Part 5: The Baths and North Sound
John's Wednesday declaration of a "good morning" was portentous. Our itinerary was sparse. The only thing on the agenda was a visit to the Baths. Given the fact that it was off-season, and given the early hour, we were pleased to find only one other yacht moored off the Baths. John deemed our isolation an "absolute gift." As the day wore on, of course, the day trippers from the cruise ships and the other islands, together with the t-shirt and souvenir vendors, would crowd the beach; and ultimately, we would succumb and feed the tourist economy by buying a few odds and ends from the hawkers. But, we were alone for our first few hours of new acquaintance with the world-famous site.
The Baths is an agglomeration of huge, volcanically-tossed boulders, leaning against each other in the shallows of an otherwise white, classically Caribbean blue beach. The juxtaposition of beach and rocks creates shadowy, watery grottoes, caves for exploring, labyrinths to snorkel, mazes to wade in. We swam, splashed, climbed, played, and marveled for hours. During a break in the action, Jodi and I sat in one of the pools, rocking in the surf and contentedly letting handfuls of sand slip through our fingers. Only when we looked down did we realize that we were sitting in pools of neon pink jellyfish, and ran screaming to the beach.
The crowds soon took over the beach and water, so we sailed off towards more remote points, to enjoy a quiet lunch. We initially headed towards Mountain Point on Virgin Gorda. It looked ideal: a secluded white strand fronted by peacock waters. We anchored there for lunch. Alas, Mountain Point was not quite as secluded as we hoped, because when we started entertaining the thought of going ashore for some beach action, a naked man emerged from the vegetation and made it clear by his actions (and undress) that we were not welcome there. Thus, we reluctantly left what was thereafter known as "Willie Point," named after a certain part of the un-welcome committee's anatomy.
Not that we would suffer, dropping anchor a short bit later at the next likely spot, a twin rainbow beach known as Anguilla Point. One half of the creamy double crescent, separated from the other by an outcropping of rocks, was occupied by a crowd of one, so we opted for the empty half. As we played on the steeply sloping beach, we also enjoyed the view of Moskito Island, and its private island resort Drake's Anchorage, across the channel. After playing around a bit, we sailed on, making our way across the shallow, coral-studded passage to North Sound, one of the most popular anchorages in the BVI. Bounded to the south by Virgin Gorda, and on the north by Moskito, Prickly Pear, Eustatia, and Necker Islands, North Sound is like a private playground for sailing yachts. We grabbed a mooring ball, Rick and Jodi drawing in the slimy rope with the boat hook and their bare hands, and staked out our spot for the night.
One of my friends told me that when he and his friends did a bareboat BVI charter, they spent nearly one full week (out of two) in North Sound, and it was easy to understand the attraction. In addition to affording a breezy, well-protected anchorage, there was plenty of entertainment for an enterprising sailor. We examined some of the opportunities that afternoon and evening. John took us first to the Bitter End Yacht Club, where we tied up at the dinghy dock and had a look around. We examined the dining facilities (empty at that hour), the shopping
(bought a t-shirt or two), the beach (apparently man-made and exceedingly well-manicured), and the accommodations (empty, as it was off-season). Nice, but I couldn't want to spend a week there.
Our next stop was somewhat more to my liking. We dinghied across the Sound to Saba Rock, a mere dot on the map and nothing more than a rock in the middle of the Sound. The whole rock, however, was taken over by an establishment called Pirate's Pub, the front of which was open to the outside, and the rear of which was carved out of the rock. Down the back wall, trickles of water formed a tiny waterfall, and nearby were perched two parrots. The stone floors felt cool beneath our bare feet. We were just about the only ones in the place, a symptom of off-season, but I imagine this place packed in a livelier crowd in the winter months. John engaged the parrots in conversation, while we engaged the bartender in making us the evening's special drink, raspberry coladas.
The Pirate's Pub drinks were merely a prelude, as we finished them in time to dinghy back to Nittany and start the next state of happy hour. Judging from the evening's conversation, and the amount of liquor consumed by guests and crew alike, we guessed that John and Monique had become more comfortable with us. By the time the steaks finally made it to the grill, we were all pretty well marinated. Afterwards, John mustered up the energy to take all of us back Pirate's Pub for more drinking and a few games of darts.
We drank all sorts of exotic concoctions, most notably Doug and his Bushwhackers, which he will not soon forget. All the better to fortify us for the ensuing battle of the sexes at the dart board. The Tarts defeated the old Farts at Darts, but you're not likely to hear the guys admit it. After games and drinking, we went outside (not that inside wasn't really outside, since Pirate's Pub lacked windows or exterior walls, except where it was enclosed by rock) to sit on the benches near the edge of the pier, watching the stars and talking (in slow motion, no doubt). Since we were the only ones at Pirates Pub, other than the indulgent bartender, we literally closed the place when we left that evening, tottering unsteadily into the dinghy, and gratefully falling into our beds, for the first (and only) good night of sleep we would have on our sailing trip.
Thursday morning dawned bright and warm, beautiful to all of us except Doug, who seemed to find the dazzling light an affront to his hangover. Nevertheless, after a hearty breakfast, he and Rick and Jodi gathered up enough strength and courage to take a tour of Eustatia Reef. Hanging off the dinghy with snorkel and mask as John piloted the intrepid explorers through interesting spots in the coral was not my idea of fun, so I stayed on the Nittany and caught up on my reading and sun. As it turned out, the multitudes of pink jellyfish made the excursion less exciting than intended; John was somewhat disappointed at the snorkelers' less than enthusiastic response to the reef, but I'm not sure he appreciated how many jellyfish were out there that morning.
While the others snorkeled, I got a good look at our surroundings at North Sound. In addition to Saba Rock and Virgin Gorda, we were also in sight of Eustatia, Necker and Prickly Pear Islands. Necker Island is owned by globe-trotting zillionaire Richard Branson, and is the site of an ultra-luxurious, ultra-exclusive resort which accommodates no more than 30 guests (often of the same party) at $60,000 a week in its Balinese main house and guest cottage. From my point of view, Necker was not all that impressive, the land appearing scrubby and dry and the beaches seemingly coral-bound. Of course, I'm not saying I would decline an invitation to stay there . . .
Pleasant as North Sound was, we had to leave our mooring and move on. Our next port of call, where we enjoyed a homemade pizza lunch, was the north shore of Prickly Pear Island. Prickly Pear had a long, but not deep, crescent-shaped beach which stretched for about 1,000 feet. We were not blessed with complete solitude, as a small motorboat bearing two passengers had also landed on the beach, but life was pretty good. Doug found it ideal for napping under a sea grape, while Jodi, Rick and I explored. Coming over the top of the beach, and deep in the sea grapes and casuarinas, I spotted a white shell speckled with brown spots: it looked like a perfect cowrie and a wonderful addition to my collection. As I moved closer and my eyes adjusted to the dappled shade of the trees, I saw one, two, dozens more of these perfect specimens. But alas, as I got even closer, I saw that the suckers were MOVING! Yes, every single one of these lovely cowries was occupied by a hermit crab, and I had no interest in taking one of those home.
We left our afternoon anchorage and set off in search for our overnight anchorage. As we did so, the brilliant morning gave way to a stormy afternoon, and we listened to a radio report about the "tropical wave" coming off the Dominican Republic. Jodi, Rick and John took turns at the helm, Rick as ever holding the wheel with one hand and a beer with the other. We watched a few funnel clouds never quite reaching the water to form a water spout, and Jodi took compass bearings because, at times, we lost visibility as the rain pelted down and the seas kicked up a bit. The storm did not linger, moving on and leaving behind spectacular twin rainbows.
