We dropped anchor late Thursday afternoon on the leeward side of Middle Dog, one of "The Dogs," where we would spend the last night of our cruise. Middle Dog was blessed with a narrow beach bounded on two sides by water and connecting a large pile of rocks to the main part of the island. Though the afternoon was grey, the six of us spent a diverting afternoon climbing rocks and collecting dozens of wonderful shells, mostly miniature conchs and snails.
After we had explored all of Middle Dog's beach, we took the dinghy over to Great Dog, a few hundred yards south. What appeared from a distance to be an intriguing beach turned out to be steep and rocky, as we found out rather jarringly when the dinghy hit the bottom several times before we even made it to the beach. We looked around, and then I spied a large, speckled boulder and decided that it would make a great photo opportunity. However, as soon as I adopted a fetching pose sitting atop the boulder and commanded Rick to take my picture, I realized that something was VERY wrong. The speckles on the boulder started to move, and then they started to bite, and then I ran yelling into the sea, to get away from the scourge of hundreds of biting sand fleas. As a magnet for biting insects, I am no stranger to insect bites, but this was by far the worst case I ever suffered. I had hundreds of bites on my arms and legs, and no amount of stinging seawater could take away the itch. The joke, at my itchy expense, will forever be remembered: Great Dog has fleas!
I was not the only one so bitten, as Monique had fed a few dozen of the pesky no-see-ums. Nevertheless, no one else suffered enough misery to provide me with adequate company for the rest of the trip, as I scratched furiously and applied lots of supposed remedies to my bumpy legs. My disappointment with Great Dog's beach only fueled John's derision of my quest for the perfect beach. None of our anchorages had met my requirements (which are admittedly very exacting), and none would, but I would not give up on the BVI, as four days at sea was only scratching (pun intended) the surface.
While Monique prepared yet another spectacular dinner, Rick and John tended bar, serving up some lip-puckering margaritas. The sunset alone made our last night memorable, as we sat in silent awe of the streaks of red marking the western sky. Frequent Caribbean travelers will confirm that colorful island sunsets are largely a myth. Lack of pollution and clear skies generally result in monochromatic golden sundowns. Occasionally, a volcanic eruption or a retreating storm will result in a more vivid showing of color, and these events are to be cherished. And that is just what we did this Thursday evening, as we pointed our sights toward the sun. Alas, no green flash.
The sun sets on our last night at sea, showering Tortola to the west in a brilliant shower of color.
Friday morning, we prepared to return to Tortola. After giving us breakfast, Monique scraped the last evening's rice into the sea. Immediately, dozens of jacks started feeding on our bounty, and we amused ourselves by seeing how large a chunk of old bread a hungry fish would take. Golf ball-sized, it turned out, as the greedy jacks would swim off with their mouths propped open by their catch. This sport soon ceased to amaze, so we motored off to a likely spot for snorkeling.
After the boys explored a rock-bound cove, we started making our way back to Roadtown. A brief, misty rain brought us more rainbows, and a brisk breeze had the boat heeling at a pretty steep angle. At one point, as Jodi and I laid out on our stomachs on the foredeck, we were pitched at such an angle that we felt like we were doing handstands, hanging on to the handrail for dear life! We had built up such a head of steam that we were able to outpace a South African.
Eventually, we leveled off and Jodi and I relaxed and concentrated on our suntans. Unbeknownst to us, John was planning mischief, and Doug goaded him on (Rick claims innocence). Thus, as we lay quietly on the deck, getting pleasantly warm, John crept up to the cooler and scooped up a pitcherful of by-now freezing water, which he promptly dumped on our unsuspecting backs. Shrieks and recriminations (as well as vows of revenge) followed.
All too soon, we docked in Road Harbour and collected our gear. We tipped John and Monique lavishly, and invited them to dinner that evening. Although they said they made a practice of not going out to dinner with their guests, since they enjoyed themselves so much with us, they agreed. We parted, to meet again in the evening.
Nittany's crew, from left to right: Jodi, Doug, Eva, Monique, Rick and John. It's been a lovely cruise...
Upon returning to terra firma, we had an entire afternoon ahead of us before our dinner with John and Monique. After cleaning up and getting re-settled in hotel rooms, we strolled to Roadtown for some touristy exploration and souvenir shopping. There was an open-air market for tchotchkes, as well as the usual gamut of junk shops lining the streets on which roosters and goats were more numerous than humans. Our favorite store was Sunny Caribbee, which sold spices, specialty foods (like hot sauces), toiletries, and artwork. We really liked the colorful Haitian houses made from oil drums. Rick and I picked up a watercolor print of Soper's Hole, and Doug and Jodi bought some spices. At another shop, we each bought prints of hand-colored maps of the Virgin Islands, which now hang in our respective family rooms.
Although we had made dinner reservations for Pusser's that evening, once John and Monique arrived for dinner, they told us we would be better off going native. So we changed our plans to go to C&F Restaurant instead. It was already after dark when a taxi dropped us off at the restaurant, which we probably could never find in the daylight. We made arrangements to be picked up a few hours later. The restaurant didn't appear to be very substantial; indeed, it left one with the feeling of being in a dark tent strung with Christmas lights. After getting started with a few drinks (what else!) and toasts from John to his best charterers ever (sure John, you probably say that to all of your guests) , we studied the menu.
Those of us who ordered fish were ushered towards the kitchen, where we were invited to choose the very fish we would eat. Not being prepared to eat fish I had just snorkeled with, or blue-colored fish for that matter, I passed on the parrotfish, as did everyone else in our party. I went for the triggerfish, which the chef assured me was delicious. And it was, though it made quite a forbidding presentation, since the fish, sharp mouthful of teeth and all, was served whole. Nevertheless, once I was able to ignore the eyes and mouth, and with a few rum punches in me, I dug in. Eventually, we staggered to our taxi and started heading towards Treasure Isle.
Not wanting the evening to end, we stopped at a local pub in Roadtown called the Virgin Queen. It was located on the second floor of a non-descript building and was highly unremarkable in appearance, tiled with linoleum and lit flourescently. Nevertheless, it had two key elements: a bar and a dartboard. The guys drank Guiness from a can, and John encouraged me (not a beer lover) to have a shandy, which is a noxious combination of Guiness and Sprite. I choked it down to be polite, but YUCK! More importantly, we played darts for the rest of the evening, flinging Monique's custom made darts and insults with equal gusto. The boys will claim that they won, but we know the real truth. All too soon, the evening ended and we headed back to Treasure Isle for our last night in Tortola.
We decided to take things slowly on our last day before returning to reality. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the Veranda, and then got our few last rays of sun poolside. As Doug dozed, Jodi and I snuck up to our room to get a pitcherful of ice water, which we dumped on him in retribution for not defending us from John's sneak attack of the day before. Doug's reaction was worth the flights of stairs we had to climb to get the ice, and he indignantly continues to plead innocence. We also did some last minute shopping, and decked ourselves out in matching outfits (khaki shorts, Club Mariner polo shirts) for our return trip.
For our last lunch, we went to Pusser's in Roadtown, as it was within walking distance of the hotel. The cool dark of the pub, as well as the predictable English-style food, helped us make the transition to reality, though I was still rocking and rolling from having spent 4 days at sea, not having regained my land legs. After lunch, we headed back to the airport in the Moorings jitney.
The highlights of our return journey were the condensation which poured out of the American Eagle's air-conditioning vents as the cold air collided with the tropical humidity of Tortola, and getting a bird's eye view of the Virgin Islands we had come to hold very special from the airplane. In a matter of minutes, we would face the hurly-burly of getting through customs in Puerto Rico; a few hours later, we would be back in Baltimore, where it was only 60 degrees.
Doug and Jodi stayed overnight, and we went out for breakfast before heading to the airport on Sunday. They day was gray and dreary, and we all felt rather sad and hungover, though not from alcohol, but from the intoxicating allure of a tropical idyll which ended far too soon.
