Sailing with Dad, by Chris Garvey
“You lost another one?” Dad said when I came home from the lake again without my sailboat. Filled with pride and charged with adventure I replied, “Yeah, Dad, you should’ve seen it! I bet it’ll be across the lake by tonight!” “That’s the last one. No more boats. I don’t understand, wasn’t it tied to the string?” Realizing my excitement was not contagious; I said, much more subdued now, “It broke…” As my words trailed off I realized that it was not a good thing to send a twenty dollar toy sailboat sailing off into the lake. My own trouble was now more daunting than what faced the little boat sailing the 25 miles or so north towards Mandeville. But that was all that was said. Another boat materialized on the next Christmas or birthday or whatever occasion called for a gift from Mom and Dad. I took the next one to the bayou to sail it with the kite string attached and soon the thrill wore off requiring more drastic action. Down the levee again to the lake where the little sailboat could ply the open water untethered by kite string and bound for some far off port of call where someone would find it and send it on its way around the world.
Thus began my fascination with travel on the sea and all things marine. I think I was probably about eight years old. Sending my toy sailboats out into the lake to live a life of adventure was huge for me. Looking at a globe I could see that there was no reason that I couldn’t float my boat in the bayou two blocks from home and see it floating by on TV while I was watching Jacques Cousteau exploring some far off island chain. As I later learned a little bit about sailing and navigation and the effort required to get out of the lake and into the Gulf, my dream was duly dashed. But I never stopped watching Jacques Cousteau. Actually sailing with Mike the swim coach gave me an appreciation for the finer points of boat handling and only served to intensify the thought of leaving from the London Avenue Canal and making for the tropics.
From about the age of 12, I became a regular fixture on weekday sails with Mike and other swimmers from Vista Shores on a Catalina 28 and eventually started racing on an Ensign. Throughout high school I think I managed to stay with it as time would allow between rowing and working in the summers and running and soccer during the school year. In between those activities I was fairly effective at not being responsible so I may have made a commitment here and there to go racing but then didn’t show. This served to reduce the number of invitations to go sailing. But I had soured on sailing. It was boring sailing with two old guys on calm, flat days, and it was cold and uncomfortable on blustery, big days. Plus, water-skiing was something I could do often with my friends. This included beer and girls in bathing suits so my priorities were roundly reset by the age of 17. I did manage a few fishing trips here and there, but that’s a whole other story. Sailing could wait.
Between 17 and 35 I managed a few sailing outings including a passage from Destin, Florida to New Orleans with a not-so-good-friend from the rowing team and his dad. The Dad turned out to be more of a teenager than his son who carried the nicknames “Puddin’head” and “Frank Burns” on the rowing team. I took up for him sometimes so I think I was his only friend. That’s why I got invited. That particular trip taught me the importance choosing wisely when putting together a crew for an extended cruise on any kind of boat. Even a 48’ ketch can get awfully small over a five-day period. Later, in Chicago, my interest in a woman (I understand they are no longer “girls” once they have their own apartment) led me to sail a summer racing season on the American Shamrock, a One Design Beneteau 48 something or other that was captained by a former Olympic sailor. The sailing was great on Lake Michigan and really got my head back into the space I had left when I was setting my toy boats free in Lake Pontchartrain.
Upon my return to New Orleans, the fishing
bug very quickly and completely bit me. I dragged my new bride onto a very
smelly sport fisher in St. Martin to land a 40lb King Mackerel while on our
Honeymoon, and even got her whole seasick-prone family on a 50 ft. Hatteras out
of Kona, Hawaii where I fought and lost a (careful, now I’m gonna have to
remember how big I say it was) 300lb Marlin. While continuing to test the
limits of the freedom afforded to me by Lauren by going fishing at virtually
every opportunity, I’ve found that when I’m on the water my emotional brain
reverts back to the days of watching my toy boats sail off. There’s freedom
there, and boundless possibility.
A couple of years ago Tommy called to tell me he had been sailing in Chicago. Sailing quite a bit, in fact, to the tune of a song he learned early in his own life when there was a sailboat in the family. Learning the calming exhilaration of tuning the sails and the boat to attain perfection. Getting the boat to leap and surge as if propelled by all the joy hidden within its captain and crew. The hum of the sails and rigging, the tension on the rudder, the waves standing aside to allow perfection to pass, those brief moments are what captured me and I suspect Tommy, as well. But now he was a man of means and had apparently exhausted the allure of sailing in Lake Michigan and longed for balmier climes and more interesting landfalls.
The British Virgin Islands is billed as a “Disneyland for sailors”: steady 15 to 20 knot trade winds, calm seas, fool-proof navigation, phenomenal vistas, fantastic snorkeling and diving, effective beach bars, and hundreds of boats for rent to anyone interested. We made our first trip in January of 2002 on a Beneteau 405. Thus was planted a nagging itch he needed to scratch. Tommy returned eight weeks later with JoAnna to introduce her to her future. The effect it had on me was equally as profound.
Then, on the last day of October of 2002 a conversation took place that went something like this:
Tom: “I’m thinking about buying a catamaran, an Island Spirit 37, Aristocat. I have to go check it out, though.”
Me: “Well, I just finished working with HR to determine my vacation day balance and what won’t carry over into next year”.
Tom: “I can go next week.”
Me: “Really?”
Tom: “If not next week then the first week of December.”
Me: “I’m at a stage in my project where there’s really not much for me to do while we wait for final engineering and a PO.”
Tom: “Let me see if the boat’s available and I’ll call you back.”
Me: “We’ll only be gone from Thursday to Monday. Work is not a problem, I’ll need to talk to Lauren and check and see if there are any frequent flier seats available.”
Later that same day…
Tom: “Aristocat isn’t available, but an identical one is and it’s ours if we want it.”
Me: “I have flight arrangements being held for me. Lauren said its cool. Let’s go.”
Tom: “This is great. A great trip without the weeks or months of agonizing anticipation.”
Me: “Exactly. I’m pumped. I just need to get an official okay from my boss tomorrow and I’ll firm up my travel arrangements.”
That was about the extent of the planning that went into the trip. My boss said to go because he preferred me to take vacation rather than hear me bitch about how slow the engineering was taking and how unorganized my customer was. Besides, I had three people working with me on the project who needed something to do. This way they got to sit on my conference calls and conduct my meetings and I got to be gone to the islands.
We were set to leave on November 7 and return on November 11. On the 3rd, Mom and Dad stopped by to pick up Lauren and Ethan for Mass and lunch afterwards. Upon my telling them about my hastily planned trip with their other son, Mom stated that that “is your father’s dream vacation”. Then they left me to continue painting the house. I quickly realized after several previous conversations with Tommy about bringing Mom and Dad down there, that this would be the ideal time and circumstance to bring Dad along. Short duration (in case he hated it) and just three of us on a big comfortable boat, all I needed was a free plane ticket for him. Fifteen minutes after they left for Mass, I had travel arrangements for Dad and me with one hitch. We had to stay an extra day in the islands. Damn. I quickly called Tommy and clued him in to bringing Dad and we both agreed that this would be a “very holy thing to do”.
When they returned from Mass and lunch (Lauren and Ethan represented the Garvey children at Cabrini’s 50th anniversary), I asked Dad what he was doing next weekend. He started to say something about a golf tournament and a meeting and I was bursting. When he stopped talking, I asked if he would like to go sailing instead. While Dad started to explain the importance of his commitment to play in the golf tournament for the church, Mom was asking what I meant. Dad stopped talking again and I said, “come sailing instead.” I was biting my tongue and couldn’t wait to end the suspense I had built up for myself but seemed lost on my audience. Finally I blurted, “in the islands with Tommy and me. I got you a ticket, its all arranged, you’re coming with us!”
Its not often that I get a rise out Dad, at least not since I stopped wrecking his cars and being brought to the front door in handcuffs by the police. This was good. He smiled like we rarely get to see Dad smile. I handed him the “Cruising Guide to the Virgin Islands” and the chart we used on our last trip to show him the places we would go along with my pictures from our trip in January. Suddenly, the golf tournament was a memory and he had 4 days to prepare for a trip to the islands. Mom and Dad left and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I remember how Dad had always kept the guidebook for the Bahamas in their bathroom and how that had helped fuel the wanderlust I attached to my toy sailboats. Now Tommy and I were bringing Dad on his “dream vacation”. Dream vacation is a bit large to deliver, but I was confident in the BVI’s ability to captivate.
Clearly, Dad was pleased with his future. This was proven by the report Lauren received on Monday from Mom that Dad had packed Sunday night when they got home. We were leaving on Thursday. At first I laughed, then I realized that I had “practice packed” weeks in advance for my previous trip. There are many things to consider when packing for a trip that is spent on a boat; most of it is what not to bring. The most accurate advice I’ve heard is to bring half the clothes and twice the money. That’s about right.
Over the next few days the three of us had several conversations firming up travel arrangements, discussing which islands and anchorages we would hit, what not to bring, and accurately setting Dad’s expectations for living on a boat. This last item was of great importance since most people envision true luxury aboard yachts. This is true for some, but not for most. Basically, it’s like a camping trip on the water with some nice amenities like running (sometimes-hot) water, refrigeration, a stove, showers, and toilets. The staterooms are like walk-in closets with a comfortable, double mattress and dangerous, low-flying bulkheads. There is no air conditioning but the nights are around 70 degrees with a constant breeze. You sleep with the portholes open but you get rained on once a night.
Ashore is also a bit different in the BVI as compared to the neighboring USVI, which is more like Destin, Florida with nicer water. Tortola is the main island of the BVI and boasts a population of about 10,000 and has what we would consider some pockets of development and regular establishments and services. This is also where all the charter companies are based. On most of the other islands there is virtually no development other than what the locals can throw together to cater to sailors. You never really go “inside” anywhere, just under a roof. The restaurants are good and have local West Indian dishes and freshly caught mahi mahi, tuna, and lobster. The bars offer the local rum drink aptly known as a PainKiller along with the regular compliment of adult beverages.
Dad arrives at my house around 9 am and Lauren and Ethan drive us to the airport. We have a flight to Houston, then on to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Dad has packed too much, but I am bringing a small missile silo containing a fishing pole and tackle that cannot be carried on so it’s not a big deal. We get our bags checked and have comfortable, on-time flights into Houston then San Juan where we check into the Hampton Inn near the airport. Tommy flies into San Juan earlier in the day in time to catch a flight to Tortola and spends a muggy, breeze-less night on Agave, our Island Spirit 37, at the dock on Fat Hogs Bay.
Now the trip really begins. Dad and I head to the airport where we pick up a short 45-minute flight to Tortola on an 8-seater Cessna. Now we can feel the release that occurs with the rush of the humid, salt air of the tropics. We cram ourselves into the plane that closely resembles the 1980 Toyota Corolla that I wrecked twice in high school. I’m concerned for Dad’s comfort so I have the pilot seat him next to the door as he assesses and distributes the weight of his passengers and cargo. Yet another release occurs when we take off and quickly find ourselves a few hundred feet above the Caribbean Sea and the beautiful islands and the reefs visible through the sky colored water. We fly at 2,000 ft over the Spanish Virgin Islands then the United States Virgin Islands and I point out the islands that we’ll be visiting in the distance. Soon Tortola is under us and the pilot has the Beef Island airport lined up. It’s a beautiful day in paradise.
Once on the ground and through customs, Samson approaches and says that Tommy sent him to pick us up for the 10-minute ride to the Tradewinds Charter base at Fat Hogs Bay. Seconds after arriving, Tommy greets us dockside at the stern of Agave looking very much the part of the island captain. He’s already been briefed on the boat and received the grocery delivery so we go through some of the finer points of operating and sailing the Island Spirit 37 and choose staterooms. For me choosing my stateroom was quite clear, I encouraged Dad to pick any of the three remaining. Once he chose the port bow, my choice was made. I chose the starboard bow. Tommy was already in the starboard stern. This is important only because I had spent the previous night with Dad in a hotel room and had only fitful sleep as Dad snores at a professional level. As I learned that night, noise does not carry very well from one hull to the other. This is a very fortuitous benefit of the big catamaran. Tom has noticed that the grocer has shorted us one bottle of wine so I walk down the road to the Rite-Way market for a bottle of Chardonnay and an extra bag of ice just to be safe.
At 10:30 am we’re off, sailing south across the Sir Francis Drake Channel and then between Salt and Peter Islands into the open Caribbean. I set out my trolling lures and hope for a fish at some point on the trip. After we clear the southern tip of the islands we cross over a shelf where the depth increases from about 200 feet to well over 1,000. This is where there is bound to be predator species to provide some excitement. We see flying fish all around. Turning west we follow the southern shores of Peter and Norman islands. As we’re lulled into our first true relaxation, there comes a vicious scream from the starboard side of the boat. Tom and I look at each other, then realize something has hit the lure and drag is screaming as line is leaving the reel. Before I can lay my hand on the pole, it goes limp and silent. I reel in the remnants of my trolling lure to find that some toothy critter has severed the 500lb monofilament that made up the leader and turned my formerly 4-piece lure into a 1-piece lure. Oh well, that’s more action than we got in January.
At about 1:00 pm, we round the southwestern corner of Norman island and pick up a mooring ball at The Caves for our first happy plunge into the Caribbean. We’ve managed to sail from one place to another on purpose; this always amazes me for some reason. The boat is very comfortable but we agree that she seems more sluggish than we’d anticipated. The Caves at Norman Island is one of the premier snorkel areas in all the Virgin Islands. We share it with a couple of big snorkel boats from the USVI carrying bloated tourists and a handful of other sailing yachts. It’s odd how superior you feel when you arrive on your own boat, even if the side of the boat has “tradewindyachts.com” running the length of each hull. The snorkeling is fantastic. We get Dad situated with the mask and fins, but he just can’t seem to get comfortable with the snorkel. So he just floats like he always does in Florida while Tommy and I explore the reef and caves.
Back on board, we make the second discovery that the grocer has forgotten an item, ham. We have cheese sandwiches and beers for lunch, then head to Cooper Island for our evening anchorage. Arriving around 5:30 pm, we find the Manchioneel Bay anchorage at Cooper Island to be the epitome of tropical paradise settings with very few boats. I thought my memory of it would be too good for reality to live up to, but it does not disappoint. There are no roads on Cooper Island; there is only the Cooper Island Beach Club and a dive shop next door. Cooper Island Beach Club consists of a bar and restaurant and 12 rooms for rent. There are no permanent residents and this half-mile of protected beach is the balance of activity on the entire island. Its wine and vodka (not in the same glass) to toast our first sunset and our good fortune of being two sons and their father living a dream in paradise. We talk of things both important and pointless, savoring the time and place in which we find ourselves.
After dinner of grilled mahi mahi and Roti and a round of PainKillers at the Cooper Island Beach Club, we dinghy back to the boat and are all heading to bed by 9:00 pm. After a full day on the boat Dad is physically comfortable and appreciative of the effects of injected cortisone. I read for about ten minutes in my stateroom then decide to head up on deck and sprawl on the trampoline in the bow to watch the stars and catch any extra breeze since we are tucked into the lee side of a bluff. At about 3:00 am I wake up in the rain and groggily make it back to my bunk by the time the rains stops. No one else seems to have noticed the rain.
We’re all up by 6 or 7 and Dad has fulfilled his sole responsibility where chores are concerned. He’s made a pot of coffee and I am very appreciative. I look at him and think of the pride he expressed the previous night when he said that his Dad would’ve loved to see Tommy and I sailing the boat yesterday. I think of Ethan and his doesn’t-exist-yet brother doing the same thing and I start to melt. Thank goodness for strong coffee.
We leave Cooper at 7:20 am and head east for Virgin Gorda. We swing in close to the western tip of Virgin Gorda so we can show Dad the Baths. I’m not clear on why its called that, but it is a very distinctive set of basalt boulders that are oddly out of place and seem like they were left there by accident. Most of the boulders are the size of houses and are situated right at the water's edge. We then head north at 27 degrees for the island of Anegada located 12 miles north of the nearest point of Virgin Gorda. I know the compass heading because this is the only part of the trip where we have to consult the chart as the island’s highest point is only 27 feet and is not visible until you’re within six or seven miles of it. We pass west of The Dogs which are rock spires that stretch from the sea floor to the surface and stick out of the water. They are called The Dogs because they were once home to a colony of seals that were hunted to extinction a hundred years ago.
Sailing north of Virgin Gorda we enter the Atlantic Ocean. About seven miles from Anegada, that eerie scream again erupts from the starboard stern. Again we’re at a loss until Tommy reaches for the pole and we have a fish on. As I follow the line out, a beautiful dolphin (aka: dorado, mahi mahi) takes to the air in all its neon green and yellow splendor. Graciously, Tommy hands me the pole so I can bring it in. Since the fish is about five or ten pounds I saw no reason to head upwind and stop the boat. I have 50lb line now tied to a steel leader so losing the fish due to equipment failure is unlikely. The fish leaps and tail-walks a few more times and I swing it onto the starboard transom after a couple of minutes of spirited fight. During those two minutes, the three of us already have it for lunch off the grill. Sadly, it slips off the transom as I climb down to grab it. Not to worry, it’s well-hooked…then the line goes slack and the fish is gone.
We’re all quiet and stare at each other then back to the stern and the empty wake in sad disbelief. The line is intact and my knots did not fail, the crimp on the wire leader failed. This makes me very sad so I grab a fresh beer and re-rig and set another lure out. We get two more hits but neither hooked up. Damn. I looked forward to providing Tom and Dad with the freshest, best tasting fish in the sea for lunch. We slide into the anchorage on the West End of Anegada expecting to find plenty available mooring balls to handle the light crowd we’d seen the previous day. Not today, we manage to arrive after a flotilla from The Moorings charter company that only allows its customers to sail to Anegada with a fleet of 20 or so boats accompanied by a few captains.
So, we were to anchor as Tom and I had in January. That had not been a pleasant experience, we had problems with equipment and subsequent personal clashes that led to our amusing the fleet as we took no less than two hours to gain solid purchase on the sandy bottom. We found a desirable spot to drop the hook and this time pulled it off without a single problem. We were securely anchored at 1:30 pm. Dad was up for soaking up the scenery and taking one of those lazy vacation naps that are so delightful. Tom and I decide to take a taxi to the north side of the island to snorkel the reef that runs the length of the island and then some.
The Anegada reef system is second only to the Great Barrier Reef in contiguous structure. In January we snorkeled at a place called Flash of Beauty in Loblolly Bay and it truly was. This time we decide on a shorter cab ride to Cow Wreck Beach. Cow Wreck is the location on the reef where a ship carrying cattle went down a long time ago. Now the island supports the survivors’ descendants; a healthy herd of wild cattle roams the arid, brushy landscape. Unfortunately, the ocean swell charging south against the north side of the island makes snorkeling the reef impossible so we decide on beers and sandwiches on the beach. We return to the boat at 3:45pm and we all nap until 5:30 pm when I’m awakened by Pam of Pam’s Kitchen and Bakery. Each evening Pam fills her little motor skiff with freshly baked breads, cookies, and muffins then hops from boat to boat taking advantage of sailors with no fresh food onboard. We by a dozen cookies, three muffins and a bag of ice for $87. No, it wasn’t that much.
Dinner that evening had been arranged earlier in the day over the radio with the Anegada Reef Hotel. You call ahead and tell them what time you want to eat, how many lobster you want and the name of your boat and they tell you to come whenever you want and have drinks and that dinner is at 7:30. We enjoy sundowners (drinks) onboard then hop into the dinghy for the short ride to Anegada Reef Hotel around 7 o’clock. We have some drinks at the bar then find the Agave table for three and greatly enjoy wine, delicious grilled lobster, rice and peas, cabbage and ham, and cheesecake while sitting barefoot at a plastic table on the sand. It rained a couple of times during dinner but we chose to eat through it even though we were not under cover. The rain never lasts more than a few minutes and after a couple of beers you’re sufficiently waterproof anyway.
While at dinner, an adjacent table becomes populated by four well-healed guys with what seem to be travelmates-for-hire, if you know what I mean. Needless to say, this makes for amusing entertainment as the ladies were adorned with strategically placed flashing lights and all were well into their cups, in more ways than one. After getting back on the boat we linger on deck and enjoy the cool evening and the surprising quiet for a while before heading to bed. The quiet was surprising because it was Saturday night and there were still 20 dinghies on shore at 10:30 pm. At 10:32 pm, the peace is shattered when the Whistling Pine Restaurant transforms into the Screaming Pine Disco playing host to our dinner mates and the entire Moorings flotilla. I go on deck and am met by flashing lights and a disco ball gyrating to KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes” a half mile across the water. I lay down on the trampoline and watch the millions of stars migrate across the sky until about midnight when the dinghy carrying the flashing light ladies approaches our boat mistaking it for theirs. They were singing “she’s a brick house!” and were proving just that as the lights that had been in their shirts were now swinging around like helicopter blades above their heads. Amazingly, Tom and Dad must be unconscious for they are unaware as I host a party on deck until the wee hours. No, not really.
Up for the sunrise, I make coffee and enjoy one of Pam’s muffins…the blueberry kind, the flashing light ladies had left earlier and none was named Pam. Tom and Dad amble on deck around 7 and we raise the hook (weighed anchor) without incident and ease out of the harbor ahead of the fleet. Today’s destination is White Bay on Jost Van Dyke for lunch, then on to Cane Garden Bay on Tortola for our last night aboard. I’m determined to land a fish today. We’ve got about 23 miles of open water to cover. That’s a lot of fish to sail over.
We settle into a virtually downwind, southwest course and enjoy the panorama of the sea and the high islands in the distance. Again I’m seized by sweet thoughts of pride and peace from the fact that I’m sailing the Caribbean with my dad and my brother. Flying fish are everywhere and I have a good feeling that we will forego lunch at the Soggy Dollar Bar on White Bay and instead enjoy freshly grilled mahi mahi on the boat. As we near the Kingfish Banks, a spot where the sea floor comes up to about 40 ft. from about 80ft., Tommy alerts me to mahi mahi feeding on flying fish on the surface. I quickly move to the starboard stern where I can react quickly to a strike and land lunch. No strikes occur but we’re treated to the sight of a beautiful mahi mahi cruising the surface next to the boat. Dad missed this as he was below deck having a snack. Nonetheless, he shared in our excitement afterwards.
Not long after seeing the fish, we turn to the south to approach Jost Van Dyke. Sailing west again we pass Sandy Cay. Sandy Cay is truly the quintessential Caribbean island. It is owned by the Rockefeller family and has no development or structures. Instead, the Rockefeller family has set it aside to retain its awe-inspiring beauty and natural state. We sail west along the south side of Jost Van Dyke past Little Harbor and Great Harbor. At this point we are within range to pick up an AT&T Wireless signal on my cell phone and are able to reach Lauren and JoAnna. Mom is unavailable, no doubt out carousing in the absence of her husband. White Bay is a small anchorage protected by a reef and faces the US islands of St. John and St. Thomas to the south.
We again drop the anchor without incident (this still amazes me) and I decide to swim ashore while Tom and Dad take the dinghy onto the beach for lunch at the Soggy Dollar Bar. It’s called the Soggy Dollar because most people pay for drinks and lunch with wet money because they swam ashore from their boat. The fantastic beach is crowded with tourists from the USVI and the Soggy Dollar is bustling with activity and a lone elderly electric guitar player tucked into a corner sitting on a bucket playing island music that most don’t realize is live. While waiting for lunch we’re visited by a curious Conch crab cruising under the tables and we meet Greg. Greg introduces himself when he overhears us talking about the Saints. Greg is from New Orleans and now lives on St. Thomas where he captains a snorkel boat that we had shared The Caves with on the first day out. As we all gawk at several well-fit, barely clad women and talk football, Greg assures us that New Orleans has the most beautiful women in the world. The three of us whole-heartedly agree and inform him that we have each conned a beautiful woman from New Orleans into marrying us. After Jerk Chicken sandwiches Dad and I take the dinghy while Tommy chooses a refreshing swim back out to Agave.
We motor upwind back past Sandy Cay and into Cane Garden Bay for our last night aboard. Again we cannot reach Mom by phone. As luck would have it, while we were lazing at White Bay, the entire Moorings flotilla has beaten us to Cane Garden Bay and there are no mooring balls available. We choose a spot to drop the hook in about 25 feet of water. I’m questionable about our ability to set the anchor without a mishap in such deep water. Thinking there is 150 feet of chain on the anchor, I let the windlass fly and the chain peels off. Suddenly, there is no more chain and thick line has taken its place. There is actually only 100 feet of chain. I quickly tie off the line and haul up the chain to get it back on the windlass. This done, I press the retrieve button on the windlass which does not respond. I flash back to hauling up 100 feet of chain three times in a row in January and start to lose my temper.
Tom’s cooler head joins me on the bow and we determine that the wires have come loose. Tom repairs the wire with first-aid tape and I decide that a water-borne inspection is required and go over the side. Actually, this serves no purpose whatsoever but I’m able to convince Tom and Dad that I’m performing a required service of some sort when I really just want to cool off. Without further incident, and thanks in large part to my efforts in the water, we get the anchor set and the boat secured.
The three of us toast our success and good fortune and watch an amazing sunset over Jost Van Dyke and the USVI in the distance. Dinner is ashore at Quito Rymer’s restaurant. Quito is a local musician and artist who owns a beachside bar and restaurant. On our trip in January, I had a great conversation at the bar with Quito and his London-based agent where I told them about the Jazz Fest, which amazingly neither had heard of. I explained that a gig at the Jazz Fest would expose Quito’s music to tens of thousands of people and help open up the US market to him. I emailed the agent Jazz Fest information when I got back and I hope to see Quito in the line-up one of these years. It’s a quiet Sunday night and Quito will not be playing tonight. But, we enjoy a great dinner and discuss the possibility of future trips with additional siblings and family since Tommy is buying his own stake in paradise. We finally reach mom with my cell phone and she sounds drunk and there’s loud music in the background. No, not really.
Cane Garden Bay is the most populated anchorage on our trip and the
shoreline hosts a bustling community based primarily on tourism. Lots of bars,
restaurants and cottages dot the beach and the local kids prowl the dinghy dock
for hand-outs and mischief. This is the only anchorage where it is recommended
that you lock your dinghy to the dock. This is as much to keep your dinghy from
being taken by over-served sailors mistaking yours for theirs as it is to keep
the local kids from joy-riding. From our table at Quito’s, we watch the kids
taking great pleasure in moving unlocked dinghies from one side of the dock to
the other. Ours is locked.
After dinner Tommy leads us down the dark road seemingly through the jungle, allegedly a shortcut as opposed to the beach route, to Myett’s Garden. I think Myett’s is my favorite place in the islands. It is a lush, tropical garden paradise of a bar and restaurant with massive bromeliads adorning the many trees that the establishment is built around. We take the beach back to the dinghy dock and have to shoo away the kids who are trying to perform some unknown yet valuable service for us in hopes of earning some tourist dollars for themselves.
I drop Dad and Tom off at the boat then return to the dock and head to Myett’s to listen to the band just starting to crank up. Dad has mastered the transition from the dinghy to the boat. I grab a table off to the side but close to band and soak up the atmosphere and a couple of scotches and gloat to myself about how good my life is. I think of all the people I’d like to share this with and I miss Lauren. The band plays some original reggae tunes and a decent version of Jimmy Cliff’s reggae classic “The Harder They Come”. Life is good. The crowd is made up of sailors mostly named Gladys and Harry from the East Coast or the Midwest and a few locals associated with the band.
As the Gladyses and Harrys become sufficiently lubricated they begin to pass requests written on napkins up to the band. The band members look at each other disappointedly and resign themselves into poor versions of American oldies. All is lost. Beautiful and tropical Myett’s Garden is transformed into the lounge at any airport Holiday Inn. I exit to the beach down the three steps that very nearly took the life of our hapless mate from our trip in January. That’s another story not to be told here. I stop off at The Elms Beach Bar and listen to the last couple of numbers from a steel drum band, sit in the sand with a fresh Red Stripe and am again pleased with myself and I miss Lauren with renewed vigor. Back at the dinghy dock the local kids have all gone to bed and I begin to wonder if I, myself, might have been over-served by those thoughtless bartenders. Nah, I’m fine. I bend over to unlock the dinghy and hear a solid “plop” in the water down below and realize that my cell phone is no longer in my shirt pocket. Nah, I’m fine. I laugh at the loss of my cell phone and then wish those local kids were around to earn a few more tourist dollars for themselves. I make it back to the boat taking care that the stern I’m approaching indeed says “Agave” on it and coast in so as not to wake my more reasonable boat mates. I’m asleep by 10:30.
We wake around 7 and make a quick exit from Cane Garden Bay as Tommy has a Noon flight to catch and we have to round the western tip of Tortola then motor 10 miles upwind back to the Tradewinds Charter base at Fat Hogs Bay. One great aspect of the catamaran is the stability that allows effective and complete use of the cabin while underway. We have coffee and breakfast as we slip past the West End of Tortola and soak up as much of the scenery as possible. Past Great Thatch and Little Thatch Islands with St. John to our south we enter the Sir Francis Drake Channel for the upwind motor back to reality. Along the way, we tidy up the boat, pack our stuff and, yet again, set out the lure for a last shot at landing a fish. No luck. If I have one complaint about the Island Spirit 37, its that the two 18hp Yanmar diesels don’t have enough power to motor into a 20 knot wind. So, the last 10 miles were a bit tedious and created at least one slightly queasy stomach. We were all fairly quiet on the ride back.
The last day of a great vacation is always bitter sweet for me. You’re still physically in the incredible setting that drew you there but your thoughts begin to wander into the mundane aspects of your daily life. Work, traffic, bills, all the things that make vacations worth taking start to creep back into your psyche but you fight it with every once of energy you can muster. Luckily, Dad and I had one more day. Back at the base we were faced with the true existence of “island time”. The effect of which is not nearly as profound when you don’t have anywhere to be, but when you’ve just had a somewhat unpleasant upwind slog and one of the crew has to catch a flight it is downright infuriating. Upon our approach to the charter base, I tried hailing them on the radio as instructed with no luck. Then, when I reached them via the boat’s cell phone they didn’t seem to have the same sense of urgency that my return to stressful reality dictated. There were no available slips and all available dock space contained boats in the process of coming in or going out. The staff on shore seemed positively unconcerned about MY wish to get off the boat and on with our lives. Finally, we rafted up against a 40 foot sloop taking on fresh water before setting off on a weeklong relaxation binge. We finally had the base manager check us out and we ferried our luggage and garbage across the deck of the sloop onto the dock.
We bid farewell to the Agave. Finally, I chilled out and realized that I didn’t have a plane to catch and that Dad and I were going to beachfront resort to laze away the day. Whew! I almost got stressed on a Caribbean island. Can’t let that happen again. “Evry little ‘ting gonna be alright, mon.” Samson helped us load the luggage into his van and the three of us headed to the airport to drop Tommy off. We had short and sweet good-byes with Tommy. Dad and I got back into Samson’s van for the short ride to the Lambert Beach Resort on the north side of Tortola. I can’t tell you how happy I was that I didn’t have to get on a plane to San Juan, another to Houston, then another to New Orleans right after getting off the boat. There’s something very rude about spending the night on a boat in a tranquil, tropical paradise only to wake up and deal with airport crowds. Thankfully, we were heading to a land-based paradise for a day to help ease the transition.
The road over the shoulder of Mt. Bellevue rises to about 1,000 feet before descending down to Lambert Bay. Going up it seemed Samson’s van would flip over backwards or the tires wouldn’t hold the asphalt and we would just slide back down the slope. Going down the other side it seemed we would slide right off the road and end up encased with Samson in his aluminum can of a van in a heap. Luckily, Dad and I survived and checked into the Lambert Beach Resort around Noon. Our room wasn’t ready so they sent us to the restaurant. Not to worry, though, we were hungry for lunch. The setting at Lambert Beach is picture postcard material to be sure. Tortola doesn’t have the grand resorts we think of when we hear the term. The BVI is very rustic and the amenities are the world around you, not first-class service and five-star meals. Huge swaying palms lined a broad beach framed by shear volcanic cliffs with lush jungle of tropical plants and flowers is the picture I have in my memory.
When Dad and I sit down I’m drooling at the thought of a cheeseburger, a beer, a shower in a real bathroom, and a nap on a real bed. Like I said, we checked in at Noon. We eat lunch at about 2pm. Apparently, the cook had had some sort of emergency to attend to and in all of the resort not a single soul was present that was able to cook or construct a sandwich.
After lunch we go to the office and then to our room which did not have a TV as I’d been told when I booked it, but we were brought to it in a golf cart. It’s funny how much you miss news, even when you don’t want to. The room is comfortable and close to the beach. Dad decides on a dip in the pool, a shower and a nap while I opt for reading on the beach. The sand is very hot and the ocean swells are charging ashore in the form of five foot surf.
I settle on a beach chair tucked into the Tamarind trees that line the beach and try to get into the book I’ve been reading when I catch site of three guys on a Hobie Cat about three miles out not doing very well. We’d watched the same three guys on the Cat a couple hours earlier having the same problems while we were waiting for lunch. They could only sail in two directions. Unfortunately, neither direction was south back to the beach. Instead of reading I watch the sailboat and three women down the beach who were also watching the sailboat. They seem concerned but not overly so. The boat belongs to the resort and was for anyone’s use so I think of taking a sail. I notice a uniformed fellow heading my way just as the sail disappears. I mentioned that I thought those guys on the cat might be in trouble. His reply was, “Oh yeah, mon. Look at dat, dey went over.”
I told him if he had a skiff or a dinghy he could run me out there and I could sail the boat back in. He said, “Oh no mon, you comfortable in de shade on your vacation, dose boys’ll figur it out.” and off he walked. After about 15 minutes, they right the boat and are trying to reach land and I got into my book. Sometime later, I look up to see them successfully heading into the beach, directly into the beach at a 90-degree angle to the heavy surf. This is not a good idea in a 16 foot catamaran. They seem to founder a while just outside of the surf zone until they got a good puff of wind and head straight up the back of a breaking swell. I stand up wishing I had a video camera to catch the ensuing disaster expecting the bows to tip over the face of the wave and augur into the sand and catapult the poor bastards into the shallows.
No such luck, the bows dig into the bottom of the wave but skitter free of the surface at the very last moment allowing the boat and its fortunate crew to stylishly surf the wave ashore just in front of the women. One of the poor fellows, however, blows the cool arrival and leaps off the front of the trampoline a bit too early and is promptly run over by the boat in about six inches of water. He recovers surprisingly quickly with help from his buddies and they drag the boat up onto the beach next to the three women. These guys are absolutely glowing red with sunburn and clearly shaken. Brief words are exchanged with the women and the guys disappear never to be seen again. I get back into my book for a while and from the corner of my eye I see the boat starting the tip over as they had neglected to free the sails and turn the hull into the wind. Sure enough, the top of the mast drops onto the sand five feet from the women.
Seeing an opportunity to be a hero, I head over and right the sailboat. As I’m doing so I ask if their husbands have ever sailed before. Adamantly, and in unison, they say that they had only met the guys the night before and had been invited to go sailing with them and that one of them claimed to have a boat back home. They go on to tell me that the guys had left the beach over four hours ago planning on a quick sail before lunch and that they were very glad that had chosen not to go along. I tell them that they should never go sailing with a stranger in a foreign land and that… damn! What am I thinking?! Oh well, so much for that. Lauren can now rest assured that I’m too dumb to pick up three available women in bikinis on a beach in a foreign land even if I wanted to. Back to the room for a shower and a nap before dinner.
Dad and I head to dinner around 7 and are thankful that the restaurant seems to have gotten its act and a full crew together and has actually catered a wedding in the late afternoon. Both Dad and I are exhausted from our naps. We enjoy an uneventful dinner and have a leisurely stroll around the grounds. As we approach our room, we notice a cow on the porch of one of the neighboring rooms about 40 feet away. That’s right, a cow. Elsie herself is munching on the foliage and flowers right in front of someone’s door. We watch her in tired amusement only halfway believing what we are seeing until we realize that there isn’t much we can do about it anyway. We are back in the room with the door firmly shut and sleeping by 9 pm.
We’re up by 6:30 and dodge cow patties on the way to a hearty breakfast and meet Samson at the front desk at 8:30 for our trip up and over the vertical island top to the airport. Our flight to San Juan is at 10:15. Flying out of Beef Island we swing around the north side of Tortola and get a bird’s eye view of Lambert Beach. I think of the Hobie Cat standing at the ready and the three poor bastards who probably ruined a good portion of their vacation with a vicious sunburn. As we head west to Puerto Rico, I point out to Dad the islands and anchorages we visited and to myself I hope that Dad has enjoyed the short but sweet trip as much as I did. I hope that any physical discomfort is forgotten and only the beauty and love is remembered.
The San Juan airport is crazy with crowds and we burn about three hours waiting for our flight to Houston. It’s funny to watch the crowd that returns to the States after a Caribbean vacation. Some are burnt crispy, some are wearing a new wardrobe of souvenirs, some are clearly suffering from over-indulging on their last night of vacation, some are wearing pressed khakis and starched shirts already hopelessly chattering into their cell phones, and some are like us.
There we sit in the airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Me and my dad. Going home from a vacation where we shared precious time and not-so-important conversation on a boat in the Caribbean Sea. A dream vacation.
Over the course of the trip I had many special moments thinking of my dad and my son. I thought of the heartache, stress, anger, and disappointment I’ve inspired for my Dad. I thought of those things in terms of what’s to come in raising Ethan. Somehow the bad things standout more brightly in my memory of being a son, but when ample attention to the past is given some truly incredible moments come alive as if they occurred yesterday. Those things are what make being a son and a dad so amazing.
I look forward to what Ethan may inspire in me because I know that for every bad event there are ten that will remind me what life is for and why we live it. It’s for days spent enjoying the purity and goodness that exists between two people inexorably connected by blood and a lifetime of experience and love without bounds. It’s for sitting on a sailboat or in an airport or at a table and having conversation about Dad’s experiences before I existed, his time and experiences in the Navy, his college days, and his Dad. I savor each of those conversations more than any tropical port of call or the rush of hulls through the sea. I look forward to the same with Ethan with the hope that he will be a bit quicker than I was. That’s my one regret, that my appreciation and love for my Dad took too long to crystallize into something I could express and share.
I love you, Dad.