Sailing the Virgin Islands

Adrift on the ocean

I sit writing this blog as I watch the sun set over a dry, green-scrub island, the clouds obscuring the last rays.  Across the turquoise waters of Deadman Bay is a sandy beach lined with coconut palms, planted by the fancy resort that claims this entire island.  Cactus poke out from red earth and low-growing brush, and seagrape has been sculptured by the resort gardeners into artful living umbrellas.

Sea grape grow on most coasts

We have been sailing through the British Virgin Islands for the past five days, part of our master plan to educate Tia and Sasha in real-world skills like sailing, identifying coral reef fish, and sipping virgin Piña Coladas.  They have become adept at coming about (changing directions through the wind, where you swing the sail around), dropping anchor, and driving the dinghy, and I insisted they learn all the lingo, like gunwales, bulkhead, clews, boom, starboard, port, head, galley, forecastle. 

Look to the bow!

As for me, I realized fairly quickly that I am not a good sailor and will never realize Todd’s dream of circumnavigating the Earth in a 37-foot sailboat.  Mild seasickness followed by mal de démbarquement (where I now rock and roll ad nauseam every time I set foot on dry land) plus the inability to read or write when the boat is underway (a surefire way to feel pukey) confirm my hunch that sailing across the Atlantic is not in the cards for me. 

Our 37-foot home for a week

Nevertheless, this has been a beautiful journey.  The Virgin Islands are not the palm-covered halcyon dream of Hawaii or the South Pacific; the only place you find coconut palms are at the beach resorts.  Otherwise, the islands are rocky and dry, full of cactus and mangrove and an innocent-looking tree called the Manchioneel that rains down poisonous sap strong enough to blister your skin.  The waters are turquoise where there is sand, but as we were after good snorkeling and not beach-lounging, we spent more time in the grey-blue waters off of rocky coasts, marveling at the multitude of corals clinging to the underwater cliffs.

Snorkeling the reefs

From Road Town on Tortola, we chartered a bareboat (i.e., no captain) 37-foot  monohull with Todd at the helm, much to the girls’ chagrin.  “Do you really know how to sail, Dad?”  they asked, never having seen him in charge of a boat (except for once when they were 5 and 6).   Todd invented enough sailing experience and impressed the folks at Conch Charter enough to let us slip away from the dock.

Captain, my captain!

From there we tentatively set out to Little Harbor on Peter Island, just across Sir Francis Drake Channel.  It took us over an hour to get the anchor set to Todd’s satisfaction, and we enjoyed the seclusion, with only one other boat in the bay.

Our living space--a far cry from the palace

The following day we headed up to Gorda Sound at the north end of Virgin Gorda (so named because the Spanish sailors who first spied the island saw a fat virgin in profile, a sure sign they’d been cooped up aboard ship too long).  We snorkeled through the Dog Islands on the way up, arriving at dusk to a tricky narrow channel that tested Todd’s skills.  We made it without running aground.

Most of the islands are dry and cactus-covered

Gorda Sound is the home to two competing resorts, Drake’s Anchorage and Little Dix Resort, both of whom have apparently hosted the Queen when she visited.  Too rich for our taste, so we headed out early the next morning back past the Dogs to Marina Cay just off Great Camanoe. 

Even the hermit crabs were friendly!

Marina Cay was our first resort stop, just brief enough to check out the bar and snorkel around after reading about the bohemian couple who made Marina Cay their home for three years in the late 1930s.   We’d doddled around quite a bit, and Todd was worried about finding an overnight place to anchor before nightfall, so we cruised up Great Camanoe to Lee Bay.  The wind was whistling fiercely, and I was unhappy about another restless rocky night, so on we went.

Sandy Cay

Monkey Point and White Bay, where we finally overnighted, are part of private Guana Island, and as sailors, we were told we were not welcome on shore—resort guests only.  That is, until the nice mooring attendant collected his $30 from us for attaching to one of their buoys (to save the reef, he said).  Only then could we walk the pristine sands.

Fancy resort beach

A turtle surfaced that morning just as we were leaving, a floating mini-island that dove when it saw us watching.  We headed for Sandy Cay, another charter-boat must-stop that was actually quite enchanting.  Donated to the BVI National Park Foundation by Laurence Rockefeller, it is completely preserved ,with a sweet little trail rising up over the top and circumscribing the cay.  It was fascinating to find coral skeletons up on dry land.

Ancient brain coral skeleton

I chose Long Bay on Jost Van Dyke Island for that night’s anchoring because of the chatter about Foxy’s Taboo, the hottest new restaurant in the islands.   

Hanging at the hot spot

After a disappointing $180 dinner (we ate every bite and were still hungry), we returned to our boat to listen to the party animals in the catamaran next door blast bad country music, foulmouthed rap, and sappy 80s music while they cannonballed to drunken cheers from the bridge.  Another life-lesson for Tia and Sasha: don’t be so stupid.  They thought it looked fun.

Sleeping in

The next morning we reprovisioned in Soper’s Hole, a dolphin accompanying us into port, then headed out to Norman Island past The Indians, four rocks pointing up out of the sea that looked like a Native American headdress, or 4 guys standing there, take your pick.  Privateer Bay made a great quiet anchoring place, right next to The Caves, which had lovely snorkeling. 

There's a lot of this type of beach!

We’d apparently saved the best for last.  Heading out at 7:30 am to get a coveted day mooring at the Indians, we ate breakfast to a clearing sky and then snorkeled for the better part of two hours, the reefs around The Indians clear and colorful and lively.  Tia and Sasha brought out old bread and fed a happy school of yellow jacks and sergeant majors which schooled around us close enough to touch if you were fast enough.  There was a swim-through shallow enough for the daring to snorkel through, and the greatest variety of corals we’d yet seen.  I’ve grown to appreciate these impressive communal creatures, who take on algae to gain easy access to food while providing the algae with a protective structure.  Their little polyps come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and the colors in the shallow sunlit waters are dazzling.

Super snorkeling

So here we are in Deadman Bay, home of the notorious Blackbeard, who once marooned a mutinous crew on nearby Deadman Cay, giving them nothing more than a bottle of rum to console themselves with as they waited to die.  (“Why didn’t they swim over to Peter Island?” Tia wanted to know.  I didn’t know—maybe they didn’t swim?  Maybe there were more sharks then?  Who knows!). 

Ready to jump

Deadman Bay is picture-perfect, the greenery sculpted, thatched huts providing shade, hammocks swaying between waving coconut palms, the resort buildings blending in tastefully with soft green paints and rock facades.  Tortola twinkles across the channel, outlined against a fading purple-orange sky.  What a way to spend our final night onboard!

Getting rocked to sleep each night

Cuba, Cuba Libre

Gorgeous old cars everywhere.  Sasha was in heaven.

More than a week after having left Havana, I can still not make up my mind about how I feel about Cuba.  Granted, I saw merely the smallest sliver of la vida cubana, spending only two days in Habana Vieja, two more days in the countryside of Viñales, and a final night in the Vedado, the colonial old-wealth faded beauty of a Havana neighborhood that now houses most of the world’s embassies in Cuba. 

Faded and fantastic, crumbling and colorful

Havana is contradiction incarnate.  Spectacularly conserved, perfectly painted and chromed 1950s-era cars tootle their horns down the sparsely occupied central boulevards, spewing clouds of 1950s-era black smoke from their exhausts and encountering sudden traffic jams in the narrow streets of the old town. 

Stepping into multiple older eras

These cars are reserved for tourists, who crowd in for the $30, 45-minute-long ride around Habana Vieja.  (More common forms of transport are scooters, bikes, and bike taxis.)  Sasha spent most of her time deciding which car she planned to purchase when she turns 16. 

Ready to cruise

Colorful traffic jam

19^th-century façades crumble gracefully in the cobblestoned streets, curtained by colorful laundry and spiderwebs of electrical cable. 

Life in the streets

The streets are full of potholes and at times outright ditches, trash on the corners, and brightly colored paint that is usually applied only to the front of the building.  Shutters hang at odd angles, and stone balconies are propped up by impromptu scaffolding.  The setting sun colors everything softly, turning the decay into a feast for the eyes.

Havana sunset

The buildings that have been renovated are the equal of anything you can find in Spain.  The Bacardi building is an art-deco masterpiece, and from the rooftop of The Plaza Hotel, where we sipped piña coladas while listening to Cuban salsa, the adjacent new hotel was beautiful and inviting.

The Bacardi building

Tia can play the maracas!

The Plaza of the Revolution, however, reminds you that this is a Communist government; the proportions and blunt style reminiscent of Cold War movies.  But everywhere, the cubanos were unfailingly friendly, helpful, and interesting to talk to.  They were mostly unwilling to discuss anything political (“Hay ojos por todos lados,” one taxi driver said to us), but were happy to share the beauty of their country with us americanos. 

Viva la revolución

We spent a morning in the Museo de Revolución as part of our school curriculum, as well as a few hours in the Museo de Bellas Artes, which houses the best of Cuban masters.  The Gypsy Mona Lisa was probably my favorite, but the art overall was quite impressive, even to my untrained eye.

Simply stunning

Tia with Fidel and Camilo Cienfuegos

We took a taxi van for the two-hour trip out to Viñales, one of the most picturesque places on the island.  This is tobacco country, the seat of the famous Cuban cigars. 

Valle de Viñales, with tobacco drying huts on the right

Humble dwelling

The houses are small and simple but very neatly kept

Viñales is a small village at the head of the Valle de Viñales.  Two decades ago, there were only four families offering a room for rent in their casa particular.  Now more than 75% of all Viñales houses have the little room sign on their front porch, along with their names. 

Villa Pupy, where we stayed

Typical scene on the streets of Viñales

Tourism is booming here, but you still get a strong sense of village life, as people ride their horses through the mostly-unpaved streets, or trot by in horse- or even –oxen-drawn wagons.  These are work vehicles, not fancy show carts. 

Off to work

Hauling lumber

We took a tour of the Valle de Viñales on horseback, sweet small horses that were as tough as their Cuban masters.  Our trail meandered through tiny cement houses, most neatly painted and all clean and tidy, and through fields of tobacco and sugar cane and manioc, a tuberous plant that provides a starch alternative to the Cuban diet.  Tractors are scarce, and a lot of the plowing is still done by oxen and horse with a hand plow.  

Tia can ride!  Tobacco plants in the foreground

On the trail

Our ride included a stop at a small shack where we were offered rum drinks in fresh-cut coconuts (delicious) and samples of home-made, hand-rolled regional cigars cured in local honey and fruit juice (I passed, but Suzi said they were excellent and bought Ethan a whole box).   We stopped again at a local restaurant for tourists, where two guys harmonized Cuban hits like Guantanamera. 

Cuban pit stop for refreshments

Oxen power

After dropping Suzi, Simone, and Grandma Donna at the airport, we headed to the Vedado for our last night.  This neighborhood of old colonial mansions was enchanting and the most beautiful I’d seen. 

Old-world splendor, divided into apartments

On our host’s recommendation we went to Habana Blue, a restaurant themed around the movie Habana Blue, complete with a car crashing through the wall and fish tanks built into the walls.  The waitresses routinely broke out into song, and the food was delicious, some of the best we’d had in Cuba.

Awash in Caribbean colors

Click here to see our waitress sing!

Sunset on the malecón

We flew out of the airport without a hitch the next morning, my carefully-crafted letter of explanation from Rico Education clarifying our educational objectives for this trip unnecessary. 

City and sea in San Juan

Because of our routing, we stopped overnight in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where our new friend Aldo, a old friend of Bobby and Rita Cabassa, gave us a whirlwind tour of the city.  What a jewel!

Gorgeous San Juan Vieja

Caribbean America

We had just one day in San Juan, but I was impressed.  The old town was like walking in a tropical version of El Puerto, and our hotel was on a street that was a dead ringer for a cobblestoned alley we rode daily in Puerto on our way to school.  

This could be our street in El Puerto, dressed up in tropical colors

Click here for a slice of Puerto Rican nightlife.

We were sad to leave so soon, but eager to head off to our next adventure:  a sailboat waiting for us in the British Virgin Islands!

Land of contradictions