What follows is a report of our most recent sail in the British Virgin Islands, from February 27 to March 6, 2004. Rather than a blow-by-blow travelogue or journal, I’m trying a slightly different approach. But it is, nevertheless, pretty long...

No Misadventures of Typhoon Tonya

If you’ve been following my travel adventures over the years, you’ve probably been grateful that you are not a travel insurance underwriter. It seems that the simple act of reaching my destination, or returning home, is fraught with peril. This time around, I’m happy to report the BIG news is that our trips to and from the islands were smooth and disaster-free. From limo to BWI to STT (a direct flight on AA, with a stop in SJU), and on to the ferry to West End, and all the way back, no hitches, glitches or miscues. Flights were even early, and on each occasion, Rick and I were able to score our coveted exit row aisle seats.

Naturally, the vacuum created by smooth travels needed to be filled somehow, and Mother Nature got her revenge in the weather she dealt out for most of our week – see below. You just can’t win them all! (I will also note that the Soufriere Hills volcano on Montserrat erupted in the middle of our week, just as it erupted in the middle of our trip in July, 2003. This time, the gale force northeasterly winds plaguing the region blew the ash away from us, instead of dumping it our deck.)

Three Sabres on a Beneteau

This charter was our first to the BVI in several years that included crew. Our fellow crew member was TJ, who was joined by his lady friend Dorothy mid-week. Between the original three crew members, we own three Sabre sailboats: TJ’s 362 named Sabre Girl, our 34 named Lattitudes II (which is, incidentally, for sale: www.homestead.com/islandtime/Sabre34.html), and our new 38 named Calypso. We figure that makes us discerning consumers of charter boats…

We chose a Moorings 382 from the Footloose fleet, named Rainbow Chaser – that name was naff enough that we elected to call ourselves Sabre Girl whenever the occasion allowed. Although I’ve chartered catamarans in places where skinny water requires shallow draft, I still prefer a monohull for charters, even as the waters of the BVI are being taken over by the Darth Vader-esque craft.

As with our past Footloose charters, customer service prior to departure and service at the dock was excellent. Since this was mine and Rick’s 6th BVI charter (and second in 9 months), Jeannette waved us straight to our boat briefing, giving us a pass on the chart briefing. One-time base manager Julian Hodge is back at the Moorings, so we got our briefing from Stephen, who did the briefing on our first Footloose sail in 1999. He’s a riot and a BS-artist, and it’s a pleasure to get done with the tedious chores of setting sail with someone who makes you laugh. As the men went through the briefing, I busied myself stowing the provisions, which arrived from Bobby’s 20 minutes early and just as ordered. We were off the dock by 11:00 a.m.

The boat itself was in pretty good shape – for a charter boat with 5-7 years of hard use. Design wise, the interior has the charter trade in mind. The v-berth is roomy, with plenty of ventilation, as is the aft berth. But what we gained in space for sleeping, we lost in head space – luckily, no one was watching my contortions as I tried to shave my legs! Similarly, the bunk space sacrifices storage, and we all ended up storing our duffels in the main salon. The galley is tucked in behind the engine compartment, and is truly a “one-butt” galley; there is a separate top-loading freezer and a front-loading refrigerator.

If only that freezer and refrigerator worked reliably… We had to run the engine constantly, as the refrigerator/freezer were a constant drain on the batteries. Within two days, we gave up on the freezer altogether, and just kept it filled with cubed ice (is no one selling block ice anymore?). The stuff in the refrigerator was not especially perishable, and I made a point of using up the delicate stuff (like mushrooms and sliced turkey) right away, so we survived with minimal loss of food and no food poisoning. Nevertheless, a real pain.

Topsides, the cockpit was roomy and comfortable, except I could really do without the centerline table with useless cooler compartment (not insulated, and therefore worthless) that takes up so much space; a table that folded up against the binnacle would have been much more efficient. No real issues with the sails and rig, except that traveler car stuck – when I wrote it up on my charter evaluation form, under the part where it asks for how you solved the problem, I wrote “Brute Force.” The engine was a champ, and we needed it more than usual, to charge the refrigerator and to help fight the heavy seas. The side decks on these boats are too narrow, and the handholds are pathetic, leaving you reaching for a sheet where there is nothing else.

We were saddled once again with a hard dinghy, circa 1973. Inflatable dinghies are apparently available on advance request, but I didn’t know that. In any event, the hard dink did have its benefits: we always knew which one was ours at a crowded dinghy dock, and it was unlikely to inspire dinghy-lust in thieves. Plus, the outboard was terrific and started on the first pull almost every time.

Interestingly, even though we had two skippers aboard, TJ ceded the helm to Rick, relying on his familiarity with the area. (Even more interestingly, even though we had – gasp! – three lawyers aboard, you never would have known it. There are so many more interesting things to do and talk about than work…)

Through the Eyes of Newbies

The last time we were in the BVI with crew, all of us had visited the islands before, so there was a somewhat blasé attitude. As well, there was no burning desire to visit some of those first-timer must-do spots, like the Baths. This time was different. TJ’s only exposure to the Caribbean had been to St. John, which included a day-trip by rented motorboat to the BVI, a few months before. Dorothy had been to the Caribbean, but never the BVI. We, on the other hand, had been here many times before, but were anticipating that a return trip after this one would be a long time in coming. So, the interest of showing the newbies a representative taste of the islands, while at the same time having a “farewell tour” of our own, dovetailed nicely.

TJ’s initial impression of Tortola was quite telling. He found it a bit shabby and ramshackle, and was especially surprised that the Moorings base (we stayed at the Mariner Inn our first night) was not slicker. He was amazed at how little the $179/night at the Mariner Inn got him. As regular and frequent island travelers, the landscape doesn’t shock our eyes, and we know from comparison how relatively clean and attractive Roadtown is among Caribbean towns. We understand that the corrosive effects of the sun, salt air, and weather, as well as the challenges of limited infrastructure, result in a not quite Disney-perfect landscape – not only do we accept these facts, we embrace them. After a bit of acclimatization, TJ was rolling right along with us.

It also became evident, by our first breakfast on Tortola, that Rick and I had failed to coach TJ in the niceties of island commerce. We naturally greeted our server with a pleasant “Good morning” and “How are you?” -- complete with eye contact and smiles – before placing our order, which began with “May I have…”. Unschooled by experience, TJ very matter-of-factly (and normally, by U.S. standards) gave his order, without looking up from his menu. Though we were sitting at the same table, the difference in the attention we received from our server was marked. She was friendly and attentive to us, and virtually ignored TJ. As soon as I realized this, I explained to TJ how business is done in the islands, and he quickly took to the island way.

One of the nice things about introducing new people to the islands is that they can help change your perspective as well. Though we have ventured inland in our travels, like many charterers, Rick and I tend to hug the shoreline when we sail. After sailing, TJ’s favorite leisure time activity is hiking in the mountains, and he took that interest along with him to the BVI. While going off on jaunts on his own or with Dorothy (most notably a leg-gashing bushwhack over the top of Norman Island), Rick and I joined him on two hikes as well.

The first hike started at the far end of the Bitter End, where we climbed a modestly steep and rocky trail over the ridge behind the BEYC. Only a few feet up, and the views were spectacular. Looking to the north, we watched daredevil kiteboarders flirting with Eustatia Reef, catamarans hobby-horsing their way towards Anegada, the gorgeous sands of Necker Island, and seas breaking all around (confirming our decision not to attempt to make it to the beaches of Prickly Pear by dinghy). As we walked further along, and reached relatively flat ground at the top of the ridge, we had a perfect vantage point of North Sound, where every single mooring was filled in hopes of finding shelter from the weather (alas, every mast was inscribing crazy loop-de-loops in the sky, as the wind and swell rocked and rolled the boats around). Finally, as we reached the southern reaches of the trail, we got an eyeful of Biras Creek’s beautiful beach – and were “encouraged” by Biras security to keep to the trail and get off resort property ASAP.

Our second jaunt was a somewhat disorganized hike to the summit of Mt. Sage. At 1,716 feet, Mt. Sage is the highest point in the British Virgin Islands. I describe our hike as “disorganized” because we ranged from trail to trail, without a coherent plan as to how we would reach the peak, though ultimately we did. Nevertheless, it was rewarding. On the mountain, it was as if we were in another climate. Cool, moist, and – among the heavy vegetation – relatively protected from the winds bedeviling us in the anchorages. The side trails were steep, narrow and slippery – almost too much for Tevas -- but the views were stunning. The beaches and islets off Jost Van Dyke (with very few boats anchored off them) were like precious diamond-edged emeralds floating on topaz seas. Norman and Peter Islands were no less jewel-like. And from this height, the relative hubbub of Roadtown was muted, captured in silent relief.

Gimme Shelter

We spent more time than usual on land because time at sea was, to put it mildly, challenging.

It all started so innocently. We left Road Harbour at 11 on Saturday and had a pleasant sail over to Marina Cay on a warm, sunny day with moderate breezes. The forecast called for a cold front passing through Sunday into Monday, so we were psychologically prepared for a little rough weather for a couple of days.

After a very early jaunt to the Baths on Sunday morning, we returned to the boat only to take note of an ominous black sky to the east – right in the direction we were headed (North Sound, as our jumping-off point to a planned visit Anegada). No problem – we’d just ride through it. We’d certain experienced its equal in the Chesapeake, especially in the last miserably wet year, as well as a number of tropical waves in the tropics. Once underway, we punched through the squall under sail and cluelessly thought we’d seen the last of it, my experience with BVI rains being that they are quick-moving and localized. But that squall was the first of many, as we battled towards North Sound, now decked out in foul weather gear, for not only was it wet, but there was a wind chill as well! We finally dropped sail and made our way through Colquohon Reef into the relative protection of North Sound. Hoping to tuck in a nice quiet spot, we found a mooring in the Biras Creek anchorage at the southeastern corner of North Sound.

The protecting hills, however, were no match for the wind, which rode up and then accelerated down them through our rigging. The swell curved into the creek as well. We ate our dinner that night in the cockpit, wearing fleece against the cold. At one point, a gust picked up a plastic cup bearing a lovely Australian shiraz and dumped it in Rick’s face. (As Galley Wench, I had made the executive decision to use some disposable dishes and drinkware to save on my dishwashing duties – bad decision!).

The next morning, we scuttled our plans to head to Anegada, expecting more crummy weather for at least another day. Even though our anchorage was rocking and rolling, it looked far worse “out there,” so we stayed another day With the sun shining, at least it was a pretty day. But we needed to be in Soper’s Hole to meet Dorothy on Wednesday, so it was time to start moving west. The short term forecast for rough sailing kept getting extended, and the rep at the Moorings sub-base at Bitter End confirmed that we might as well move on, since things were not going to get better anytime soon.

With NE winds at 15-25 knots, with gusts up to 40, we decided that Little Harbour on JVD would provide our best hope of refuge. And so we made our way out through the Colquohon pass; once out of the minimal lee provided by Prickly Pear island, we were immediately buffeted by heavy winds and choppy seas. A double-reefed main and a little hanky of jib were the sail trim of choice for this broad reach (and we didn’t shake that reef out for the rest of the week). Near the Dogs, we faced a choice: go into the Drake Channel and face 4-6 foot seas and currents coming from several directions, or go outside on the north side of Tortola and face bigger seas, but coming from a single direction (behind us). We opted for outside and had a white-knuckle sail to JVD, with the waves reaching 9-12 feet during a stretch. Looking aft and seeing those swells towering behind us definitely gave us a taste of “blue-water” sailing, but the water was a translucent sun-shot turquoise blue. We felt quite alone out there.

Battered but not beaten, we finally tucked into Little Harbour, but it was clear we had miscalculated. The NE winds simply curved around the protective headland and accelerated into the bay, ripping the tops off the waves and kicking up spray. We hung on to a mooring for dear life and gulped down lunch, plotting our next move. Hoping Soper’s Hole would be more protective, but fearing a mooring was not going to be available, we reserved a back-up spot in the marina. This proved to be prescient, since there were no moorings to be found when we arrived.

Of course, a marina slip in a big blow presents its own challenges; in fact, I daresay the motion of the boat is rougher when confined in a small space – it’s jerkier – than on the longer tether of a mooring. Add to that the squeak and creak of multiple docklines, the squeal of compressing fenders, and the clanging halyards of nearby boats, and you have a recipe for yet another sleepless night.

After two nights at Soper’s Hole marina (which is a very nice facility, incidentally, and not too expensive), we decided on Thursday that – weather be damned – we were going to JVD at least for the morning. We left early, and by 10 a.m. were easing our way into White Bay, where there were a few available moorings in front of Ivan’s. We snagged one closest to shore (waves were breaking over the reef, way too close for comfort), and it only took an eyeful of that gorgeous beach before we succumbed to the realization that we would be here for the day. Once on the beach, sand driven by gusts scoured our melted-onto-beach bodies, but by this point, we hardly cared. Overnight, though, we were miserable in this relatively exposed anchorage. All of us ended up wedging ourselves in corners of our bunks (in my case, between the mattress and the wall) to reduce some of the rolling.

By our last night, which we spent at the Bight, we were exhausted. So, while the wind and seas continued un-abated, we each finally got several hours of sleep. Before heading to dinner at Pirate’s, however, I had to change clothes because the wind up-ended a bowl of salsa onto my new Foxy’s t-shirt. And the final insult: the wind took TJ’s Sabre cap and sacrificed it to the sea on the final reach to Road Town.

The good news: few mosquitoes or no-see-ums. And we did a little better than another Footloose charter – a couple reportedly so intimidated by the weather that they only went out for daysails and returned to the base at the end of each day. Gotta find a silver lining somewhere!!

By Land and By Sea

Since we found ourselves in Soper’s Hole, at a marina, for a couple of days, we decided to rent a car. There is a Hertz office right behind the Jolly Roger, so we dinked over and snagged their last available vehicle – a nicely maintained Pajero. With wheels at our disposal, we took off.

Rick and I had not driven on Tortola since 1998, when the anxious wait for Hurricane Georges stranded us ashore for a few days and we rented a jeep. To really appreciate Tortola, it is not enough to skirt around her perimeter; the roads are an experience unto themselves. They are narrow, and at times breathtakingly steep. The switchbacks require a leap of faith, since you are at once perched precariously on an incline, making a sharp turn, and praying there is no oncoming traffic. On a dry day, it’s barely OK; in the rain, my heart would be in my throat.

Yet, every turn up those hills rewards you with an incredible vista of sea, sky and mountain. These are not high mountains, but they rise straight out of the sea. There is not much flat space on Tortola, and I’m always amazed that people were ever able to cultivate sugar cane on this island; it must have been grueling work. No trip can be made without winding through the verdant hills.

We used access to a vehicle as an opportunity to visit Bomba’s Shack, since there is no anchorage nearby. We also visited some of the beaches not accessible by boat. Wednesday morning found me and Rick alone, at least temporarily, at Smuggler’s Cove. The heavy winds and swell created unaccustomed waves here, and the wind made it chilly for swimming, but we rode a few of the 3-footers in a lame attempt to body surf (my swimsuit top wasn’t cooperating…). A good portion of the beach was underwater, but it was still the lovely, palm-fringed spot I remembered from past visits. The old honor bar, however, looked different. Bob’s old Lincoln now resides in the brush, instead of under the roof as it used to, and someone has taken over the “operation” here, adding fresh paint and, sadly, locks. I wonder who it opens for, and when?

Brewer’s Bay also called us, so we managed a brief visit there Monday morning, passing an almost unrecognizable (for all the development) Long Bay enroute. Lovely as always, Brewer’s Bay looked green in the filtered light that morning, and but for the tents hidden among the sea grapes, has remained relatively undeveloped. However, by the time we arrive, a load of cruise ship daytrippers had taken over the near corner of the beach. We didn’t stick around to see how many more would arrive, and left feeling grateful to have visited the beach in its relatively quite state.

The case of the Missing Dinghy

After concluding our explorations by car, Rick and I dropped TJ off at Soper’s Hole marina so he could get our dinghy and pick us up at the Jolly Roger’s dock after we dropped off the car. His ride should have only taken a few minutes, but we waited and waited, for at least 40. Wondering what TJ had gotten up to, and lacking the means to contact him, we hoofed it back to the marina, a little miffed. Arriving at the dock, we got a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomach when we found our locked boat, an agitated TJ, and no dinghy.

Of course, we’ve all heard the warnings about the occasional dinghy theft in the BVI – a crime of opportunity if there ever was one. Heeding those warnings, we packed a cable and lock with us. We talked to the Footloose staff, and Jeanette said that if we used the lock at all, the only place she would recommend it was at Cane Garden Bay; Stephen dismissed even that, reminding us that no one wants a hard dink. In any event, it would have been impossible to lock the dinghy up without drilling new holes in it, as there was no place to attach the cable.

Back at Soper’s Hole, we had tied the dinghy to the pier (I saw Rick tie the knot; it was as secure as any). Upon his return to Soper’s, TJ had searched all over the marina for the dink, checking repeatedly with the dockmaster and the marina office, as well as other sailors. TJ made several radio calls – on 16 so as not to alert Footloose (which monitors 12) prematurely of the possible theft – in search for the missing dink. The crew of the megayacht next to us reported seeing a “clean-cut native guy” messing with the engine. Rick began to suspect that our dinghy was one of two he saw attached to a Footloose 50-footer on a mooring in the anchorage.

Just as we were putting 2 and 2 together, we saw a hard dinghy with two guys motoring over towards us. It was ours. We must have been quite a welcoming committee for them – arms crossed, speechless but glowering. It seems that the 50-footer in the anchorage had made a service call to Footloose about their dinghy engine. Footloose’s base manager, Bentley, came over in a truck, and “borrowed” our dinghy to get out to the distressed boat (they were “stranded” he said – what about us?). He claimed to have informed the dockmaster, and was not perceptibly apologetic for letting us spend an hour thinking our dinghy was stolen and facing the prospect of paying hundreds of dollars for it. Most stunningly, he had come to Soper’s Hole with no means of reaching the distressed crew – had he planned to borrow someone’s dinghy?

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. And considering the customer service, or lack thereof, that other charter companies provide, this was a minor glitch that pales to insignificance when considered in light of 3 successful charters with Footloose over the years. So I’ll leave it at that …

Boats, Beaches and Bars – A Drinking Woman’s Guide to the BVI

The BVI have much to offer the island traveler. The beaches are superb. The landscapes are jaw-droppingly gorgeous, especially when recent rains have served to keep them green and lush. The residents – approached correctly – are warm and welcoming. Barring a freak week like ours, the sailing is great and relatively straightforward. The BVI are, nevertheless, not alone in these attributes. However, the BVI have one up on every other island destination I’ve ever visited: by far, the best collection of fabulous beach bars is found in the British Virgin Islands.

I was armed with Julian Putley’s Drinking Man’s Guide to the BVI, which paid for itself in no time. I collected free Painkillers at Pusser’s Marina Cay, a free rum punch at the Fat Virgin Café, two free Mellow Mango Magics at the Soggy Dollar Bar, and a free bottle of wine with dinner at Myett’s. However, I soon tired of carrying the book in our dry bag (Note: a dry bag is a must-have for toting around cameras, towels and other stuff you don’t want to get wet), and I missed a number of other opportunities to take advantage of the discounts.

In my normal, everyday life, I don’t imbibe all that much. A glass of wine or two, or perhaps a simple rum drink, on Friday or Saturday night is the regular drill. But those island bars change the calculus altogether, and while I don’t generally over-indulge, the prospect of a cool drink after, or before, a sail or swim or hike is simply irresistible. And so it was that we ended up patronizing a number of fine establishments: Pusser’s, The Pub at Bitter End, Saba Rock, Bomba’s, Myett’s, Rhymer’s, The Soggy Dollar Bar, Foxy’s, and Pirate’s – to name a few.

Bomba’s is really the first of its genre that I’d ever experienced in island travel, and so it sets the bar. We first visited in 1993, and it was a daytime tour as we zipped around Tortola in a rented Samurai. We drove past Bomba’s on our way to beaching at Long Bay, and could not resist turning around – it was almost obligatory, as the Shack had a Maryland flag flying on its pole that day. We were the only ones there, and were free to explore the random sandy-floored rooms and spaces sprawling along the waterfront, defiant and colorful in its ramshackle space. Our last visit was a late afternoon stop on this trip. Bomba has added on, and added more color, since many of the splintered 2x4s holding up the roof are now painted. The winds had kicked up surfable waves, so we watched surfers through the walls, silhouetted against the waning sun, a sight I’d never witnessed before.

Bomba himself was in residence, overseeing the relatively tame goings-on. Perhaps he was storing up energy for the upcoming Full Moon Party a few days later. A few groups beside ours were milling around, but it was a decidedly mellow scene. Through the walls, we saw a number of safari buses crammed with cruise ship daytrippers roll past the Shack, but only one stopped. A couple of daytrippers got out, peered in on us as if we were zoo exhibits (as if barefoot rum drinkers were somehow freaks, and badly-permed fanny-pack wearers are not?), and left without a greeting or expenditure of a single cent. Should I give them something to talk about? This is Bomba’s after all …

Perhaps the granddaddy of beach bars is Foxy’s. Amazingly, in five prior visits, we had never succeeded in making the pilgrimage to this hallowed ground – weather or poor holding or Foxy’s absence during off-season had always conspired to keep us away. This trip, we finally did it, taxi-ing over from White Bay. Foxy was not only in residence, but performing as we arrived around 4 p.m. An audience of about a dozen folks sitting at tables fuzzily (they pour VERY stiff drinks here) followed along Foxy’s calypso musings on such diverse topics as politics and hair loss. It’s a relatively dark and shaded place, and attracts not only those wanting to hear Foxy sing, but also the folks who surround the bar, shoppers, and the people laying out on the meager beach (where they were undoubtedly being eaten by the only mosquitos and no-see-ums we encountered all week). Foxy’s enterprises include the requisite t-shirt shop (where I picked up the requisite t-shirt), but also a proprietary rum and microbrew. The original island entrepreneur!

My favorite beach bar remains the Soggy Dollar on Jost Van Dyke’s White Bay. I’ve never been able to visit this spot without being attacked by powerful magnetic forces (sand gravity?) which leave me incapable of leaving fewer than 12 hours after arriving. The addition of moorings in front of Ivan’s – another worthy contender in the Beach Bar Olympics – while contributing to making White Bay more crowded, provide peace of mind to those of us unable to resist the Soggy Dollar’s charms. The elements add up, at least for me. There seems always to be a smart-aleck, BS-ing, charmer tending bar – Wyndy this time. The drinks are fantastic, and the bartenders’ occasional oversight when adding up the tab is appreciated. The guests tend to be a friendly, eclectic crew. Good food – we had conch fritters and fabulous burgers. There is always a hammock handy. And the beach is certainly on my Top 10 list – not Top 10 in the BVI, but Top 10 in the Caribbean and Bahamas.

In my case, my tour of the BVI’s beach bars tends to be a daytime affair. While I’ve seen my share of them after dark, it seems that the liberation of vacation and the call of the sun make daylight a key element of my beach bar experience. (My tendency to fall asleep at sunset tends to contribute to this!)

Man Cannot Live on Rum Alone

Lest anyone get the impression that it’s all about the booze, I never let a buzz get in the way of my responsibilities as Galley Wench. While I do all the provisioning, cooking and clean-up for meals and drinks afloat (it’s a trade for getting out of the boat chores – I’d much rather make bacon than check the oil), I also coordinate meals ashore. We did all breakfasts aboard (cereal, yogurt and granola, bacon and eggs) with the occasional bagel on land, with most lunches on board and a couple of dinners. For lunches, I lean towards tortilla wraps (easy to handle on a boat, tortillas keep better than bread), though we did have barbecued chicken one day, and the forbidden pleasure of hot dogs another. An attempt to eat chef salad one day was a mess, as the wind kept picking up lettuce leaves and depositing them all over the cockpit and fellow crew. Dinners usually feature grilled meat (steaks, jerk pork).

Ashore, we mixed it up between tried-and-true American-inspired food, and forays into down-island food. We tested chicken wings at just about every place we ate, as they are a favorite of TJ’s (no clear consensus winner, though Pusser’s is in the lead), while Rick and I tested conch fritters (the Soggy Dollar wins on this trip – though I will maintain an overall preference for those at De Loose Mongoose, which we didn’t visit this trip). At C&F our first night, I ordered my favorite curried conch appetizer (melt-in-your-mouth tender), and eschewed – as I always do -- barbecued chicken or pork for grilled whole fish.

Our meal at Myett’s was quite memorable. The setting was, as always, lovely. Somehow, the northeasterly winds hadn’t penetrated Cane Garden Bay, and it was almost calm here (though I was not convinced that it would have been a good overnight anchorage as I watched the few masts in the bay swaying back and forth). Sunset here is always a treat for the eyes, offering up layers of color. The restaurant itself, while squarely on the beach, is also apart from it, cocooned in a grove of sea grape trees. It was, however, the food that made the evening so noteworthy. I ventured off the main menu onto the specials page; at the very bottom was an offering of curried mutton, which the description made clear was NOT lamb, but goat. I couldn’t resist, and was rewarded with tender chunks of meat (with bones) in a rich brown curry sauce. This you definitely can’t have at home!

Our last night’s meal was at Pirate’s, in the Bight at Norman Island. I had read that there are attempts being made to make the menu upscale to match with the tenor of the planned development on the island. As such, the menu was a combination of casual beach food, as well as high-end continental stuff (beef Wellington, rack of lamb). We sampled both ends of the spectrum, and found that they were done reasonably well, though noted that the Island Time pace of service did not match the food. As a natural destination for last night dinners, there was a number of charter groups celebrating the end of their cruises, so the atmosphere was rocking. It was only a matter of time before we found ourselves barefoot on the dance floor.

Our final BVI meal was at the ferry dock at West End. We had a few minutes before our ferry to get some lunch, but Rick and I passed on the ladies offering something (under foil) outside the door, as well as the lunch counter just across the parking lot (there was a line). We walked a little further to a place called Rocky Willow. The food was behind glass, under a heat lamp – clearly not made on the premises. We were the only people in the place and ordered up a chicken roti and a conch pattie. Both were fantastic – the roti made with all parts of the chicken (no bones, though), not the tame chicken-breast-only versions offered up for tourists. The conch patties was savory and full of tender conch meat. It definitely pays to walk a little on the wild side.

Cruise Ships: Here, There and Everywhere

This trip was our first ever at the peak of high season. While we’d encountered cruise ships at other times of the year, they were out in full force this trip, with at least one ship in Roadtown or elsewhere every day. I realize that the topic of cruise ships is the subject of fierce debate, and I recognize that everyone has the right to travel in the manner they see fit. However, the cruise ships, and the masses of people they drop on locations not equipped to handle them, infringes on my right to travel in the British Virgin Islands in the manner I see fit, and has me rethinking whether the BVI – especially in high season – is a place that is right for me.

Some examples. On our first full day of sailing, we made a special effort – we even set an alarm -- to arrive at the Baths in the early morning, to ensure getting a mooring and having some relative peace at the Baths. But as we made the passage from Marina Cay to Virgin Gorda, we could see the “sail-assisted” Club Med 2 already making its way to Spanishtown, where it anchored just off shore. We did have a bit of quiet time at the Baths; after all, it is a place that inspires awe and communion with nature. To me, it demands the reverential hush that a cathedral does. Yet it wasn’t long before the daytrippers arrived, dozens upon dozens of them making a slow-moving conga line through the Baths with their guides loudly describing the site and their chattered conversation breaking the silence, forcing us to stand in lines we didn’t bargain for. The magic evaporated.

The episode at Bomba’s, where we felt like museum exhibits in the peering eyes of the safari bus passengers was a real turn-off. But the scene at Cane Garden Bay the next day was even more disappointing. We had gone to Rhymer’s for lunch, knowing to expect an invasion, but not appreciating how disruptive it really was. The roads and parking lots were filled with safari buses (one had parked us in at Soper’s Hole marina, and rather than moving, forced Rick to maneuver out of his spot with barely an inch to spare). We took a seat at Rhymer’s with a beach view, but the beach was covered with lounge chairs which were filled with bodies. This is the beach scene I came to the BVI to escape; if I want crowds like that, I’ve got Ocean City. The daytrippers trooped in and out of Rhymer’s to get to the beach or use the restrooms, but with the exception of one pair who bought some drinks, did not stop to spend a penny or acknowledge or greet the people working there. In this case, instead of being zoo exhibits, the denizens were invisible.

At White Bay, the cruise ship launches drop boatload after boatload of their charges right in front of the Soggy Dollar. Luckily, they all walk right on by the bar and head to the end of the beach, where they congregate in great clots. Seemingly, they are waiting to take turns on ATVs, where, decked out in matching helmets, they noisily traverse the twisting roads of Jost Van Dyke. While I delight in the sight of goats, donkeys and roosters on the roads, the sight of a centipede of ATVs is just too jarring and unnatural on this tiny otherwise-idyllic island.

Trip Summary

Our trip left me with mixed feelings. Of course, the weather cannot be blamed on the BVI, so I keep that separate from my other thoughts. There were, as always, many great experiences. Over the many visits we’ve had to the BVI, they have grown familiar and beloved. But, changes are inevitable, and they may not coincide with our own wishes for a place. We’ll stay tuned to see how things develop.

Itinerary

Friday, February 27:
Fly BWI – SJU – STT
Ferry: Charlotte Amalie to West End
Taxi: West End to Moorings base
Dinner: C&F

Saturday, February 28:
Road Harbour to Marina Cay
Lunch: Aboard
Dinner: Pusser's

Sunday, February 29:
Marina Cay to Baths
Baths to Biras Creek, North Sound
Lunch and Dinner: Aboard

Monday, March 1:
Biras Creek, North Sound
Lunch: Aboard
Dinner: The Carvery, BEYC

Tuesday, March 2:
North Sound to Little Harbour, Jost Van Dyke
Little Harbour to Soper’s Hole, Tortola
Lunch: Aboard
Dinner: Myett's

Wednesday, March 3:
Soper’s Hole
Lunch: Rhymer's
Dinner: Pusser's Landing

Thursday, March 4:
Soper’s Hole to White Bay, Jost Van Dyke
Lunch: Soggy Dollar
Dinner: Aboard

Friday, March 5:
White Bay to The Bight, Norman Island
Lunch: Aboard
Dinner: Pirate's

Saturday, March 6:
The Bight to Road Harbour, Tortola
Taxi to West End
Ferry to Cruz Bay, STJ then to Red Hook, STT
Car from Red Hook, to lunch, to STT
AA from STT – SJU – BWI
Car to Home, where it has been warm all week!

I've got a Caribbean Soul I can barely control... (JB)