always seem to find me, whether I want them or not. There is no hint of trouble until American Eagle starts announcing that the AE flight before ours is delayed – ours would surely be delayed as well. In the departure lounge, we meet people who’ve been stuck here since Sunday because of the volcano and are hoping to finally get out today. A group from Dallas ends up chartering their own plane to San Juan in hopes of making their connection. <br><br>Our flight ends up leaving an hour late, making our connection dicey. We hurry to immigration and then wait anxiously for our bag in customs. We have 15 minutes, so I check with an AA agent to see if anything can be done to help us catch our flight. She just shakes her head and tells me I will miss it (this is especially galling when compared to the efforts of AA to help late-arrivers to the airport in Baltimore). Our bag finally rolls onto the carousel and we run through customs with 7 minutes to spare, but the next AA agent we encounter won’t even let us try to catch the flight: it is closed. <br><br>Then we are shunted from endless line to another, trying to make alternate arrangements. It’s not just us and the Eagle flight ahead of ours, but dozens of delayed American Eagles, as well as the people who have been stranded because of the volcano. Things are chaotic, to say the least, and the lines look hours long. I try to use my cell phone to call AA, but for some reason I can’t dial 800 numbers. So I leave Rick in line and step away to a pay phone. This is a lot more efficient than waiting in line for hours, but nevertheless, the best I can manage is a flight out on Wednesday, through MIA to Reagan National (our car is at BWI). The phone agent is very helpful, and suggests that Rick continue standing in line to maybe get a hotel voucher, but the agent is not optimistic, since San Juan hotels are full due to the prior days’ grounded flights.<br><br>I start calling the hotel chains, starting first with friend Jeff (who is not in his office at Marriott) and the Marriott’s reservations line, but there is not a room to be had in a 50 mile radius. From the Marriott agent, I got the number of a hotel in Condado, but that is fruitless as well. However, I sense in the lady on the phone a sympathetic soul, so I ask her to name some other hotels and provide phone numbers. She kindly does so, and I start calling the more recognizable names on the list (which was lucky, since a lady I talk to the next day told me she stayed at another hotel on my list, which had plenty of room, but was a flea bag). At last, I score a room at The Water Club in Isla Verde. Triumphant – for it is these small victories that matter so much – I pull Rick out of line and we leave the airport, voucher be damned. (We have trip insurance…)<br><br>A $9 taxi ride gets us to this very cool, hip hotel on the beach. The décor is simple but striking, starting with a Murano glass mosaic on the front door, to the staff dressed all in black or white, to the glassed-in blue neon waterfalls which are the walls of the elevators. Our room has blonde wood floors with glass and brushed metal furniture and white curtains, blinds, upholstery and bedding with taupe accents. One wall is lit with blue/purple neon (that gets shut off FAST!); the lights in the rooms shine through to the outside, so that from a distance, you can see the hotel light up in that watery color. At the recommendation of the desk staff, we walk a few block to dinner at Metropol, which features Cuban/Puerto Rican food in an unpretentious, comfortable atmosphere. We have a great evening, and things could be much worse than getting an unplanned night in San Juan (See:
Dallas, February 2003).<br><br>A 4:15 a.m. alarm starts Wednesday off, so that we can catch a 7 a.m. flight to MIA, and onward to DCA. Miraculously, the flights go off without a hitch, and we arrive in Washington around 2:00 p.m. Rick’s brother generously picks us up and takes us home, from whence we drive to BWI to pick up our car.<br><br>So, with the benefit of hindsight, and with the frustration of trying to get home behind me, the question always arises: Will I go back to the BVI? Unlike many travelers, I am not devoted to one particular destination; Rick and I like to mix known favorites with new exploration. Every time I leave the BVI, I observe that they get more and more commercialized and crowded. I don’t like the way that some things have been dumbed-down to attract more and more tourists, with basic sailboats evolving into behemoth motor yachts with all the comforts of home – they seem to insulate the traveler from the environment that they are supposedly here to enjoy. As the vessels get simpler to operate, it seems that their operators are less considerate of other visitors and the natural environment. (This is, of course, a sweeping generalization, and I don’t mean to imply that this is the case in each situation).<br><br>But at the same time, despite the changes I’ve witnessed over a decade of coming here, the magic and beauty of the islands and the people keep calling me back. Like a well-worn and well-loved shoe, I may be tempted to throw it away, but I still find myself slipping blissfully and comfortably into it when the opportunity presents itself. <br><br>
