The case of the Missing Dinghy
After concluding our explorations by car, Rick and I dropped TJ off at Soper's Hole marina so he could get our dinghy and pick us up at the Jolly Roger's dock after we dropped off the car. His ride should have only taken a few minutes, but we waited and waited, for at least 40. Wondering what TJ had gotten up to, and lacking the means to contact him, we hoofed it back to the marina, a little miffed. Arriving at the dock, we got a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomach when we found our locked boat, an agitated TJ, and no dinghy.
Of course, we've all heard the warnings about the occasional dinghy theft in the BVI -- a crime of opportunity if there ever was one. Heeding those warnings, we packed a cable and lock with us. We talked to the Footloose staff, and Jeanette said that if we used the lock at all, the only place she would recommend it was at Cane Garden Bay; Stephen dismissed even that, reminding us that no one wants a hard dink. In any event, it would have been impossible to lock the dinghy up without drilling new holes in it, as there was no place to attach the cable.
Back at Soper's Hole, we had tied the dinghy to the pier (I saw Rick tie the knot; it was as secure as any). Upon his return to Soper's, TJ had searched all over the marina for the dink, checking repeatedly with the dockmaster and the marina office, as well as other sailors. TJ made several radio calls -- on 16 so as not to alert Footloose (which monitors 12) prematurely of the possible theft -- in search for the missing dink. The crew of the megayacht next to us reported seeing a "clean-cut native guy" messing with the engine. Rick began to suspect that our dinghy was one of two he saw attached to a Footloose 50-footer on a mooring in the anchorage.
Just as we were putting 2 and 2 together, we saw a hard dinghy with two guys motoring over towards us. It was ours. We must have been quite a welcoming committee for them -- arms crossed, speechless but glowering. It seems that the 50-footer in the anchorage had made a service call to Footloose about their dinghy engine. Footloose's base manager, Bentley, came over in a truck, and "borrowed" our dinghy to get out to the distressed boat (they were "stranded" he said -- what about us?). He claimed to have informed the dockmaster, and was not perceptibly apologetic for letting us spend an hour thinking our dinghy was stolen and facing the prospect of paying hundreds of dollars for it. Most stunningly, he had come to Soper's Hole with no means of reaching the distressed crew -- had he planned to borrow someone's dinghy?
All's well that ends well, I suppose. And considering the customer service, or lack thereof, that other charter companies provide, this was a minor glitch that pales to insignificance when considered in light of 3 successful charters with Footloose over the years. So I'll leave it at that
Boats, Beaches and Bars A Drinking Woman's Guide to the BVI
The BVI have much to offer the island traveler. The beaches are superb. The landscapes are jaw-droppingly gorgeous, especially when recent rains have served to keep them green and lush. The residents -- approached correctly -- are warm and welcoming. Barring a freak week like ours, the sailing is great and relatively straightforward. The BVI are, nevertheless, not alone in these attributes. However, the BVI have one up on every other island destination I've ever visited: by far, the best collection of fabulous beach bars is found in the British Virgin Islands.
I was armed with Julian Putley's Drinking Man's Guide to the BVI --, which paid for itself in no time. I collected free Painkillers at Pusser's Marina Cay, a free rum punch at the Fat Virgin Café, two free Mellow Mango Magics at the Soggy Dollar Bar, and a free bottle of wine with dinner at Myett's. However, I soon tired of carrying the book in our dry bag (Note: a dry bag is a must-have for toting around cameras, towels and other stuff you don't want to get wet), and I missed a number of other opportunities to take advantage of the discounts.
In my normal, everyday life, I don't imbibe all that much. A glass of wine or two, or perhaps a simple rum drink, on Friday or Saturday night is the regular drill. But those island bars change the calculus altogether, and while I don't generally over-indulge, the prospect of a cool drink after, or before, a sail or swim or hike is simply irresistible. And so it was that we ended up patronizing a number of fine establishments: Pusser's, The Pub at Bitter End, Saba Rock, Bomba's, Myett's, Rhymer's, The Soggy Dollar Bar, Foxy's, and Pirate's to name a few.
Bomba's is really the first of its genre that I'd ever experienced in island travel, and so it sets the bar. We first visited in 1993, and it was a daytime tour as we zipped around Tortola in a rented Samurai. We drove past Bomba's on our way to beaching at Long Bay, and could not resist turning around -- it was almost obligatory, as the Shack had a Maryland flag flying on its pole that day. We were the only ones there, and were free to explore the random sandy-floored rooms and spaces sprawling along the waterfront, defiant and colorful in its ramshackle space. Our last visit was a late afternoon stop on this trip. Bomba has added on, and added more color, since many of the splintered 2x4s holding up the roof are now painted. The winds had kicked up surfable waves, so we watched surfers through the walls, silhouetted against the waning sun, a sight I'd never witnessed before.
Bomba himself was in residence, overseeing the relatively tame goings-on. Perhaps he was storing up energy for the upcoming Full Moon Party a few days later. A few groups beside ours were milling around, but it was a decidedly mellow scene. Through the walls, we saw a number of safari buses crammed with cruise ship daytrippers roll past the Shack, but only one stopped. A couple of daytrippers got out, peered in on us as if we were zoo exhibits (as if barefoot rum drinkers were somehow freaks, and badly-permed fanny-pack wearers are not?), and left without a greeting or expenditure of a single cent. Should I give them something to talk about? This is Bomba's after all ...
Perhaps the granddaddy of beach bars is Foxy's. Amazingly, in five prior visits, we had never succeeded in making the pilgrimage to this hallowed ground -- weather or poor holding or Foxy's absence during off-season had always conspired to keep us away. This trip, we finally did it, taxi-ing over from White Bay. Foxy was not only in residence, but performing as we arrived around 4 p.m. An audience of about a dozen folks sitting at tables fuzzily (they pour VERY stiff drinks here) followed along Foxy's calypso musings on such diverse topics as politics and hair loss. It's a relatively dark and shaded place, and attracts not only those wanting to hear Foxy sing, but also the folks who surround the bar, shoppers, and the people laying out on the meager beach (where they were undoubtedly being eaten by the only mosquitos and no-see-ums we encountered all week). Foxy's enterprises include the requisite t-shirt shop (where I picked up the requisite t-shirt), but also a proprietary rum and microbrew. The original island entrepreneur!
My favorite beach bar remains the Soggy Dollar on Jost Van Dyke's White Bay. I've never been able to visit this spot without being attacked by powerful magnetic forces (sand gravity?) which leave me incapable of leaving fewer than 12 hours after arriving. The addition of moorings in front of Ivan's another worthy contender in the Beach Bar Olympics while contributing to making White Bay more crowded, provide peace of mind to those of us unable to resist the Soggy Dollar's charms. The elements add up, at least for me. There seems always to be a smart-aleck, BS-ing, charmer tending bar Wyndy this time. The drinks are fantastic, and the bartenders' occasional oversight when adding up the tab is
