Just as we retired early Saturday evening, we rose with the sun Sunday morning. I slipped out onto our patio with the camera before Rick woke, and took a few photos of Road Harbour at sunrise. Though paling in comparison to St. George's in Grenada, the harbour is one of the loveliest in the Caribbean, surrounded on three sides with verdant hills and the charming, rainbow-colored buildings of Roadtown. In the Moorings complex, rows of nearly identical Morgan and Beneteau yachts, with matching royal blue sail bags embellished with the Moorings logo, line up like an elegant regiment. Doug and Jodi had risen equally early, none of us seeming to be able to sleep in when there was so much exploring to be done, and we made an early trip to the Veranda for a hearty, cholesterol-laden breakfast.
Row upon row of matching Moorings yachts awaiting charters (though most are idle in September)..
This was the day we were going to go exploring. After we packed up all of our beach paraphernalia, including snorkeling gear and cameras, we met a driver who took us to Budget to get a driver's license and pick up our topless Suzuki Samurai. On the way to the Budget office, we got our first glimpse of downtown Roadtown, which had one traffic circle (probably the only one in the BVI), a number of offices, and -- in typical Caribbean fashion -- myriad candy-colored houses, restaurants, and shops. Unlike some other island towns, Roadtown was relatively clean and prosperous; however, there was the usual complement of crazed drivers and wandering livestock.
We were soon headed uphill in the Samurai, Rick and Doug doing the driving and navigating from the front seats, and
and me and Jodi being generally obnoxious and taking lots of pictures perched on the back seat. (In one respect, a Samurai is a tremendously convenient vehicle for tourists: to take a photo, one needs only to stand up and shoot.)
Tortola, a volcanic island like all of the other BVI except Anegada, is wider from east to west than from north to south, and has a mountainous spine running from east to west. To get to the fabled beaches of the north coast, we either had to ascend the mountains or traverse the coast road along the perimeter. Not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, and ignoring our Samurai's meager capabilities, we opted to go over the top. Putting the Samurai in low gear, we chugged up grades that had to be at least 45 degrees.
Our choice to go over the hills was rewarded with sweeping vistas of all of Tortola on that day of blue sky and golden sunshine. We gazed upon Roadtown to the south, complete with its harbor full of sailboats; from that height, even the Cunard Countess, a cruise ship, did not look too big. To the north, we sighted cerulean bays rimmed with sugar-white sand and palm and sea grape trees, carved like little bites out of the coastline. Across the channel was green Jost Van Dyke, in sharp contrast to St. Thomas, which was dotted with clusters of white houses, hotels and other buildings, the signs of habitation and civilization which we sought to escape.
Near the peak of the ridge that divides north from south Tortola like a spine, there was a small stand identified simply (on a piece of hand-lettered posterboard) as "Rudy's Outside Bar." To call this "attraction" a shack would have overstated its permanence; it was nothing more than a table under a thatched roof, and it had a few rows of liquor bottles and beer cans lined up on it. Despite its quirky modesty, Rudy's embodied the quintessential Caribbean: informal, impromptu, and impervious to the pace and demands of big-city life.
Going downhill toward Brewers Bay was an even greater challenge than going uphill. The ostensibly two-lane road, not much more expansive that a single car's width, was steep, complete with impossibly tight curves. As Rick applied the brakes to prevent to quick a descent, they squealed in protest; there was no room for error. As we approached the beach, the road flattened out. While searching for a likely spot to settle our jeep and gear, we drove past the ruins of a rum distillery which warranted further examination. Crumbling bricks and rusting boilers and pipes of unknown vintage were overhung with jungle vines and greenery, an incongruous combination.
Near-solitude at Brewer's Bay.
Brewers Bay is one of those idyllic Caribbean beaches that approaches perfection. Sugar white sand edged crystalline water, while a few yards offshore, interesting coral beckoned snorkelers. The beach was lined with sea grapes and palm trees, which provided welcome shade, as well as manchioneel trees, which did not. There was a bar located at one end of the beach, which, had it not been closed for a private party, would have provided an appreciated, cooling beer after a few hours in the sun. An unobtrusive and empty campground was hidden behind the trees along one side of the beach. We, about a half dozen other snorkelers and sun worshippers, and a few fishermen had the beach to ourselves.
Brewers Bay is one of those idyllic Caribbean beaches that approaches perfection. Sugar white sand edged crystalline water, while a few yards offshore, interesting coral beckoned snorkelers. The beach was lined with sea grapes and palm trees, which provided welcome shade, as well as manchioneel trees, which did not. There was a bar located at one end of the beach, which, had it not been closed for a private party, would have provided an appreciated, cooling beer after a few hours in the sun. An unobtrusive and empty campground was hidden behind the trees along one side of the beach. We, about a half dozen other snorkelers and sun worshippers, and a few fishermen had the beach to ourselves.
As soon as we dropped our gear on the sand, we headed for the water. After strapping on our snorkeling equipment, it was only a few slaps of the swim fins before we found ourselves among rocks and coral heads teeming with sea life. Unlike the reefs of Providenciales, which assaulted the senses with blazes of color and ostentatious sea creatures, Brewer's Bay required a somewhat more contemplative approach to snorkeling in order to fully appreciate what it had to offer. The water was a little cloudier (probably owing to the softer sand) and the colors more subdued. The fish didn't come right at you; the better approach was to simply choose a spot and watch what developed. If you had the patience to wait in one spot, your eyes would adjust to the scenery and soon you would be able to pick up subtle movements and changing patterns. Not as exciting as Provo, but in its way, equally rewarding.
Doug soon became frustrated with his leaky snorkel, and we came in from the coral to play in the water. With soft sand and warm, buoyant water, who could resist? The only drawback was the schools of nearly invisible, transparent fish which were about four inches long; they would sneak up on us and try to nibble on our feet, our ankles, our thighs, whatever was in their reach.
After we had covered the waterfront, so to speak, we decided to head to Cane Garden Bay for lunch and to catch some of the action. Cane Garden Bay, forever memorialized in the Jimmy Buffett song "Mañana" ("I know it gets better, that's what they say, as soon as we sail on to Cane Garden Bay . . . .") is one of the most fabled of all of the world's anchorages and is also said to be one of the world's most beautiful beaches.
Viewed from atop Tortola, Cane Garden Bay certainly held much promise, revealing its crescent shape, blue blue blue water dappled with the shadows of clouds, a few white yachts bobbing at anchor, and yards of white, inviting sand. As we approached, Cane Garden Bay revealed signs of civilization: numerous bars and restaurants, t-shirt vendors, and a higher density of visitors than experienced elsewhere on the island (though light years away from the crowds experienced along the Maryland and Delaware beaches in August). Of course, a lively beach and anchorage, complete with a variety of provisions and entertainment options, is usually just what a yachtie may wish for after a few days sharing the same company in cramped quarters.
Cane Garden Bay, forever immortalized (at least among Parrotheads) in the song Manana.
We might have looked a bit worse-for-the-wear after our adventures at Brewer's Bay, but who bothers with a hairbrush or dry clothing in the islands? After picking up a few postcards and some film at a shop, we headed to Rhymers, right on the beach, for lunch. The interior of Rhymers was strictly utilitarian: cement floors, cinder block walls (painted pink), but the view through the windowless, wall-less front of the building was spectacular. We enjoyed a few rounds of Coronas and watched the passing parade. There was the usual complement of beautiful people, as well as "ugly" Americans and Europeans: the overweight, black-socked, red-faced, middle-aged, middle-class Midwesterners complaining about the heat (one woman even carried a tiny battery operated fan
We walked the length of the beach. Rick and Doug entertained us with an enchanting synchronized swimming routine, and Doug and Jodi bought t-shirts from a seaside vendor. Even during the off-season, the beach was lively, with children playing in the surf, joggers running along the shore, boats at anchor in the bay, sun worshipers soaking up rays.
After having explored Cane Garden Bay, we continued along the coastal road, with all of its switchbacks, hairpin curves, gear grinding hills, and wildlife (hermit crabs, goats, chickens) towards Long Bay. Before reaching our destination, our attention was caught by the infamous Bomba's Beach Shack, an agglomeration of corrugated metal, driftwood, plywood, and the flotsam and jetsam of the modern age (telephones, jeeps, bicycles, etc.). We knew that we would return after beaching it!
Photos of Long Bay Beach adorn every BVI tourist brochure and countless postcards, none of which do it justice. The white sands stretch for over a mile, ending at a jutting headland capped with what appears to be a small volcanic cone, covered with tropical vegetation. Rick and Doug went snorkeling near the headland, while Jodi and I simply opted to float in the warm, buoyant water of the sea. Unlike other calm BVI beaches, the surf at Long Bay Beach was playful, though not rough. Jodi and I body-surfed, frequently losing our bikini tops to the receding waters. Our compromised dress mattered little, though, since there was no one on the beach but our husbands to notice. In fact, Rick and Doug had been out of sight for some time; assuming, facetiously, that the boys had been dashed against the coral, Jodi and I planned for a brief period of grieving, after which we would collect the life insurance proceeds and continue our search for Jimmy Buffett in the islands.
Eva and Jodi body-surfing at Long Bay.
After Jodi and I satisfactorily settled what we would do if Rick and Doug never surfaced, Rick and Doug did, indeed, surface, cameras and video in tow. Rick and Doug recorded our body-surfing performance on film and then Rick encouraged us to rid ourselves of our bikini tops. (Fortunately, Doug had the video camera trained in another direction, and then Rick blocked Doug's view of us as we wrestled with the surf to get our tops back on.)
We then backtracked to Bomba's, parking the Samurai next to a tethered goat. There was no one there but us, a
bartender, and Bomba, who was ensconced in a dark back "room." We ordered a round of Red Stripes and began exploring the meandering warren of sand-floored spaces, separated by hunks of corrugated metal or the odd two-by-four. With its collection of business cards attached to the walls with rusty staples, graffiti, underwear, street signs, written-on clothing, and appliances, Bomba's provides an ongoing commentary on our times, all the more reliable because it is so un-self-conscious and compiled by so many different hands.
The north side of Bomba's was open to the sea, the view interrupted only by a gnarled sea grape tree (whose trunk and roots, like everything else semi-permanent inside of Bomba's, acted as a foundation for make-shift furniture and a bulletin board) and the low roof line. Unlike the smug calm of other Caribbean bays, Apple Bay, on which Bomba's is situated, is known for surfing. Although the day we were there did not produce any particularly rideable swells, the jagged coral just below the surface suggested that surfers are a little less sane than the rest of us. The relative calm that pervaded Apple Bay that Sunday was reflected in the off-season quiet that permeated Bomba's, which, during high-season, and especially on Wednesdays and Sundays when Bomba has his infamous barbecue party, can be a madhouse. Though we could have spent hours there just reading the walls, it was a little too quiet for us and we left after finishing our beers, but not before saluting the Maryland flag flapping from a high flagpole atop Bomba's.
Re-defining "barefoot casual" -- Doug at Bomba's.
A beach bar, a Red Stripe, and good friends -- what more do you need? Rick at Bomba's.
Rather than back-tracking over the treacherous spine of the island to return towards Roadtown, we decided to take the coast road which traced the perimeter of Tortola. As we were getting a little giddy from the sun, surf and beer, this turned out to be a far safer alternative, with few hairpin turns to negotiate, and no breath-taking hills to crest. In no time, we found ourselves in Roadtown, parking outside of Pusser's. After a hot day on the beaches, the English-pub dark and cool of Pusser's was more than welcome. After poking around the gift shop, which was extensive and expensive, we ordered some nachos to accompany the obligatory Painkillers (a concoction of Pusser's rum, orange and pineapple juices, cream of coconut, and fresh grated nutmeg). After a few rounds, we left, toting a cardboard briefcase full of Pusser's. Needless to say, that was the closest any of us got to a briefcase all week.
After returning to Treasure Isle and freshening up, we headed for the bar, which overlooked the pool. Watching the dregs of Sunday NFL football, we imbibed in such mild-sounding drinks as "Gentle Kisses" and "Shooting Stars," whose names revealed nothing of their potent contents. Afterwards, we descended to another picture-perfect dinner, serenaded by a symphony of tree frogs and crickets and caressed by the soft evening breeze. Tortola certainly didn't require much getting-used-to.
