On the island of Tortola, the airport is conveniently located just one block from the beach and the anchorage where Woodwind was settled in. Our buddy, Jesse Farr, had just flown in from Washington State, placing his feet on tropical sand for the very first time. A cold Red Stripe beer in one hand, his luggage at his side, he sized up the scene in tiny Trellis Bay and immediately knew that he was in for a good time. He and Bruce would sail the BVI for ten days together, checking out all the amazing attractions it has to offer.

Bruce introduced Jesse and his ‘first timer’ status to a West Indian acquaintance. The man’s face immediately turned into one big grin and he announced, “Ya got ta take ‘im to da Willy T, mon. Ya got ta go dere.” Well, local advice should always be heeded so they hoisted sail a day later and headed to a bay called The Bight on Norman Island on a quest for the Willy T.

It was when they sailed around the corner, into the large, uninhabited bay, that they realized there must be something special about the place because the anchorage was packed with boats. Charter boats of all sizes and all kinds filled the bay. In the middle of the crowd was a large, black vessel; behind it, dozens of inflatable dinghies clustered like grapes on a vine.

They dropped the hook, launched the dinghy and headed over to the place to ascertain the cause of the congregation. Not many businesses in the British Virgin Islands draw a mid-day crowd, maybe because everyone is at the Willy T.

The original boat dubbed the Willy T was launched in 1935 as a Baltic Trader named after one of the more famous BVI residents, William Thornton. In 1985 she was put into service as a floating bar and restaurant in the Bight where she gained an illustrious reputation as a “bistro on the briny.” Pretty much anyone who charters in the BVI visits once and it’s quite possible that some spend their entire week right there.

After a decade of service to diners and drinkers, the ol’ gal sprang a leak. The bilge pumps weren’t up to the job of saving her and she sank at her mooring in June of 1995. Knowing she had met her fate, divers raised the hull, hauled it out to sea and sunk it again with the hopes of creating a dive site. If any secrets had ever been left on board, (and I know there were plenty,) the sea and weather erased them. Today, there is nothing left of the old William Thornton.

The owners of the restaurant, not wanting to lose a good thing, found a replacement and quickly installed a 100 foot schooner in the same place. In January of 1996, the new and improved Willy T opened for business and is even more popular than her predecessor.

They serve great food: salads, fresh lobster, conch fritters, calamari ceviche, roti, ribs and pretty much any thing a hungry pirate would want. But their specialty is drinks. Like ski shots served from a water ski with several holes in it plugged with shot glasses. Everyone participating picks up the ski and down goes the drink(s.) It’s also a place to dance ‘crazy style‘, to dive in the water when things heat up, to take incriminating photos and to meet new friends. And all though what happens at the Willy T should stay at the Willy T, everyone is so elated to have been there that they just can’t wait to tell their friends.

Like our buddy Jesse who returned to the Pacific Northwest sporting a Willy T hat, flying a Willy T flag from his boat, wearing, of course, a Willy T shirt. Makes you wanna go, huh?

When people think of the Caribbean, they envision sun, sand and swaying palms. Because of those alluring attributes, the region has become a magnet for sailors and all things “sailing.” Almost every island now hosts at least one major sailing race or regatta and some of them are downright HUGE!

St. Marten’s Heineken Regatta this year drew nearly 300 entrants. The Stanford Antigua Race Week choreographed 185 boats as they sailed around the island. In April, one of our favorites, the Antigua Classic Regatta, attracted over 60 of the world’s most glorious old “gals” ... and one old “guy.”

Bruce’s art show schedule placed us and our boat, Woodwind, in a ringside seat one week before this year’s Classic got rolling, at the entrance to Antigua’s Falmouth Harbor. Everyday we watched the horizon as tiny, distant dots slowly grew into familiar sail configurations of schooners, sloops, cutters and yawls. They came in all sizes and shapes, from Adela’s 147 feet of gloss and gleam to the newly launched 24-footer, Springtide, sporting a fresh coat of British red paint. The J/boats, Velsheda (130 feet) and Ranger, (136 feet) arrived towering over all, with masts that seemrd to touch the sky. There were a few “plain Janes” among the fleet, but most of the boats were so highly polished and varnished sunglasses were mandatory just to walk the docks.

All sailing events in the Caribbean have two time consuming components: races and parties. Like cookies and milk, you can’t have one without the other and they never seem to even out. So, holding to that adage, the Antigua Yacht Club began the festivities with a launch celebration for two new nautical books by Alexis Andrews, the island’s premier photographer. Andrews is the proud owner of one of the eight boats that showed up to race in the Traditional Class. Seven of them were built on the island of Carriacou and the man who gave them life, Alwyn Enoe, sailed in for the debut of the books that celebrate his craft and talent. In “Vanishing Ways,” Andrews tells the colorful story in words and photos of Carriacou’s boat building past. The second book, “Genesis,” chronicles the building of Andrew’s own sloop, including some serious superstitions and a sacrificial goat.

With 60 boats entered to race and each needing upwards of 10 crew members, I figured I could find a ride and a story. I first imagined I might join one of the J/boats, until I heard the small delivery crews would be beefed up by dozens of Olympic athletes flown in for the event. When I saw their hulking bodies board for a pre-race practice, I started looking elsewhere. The Carriacou boats, my favorites, were appealing. One 50-foot schooner was desperate for crew, so I had options! But when Lone Fox pulled in and owner Ira Epstein welcomed me aboard, I knew my search was over. At the end of last year’s Classic Regatta, Ira expressed a desire to race again with the same crew and, amazingly, eight of us showed up. The 10 who couldn’t make it were replaced by an ocean of experienced sailors, and together we represented nine nations.

Day one, everyone reported for duty at eight sharp. Everyone except the stragglers who witnessed the finale of Mt. Gay’s lethal Red Hat Party (buy three rum drinks, get a free hat). Thankfully, no hats were in sight, but there were plenty of red eyes, which started our daily pre-race ritual of late-night true confessions. No doubt I was with a polished party crew. As we readied the boat and cast off from the dock, half a dozen standby wanna-be crew dejectedly wandered off. Ira passed out Lone Fox hats (the shirts, stuck in customs, would come later) and we received our assignments.

The seas off Falmouth Harbor were jumpy and confused, which sort of matched our moves as we sailed our first rehearsal 45 minutes before the start. Ira and first-mate Guillaume Touhadian, accustomed to handling the ol’ girl alone, gave instructions and directed us toward gear until our tactician, Mad Dog Mark St. John, put us on the line for a near perfect start. The “Old Road” course gave us a chance to get to know the boat. We popped the chute once, but heavy winds kept the mizzen stays’l in the bag. Mistakes were made all day: clumsy tacks, sail trim slow, too many cooks stirring the stew. But what felt like a practice turned out to be the number two spot when we finished right behind the 65-foot beauty, Rahda.


Left to right: Ema Heard, Mad Dog Mark St. John, Aine Hanery, Ira Epstein.

Memories are made at the Classic and ours came early on race day two. Five minutes before the start Lone Fox was maneuvering off Black Point. Fluky winds forced three boats
dangerously close to each other, with negligible steerage and little weigh on. Like a movie in slow motion, we watched as Radha’s bow swept inches from Lone Fox’s belly, moving back … back … back … until finally hooking the mizzen rigging, ripping it and half the boom away. My two aft-deck companions and I hit the deck as ropes, splinters and some loud obscenities rained down.

Ira was trying to drive us away, but the two boats were attached by a line from our mizzen, wrapped hard on their bow anchor. Long seconds passed with no knife in sight, until finally the boats parted. Ira and most of our crew thought we were done for the day, but Mad Dog and our weather guru, Gerry Robertson, coached him toward the start. Hands and bodies worked furiously to lower the flogging sail and tame the dangerous debris. The starting gun sounded and we hit the line with Radha hot on our tail.

The “protest” word started flying around. Will we? Should we? But Mad Dog reminded everyone, “It’s a gentlemen’s race. Let’s just out-sail ‘em. Besides, you have to give the committee a case of champagne when you file. We’d rather drink it ourselves, right?” The man’s a genius. Right!

Gerry added, “We don’t need that mizzen anyway.” And I guess we didn’t, because we finished the race in first place, minutes ahead of Radha.

Back at the dock we pulled off what was left of the boom, sent it packing to the woodworker’s shop and headed to the Pimm’s party to re-live our harrowing event … complete with embellishments, of course.

Three parties later, we were back on board in the morning, strapping on the bandaged boom to sail the spectators’ Cannon Course. Twenty-four miles of reaching back and forth, boats passing dramatically close, cameras flashing in the hot sun. A fleet favorite was a porky old gaffer named Old Bob, and each time we crossed paths it was obvious that, although they were slower than skaditch, they were the party to beat. Lone Fox crossed the line, collecting another first, and we readied the boat for the proper Parade of Classics, past the reviewing stand in English Harbor.

The waters around Antigua are full of lobsters, but the state of Maine (the state!) flew in their own to cook up a cauldron of lobster bisque for a raucous crowd of hundreds. That event segued into the Laurent Perrier Champagne party and we all had to agree … the racing schedule was exhausting but the party agenda almost killed us.

Race day four dawned with a deluge that filled dinghies and washed away the sins of the night before. Wet crew shirts were shrouded with rain gear and garbage bags. The VHF weather report sounded bleak; more rain and six knots that might fill in. Might not. We joined the group of slatting sails on the course, listening for word from the gentlemen on the committee boat. They were fielding a barrage of goofy questions until they simply had enough and we heard, “We will not make another announcement for 40 minutes. Over and out.” True to their word, those minutes ticked by until finally the radio came to life and announced, “The race today has been cancelled!”

After a few fake, “Oh, that’s too bad,” remarks, we all jumped around, high-fiving each other, knowing we were winners. Ira and his Lone Fox were victorious.

Hard to believe, but four days of racing and six of serious partying just weren’t enough. The following morning 20 boats headed out for the single-handed race, including Old Bob. That boat had been a bit of an irritation to the committee, as they had to wait patiently for Bob to finish before they could pull the marks and join the fun on shore. After all entrants finished that day, except Old Bob, we saw his red sails hanging on the horizon and heard on the radio, “Committee boat, committee boat, this Old Bob. Should we leave Montserrat to port or starboard?” A very long pause was followed by, “I’d leave it to starboard, skipper.”

At two that afternoon, an eclectic collection of dinghies gathered at the Admiral’s Inn for the Gig Racing, coinciding with British tea and scones served by ladies in bouffant hats. I entered my old El Toro in the sculling race before I realized the unusual rules. They call it the Don Street Race, and each contestant must scull the course as Don would, holding an open Heineken. You can’t drink any beer before the start, but you must finish it before the end. Though I was the first woman to finish, my performance was definitely hampered by the beer and I wondered if the local brew, Wadadli, might have given me more speed.

Our other dinghy, a two-bow boat from Petite Martinique, was raced all day by Bruce, blinding people with her new lime-green paint and matching sail. Funny World must have bedazzled the committee, because they chose her over several gold-leafed beauties as winner of Concourse D’elegance … first place!


Funny World wins the Concourse D-elegance!

That night, captains and crew gathered in Nelson’s Dockyard for the awards ceremony. Regatta Chairman Kenny Coombs took the podium and the hooting and hollering began. He started by thanking the generous sponsors, Panerai Boat International, and a dozen others. Next he thanked the owners, skippers and crew for sailing a gentleman’s regatta that ran without a single protest. Captains, one by one, took the stage to claim prizes until the entire crew of Radha marched up for their second-place award. We could barely contain ourselves, until Kenny announced, “And in first place, the lovely Lone Fox!” Behind proud Ira, 17 of us gleefully followed him onto the stage, shaking any available hand on the way. And that was it … the end of an exhausting, exhilarating, unforgettable week, and I can hardly wait for the next one.


The Lone Fox crew stands at attention for the Parade of Classics.

Jan

Caribbean cuisine calls for fresh tropical ingredients, and there’s no better place to find them than at a West Indian marketplace. These colorful shopping venues, the inspiration to many an artist, are found throughout the region on the islands blessed with hills, mountains and rainfall. Larger islands have bigger markets, offering cooks a wider variety of vegetables, fruits, spices, herbs and surprises. Always surprises.

Market shopping is not related to fast food in any way, shape or form. It’s not the sort of place to pop into for a quick last-minute purchase. Finding, selecting, weighing, negotiating and paying for produce, all laced with polite conversation with the vendor, takes time. Lots of time. Some folks head in with ordered lists of recipe ingredients but leave with a collection of whatever is fresh today. When shopping island style, patience is a virtue; spontaneity is advantageous; flexibility is paramount.

There are also some important rules about market shopping in the islands … unwritten, of course … that you’d be wise to use and follow at all times. First of all, produce is sold “by de heap or de pung (pound),” apparently due to some mystical reason unknown to
me. The point is, always ask. A “heap” might be four mangoes, maybe five. Could be six. A pound is typically measured by a vintage counter-weight scale; the produce is set on a brass receptacle then counter-weighed with marked lead weights.

Sometimes different items are inseparably “married.” Don’t be surprised if the purveyor says, “Ya can’d buy jus de tommahtos,” and informs you the tommahtos must be bought with cucumbers, even if you don’t want the green things. I learned about this concept in Nevis, after going round and round with a lady. She was right, though. I couldn’t buy just the tomatoes.

You’ll be able to smell any market items on “special” – they’ll be in season, overly ripe and plentiful. What those items are, though, might not be as obvious. And that’s why the second rule of island market shopping is also, ask. After years of island shopping, I still encounter products I’ve never heard of. The most recent was a softball-sized fruit covered in a tough skin, similar in color to the outside of a kiwi. I asked the market lady what it was and she said, “It a mahmmy ahpel.”

“A mommy apple?,” I asked.

“No, a mahmmy ahpel.”

I moved on. “What do you do with it?”

“Ya peel it. Peel de skin wid a knife. Inside it sweet. It got a beeg peet, jus like de mongo.”

I bought one, brought it home, set it on the counter and poked it every day, trying to determine ripeness. When I finally cut into it, the flesh was rotten and I realized I should have asked, “When will it be ripe?”

Rule three is … you guessed it … ask again. Ask what it is, how to peel it, how to cut it, how to cook it. I’ve tried the self exploration method of preparing strange roots and ground provisions, all to the chagrin of my family. But by asking and listening carefully to the cooks in the market, I’ve turned the homeliest vegetables into downright tasty dishes.

Antigua’s capitol, St. John, has one of the
Eastern Caribbean’s best open air markets. The people who sell their goods there, mostly women, used to set up their wares on groundcloths shaded only by large umbrellas. A few years back the government built a huge two-story building that houses everyone and their precious commodities. The ground floor resembles an airplane hanger with high ceilings, huge doorways and a cement base. Shops on the second floor perch on balconies with a series of steps leading up and down to each.


Though there’s always room available inside, some prefer the old ways, setting up shop outside in the sun. Parked around the fenced square, farmers sell abundant quantities of tomatoes, peppers, sugarcane or whatever is falling from their trees or bursting from their gardens straight from their trucks.

On my visits to the market, experience has taught me to first scrutinize the place, looking for perfectly ripened specimens, a friendly face and an aura of cleanliness. After all, there are signs still posted that read, “NO SPITTING.” I figure they’re there for a reason.

Recently, I found several ladies who kindly mentored me, answering my many questions. Mrs. Douglas, whose market stall is painted hot
pink, explained that each vendor is allowed to paint his or her own space. Those loud colors, along with the colorful fruits and vegetables and the purveyors themselves, are just calling out to be captured on film. But photographers beware! Most West Indians do not appreciate uninvited cameras. Some believe it steals their soul, while others simply resent the rude intrusion.

Case-in-point: a friend of ours on a photo shoot at St. Vincent’s marketplace aimed his huge lens, ready to record the spectacular scene, when … WHAM! A stealth tohmmato bomb hit him in the side of the face, sending red fragments everywhere. After hours of cleaning it from every cranny of the camera, he vowed to remember the final rule … before taking photos, always ask! I, too, had to relearn that one this winter, when a fish butcher in St. Marten, sensing my camera 30 feet away, turned toward me and arced a cutlass-sized knife through the air, as if to cut me in half. I had neglected to ask. His “teaching” method was so riveting, though, I probably won’t ever make that mistake again!

On a recent trip to Antigua’s market, part of my mission was buying fresh everything, but I also wanted to take away some photos. After paying for my purchases with Mrs. Douglas, I said, “I have a favor to ask. I’m writing a story about the market. Would it be OK if I took some photos?’
“Ya, no problem. Dat ok.”

“Is it OK if I take your photo, or just the food?”

She blushed and gave the answer I expected, “Not me. Jus de tings.”

Not willing to give up easily, I tried one last tactic. “Your fruits and vegetables are pretty, but not as pretty as you.”

She laughed, but held her ground. Two other ladies acquiesced,
though, and in return I promised to send them copies of the photos.

That afternoon, I boarded the bus, my canvas bags heavy with passion fruit, plantain, bluggo, mangoes, nutmegs, scotch bonnet peppers and, of course, a few surprises. And that evening I did as the ladies told me. I “put it all to cook.”

Jan

The second and third races of the season for the Class A, 28-footers were scheduled for Easter Sunday and Monday. Beggar was counting on Bruce as crew for rigging and racing and we were looking forward to seeing his boat under sail.

The day before Easter we anxiously awaited the arrival of the new
and improved Blue Bird, but she didn’t appear until 11:30 ... on Sunday. She was proudly towed to Sandy Ground for her grand re-launching. Tropical flowers were taped to the bow and topsides, accenting the shiny new paint and graphics. With crew lounging in the truck bed, some in the boat, Beggar backed her down the driveway toward the sea. And then the waiting began …

The fellows limed around, drinking beers, drifting up and down the beach. Some slept on the bar, others rested under trees. A truck backed in with the lead ballast bars and men got busy offloading them onto the beach. The Boatmen’s Lunch arrived and the crew spent another hour eating and liming some more. In between it all were spirited discussions, arguments and betting, all about the boats.

Beggar was waiting for the minister to come bless the boat, and when she appeared at 3 p.m., his crew quickly gathered around Blue Bird, placing their hands on her with bowed heads. The minister spoke about the glory of the fine vessel, her able builder and the men who would take her to sea. She blessed them all and asked God to bring them back safe. The minister tossed a
glass of sanctioned water onto the bow, her “Amen” was echoed by the crew, followed by whistles and shouts. Beggar hopped into the truck, fired it up, shoved it into reverse and when he slammed on the brakes, Blue Bird slipped in, alive and afloat once again.

The jobs began with hauling and loading ballast, carrying and stepping the mast, toting and attaching boom and rudder and sails, all of which filled more hours. Throughout the day the 16 crewmembers came and went. At 5:30 everything was ready, but several of the crew were missing. Beggar, like a cat herder, ran down the beach to collect them. A crowd had gathered to watch the setting sun and as it was about to disappear, Blue Bird’s guys climbed aboard and she was finally released from the mooring, sailing toward the orange orb in the sky. The Easter Sunday race never materialized because of the winds again, which had been abnormally strong for most of the day.

Banners around the island had been flapping for a month heralding the second biggest race of the year; “EASTER MONDAY BOAT RACE 2008, In Honor of Mr. Egbert Connor.” That morning we headed in at 10 a.m., certain the action would start early, but found the beach empty, save for the sleeping dogs. Beggar and the boys rolled in around noon and the liming commenced. Winds in excess of 20 knots and a mean ground sea were attempting to scuttle yet another race. Phone calls were made (to whom, I wondered, as there is no race committee), hours passed, guys came and went.

Sometime during all this Blue Bird was rigged to sail and at 5 p.m. the crew began to board. If they weren’t going to race,
at least they could practice. They returned in the dark, unlit, tacking carefully through the crowded anchorage. As Bruce was helping pull sails from the boat, Beggar told him, “De race next Sunday. You come wid us. You me pardner.” With so much hype and work put into an event that had yet to happen, we decided to stay, despite our need to push on.

Time in the Caribbean has issues. If something doesn’t happen when it’s scheduled, it’s “no problem, it come soon, comin’ tomorrah.” So on the following Sunday we were skeptically hopeful that the race would finally come to pass. The all-night Moonsplash event was the evening before and it seemed unlikely anyone would be showing up bright and early. Around 11 a.m., Beggar’s crew filtered in and slowly got to work getting their girl ready. The wind was still up, but two other boats were being rigged so it looked like Blue Bird would finally have her chance to shine.

Anguilla race boats work off a different set of rules. There is no “starboard” right-away decree; the winner must physically touch the finish pin. Sometimes a gun marks the start, sometimes not. I had been making my way up and down the beach taking photos of the pre-race action when Blue Bird headed to the far end of the bay. Light and Peace shot off joining them. I could see De Tree was already there and realized I’d better get a move on. I turned my stroll into a fast walk, a trot and finally a run when I knew I might miss the shot I’d been waiting for all month.

And sure enough, they started the race silently, without fanfare, without me. With 57-foot masts bearing 40-foot booms on 28-foot boats, the sails, spread wide, looked like the wings of three gigantic butterflies, headed west. That was the last I saw of them until they returned four hours later, wet and exhausted. Blue Bird came in a disappointing second. De Tree was the victor that day.

Those four hours were supposed to be the main event. But they weren’t. They were merely the end to a story, a wonderful set of memories of boat builders, sailors and people who love life. Lucky us to have been along for the ride.

Jan

The late Egbert Connor was one of Anguilla’s most legendary boat builders. He had an innate sense for how a boat should be formed and shaped, so it would slice effortlessly through the seas. In addition to understanding the elements of design, he also wielded an adz, auger, hatchet, saw and all the tools needed to build a boat from fancy to finish. His skills today would be considered artful, but in his day they were merely a means to survive.

So often these kinds of treasured talents die out, smothered in our modern, mass-produced world. But not in Anguilla. Boat building on that tiny island thrives, and among its most talented artisans
is a handsome and thoughtful young man named Devon “Beggar” Daniels. Some might say Beggar comes by it naturally, since he’s Egbert Conner’s grandson. Perhaps that’s why he began building model boats at age 11 … not the kind that sit on shelves, their bits held together with gobs of smelly glue. His models were strong and large enough to race against others in the island’s salt ponds.

When we visited Beggar recently at his boatyard, several of his 40-inch models sat in the yard, nearly obscured by creeping vines. Through the green veil we could see the bow of Creep Up and Angel propped off the ground on their 4.5-foot keels. Beggar explained how he built them and how they led him to build his first large boat at the age of 19. Lady Elvira, a 22-foot fishing boat, was the first … but there was a beautifully designed fleet constructed after her, including a 40-foot long-liner.

Happenstance is how Bruce met Beggar last year during a local boat race. The Sandy Ground beach was alive with crew hauling ballast, masts, rudders, sails and gear from trucks to the boats tethered in shallow water. Bruce heard Beggar announce that one of his crew was missing, so he asked if he could join them. He did, and a friendship was born from their shared love of boat building and sailing. After the race that day on the 21-foot R.O.B.B. (Return of Blue Bird), Beggar recognized Bruce as a good hand and invited him to race again. Although 10 months passed before our next meeting, the invitation was still alive … and not just for one race, but for all we could make.

The first competition of the 2008 season was to take place in late February, so we dashed there from St. Barts two days before the race, anticipating a day of rigging and practice beforehand. By race day, though, we hadn’t heard anything and watched the beach for the action to begin, but gave up by 4 that afternoon. We later learned the race was cancelled because of a combination of strong winds and a feud with the boats from Island Harbor.

Not long after that uneventful day, Beggar came by to invite us to his boat-building shop to see the remaking of Blue Bird, his 28-foot race boat. “Come today,” he said. “Today she cut. Tomorrow she back together.” Anguillan race boats, all built of
wood, are rebuilt almost as often as they’re sailed. Beggar, in an effort to gain more speed, had removed every frame and cut every plank seam. Blue Bird sat on her keel looking like a bony turkey carcass after a Thanksgiving feast. To explain the transformation, he pulled out the line drawings and I could see where, frame by frame, the boat had undergone a metamorphosis.

The next day we returned and were astonished to find Blue Bird’s planks glued up and the last frames being set in. With several helpers in and out, they had worked half the night like doctors in the E.R. Their patient, with a new coat of paint, would be good to go.

Jan

West Indian culture is a sweet mix of languages, food, architecture and music. Oh, how those people love their music … and we do, too. Everywhere it fills the air, booming from houses and shops, spilling out of cars and buses. Reggae from the king, Bob Marley, is more popular than ever, but the make-you-wanna-dance tunes might just as likely be calypso, soca or part of the new generation genres of ska, dancehall, zouk and rock steady. Whichever style, whatever the song, it will make your toes tap, your hips whine, your face beam.

Jamaica is the capital of Caribbean music, so it’s no surprise to find the majority of super stars are from there. Yet each island in the region boasts its own legends and rising stars. Some climb the ranks through local calypso competitions; others get their start headlining at hotels and nightspots. Tiny Anguilla has Sprocka, The Mighty Springer and the talented pan player, Dumpa. But the fellow who put Anguilla on the musical map is one of their own favorite sons, Bankie Banx.

Bankie’s journey to stardom began as a child in church. And when that small boy who loved to sing grew tall, he put together a band and hit the road. Through the 80s they performed in Europe, the States and throughout the Caribbean. A set of circumstances brought them back to Anguilla, where, like the title of their song, they were “Stuck in Paradise.”


Years ago, while anchored off the Sandy Ground beach, we would hear Bankie’s voice, backed by whomever was available, playing at one of the local bars. His distinguishably deep, almost raspy voice sang the stories he’d written of his journey-filled life. In 1990 he launched Moonsplash, an annual show held on the full moon of March. Back then, the venue was tiny, uninhabited Sandy Island. The scene would start late in the day as local boats ran back and forth at high speed, ferrying drinks, food and giant speakers. Passengers didn’t bother boarding until 10 or 11 p.m. No use getting there early for a late-night show that rarely got started until the roosters began to crow.

A few years later, Bankie moved the ever growing extravaganza to The Dune Preserve, a large piece of property on Rendezvous Bay. On the beach, he, Bullet (a local boat builder) and many other Anguillans began constructing a series of structures that defied the laws of architecture and building codes. Much of it was put together using old wooden race
boats. Unfortunately, they didn’t get far before hurricanes huffed and puffed and blew it all away. No problem, mon. They started again and what we find there today is an artistic, eclectic, tree house sort of place that makes everyone who visits grin ear to ear. One old race boat is the bar. Another, flipped upside down, is the crown at the entrance gate. Boats, masts and booms are everywhere, with nooks and crannies in between, pieced together from driftwood and scraps.

This winter, The Dune added a restaurant to their bar, serving lunches six days a week and featuring music three nights. Sunday afternoons, jazz musicians play and you just never know who from the crowd might join them. We were there on one of those dreamy
days, reconnecting with Bankie after a decade away. During the “how ya been” conversation, someone came up with the idea to have Bruce paint a mural on one of the permanent structures before this year’s Moonsplash. The site was chosen, the wood prepped and they both agreed the mural should be an amped-up rendition of the view before them. Bruce got to work the next day and spent a week creating a sky and sea scene, with a set of boats racing past The Dune, shells, turtles, swimming guests, Bankie’s guitar and a handful of other Anguillan treasures. At the same time, a crew led by Bullet added onto the place, bit by chunk.

On Thursday, the first of the four days of Moonsplash, we were at
The Dune and surprised to see men pouring cement at the entrance. All around us saws and hammers flashed in the hot sun. I looked at Bruce and commented, “Callin’ it close, aren’t they?” Around the bar at 3 p.m., guests were waiting for the noon performance to begin. People new to the island looked at their watches, wondering if Anguilla was on Mountain Time. It had to be noon somewhere, right?

Friday, it was a similar scene, until just hours before the first major performance Bullet drove the final nail and announced, “Mon, dat it. I’m finish. Let’s get a drink!”

That night, Tarrus Riley sang the song that’s been sweeping the Caribbean, “She’s Royal.” We didn’t make it to the concert, but we could imagine the ladies melting into a love-struck puddle. His performance lasted until 2 a.m. and that’s when the problem began …

A few months ago, the Anguillan police started cracking down on late-night noise. They went from bar to bar to restaurant, declaring that amplified music must stop by 1 a.m. That didn’t set well with the locals, because late-night music, as loud as you can make it, is a tradition on the island and no one wanted it to change … except, apparently, the person who complained. Shutting off the music in bars was one thing, but asking Tarrus Riley to end his performance early, in front of an audience of several thousand … well, that was asking for trouble.

Saturday at Moonsplash is “Legends Night,” and this year’s featured group was one of my favorites, Steel Pulse. Bruce, who would be boat racing the next morning, opted for sleep. I snagged a ride with some friends from Ohio -- Moonsplash veterans who know just about everyone and their cousins on the island. We pulled up to the gate around 10:30 p.m., but found only three cars ahead of us and a handful of people inside. We started wondering if it had been cancelled, then quickly realized we were way too early. That’s when we placed bets on how late the show, with four groups set to play, would roll.

At 11:30 p.m., Anguilla’s own Kinaya took the stage and got the growing crowd infested with dance fever. They were followed by Masud Sadiki, a high-spirited collection of musicians from St. Kitts. Bankie Banx and many of his original group, The Roots and Herbs, came next. In between each performance, a DJ played a collection of hot tunes, while the sound system on stage was rearranged. As he allowed one song to segue to the next, he boomed into the mike, “Moooonspaaaash!” and everyone would look anxiously to the empty stage.

Finally, around 2:45 a.m., the lead singer from Steel Pulse, David
Hinds, led the group on stage and the crowd went ballistic. With wild dreadlocks flying, he started the show and the band’s enthusiastic dancing, jumping and stomping had everyone in the audience doing the same.

At 4:15 a.m. they were beginning their encore song, when the sound diminished to a whisper. I looked around, thinking I’d gone deaf. I saw Bankie standing at the sound board and heard him say into a microphone, “Respect! Have some respect! This is Moonsplash. Let us finish this song.” The police had somehow defused the amplification in an effort to stop the show, which at that point was like a freight train rolling out of control downhill. Bullet, who had been minding his own business dancing near the sound bank, was hauled into the fray by Bankie. Several policemen and Bankie were exchanging heated words, but the only ones we heard came from the mike. “Her Majesty’s police force, have some respect!”

The stunned crowd watched as Steel Pulse left the stage, replaced by Bankie, followed by a member of the Royal Anguillan Police. Bankie, still in command of the mike, began a litany with, “Arrest me tomorrow. Don’t arrest me tonight. Please, this is Moonsplash. Arrest me tomorrow. Not tonight!”

When he reached the center of the stage, his sister and emcee, Dr. Linda Banks, joined in with arms flying and a verbal assault on the officer. “Moonsplash pays your salary! Let us finish. This is the biggest event on the island!” Several thousand witnesses stood ready to watch someone get belted, but instead, the police officer left the stage, Bankie and Linda stepped aside and Steel Pulse returned for the final song. The chaos was a hard act to follow, but they once again fired up that crazy crowd to a full boil.

When they left the stage at 4:30 a.m., their highly amplified music was replaced again by the DJ, and his was even louder. For some reason, as the crowd dispersed, it blared on, keeping the neighbors at the CuisinArt Hotel awake long past 5 a.m. Maybe the police gave up or maybe they just knew … tradition trumps all.

It wasn’t the end of the story. Days later the head of the police issued several statements. It was the talk of the town and will have no end, because if there’s one thing West Indians love, almost as much as their music, it’s debate and discussion. And just like their music, they like it loud and late.

Jan

Life on a boat in the Caribbean is interesting, to say the least. There are issues with weather, of course … good and bad. Anchors holding and dragging. A neighborhood that changes all day and night. Little stays the same, allowing plenty of opportunity for the unexpected.

Old friends sail back into our life now and then, surprising us like post cards in the mail. Just last month we dropped anchor next to a small wooden boat and on board was the old Dutchman, one of Bruce’s most memorable Caribbean connections. Since we last met, he has sailed around the world alone before losing the boat on a reef in the Bahamas. That story alone kept us busy for a day.

Often we meet new sailors to share a chunk of time with. Most memorable this winter were Fred and Connie, a retired couple fresh from Boston who were dodging a string of bum luck and wondering what they‘d gotten themselves into. We met when Bruce was summoned to help free their anchor from a sunken water tank. During sundowners that night, he diagnosed the problem that had been filling their bilge with oil, amazed they hadn’t blown the engine. Over several weeks we shared more anchorages and more of their troubles, but each meeting we found them fitter, tanner; their shoulders more relaxed; smiles broader. They were winding down to island time and it was a joy to watch.

Getting ourselves to shore in the dinghy is usually a long, boring row, yet even that can be spiked with surprise and alarm. We’ve been dive-bombed by pelicans, splashed by leaping fish and rays (that’s a cousin to a shaak, mate!) and amazed by surfacing turtles we could reach out and touch. Giant barracudas like to follow our small boat, which always brings on the “nuh nuh … nuh nuh,” soundtrack from “Jaws.”

The unexpected finds us just as often on land. Like last week, when I rowed ashore and saw a group of youngsters with garbage bags running at high speed toward me. I stepped aside and watched them jubilantly fill the bags with beach debris, the first mission of their class field trip. That accomplished, they charged into the
sea for a playful swim before gathering at Elvis’ Beach Bar for a celebratory lunch of burgers and fruit punch. Their teacher was returning to the States and wanted to thank “the best group of kids ever.” No one had a camera, so I collected photos to record their special day together.

After lunch, a local fisherman hauled a hand-made trap as part of a science lesson. The catch was counted, recorded and released and the kids skipped down the beach, back to school. Days later, my story and photos of the occasion ran in the Anguillan paper, some local good news, for sure.

Another unforeseen event I stumbled into recently was a full and fancy wedding. While minding my own business, waiting in a hotel lobby in St. Marten, I noticed a bridal party coming and going from
a room off the open-air bar. Suddenly the ear-thumping reggae that filled the air stopped, replaced by a soft jazzy tune. Tiny flower girls wove through the lobby, past the bar, down steps leading to a canopy on the beach. Bridesmaids and groomsmen followed, passing a throng of uninvited gawking guests. As a proud Dad escorted the bride to the altar, the drinkers at the bar rose to their feet, smiling approval as if they were giving the woman away. Bikini-clad sunbathers on chairs beside the canopy stood to the sides, cameras clicking away.

It was like a tropical version of the interactive audience play, “Tina and Tony’s Wedding,” and we were in it! As they reached the altar, I slipped out the back way, wondering what I might encounter next. When it was a close call with a funeral a few days later in St. Barts, I decided I’d better watch my step!

One of the more predictable tasks of Caribbean cruising is clearing in and out with customs and immigration. It is a necessary ordeal that involves mounds of official forms, carbon paper and serious, no-nonsense uniformed workers. Somewhere in the last year I was promoted to “captain,” thus placing the clearance job in my lap. Though the drill is rarely the same, I know my part and follow it well … stand quietly in line; wait patiently; give a kind greeting and follow all verbal answers with “sir” or “ma’am.” “Please” and “thank you” help, too.

But one day last month, five noisy Americans were in line ahead of me as the Anguillan officials opened their door for business. The rowdy people were part of a group of over 100 from a Manhattan sailing club, having way too much fun on 12 charter boats. Like a teacher’s pet in school, I tried to ignore their raucous behavior, fearful I’d be blamed. The guy in front of me turned and asked, “How long you think this’ll take, five minutes?” I shrugged, thinking, “in your dreams!” I figured an hour, at least.

The immigration lady was busily stamping papers, but customs had yet to show up. Outside, the other 95-plus New Yorkers were loudly gathering for a group photo. The five waiting inside paced, anxious to join them. Miraculously, the customs officer flew through the door and got right to work. She cut through their clearance forms and mine in a record-breaking five minutes and shot back out the door. I’d never seen anything like it! By the time I stepped onto the beach, she was poised in front of the scantily dressed crowd, camera in hand. She was taking the job they’d given her as official photographer seriously, when the crowd began to
chant her name, “ANITA, ANITA, ANITA!”

Someone directed her, “Get in the picture! Come on. Get in the picture with us!” Despite her protests and the fact that she was holding onto a male co-worker, several guys ran forward, scooped her up and carried her toward the crowd. They placed her in the middle on someone’s knee for the final photo op of the morning.

“Go figure,” I mumbled to no one. “I get in trouble for not pushing hard enough on the triplicate forms and these guys get away with shanghai-ing the customs officer.”

Bruce stumbles into the thick of it now and then, too. In early March he took his steel pan drum ashore to play “Happy Birthday” for a 90-year-old friend. On the way back to the dinghy he passed a band playing at a local bar. The non-acoustic group, led by the
Mighty Springer, was playing jump-up music with a washtub base, banjo, conga drum and a metal grater played with a stick. Bruce wrangled his way in to join them for one song with his shiny tenor pan. Days later, Springer saw him and said, “Hey mon, we like ya style! You can play wid us any time. We aksin you!” Bruce didn’t hit the road with them, but he joins them when he can and now he’s known around the island as, “da fella wid de pan.”

As I type this, the wind is blowing far too hard, the boat is rolling side to side from seas that are uncharacteristically wild and a pile of laundry is calling my name. I can’t imagine that another unexpected, interesting event is about to happen, but I certainly hope so. I’d do anything to get out of doing the laundry.

Jan

Wise people take back their vacation; daredevils take back their life. A few … the courageous and sometimes foolhardy … head to paradise to plant the seeds of long slumbering dreams, attempting the difficult task of running a business in the third world.

Anguilla, like all the islands of the Caribbean, has met its share of enthusiastic risk-takers during its 50 odd years of tourist development. Each year a few more arrive and, like migrating birds, just as many leave.

One of the most successful couples on Anguilla, and for sure the most famous, are Bob and Melinda Blanchard. In 1995 they left behind their stateside life, moved to this British West Indian island and opened Blanchard’s Restaurant. Two successful cookbooks (“Cook What You Love” and “At Blanchard’s Table”), along with a featured spot on NBC’s “Today” show that coincided with the destination wedding event, helped ignite their island fame and fortune, and it hasn’t stopped growing since.

Together the Blanchards also authored “A Trip to the Beach,” described by U.S. Weekly as, “a charming tale of a Caribbean culinary adventure.” And last year they launched a second restaurant, Zurra, at the Baccarat Hotel, and soon will release two entrepreneurial books on how to live the life you love. It would seem they have that subject mastered well.

The Blanchards’ unbridled success might lead you to think paradise is a piece of cake … but nothing could be further from the truth. Nuuh-thing! Last year on the island we met a middle-aged couple from New York who left behind their stateside life (sound familiar?), snagged a lease on a beachside restaurant and unleashed their plans and dreams. Big ones. We weren’t surprised to find them missing less than a year later, and to hear the story of how the police had escorted them to the airport, where they were flown one-way, no returns, no do-overs, to Puerto Rico. Behind them trailed a cloud of debt, broken promises and bad will. You can bet there won’t be a book about that.




Anguilla does have some new kids on the rock, though, who are turning heads and making headlines with their restaurant, Veya, Cuisine of the Sun. Located at the top of Sandy Ground hill, far from the water’s edge, it’s nestled among lush tropical trees that shadow a garden of fragrant blooms. Guests ascend to the second story via candle lit steps to a canopied veranda. Inside the lounge, decorated with a simple yet discerning décor, a table holds a guest book full of over-the-top glowing remarks. “From start to finish it was perfect!” “Michelin stars in Anguilla!”

We met Carrie Bogar, half of Veya’s dynamic duo, at the beach one
Sunday. Two of her three young children, with salt-caked blonde hair and sandy bodies, ran between the sea and their Mom. In between the kids’ visits I collected bits of the Bogars’ blossoming success story. In less than a year, Carrie and her husband, Jerry, have created one of the island’s most popular fine dining establishments and it’s received rave reviews from the New York Times and Caribbean Travel and Life. That’s quite a feat on an island where pretty much every top restaurant has a drop-dead waterfront view.
Photo: Carrie Bogar, second from left; Jerry Bogar, far right.

Days later, Carrie and Jerry sat with me at Veya to share their story, starting at the beginning of an odd string of events that led to the beautiful setting we were sitting in. During the ninth year of owning and managing a restaurant in Pennsylvania, they were yearning for something different. Not simply looking for a career shift or a change of scenery, they were after a new life in a new land. Annual January get-aways from Pennsylvania’s cold to several islands in the Caribbean prompted them to Google “Caribbean restaurants, for sale.” Up popped one on Anguilla. Just as they were about to book flights to check it out, a once-in-a-lifetime proposal that was just too good to pass up landed in their laps. Carrie explained, “We were offered a blank check to design, open and run a restaurant, spa and town center. We couldn’t pass it up, so we worked on the project for a year while continuing to manage our own business, along with checking out Anguilla, just in case.”

Still yearning for “something more, something different,” they flew again to Anguilla, sealed the deal with a handshake and returned home to sell everything and move to the Eastern Caribbean. That process took much longer than they imagined, but with the stateside house sold they were finally ready to buy one in Anguilla. Unfortunately, during the three years that had ensued values on the island had tripled. Undeterred, they found a rental to live in and set to work renovating the Veya property and grounds, creating a new kitchen, installing furnishings and developing the menu and plan that would secure them a business license.

Carrie, trained at the Culinary Institute of America, created a menu of global tastes. “I’m drawn toward equatorial cuisine,” she explained, “Asian, Moroccan, South American.” Their menu reads like a mouth-watering world map. First course selections include Moroccan spiced shrimp cigars with roasted tomatoes and spicy apricot sauce; Vietnamese style crispy calamari with nuoc cham; traditional fish soup with coconut, ginger and red pepper rouille. Just a few of the dozen second course offerings are grilled local lobster with passion fruit mustard sauce, gingered sweet potato with garlic toasted spinach; grilled crayfish, ginger beurre blanc, chayote flan and local pumpkin; tamarind glazed roast chicken with christophene gratin and tropical fruit chutney.

Carrie had hoped to change the menu frequently, but it has remained the same because many guests return for specific meals. She doesn’t want to disappoint, so they offer daily specials that usually include one of her favorites … anything with fresh fish. Also at the top of her list is the carpaccio of conch with Asian cucumber-chayote slaw, Indonesian rice salad and chili aioli. Carrie also loves to serve her Five Course Tasting Menu, comprised of her current favorites.

Jerry, educated at Pennsylvania’s College of Fine Arts, leads the business end of Veya. He’s the logistics guy, working through the myriad of oddball island issues that spring up like moles. Together they manage a staff of 12, serving upwards of 60 guests each evening. Carrie leaves her kitchen in an attempt to chat with each table. She typically visits during the first seating, announcing the specials. “Our social life has become hanging out with the last tables,” she said. “Those people come back several times a year because of it.” During those late evening visits they have met some amazing people, including some world-class movers and shakers. She added, “There is a sophistication of tourism here. An audience that’s world-savvy and food-savvy.”

Thinking there must be some downside to transplanting a family of five so far from malls and soccer fields, I probed a little further. They assured me that, although they are actually busier in Anguilla, they are definitely happier and have less stress. Their three children are thriving in school. Recreational opportunities include golf clinics at the Temenos Club, private swim instruction, lessons at the tennis academy and sailing school. The restaurant is closed Sundays, so the family can hang out at the beach. “Living here isn’t for everyone,” Carrie told me. But for the Bogar family, it’s veya … a Carib word meaning “a ray of sunlight.”

Jan

My perspective on St. Barts spans 30 years, a brief paragraph in the island’s history book but long enough to notice plenty of change. What was once a base for pirates and smugglers … and centuries later, traders and cruising sailors … is now considered the Riviera of the Caribbean. The rich and famous, their families and friends come and go throughout the high season, trailing behind an entourage of bodyguards and worker bees. To accommodate them, chic hotels, restaurants and shops dot the island in abundance. Tiny roads that once held mini-mokes and VW Things are now choked with Mini Coopers, Smart Cars, SUVs and oversized trucks.

Most visitors arrive by small plane, the only size that can fit on
one of the Caribbean’s trickiest runways. Incoming aircraft must first clear the crest of a gusty hill that holds at its peak a busy road. Next they must descend FAST to a downhill-sloping tarmac to grab every inch of it before it abruptly becomes the sea. Flying to St. Barts is a white-knuckle rush for the passengers. I can only imagine what the pilots think.

Arrival by sea is through the Port of Gustavia, a picturesque town that holds at its center a protective harbor. In not-so-long-ago days, boats sailed in and out and anchored at will. Down island
trading vessels lay beside charter cruising boats and local fishing craft. Laidback residents spoke French, Swedish, English and Creole. Most were from St. Barts (Bartians) or its big-sister island, Guadaloupe. It really was a sleepy little fishing village.

Today’s port is concrete and glass, stainless steel and sensational. It’s an orchestrated parking lot for some of the
world’s most ostentatious yachts, directed by a uniformed team from the port captain’s office. Mega-yachts tie stern to the quay that lines the harbor. Pedestrians walk the planked promenade to catch a glimpse of the gilded opulence, but mostly what they see is a relentless demonstration of scrub and polish by large, busy shipboard crews. Little St. Barts is still fishy, but it hasn’t slept in years.

On every visit we head off to find the charm that made the island the exclusive destination it is today. The first place we visit is
Le Select, a small brick bar in the center of Gustavia. Beside it sits the Cheeseburger in Paradise shack and a tree-lined courtyard that fills and empties all day long. Everyone finds a friend there because it’s the center of the St. Barts universe. Proprietor Marius Stakelborough, who built the place over 50 years ago, told us, “The people wanted a bar, a place they could gather. That’s what I made. That’s what it still is. I want it to be the same, even after I’m gone.”

Judging by the interior, I’d say he’s holding true to his word. Inside is a Marius museum of aged post cards, flags, posters and photographs. My favorite is an image of Marius and his pal, Jimmy Buffet, arm in arm, taken on the golden anniversary of the island’s favorite bar.

To slip back even further in time I head out early one morning for the village of Corossol, settled three generations ago by people from Charente in southeastern France. It’s a hilly walk through traffic-jammed roads, before reaching the countryside and the final lane that descends to the fishing village, happily stuck in time. I pass ladies hanging laundry and sweeping porches. A gentleman painting meticulous detail on his house calls to me, “Bonjour. Ca va?”

“Bien,” I answer with a wave. It’s good. All good.

At the beach, traditional open boats lay everywhere, filled with traps and nets. Simple houses perch next to the one-lane road, a few display hats and baskets for sale, braided from palm fronds. A worn sign at the end of the road reads, “Inter Oceans Museum, Coguillages du Monde, Entier.” It’s the shell museum, my destination for the day and one of St. Barts’ best-kept secrets.


I stroll inside, looking for Ingénue Magras, creator and curator. His collection, considered one of the best in the world, sprawls throughout tiny rooms in mismatched buildings. Several clear, segmented containers hold samples of sand collected from hundreds of beaches. In each stands a paper drink umbrella and a handwritten note telling the origin in French and English. Large
glass display cases hold multiple examples of every kind of shell imaginable. Other showcases contain artistically glued shells transformed into turtles, fish, birds … you name it. Big ship models holding fishtank pirates crown the cases. It’s the genius and life’s work of its 87-year-old owner.

Our St. Barts time travel continued through our week-long stay, while Bruce displayed his paintings at Gustavia’s Porte 34. The
gallery is in a thick stone building, erected several centuries ago, that was once used to store smuggled rum and brandy. Sometime in the mid 1900s it was boarded up and forgotten, until 1993 when Bruce was invited by the owner to use the space to show his art. We swept away the cobwebs and a mountain of dust, shoved back the disintegrating cases of aged alcohol and opened The Here Today Gallery. At the end of an entertaining, successful month it was time for us to be “gone tomorrow.” We re-sealed the wooden doors and shutters and placed a sign on the door at the request of the owner: “Future Home of the Bhank of Bhagdad.” A few years ago, when the building was renovated into the serious gallery it is today, everyone called it, “The Bagdad.” Some still do.

During our week at Porte 34 we met many people who, like us, have been coming to St. Barts for 20 to 30 years. They all commented on the changes they’ve seen. Some complained. Too many people, too many cars. Everything is expensive. But still they return each year to this magical little island that somehow remains the same.

Jan

I am always up for a story, so I said “YES!” before Sue finished the question, “Would you like to go out on one of the boats?” Sue, a cruising sailor from South Africa, runs the shore-side of the 12-Metre Challenge, an adventure sailing business in Phillipsburg, St. Marten. The yachts, five authentic 12’s, were designed and built for the last 12-Metre America’s Cup held in Australia in 1987. Each day, one of Dennis Conners’ two Stars and Stripes races around the bay against True North, True North IV or Canada II. The majority of the crew consist of globe-trotting travelers looking for a thrill. Most of them have never sailed; some have never before set foot on a boat.

“So how can this work?” my skeptical mind asked. I’ve sailed enough to know it can be dangerous on a good day. Big boats, like the 12’s, require heavy-duty gear that can be difficult to handle and downright threatening. But the next morning, curiosity won over caution and I found myself at the 12-Metre Headquarters armed (with cameras) and ready to go. At the entryway, two guest books lay open, filled with one positive, excited, blown-away comment after another. Above them hung a framed, faded American flag. Written on it, “Good Sailing! Dennis Conner, Starts and Stripes, 1995 America’s Cup.”

Sue directed me to wait out front for the launch that would carry guests to the cruise ship pier where we would be welcomed and briefed. I passed the time chatting with a retired couple from Cleveland, trying to determine their motivation for purchasing the tickets in their hands. Just like the other 18 people we soon joined, they wanted to go for a sail on one of the legends.

Bradley Jenkins, an exuberant American, began by counting his charges before announcing, “Very few people in the world have ever done what you are about to do.” He explained the regatta then asked for volunteers to captain the two teams. Not waiting for reluctant hands to rise, he pointed to an attractive young woman saying, “You will be great! What’s your name?” Next, he shanghaied another pretty face from the crowd.

The first captain picked her friend as crew. Bradley discovered captain number two was on her honeymoon and challenged her, “This is your opportunity to establish strength in your new marriage. Will you pick one of these fine sailors,” his hand fanned the group, “or your husband?” The wise woman went for her man and we cheered.

The two teams were asked to choose their yacht, True North or Stars and Stripes. The groups huddled, each voting for the winner, Stars and Stripes. “My God! That never happens!” Bradley facetiously exclaimed while pulling a coin from his pocket.

As 21 of us boarded the launch for a ride to the 12’s, the sky turned a mean shade of gray. The wind, already in an uncharacteristically cranky mood, whipped into williwaws that caused water to jump from the sea. Conditions worsened as we got under way. Bradley quickly passed around a waiver for everyone to sign before the threatening sky opened up and drenched us. I checked all the faces for signs of fear but those people were having fun! Especially the lady who pulled out a credit card piece of plastic that opened into a full size raincoat.

Bradley explained the many crew positions available. We could choose the level of involvement we wanted. “Active or non-native?” he asked with a smile.

“Active!” shouted a young Russian woman.

“Great! You will trim the genoa by working the primary grinders. Let’s hear it for our Primary Grinder!” In team fashion, we all let out whoops and hollers. “We need one more!” and a hand shot up eliciting another cheer. This went on through the positions of mainsheet trimmer, backstay grinder, back stay trimmer and primary grinders, before getting to the soft jobs. One woman was designated Cooler Queen, another was handed a stopwatch to use as timekeeper. The mother of the Russian girl and I were left. Since she had no English and looked happy just to be along for the ride, she was designated Iceberg Spotter and I was assigned Chief Paparazzi.

The tender approached True North, mainsail still up, galloping along slowly. The crew we were replacing moved to the bow, making room for us. They were hugging and kissing each other and the three official crew who manage and sail the boats. Their 12-Metre shirts clung to their bodies, hair pasted to their heads, yet they appeared to be totally satisfied customers. A voice inside me wondered, “How on earth can this be fun?”

Once the two boats were tied together, Bradley looked aft to the new True North crew and called, “Let’s hear it for our Primary Grinders!” The two rose and carefully climbed from boat to boat. He ran through each position, one by one, until the Iceberg Spotter and I were left. We joined the rest of our crew and a cooler of iced drinks followed us on. The wet crew from the bow took our spots in the tender and sped off to Stars and Stripes.

Our skipper, Matt, seated us in assigned spots then introduced first mate, Robb and second mate, Tommy. All three young men from
Britain were fit, fast and very funny. Stationed near their new recruits they got to work explaining and demonstrating the task that lay ahead, all the while showing us what not to do or touch. The Iceberg Spotter, who had pulled out a camera, was busy snapping shots of her husband and darling daughter. I sat quietly taking it all in.

Matt revved us up asking, “Who wants to win this race?”

“We do!” we yelled.

“Who will win this race?” he shouted.

“True North! True North!” we chanted. Although few of us knew each other, we were quickly turning into a team.

The genoa was released to power us up and the grinding began. We tacked and jibbed around Great Bay for a good 20 minutes, hauling lines and cranking gear, getting used to the motion and the task ahead. The Brits praised us, egged us on and before I knew it, everyone was doing their job … well!


Matt stood on the foredeck holding a blue board with letters and squiggly white lines. “I’m going to explain the course we will sail.” It looked like a plate of spaghetti to me, but others nodded comprehendingly and off we shot toward the start line.

Robb maneuvered the boat close to Stars and Stripes for some humorous verbal sparring. The committee boat hoisted the five-minute flag. The two 35-ton, 70-foot giants jockeyed for the best position. Our timekeeper, not knowing she should be counting backwards, called, “4:45, 4:50, 4:55,” The red flag shot up and we leapt over the line ahead of them.

The boys from Britain directed crew to grind and trim, tightening the rig for the upwind leg to the mark. Waves broke over the bow sending slop and spray onto our already wet crew. The young Russian woman worked the arm-powered gears of the genoa winches with so much enthusiasm, it rubbed off on the rest of us. A high-speed chase boat caught up to us from behind, a whistle in the driver’s mouth, a camera in one hand. Matt shouted, “When you hear the whistle, turn and smile but do not wave. O.K?” Four attempts later, the fellow got the shot he was after and sped off.

Stars and Stripes beat us to the first mark. Matt explained our second-place status and the strategy we’d use to beat them to the downwind mark. He brought True North close to Stars and Stripes, forcing them off course. It was at that point that I decided to finally pull out the new Flip camera Bahama Breeze sent us so we could add video to the blog. The camera had stayed in the zip-bag, waiting for that short, dry moment. I scooted myself into a clear space, pulled it from the bag and WHAM! The mainsheet hit my arm and the camera shot into the air. It hit the deck twice before leaping into the sea like a frog. Tommy yelled, “What was that?”

In disbelief, I said, “My … new camera!”

It was one of the few things, apparently, that was ever lost from that boat and luckily it wasn’t my arm. From that point on I held my still camera with a death grip and snapped away trying to keep up with the Iceberg Spotter.

As we approached the downwind mark, Mark asked our team captain/tactician which tack we should take after rounding it, port or starboard. She shrugged her shoulders, “Port?”

Tommy shook his head and said, “Not port.”

“Starboard?” she asked.

“Starboard it is! Excellent choice!” yelled Mark.

On the upwind leg to the finish line, the real crew worked their newbies up for a win. They started yelling polite abuse to the other boat and we followed. Stars and Stripes did a clumsy double tack at the end but somehow won. We hip-hip-hoorayed them, pulled out cold drinks and enjoyed the ending to our “three-hour tour.”

Like the crew before us, we headed to the bow to make room for the next team. The tender collected us and steamed back to the 12-Metre Yacht Club where rum punch awaited us in their store full of 12-Metre emblazoned ties, sweats, hats, jackets, vests, shirts, shirts, shirts and the smiling but not waving photos of each team.

I stopped by to thank Sue. “Too bad it was so rough today,” she apologized. “Did you have a good time?”

“I did,” I replied, before letting loose with a string of positive, excited, blown-away comments.

The “America’s Cup” 12-Metre Challenge Program has been voted the number-one shore excursion in the whole Caribbean for 10 consecutive years by Princess Cruise Lines. It offers special programs for Management Team Building, Client Relationship Building and Corporate Incentive groups. For reservations and communications, e-mail Groups@12metre.com, or go to their Web site sat www.12metre.com.

Jan