It was Lily's idea, really. What we
had been looking for was a Caribbean version of the “Blue Cruise,”
an informal small boat cruise popular in Turkey that hugs the coast
line and lets you spend a week in barely more than your swimsuit. We
wanted to include Jesse, Laura and Alex and re-create what we found
two years ago and almost 6 thousand miles east. Failing to find
that, Lily thought why not rent our own boat and sail it around the
British Virgin Islands (the BVI)? A great idea, right? Except for
the fact that we know as much about sailing as we do about training
camels. Yeah, yeah, we know there's a port side, a starboard, a fore
and aft. But, it pretty much falls apart after that. And, then came
the stroke of brilliance. Let's hire Jesse's good college buddy (and
wedding groomsman), Brian to be our skipper. Brian agreed in less
time than you can say Cruzan Rum and we had a deal. Brian, among
other things, a sailing instructor at the College of Charleston, had
no doubts about his sailing skills, but there were these lingering
issues of being trusted to skipper a boat he had never sailed in
strange waters and with a crew that would never be mistaken as –
how you say – knowlegeable.
Arriving in Tortola, we got briefed on
the do's and don'ts of boat operation by the folks at Conch Charters
who, amazingly, trusted us with their vessel. We learned about
battery power issues, motor maintenance, communications requirements,
trash collection, and the all-important toilet operation rules. And,
then, as if handing over the keys to the family car to a 16 year old,
they cut us loose to do our worst in exploring the BVI. I was
thinking these guys must have fantastic insurance coverage. Our boat
was the 43 foot catamaran, the “Hazelnut,” a sadly inadequate
name, we thought. Four cabins below, each with its own bathroom.
The cabins were tightly structured; some might reasonably call them
crypt-like. The bathrooms were about the size of a medium sized
phone booth, but complete with sink, toilet and hand-held shower.
The deck, however, was perfect. An interior salon with table and
wrap around seating, an outdoor seating area of similar design, and a
forward lounging area of trampoline-like netting that was strung
between the boat's twin hulls. The boat's galley had a propane stove,
neatly stored shelving for plates and glassware, and a refrigerator
that would prove adequate if not exemplary. There was a nice
recessed storage area for what seemed the 900 bottles of rum, gin,
tequila and wine that we felt were essential to this journey. And,
the food! When our provisions arrived, we surely believed we had
enough food to nourish Luxembourg for at least a day. Fresh fish,
hamburger, cold cuts, cheese, pate, game hens, an array of fruit,
carrots, potatoes, canned goods, celery, coffee, eggs, bread, juices,
mustards and mayo, crackers, chips, chocolate, nuts, and so much
more. We were literally awash in food that was now spilling over and
out of every possible storage square inch. We would not go hungry.
My concerns stemming from our ignorance
of all things nautical were vastly overwrought. Brian, with his
anxieties seemingly well under control, proved not only to be an able
skipper, but the perfect one. Calm and trusting, skilled and
incredibly conscientious, Brian had us learning sailing's basic
skills quickly. Laura became a first-rate knot maker on the lines.
Jesse and Alex did their duty as sail raisers, and Jesse became an
ace on retrieving mooring buoys. Each of us would take turns at the
helm with Brian diplomatically hinting that maybe we might take it a
bit more “left” or “right” as the need arose rather than
trying to lure us into his more proper sailing lexicon. Alex and I
manned the kitchen with Alex spilling out first-rate breakfasts, and
the two of us crafting lunches and dinners that would not disappoint.
Jesse learned the idiosyncrasies of the grill in no time. And,
naturally, Jesse declared himself “Captain of the Dinghy,” a
title even less lofty than it sounds.
The days flew by as we made the rounds
up the protected channel between Tortola roughly to the north and
Norman, Cooper and Peter Islands to the south along with Virgin Gorda.
Taking the turn around Tortola , we made our return via Marina Cay
and, lastly, Jost Van Dyke, home to the regionally epic night spots,
“The Soggy Dollar” and “Foxy's.” During the day, it was
snorkeling along the reefs, swimming off the boat, reading, the
occasional onshore jaunt to visit beach bars or just walk the
shoreline. As we worked into the late afternoon, the call went out
for cocktails. A word here about what appears to be the national
drink of the islands: “the painkiller.” A seductive mix of
crème of coconut, pineapple juice, a dark rum or two and fresh
nutmeg grated on top. It is hard to say how many of these beauties
we slurped down in one week, but I think I spotted a palm leaf this
morning trying to emerge from my scalp. They are delicious; they are
ubiquitous; and, once you start there are easier things than this to
stop. We were introduced briefly to the painkiller upon our arrival,
but our first real submerging into them was at a curious place called
“Willy T's.” Willy T's is a bar that is also a boat. You can
only get there by water which means you either tie up there or swim
there. Let's call its atmosphere.... festive. Folks are there to have a
good time and, at least that evening, there seemed to be several ways
to achieve that, enough so that parents who happened upon the place
with their young kids pretty much ushered them to “safety” off
the boat as things got a bit louder and a bit raunchier. I am told
by Jesse and Alex that I overtly declared my intentions to mingle and
get to know the crowd better. I have no particular recollection of
this. What I do recall is a couple of oaths taken by Alex before we
boarded Willy T's that may have set the tone for that evening, if not
the rest of the trip. In his best island lilt, Alex announced his
plan to go “HAM” for the trip which translates to “go hard as a
motherf**ker,” and his proclamation that, “I want to be banned on
this island by the end of the night.” I recall his saying these
things as he rolled out his eyepatches, pirate earrings, temporary
tatoos, and the always indispensible inflatable pirate sword that he
brought with him in preparation for this adventure.
When we were not out for the evening,
it was game time: scategories, charades, hearts games. Scategories,
in particular, got the juices flowing as we energetically immersed
ourselves in such metaphysical debates as whether among the things
you see at a circus that start with the letter H could be hippies.
Alex strenuously argued in the affirmative; the rest of us said no.
Gypsies, maybe, but not hippies. Alex argued that gypsies were only
a more contemporary form of hippie, that they were really the same
phenomenon; we said no, gypsies are gypsies and they begin with the
letter G, not H. And, so it went. I'm sure the painkillers added
nothing to the enthusiasm and laughter that accompanied these
activities. And, Jesse was always there to pose imponderable
hypotheticals. Like, “what would you rather do, spend a year alone
on one of these small, unpopulated isolated islands, or spend the
rest of the vacation this week in Alex's bathroom onboard?” Hmmm,
let me think about that one a bit.
We have been on so many great trips
around the globe with Jesse, Laura, and Alex that it is hard to
single out one that surpasses them all. But, we seemed to come to a
consensus that this one may have been the best. I thought about this
a lot afterwards and have a theory as to why this trip was so
memorable, so thoroughly enjoyable. With other trips we have done,
the focus has always been on where we are whether that might be the
Tuscan countryside, the Portuguese coastline, or the exotic offerings
of Indonesia. Here, though, while we were in a fabulous environment
offered up to us by the BVI, the location was incidental. Rather
than being wonderfully distracted by the sights and sounds of these
places, we were focused instead on each other. We lived on a boat
that created, when you think about it, a very intimate experience
where we were never more than a few feet from one another. As a
result, far more time was spent in conversation whether it was about
jobs, travel, books, movies, common friends or past adventures or
misadventures. It was far more personal this way. Second, when on
the boat, there is really very little to do. If you're not reading
or swimming, you're interacting with someone, and so the focus once
again is on who you're with, not where you are. I think we all loved
that about this trip whether or not we were conscious of the reasons
that enabled it.
On our last night on the boat before
returning to Tortola, we all found ourselves laying out on the
netting at the prow of the boat that connected the two hulls. There
was a full moon, lots of stars. There was a slight breeze, the air
temperature perfect. The rum and gin, and a week's worth of
incredibly satisfying vacation, had us tired and mellow. In my head
I recalled something I had said earlier in the week after a glorious
day when I posed to everyone and no one, are we in heaven? I closed
my eyes, not to nap, but to take it all in one last time.
Yeah, we were in heaven.
