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Empty Nest Magazine
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Cheeseburgers in Paradise:
Anniversary Trip of a Lifetime
by Robin Bonner
Anegada First, Gary spent time plotting the course with charts and straight edge, then programming the boat’s navigation system. With nothing on the horizon for which to aim (Anegada’s 28-ft elevation didn’t lend itself to good visibility), we didn’t want to be careless. While Gary checked and double-checked his calculations, I prepped breakfast. The trip should take about three hours in favorable conditions, but heeling was for sure, and I’d be limiting my trips to the galley.
We set out about 7:30 a.m., under a warming sun and azure skies, beating by an hour and a half a flotilla that would soon leave the BEYC. A mooring would surely greet us upon our arrival. The morning was glorious and the seas feisty. Swells tossed the boat a bit, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. Soon, Gary pointed out tiny sprigs rising up from an otherwise even horizon—pine trees on Anegada! I looked over my shoulder to realize that the core BVI, Approaching the channel to the harbor at Anegada was tricky: The massive Horseshoe Reef surrounds the island, and many a boat has wrecked there. Gary’s calculations were right on, though, and we had the added benefit of visual cues from the cruising guidebook, so before long we had navigated the channel and were settling into our beautiful blue anchorage. Because of the reef, the waters were even more turquoise, and against the white sails and colorful dwellings on shore, the view was truly magnificent. After a nice little snack of Weslyndale cheese, crackers, and mangos, we headed ashore to pay for the mooring, make reservations for dinner, and catch a ride across the 11-mile-long island to Loblolly Bay, known for its endless white beaches and rich snorkeling. Note about dinner reservations: On Anegada, you must make them early and also order your meals. They prepare only the food they need to and nothing more—there are no walk-ins. We had to have the Anegada lobster that everyone talked about, so at $50 apiece, we expected quite a feast.
The old Ford truck that taxied us across the island seemed ready to lose its transmission any minute, but Mike, the driver, seemed nonplussed. I asked him about the salt ponds spanning the center of the island—are they within walking distance? “Because there are only two of you,” he replied, “I will take you to them.” We had heard of the flamingos roosting there, so were grateful for the side trip. At Loblolly Bay, we whiled away the afternoon snorkeling, beach-combing, and reading. (Earlier in the trip, I had begun the novel Between the Tides, by Patti Callahan Henry, and it proved to be a fitting accompaniment—it was the only one of the 10 I brought along that I actually read! Way too much to see...) We lunched in the shade under a grass-skirt-covered cabana and further protected ourselves from the relentless tropical sun with hats, sunglasses, and UPF shirts. Of course, the snorkeling was just amazing. You could probably snorkel that island for a week and turn up something new each time. Before we knew it, though, it was time to return to Kazejin to shower for dinner. (We did manage to stop at the Purple Turtle and other gift shops on the return trip.)
At the recommendation of friends, we chose to have dinner at Potters by the Sea, but it seemed that so had everyone else. We arrived at 7:00, took sunset photos from the dock, and ordered a rum punch.
Overnight all hell broke loose. I woke as crashes of thunder and the glow of lightning filled the cabin. The boat tossed to and fro. Were the mooring and dinghy lines holding? Or, were we being thrown out to sea? I looked at Gary, In the morning, we dillydallied some, waiting for the winds to calm down, and Gary once again plotted our course. The overcast sky and periodic rain made me nervous. Gary had been keeping tabs on a tropical depression by marine weather radio all week, and we both knew we were squeezing in the trip to Anegada before it hit. If it showed up early, we could be sunk, literally. Soon, however, we were under sail. The wind and seas were a little heavier than on our way over the day before, but the passage was uneventful. Gary considered heading straight for Virgin Gorda, to shorten our trip, but I talked him into sticking with our original plan. It was on to Cane Garden Bay!
Cane Garden Bay
We had dinner on the second-floor balcony of Quito's, overlooking the bay. It was almost too hot to eat ashore each evening, so I found myself ordering appetizers, or if a meal, then eating half of it for lunch the next day. Service was usually slow later in the evening (“island time”), but there was just too much to do during the day to go for dinner any earlier. That night was no different. The next morning dawned beautifully, with a little rain off in the distance forming a rainbow to the east. It’s rare that you have the range of visibility to catch the entire arc, so we enjoyed our good fortune. We headed back to shore for breakfast (our one big one that week) and chose a seaside table in Rhymer’s restaurant, painted a bright pink. With ceiling fans twirling, it reminded me of a still from Casablanca. I offered to take snapshots of another group hanging out on the beach nearby. We learned it was one couple’s 50th wedding anniversary, and they were passing the time in Cane Garden Bay waiting for another 40 of their friends from Texas to join them. We purchased sourvenirs at a few of the beach "gift shacks" and headed off on our next adventure.
Jost and Little Jost Van Dyke
We were determined to see some of the area that afternoon, so we paid for the mooring at Foxy’s and began a hike along the coast to the “Bubble Pool,” a natural pool surrounded by rocks at the ocean’s edge. The mountainous island obstructed our view of the setting sun, but the clouds to the east glowed magnificently pink in its aftermath. Little did I know that those amazing cloud formations harbored a lot of excitement that would unfold over the next 24 hours.
We enjoyed our second dinghy ride to Foxy’s. It's always beautiful that time of day. As we tied off, though, we noticed that we were apparently one of only three parties there, Once inside Foxy’s, we snapped photos of the restaurant and us getting our drinks (I was onto pińa coladas at that point). The two other parties dining joined in for a while, then they were gone. The sky outside began to darken ominously, and then came the driving, pounding rain. We moved to a table toward the back of the restaurant, to avoid a dousing. As the storm raged on (we were now enjoying the show: thunderstorms lit up the sky), I ordered another pińa colada. Whatever we were in for that night, I was going to need another shot of courage. We even ordered dessert, nibbling at the key lime pie and putting off the inevitable: paying the bill and heading out into it all. The time came, of course. The thunderstorms had subsided, and there was a lull in the pounding rain. “Let’s go!” Gary said. “I’ll wait to make sure you get out before I leave!” called our server. Oh, boy. We made it to the dinghy, running. Jumping aboard already soaked, I managed to get the line untied and Gary started the engine. We turned ourselves around and headed out toward the few anchor (mast) lights visible. Funny, ours wasn’t among them! Seems we had forgotten to throw the switch—the first time this week and a fine time it was for that. By then, the rain was coming in sheets once again, and of course we were motoring right into it. I yelled back to Gary, “Can you see the boat?” I couldn’t see a damned thing. Every time I opened my eyes, wind-blown rain stung them. “Sure, I can see it!” Gary said (lied, I found out later). Somehow, though, Kazejin suddenly loomed up before us. With much difficulty, I was able to tie the dinghy off to the cleat, and we stumbled aboard and then below deck, bringing puddles of water with us. We laughed until we cried, shedding our soaked clothing and laughing some more. At that moment that I saw that our daughter Sarah had called, so we called her back and told her all about it. I think that freaked her out a little. (“Mom, don’t tell me about that stuff when it’s happening,” she chided me later.) Ha! The tables were turned!
It rained all night. (Meaning it was another one of those windy, rainy nights, during which I wondered sleepily if all lines were tied securely.) We awoke to gray skies and wind, but relative dry weather, at least for the moment. OK. What to do? We had to get around the southwest tip of Tortola, between it and Great Thatch, then Little Thatch, islands. Finally, we needed to travel up the Sir Francis Drake Channel to a point that positioned us well to achieve arrival at the Sunsail base by 11:00 a.m. the following morning.
In a brisk wind, Gary set the sails, and we were on our way. The visibility wasn’t great, but we could make out the “Thatch Island Cut” in the distance. We donned rain gear, as the gray skies looked ominous. Suddenly Gary said, “Take the helm. I need to take the sails down.” As I jumped behind the wheel, I spied over my left shoulder that all-too-familiar wall of water. However, this time it was huge, and it was coming right at us. Gary struggled with the sails, harness on and clipped onto the rigging. The first powerful winds hit, and I used all my strength to maintain our course. “Head into the wind!” he shouted (a typical instruction for taking down the sails—you need to take the pressure off the sails to take them down). “I can’t! I have no steerage!” Finally we figured out that what sounded like the engine running was in fact just the wind and the sea. He thought I had started it, and I thought he had. So we started the engine. I throttled up and gained steerage and could therefore head into the wind. Gary finally covered the mainsail and roller-furled the jib. By then, the all-too-familiar sheets of driving rain from that wall of water were pummeling us. No matter, with the sails down, we maintained our course, and were able to successfully navigate the passage around West End, Tortola.
Cooper Island We did our usual jaunt to shore by dinghy to pay for the mooring and book our *last* dinner reservation. Then, Gary had me start the engine and pilot the dinghy back to Kazejin. (What fun—I should have done it sooner!) Although the skies still looked ominous, it wasn’t storming, so we decided to grab a quick snack and head over to nearby Cistern Point, reported to have some of the best snorkeling in the BVI. We donned some lightweight wet-suit shirts loaned to us by some friends (the incredible Caribbean warmth had been somewhat washed away with all that rain) and headed over in the dinghy, tying off onto a line rigged between two buoys. Then, we were in the water and enjoying the best snorkeling we had done all week. What a gift—and amid all the bad weather! Schools of fish, possibly a barracuda—greater diversity of sea life than we had seen to date. I popped my head out of the water at one point and saw another wall of water off in the distance. I pointed, and Gary saw too. “Five minutes” he signaled. I gave him a thumbs up. One last look and we were swimming back to the dinghy, hauling our bodies over the side, starting the engine, and heading back toward Kazejin. The rain hit us about midway there, but it was light out and we were already wet, so it wasn’t a big deal. Back in the boat: showers, rum punch, get ready for dinner. We had the drill down by then. Eventually the showers subsided, so we dined at the Cooper Island Beach Club. I finally tried the Conch Fritters I was eyeing up on menus all week, together with a salad. Then we took our last dinghy ride back to the boat—this time sans the rain—and spent our last night peacefully.
Return to Base, Flight Home One final worry—flights cancelled due to bad weather—never materialized, and although our return flight to San Juan took off a little late, otherwise things went off without a hitch. We were able to get a nice dinner in the airport (I switched to margaritas for variety) and had the chance to discuss the trip. What an amazing week—a life-changing gift! Our adventures had come to an end, but we were taking that “island time” way of thinking home with us and already scheming how to get back down to the BVI…
Robin Bonner is Editor of Empty Nest. For more about Robin, see About Us. |
Empty Nest: A Magazine for Mature Families
© 2010 Spring Mount Communications
So, I spent the first half of the week gearing up, and it was fitting that we had our magical anniversary dinner the night before. The next morning, though, we had work to do.
at higher elevations (Virgin Gorda Peak stood at 1,359 feet), were still visible. What a relief! Seems that we wouldn’t be blown out to sea and lost forever after all.
Despite the rutted dirt roads and Mike’s old truck, we made it out to the ponds and then to the beach.
Several large parties were seated about the same time (in the makeshift, open-air, plywood and hanging scarf-towel restaurant-shack), and the owner (and apparently his family and friends) scrambled to make everyone happy. The larger groups, being the squeaky wheels, got the service, and the situation proved a little nerve wracking for us (when what we needed most of all was to have our water glasses filled). Nonetheless, it was a great meal, the Anegada lobster a spicy, odd-looking thing that provided us with a yummy lunch the next day as well. We made the dinghy trip back to Kazejin safely, enjoying the warm breeze and starry sky.
who was sleeping soundly, and decided that if he wasn’t worried, I shouldn’t be, either. I wasn’t going out in that maelstrom to check the lines alone, and I’d feel guilty sending him. (He told me later that he had checked all the lines before hitting the sack.) The storms continued what seemed to be all night, and we faced our “other” long passage (we had planned an even longer, five-hour, 30-mile sail to the other side of Tortola) on, for me, anyway, very little sleep.
checking out the restaurants on shore for a possible dinner venue and gift huts for souvenirs, taking a quick dip in the warm water to cool off, framing some artsy black and white photos from shore, sipping a pińa colada from hammock chairs at the Elm Beach Bar, and generally just relaxing.
Before leaving, we caught the dreadlocked owner himself serenading bar patrons with his guitar on the first floor with his guitar, then we walked on the beach for a bit before boarding our dinghy for the short ride to Kazejin.
We walked along the road, following rudimentary signs (one a simple yellow arrow painted on plywood), passing mangrove stands and shore birds, then the trail wound into the woods and began to incline. It seemed that we had been walking quite a while (by now wild goats were bleating and eyeing us up), and we hadn’t found the Bubble Pool. So we decided to turn around. We found out later that we had probably gotten to within 50 feet of it. As it was, we returned to the boat in time for me to snorkel just a little bit—I figured it would probably be the last time I'd get out, so I wanted to be sure to do it.
but we were having too much fun to think much about it. Gary had also noticed that the boats moored at the Little Jost anchorage dwindled from seven when we arrived to just three as we went ashore for dinner. We asked earlier about the coming storm, but the reply had been, “Rain? What rain, mon?” Sigh! We knew a storm was in the works, and it didn’t take long for our expectations to finally be realized.
The destination we'd planned all along, the Cooper Island, was 19 miles away—a tall order for a day of heavy weather and limited visibility. We probably should have at least rounded the tip of Tortola the day before. Oh, well!
I shouted, surprised. The wheel was turned to maximum, but the boat itself had not budged. Instead, we were drifting toward the islands. “Throttle up,” he called. “I have! What's wrong?" I screamed over the wind.