When the glass guy finally returned, we discovered that he didn’t have the right tint or the right thickness and wouldn’t be able to obtain what we needed—ever. He recommended we go back to the other guy, who could order the entire hatches for “only” $450. Each! Ouch! We needed at least two, maybe three. B.O.A.T. So up came the anchor, we motored back to window guy number one, handed over our credit card, and ordered two hatches. That would be another week or two of waiting, which would put the delivery after Thanksgiving. Alrighty then …
We were able to finagle a spring from our Benner Bay contact so we could at least put our leaky hatches back on. We decided to explore while we waited for the windows and for the family to fly in. First we headed for Christmas Cove, Great St. James Island, about 9 miles away just off the southeast corner of St. Thomas, which won hands down for fish seen during snorkeling. Turtles, squid, stingrays, huge schools of fish. The water was Gatorade green or blue at times. It was fantastic and we highly recommend a stop there.
Next stop—northeast to St. John, less than a 4-mile trip. I knew we couldn’t afford to live on that island, so I had already crossed it off “the” list. As we sailed past St. John’s west coast, we could see that beaches were no longer than the length of our boat and were full of people. Bleh.
If that wasn’t disappointing enough, most anchorages required us to pick up overnight moorings that were way too expensive for us (although day moorings were free). We did snorkel the underwater trail in Trunk Bay, which, other than for kitsch, was unimpressive.
Many boaters consider St. John their favorite island for many things, particularly snorkeling, so we probably should have spent more time there. We had clearly missed something.
We overnighted on a sandbar off St. John’s northwest coast, around Cinnamon Bay, because it was free. We enjoyed having the lights of St. Thomas twinkling in one direction and the sounds of the forest in the dark recesses of St. John’s in another. When ferry wakes woke us up in the morning, off we sailed to Tortola.
British Virgin Islands
The sail from St. John’s northeast through The Narrows to Tortola was a quickie (4 miles in 45 minutes). Tortola’s safest harbor is Soper’s Hole, on the southwestern end of the island, home to a ferry terminal and charter operators. The water is so deep here that you have to pick up a mooring ($25 at that time). Nooooo!!! We found a shallow(er) spot near the harbor entrance where we could drop two anchors, using the forked moor option that we had learned in the Bahamas, near a tiny rock beach and hoped for the best. Other than being in the way of short-cutting ferries, it was good enough (and it was free).
Michael free-dove on the anchor, which was about 30 feet deep, and came back up with a surprise. The whites of both his eyes were bright crimson. The blood vessels in his eyes had burst! Note to self, don’t dive down that far. After a good kick, the anchor was set though!
After two days of rain and ferry wakes that sent our cooking pots flying (kind of like on a monohull—hee hee; I couldn’t resist), we decided to take advantage of the nice weather and steady abeam winds by heading to Sandy Cay, a 5-mile jaunt to the north. Wahoo! We were sailing! Wait a minute—we’re here already. Drop the sails!
We were at our destination within 30 minutes. That’s exactly what I didn’t like about the Virgins—the islands were too close together. Of course, if you’re pressed for time (on vacation), islands in close proximity are a plus, so it all depends on your situation.
We did a little snorkeling and had a quick walk around the spit (wear shoes!) and then decided to motor to Diamond Cay, Little Jost Van Dyke, just minutes away (1½ miles to the west). There was room to anchor near the moorings. The harbor was beautiful and there was one quiet bar onshore that played soft reggae music. The island also had a natural phenomenon called the “Bubblies” just a short walk away (and it was surprisingly uncrowded). This feature was sort of like a canyon separating us from the ocean. We stood or swam in a large pool facing huge rock walls with the ocean on the other side. Waves that looked as though they would come crashing down on us would break up as they crossed the rocks and serenely surround us by what looked and felt like champagne bubbles. We would come back to this anchorage time and time again.
The next day we decided to sail again and head for Guana Island, a spot we chose simply because it was farther away (10 miles east). We practiced tacking, looking embarrassingly rusty but having a good time, until.…
We were just getting ready to tack, meaning we were both holding the lines and I was just getting ready to swing and lock the wheel, when the radar reflector fell from the mast again (yes, we had put it back up), hitting Michael squarely in the forehead. Insert your choice of curse word here. One minute he was standing holding the line on the port side (the opposite side of the boat from where I stood), and the next minute all I could see was the bottom of his shoes sticking out on the side deck.
I scrambled to secure my line and get the boat on a safe course before running over to assess the damage. Michael was still conscious (although dazed) and still holding the line (now that’s a committed crew member) while blood gushed from his forehead. If you’re squeamish, boating might not be for you.
I grabbed his line, tied it off, and told him to sit still and press his hand hard over his wound. I got some bandages, wrapped them tightly around his head, and then turned the boat back south toward Tortola so we could get to a hospital. The reflector walloped him so hard that even after bouncing off him first, it still took a small chunk out of our outside table on the second bounce. Ouch! During some coastal motoring we had done days before, we learned about Cane Garden Bay, which had a medical clinic and decent holding (shallow sand, some grass). That 8-mile trip felt a lot longer.
Try to picture this. Michael’s eyes were bloody from the broken blood vessels, and his head was wrapped in a bandage that was now soaked with blood. His shirt was a mess too. He looked like a zombie. Aagh! Considering the looks he got from the locals, I think he might have had them pretty convinced.
The clinic was closed and didn’t have regular hours, and no one had any idea when it would open again (if ever). A tour bus happened to be going into town close to the hospital, took pity on us, and let us jump on (for $12). It was a pretty drive, and once we arrived, the medical staff got Michael to a doctor immediately. Several stitches later (only $80 for the visit) and a $24 return cab ride and we were back in business. We never did put that blasted radar reflector back up.
REPEAT LESSON 9 (Sh** happens) here Why repeat it? Because I’m not sure what I would have done differently. There are so many things that could have gone wrong but didn’t. Most I could have dealt with. Had Michael fallen on the deck unconscious, I could have sailed and anchored the boat myself to get help; I could have called for assistance on the VHF if I felt I had needed it. This is when LESSON 26 (Role play) hits home—I knew how to do these things. But if he had fallen overboard unconscious, what then? I could have maneuvered the boat to where he fell in, but what if he had sunk by then? Should we always wear a life jacket? Tie ourselves to something on board? For every sail? Maybe, but that’s just not practical. Other than making sure the stuff on the mast is as secure as possible (or wearing a helmet), I don’t know what we would have done differently on this one.
Maybe we should stick to motoring. We decided to check out Smuggler’s Cove, just a couple of bays (and about 4 miles) south. My aunt and uncle’s house overlooked the harbor there and we wanted to keep Jacumba within sight while we were stuffing our faces and enjoying time on land. According to our guidebooks, the harbor entry was supposed to be tricky, forcing us between two reefs. Once inside, bad weather could turn the anchorage into a dangerous place full of swells. Most charter companies wouldn’t let their charterers go there. Hmm.
We woke up to a rare day of sun and pond-calm seas, which made our reconnaissance easier. The clear, still water made the reef and the path through it so obvious that we decided to head in. It was a piece of cake, and anchoring
was a cinch in the white sand. I made sure the track was saved on the chartplotter in case conditions didn’t make the path as obvious when we wanted to leave. The crystalline water allowed us to simply look down from above to confirm that the anchor was buried. Perfect.
Right before my family was to arrive, we got a call that our windows were in. Since it was only a couple of hours away, we decided to sail back to St. Thomas and pick them up. We wanted that project over with once and for all.
I hadn’t let Michael take the wheel much because earlier attempts hadn’t gone all that well. Plus we liked our “spots.” During the day the captain’s chair was a great place to sit (the autopilot was doing a fine job), so I happily did so. Michael played with the sails and made snacks. On our few night sails, Michael would take the wheel so I could rest my eyes, but I wasn’t gone for long or at least was always nearby (we hadn’t had the best night-sail conditions so far). Why not give him a chance to take the reins today and try not to hover? It would be good for both of us. We’d done this 20-mile route before, and a couple of tracks were still on the chartplotter, so all he had to do was put the boat on autopilot, adjusting as necessary, and follow the dots (literally). Aye aye, Captain Mikey!
Things were going splendidly. We were sailing west past St. John’s, and I was thoroughly enjoying my book when I decided to take a break and get my bearings. When I looked around, I thought something looked really off. Should that island in our path be there? A look over Michael’s shoulder at the chartplotter confirmed what my eyes were telling me. Well, shiver me timbers! We were heading right for an island. But that was the least of our problems because before we got there, we were going to crash into a reef. Aack!
Mutiny! When I politely asked Michael if he was aware of the reef and the island straight ahead, and whether he understood the books, charts, and chartplotter screen that might steer us around them, he looked at me goofily and shrugged. Yep, he understood the charts, could see the problem, and didn’t know why he had set us on a path for destruction. Alrighty then, I think I’ll take over from here. Not everyone is good at everything. No problem.
We reached St. Thomas without running into anything, excitedly dinghied our window representative to our boat, giddily watched him install our two new hatches, and outwardly cringed when he put a huge scratch in one of them. We quietly took the guy back to shore, he reluctantly ordered another hatch (on the company), and we headed back to Tortola. Par for the course.
Gobble Gobble on Tortola
All was forgotten when we met up with my family. We ate and talked and drank, often toasting Jacumba, just below us in the harbor. Good times.
We spent about two weeks on Tortola. We came down to the boat every day, not only to make sure everything was okay but to check the Internet (there was no signal at the house). The antenna on our boat was powerful enough to pick up a signal from someone onshore without a secure network. We’d walk down, pull our dinghy off a steep, sometimes rocky beach (which changed from day to day), hoped we didn’t flip ourselves getting past the breakers, and then checked e-mails and weather as fast as possible before we got seasick from the swells. Then we’d do it all in reverse. We had a couple of close calls in the dinghy, got very wet, and had some green moments, so this task was not our favorite.
When word came that our new, new window was in, we headed back to St. Thomas, this time taking my mom. Now this is when you know you might be a sailor—when people trust you enough to sail with you.
We got our window, wandered around town, had lunch, people-watched, and then sailed back to Tortola. Two countries in one day—how cosmopolitan! Upon our return, my mom was so excited about her experience sailing with us that she convinced my aunt and uncle to come out too. We had a great sail across the way west to Jost Van Dyke, albeit a short one (5 miles), and had our requisite drink at Foxy’s. Michael and I preferred the quiet bar on Little Jost Van Dyke and concluded that we just didn’t like tourist hangouts. At least there were plenty of alternatives!
We had another great sail back, taking pictures of the Tortola house as viewed from the sea, and settled in for some more time on land. We helped with house chores and repairs, explored, and lounged at the pool before, all too soon, our family was readying to head back to their mainland homes and we were plotting our next hop.
Before my mom left, she had garnered so much faith in us that she decided to come aboard for her final three days. How flattering! Maybe even nuts!
The first place we took her was to the “Bubblies,” of course. Next up was Norman Island, about 14 miles east. The jaunt took us on the southeastern side of Tortola and into the Sir Francis Drake Channel for a change of scenery. There we picked up a mooring (since Mom was paying), snorkeled the caves, and hung out on the floating Willie T (bar) for a little relaxation. A drunken party on a nearby boat went into the wee hours of the morning, reminding us why we always tried to find less-occupied harbors.
Rather than hang out with the revelers when we weren’t reveling with them, we sailed the 10 miles northeast to Cooper Island and found a secluded place to drop anchor. The holding was iffy (hard) but beautiful. Towering black cliffs surrounded us, so we put out two anchors for good measure. Then we swam into the rocky shores to prowl around. When my barefoot mom wished for a pair of shoes, we thought the gods had a sick sense of humor when, not long after, we found a like-new pair of pink sneakers next to a rock—toddler size. Next time, my mother will be more specific. We spent our last day together on Jacumba snorkeling and watching goats sidle up the steep cliffs, and our last night on the boat together pointing at shooting stars while sprawled on the trampoline.
Our final morning we motorsailed the 6½ miles to Beef Island, on the northeastern side of Tortola, to take Mom to the airport. What a beautiful day. Once anchored, we found a neat place to have lunch and do some last-minute shopping. Too soon we were dinghying Mom and her luggage to a dock that let us walk right to the airport. It couldn’t have been easier. We had a drink at the airport’s outside lounge and then said our good-byes. Whaaa.
We were thankful and, well, relieved, at how everything had come together so perfectly: family encounter, good weather and seas, the boat behaving, captain and mate behaving …
People who sailed with us always commented on how well Michael and I worked together without even saying anything. Ha! They had just gotten lucky. When conditions were good, it all looked easy. Believe me, we appreciated those days too. On other days, we were a bit more … communicative.
Final Moments with the Virgins
We had a few more islands in the BVIs that we wanted to see and picked Peter Island, 14 miles returning southwest, for our next stop. The guidebooks told us to head for the southern anchorage of White Bay, where it would be uncrowded and pretty. They also said it would have bad holding and be deep, but supposedly we could get into shallower waters (18 feet) and sand near the local resort. Once there, we noticed that the shallower, sandy waters we were counting on were cordoned off for swimmers. We puttered around before realizing that we would be relegated to deep waters (from 25 to 80 feet) and turtle grass for holding. Oh well, it was late and we needed to get settled. We decided to get as close to the floating swimming posts as possible and figured we’d drop a second anchor to keep us off them (using our forked moor method).
Our first anchor hadn’t taken yet but we were setting our second one anyway when a BVI customs’ boat pulled alongside us. Without conversation, the occupants latched on to our boat and proceeded to push us across the warning posts and into the swimming area (no swimmers luckily). What? Were these guys pirates in their former lives? Get off! While I was trying to get us out of there, the agents were yelling at me to stop gunning the engines. I was incredulous that they couldn’t see the problem. We’re in the middle of anchoring, you fools, and by the way, are we nearing any reefs? My chartplotter/charts kept saying “incompletely surveyed”!
I barked at Michael to hurry up and grab our papers so they’d get off o
ur boat. It took about 10 minutes for the customs agents to detach themselves and go happily on their way. We were less jovial. It was getting dark and we had to pull the second anchor back up, motor out of the swimming area, and drop the anchor again. That done, Michael dove on both anchors, ran into a nurse shark, and scrambled back out satisfied if not a little shaken (nurse sharks are pretty tame as sharks go, but close encounters at dusk—you know, dinnertime—are unnerving).
The anchorage was peaceful until around 10 p.m., when we were disturbed by a scraping noise. Considering that we were anchored in grass, we were stumped. We broke out our new spotlight and gunned the engines in reverse to see if the anchor rode (chain) skipped (a sure sign that the anchor was on the move). Nope, but instead we noticed that one of the floating swimming posts went underwater. Gun engine … post disappeared … gun engine … post disappeared. Uh-oh. It was obvious that one of our anchor lines was tied around one of the posts. Wonder how that happened? Thanks BVI customs!
All the posts were roped together and moving with the current, which was pulling on our anchors, which was causing us to drag, which meant that we had to get untangled and re-anchor. In the dark. Sigh. Talk about frustration. Well, at least the water was clear enough to see what was happening. We had to go around the posts in circles, watching that the propellers didn’t get caught in the swimming-post ropes. It was slow going, but we finally got the anchors up and then back down again.
A Sail of Two Idiots Page 20