Because of the passing storm and the ashy haze, Sunday just doesn't look like a beach day. Due to the religious programming on the radio, we can't find a weather forecast to help us decide where to head. I finally catch a relayed weather report courtesy of Virgin Islands Radio on VHF 85, which ended with the suggestions that we get "in the lee of something big" today. (In retrospect, this sounds suspiciously like Saturday's forecast). We decide to head for Soper's Hole.
It's not a long way to Soper's Hole from White Bay, so we motor. Seas are very choppy today. Everyone seems to have the idea of heading somewhere sheltered today; when we arrive at 10:30, only 4 mooring balls are available; by day's end, even with turnover, there is not a mooring to be found and marina slips are full as well. We are on the mooring closet to the Soper's Hole Marina and Pusser's, offering front row seats for people-watching. Not only charter boats coming in and out for water and provisions, but cruise ship daytrippers as well. White socks with sandals and fanny packs are a dead giveaway! (I defy anyone to find a sailor with socks -- any socks -- in the islands!)
For lunch, we head to the Jolly Roger. It's Sunday afternoon quiet here, with only a handful of tables occupied. I have a mahi mahi sandwich while Rick has a roti. We head back to Happy Chance to collect our trash, and dink over to Soper's to dispose of it and do some shopping and pay for our mooring. I pick up some gifts at Latitude 18 to give to my neighbor picking up mail, my assistant, etc. Over the years, I've collected so much stuff in the islands that I hardly bother anymore. I'm better off with beach glass to adorn a picture frame, or shells to fill a bowl, though I will admit to a weakness for pareos. More people watching and hanging out follows. The sun tries to poke out, but it has no chance getting through the sheer curtain of ash. We decide to head to Pusser's for sundowners and munchies.
Soper's Hole is uncommonly busy on this July Sunday. Rough weather and olcanic ash inspire shopping, not beach-combing.
Rick has an innate sense of balance and grace when it comes to boats, and has always been a bit amused by my cautious attitude when climbing in and out of dinghies. Over the years, I have perfected my technique and while not jaunty or swift, it is effective. But Rick wants me to be bold, so he directs (dares?) me to step on the bow seat with one foot (with painter in hand) and to follow immediately into the dink with the other all with no hands. Incidentally, it seems that we have the ONLY hard dinghy in the BVI. Naturally, my own hesitation and the elements (ash and moisture on the bow seat) conspire against me, and as I plant my foot on the bow seat, it slides out from under me and I land, un-lady-like, on my rear end and left arm. Since I already had Dinghy Butt from the ride over to the Jolly Roger earlier, the incremental dirt on my butt mattered not, but I sure have a doozy of a bruise! (I expect that Rick will leave me to my own methods for dinghy entry and exit for a while).
After my humbling descent into the dinghy, we get to Pusser's and claim front row seats, ordering up #3 Painkillers, wings and calamari. Service is predictably leisurely, leaving us to watch the comings and goings in the anchorage and on the docks. The sounds of people and dinghies challenge the clearly confused roosters to crow even louder. Every mooring is full, and arriving boats resort to anchoring. We return to Happy Chance for a dinner of beef and mushroom stew and a Rosemount shiraz. Despite the entertainment all around us, we are exhausted. For the first time since we've arrived, the water and wind are relatively calm and we make the most of our spacious aft cabin to get a good night's sleep.
Beach Time
Monday morning's sky is still hazy and ash-filled, rendering the whole day black-and-white, except for the vivid turquoise of the water, which nothing seems to dim. After an early stop at the Ample Hamper, we sail off for Peter Island, making 2 long tacks towards Deadman's Bay after clearing the Little Thatch Cut. This is one of my favorite beaches in the islands, and we share it with only one other boat. The anchor sets in a sandy patch on the first try, and we dinghy ashore for some quality beach and swimming time. The water is lovely and free of jellyfish, and we are the only people on the "yachtsmen's" portion of the beach. We sit for a while among the rocks , letting the surf wash over us.
Out of an abundance of caution (OK, maybe paranoia), we leave for our intended overnight destination of Manchioneel Bay at Cooper Island at noon, and find ourselves snaring a mooring at noon. The sky is finally clearing, though islands in the distance are hard to make out. Eagle flights, which can be seen landing at Beef Island, seem to have resumed. It's very windy and rolly here, which does not bode well for a restful night. Lunch is chef salads, and then we go off to Cistern Point for snorkeling, tying up on the dinghy line. The conditions are too rough for me, so I stay in the dinghy and keep an eye on Rick.
The beach at Cooper Island is one of a bevy of BVI lovelies. Unfortunately, the grassy bottom and swirling winds make anchoring a challenge here, reducing visitors to exclusive use of morings.
After snorkeling, we go ashore to the Cooper Island Beach Club to pay for our mooring, reserve dinner, and have a drink or two. We are joined at beach bar by a sailing couple from Raleigh and end up talking and sipping until 4:30. Then it's time for a nice long swim off the transom, our last boat showers, and cocktail munchies that clean out the larder. As we are getting cleaned up, Rick notices a moored boat in the anchorage with its jib partially unfurled and flogging in the smart breeze. He doesn't feel like he should simply climb aboard and furl it in, so he takes a dingy over to CIBC in search of the boat's crew. He finds them, and they sort of shrug their shoulders as if to say "It's a rental," without moving to deal with it; in the meantime, a pair in a kayak take the initiative, climb aboard, and furl in the sail.
Dinner is nice: conch creole for Rick, chicken roti for me. Every table is full. We watch the sky for a while afterward, and then head to sleep, which evades me. It's a very rough night, with the wind roaring over the hills like a rollercoaster, and through the rigging. Waves slap the hull and we swing around and around. At 11:00 p.m., a Hatch Drill. Even though it's our last day, I'm happy to see the sunrise.
Why Does Going Home Have to Be So Hard?
Tuesday morning, and the volcanic haze is clearing. We hang around Manchioneel Bay til about 9:30. Rick makes another run to Cistern Point for snorkeling, but it is now infested with jellyfish. We pack up and clean up. Under normal circumstances, Rick might have cleaned the decks, but with all the ash, a few bucketsful of water wouldn't have done much good.
We have a lazy downwind sail to Roadtown and are dockside by 11:00. I check us out, we take showers and say our goodbyes. We have lunch at the Mariner Inn and watch now-Hurricane Claudette on the news. At 1, we are picked up by our open-air taxi-bus and head to the airport, where we are scheduled on a 3:35 p.m. flight.
Rick and Eva, enjoying our last night's dinner at the Cooper Island Beach Club.
It never fails. Travel "adventures" always seem to find me, whether I want them or not. There is no hint of trouble until American Eagle starts announcing that the AE flight before ours is delayed; ours would surely be delayed as well. In the departure lounge, we meet people who've been stuck here since Sunday because of the volcano and are hoping to finally get out today. A group from Dallas ends up chartering their own plane to San Juan in hopes of making their connection.
Our flight ends up leaving an hour late, making our connection dicey. We hurry to immigration and then wait anxiously for our bag in customs. We have 15 minutes, so I check with an AA agent to see if anything can be done to help us catch our flight. She just shakes her head and tells me I will miss it (this is especially galling when compared to the efforts of AA to help late-arrivers to the airport in Baltimore). Our bag finally rolls onto the carousel and we run through customs with 7 minutes to spare, but the next AA agent we encounter won't even let us try to catch the flight: it is closed.
Then we are shunted from endless line to another, trying to make alternate arrangements. It's not just us and the Eagle flight ahead of ours, but dozens of delayed American Eagles, as well as the people who have been stranded because of the volcano. Things are chaotic, to say the least, and the lines look hours long. I try to use my cell phone to call AA, but for some reason I can't dial 800 numbers. So I leave Rick in line and step away to a pay phone. This is a lot more efficient than waiting in line for hours, but nevertheless, the best I can manage is a flight out on Wednesday, through MIA to Reagan National (our car is at BWI). The phone agent is very helpful, and suggests that Rick continue standing in line to maybe get a hotel voucher, but the agent is not optimistic, since San Juan hotels are full due to the prior days' grounded flights.
I start calling the hotel chains, starting first with friend Jeff (who is not in his office at Marriott) and the Marriott's reservations line, but there is not a room to be had in a 50 mile radius. From the Marriott agent, I got the number of a hotel in Condado, but that is fruitless as well. However, I sense in the lady on the phone a sympathetic soul, so I ask her to name some other hotels and provide phone numbers. She kindly does so, and I start calling the more recognizable names on the list (which was lucky, since a lady I talk to the next day told me she stayed at another hotel on my list, which had plenty of room, but was a flea bag). At last, I score a room at The Water Club in Isla Verde. Triumphant -- for it is these small victories that matter so much -- I pull Rick out of line and we leave the airport, voucher be damned. (We have trip insurance)
A $9 taxi ride gets us to this very cool, hip hotel on the beach. The décor is simple but striking, starting with a Murano glass mosaic on the front door, to the staff dressed all in black or white, to the glassed-in blue neon waterfalls which are the walls of the elevators. Our room has blonde wood floors with glass and brushed metal furniture and white curtains, blinds, upholstery and bedding with taupe accents. One wall is lit with blue/purple neon (that gets shut off FAST!); the lights in the rooms shine through to the outside, so that from a distance, you can see the hotel light up in that watery color. At the recommendation of the desk staff, we walk a few block to dinner at Metropol, which features Cuban/Puerto Rican food in an unpretentious, comfortable atmosphere. We have a great evening, and things could be much worse than getting an unplanned night in San Juan (See: Dallas, February 2003).
A 4:15 a.m. alarm starts Wednesday off, so that we can catch a 7 a.m. flight to MIA, and onward to DCA. Miraculously, the flights go off without a hitch, and we arrive in Washington around 2:00 p.m. Rick's brother generously picks us up and takes us home, from whence we drive to BWI to pick up our car.
So, with the benefit of hindsight, and with the frustration of trying to get home behind me, the question always arises: Will I go back to the BVI? Unlike many travelers, I am not devoted to one particular destination; Rick and I like to mix known favorites with new exploration. Every time I leave the BVI, I observe that they get more and more commercialized and crowded. I don't like the way that some things have been dumbed-down to attract more and more tourists, with basic sailboats evolving into behemoth motor yachts with all the comforts of home -- they seem to insulate the traveler from the environment that they are supposedly here to enjoy. As the vessels get simpler to operate, it seems that their operators are less considerate of other visitors and the natural environment. (This is, of course, a sweeping generalization, and I don't mean to imply that this is the case in each situation).
But at the same time, despite the changes I've witnessed over a decade of coming here, the magic and beauty of the islands and the people keep calling me back. Like a well-worn and well-loved shoe, I may be tempted to throw it away, but I still find myself slipping blissfully and comfortably into it when the opportunity presents itself.
