The turquoise waters of the Bahamas Banks slipped under the wings of our Delta jet as we began our descent toward the airport on the island of Provo, Turks & Caicos. This was our second trip to Turks & Caicos Islands (TCI) and, in contrast to the hustle and bustle we encountered on Provo on our previous trip in 2011, we looked forward to the quiet and solitude of Salt Cay and, later, on Grand Turk.
I had carefully crafted arrangements for our trip some months before, and we anticipated fairly smooth sailing once we arrived on Provo from Atlanta, cleared Customs & Immigration, and hopped on the small Caicos Express Airways Cessna for the 20 minute flight to Salt Cay.
Following my in-depth research on TripAdvisor, Fodor’s Grand Turk forum and emails to various property and business owners, I had selected the Castaway property for our 3 night stay on tiny, quaint Salt Cay. Upon our arrival at the little airstrip on the island, we were met by the erstwhile, efficient and friendly property manager Paul, who drove us around in his golf cart and gave us a quick tour of the settlement and harbor area. Paul showed us the two places to eat and suggested we needed to make a res for that evening’s fare if we wanted a meal. We took him up on his offer to call the managers of Island Thyme restaurant and to let them know they’d have two guests around 7pm.
Soon, we arrived at our little cottage on the secluded beach on the north end of the island. We had the buildings, the beach and surrounds totally to ourselves, with the exception of a few cows who wandered by, grazing placidly on the low scrub surrounding the cottage.
The refreshing wind off the ocean kept us cool while we unpacked and prepared to head to the settlement to dinner. Luckily, we had made arrangements to rent a golf cart, which waited patiently outside the cottage as we climbed aboard and thumped our way down a long, dusty limestone track through the scrub to the settlement to Island Thyme.
On our way we passed by numerous simple homes of the locals, many surrounded by low limestone walls with gates to keep the donkeys at bay. Old salt-raker cottages, some quite nicely updated, appeared among the small houses that clustered near a park-like area where donkeys and cattle rested under welcome shade from casuarinas pine trees, providing a bucolic and wind-swept scene as we tooled by in our golf cart.
The little restaurant was placed on what appeared to be a small “town square” of the quiet settlement. While we waited for our dinner of almond-encrusted red snapper to be prepared, we enjoyed the rooftop patio view of the late afternoon light casting a warm glow over the salt ponds in the center of the island. These “salinas” are the legacy of when Salt Cay was the world’s largest producer of salt in the 1800’s. In spite of multiple hurricane visits throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, much remains of the history of the salt trade on Salt Cay, as expressed on the Turks & Caicos Preservation Foundation website http://saltcaypreservation.org/saltcay/historicdistrict/saltcaytoday.htm
which proclaims “A stroll through Balfour Town is like a tour of an outdoor museum, 19th-century industry, with dilapidated windmills, salt sheds and abandoned salinas.”
Another interesting Salt Cay factoid can be found in Jimmy Buffett’s autobiography, “A Pirate Looks at Fifty”, in which Buffett mentions that his father, James Buffett, told stories of his father (Jimmy’s grandfather), one James Buffett, who was the skipper of a five-masted Barkentine sailing vessel named the Chickamauga, from Pascagoula, Mississippi. James told his family tales of Salt Cay, which he considered the place he had some of the best times of his life. While salt was being loaded onto the ship, bound for New Orleans, the six-year-old boy who would grow up to be Jimmy’s father would “take off with a group of local kids and…chase flamingos and catch lobsters from the beach.”
While herding flamingos was not on our agenda, snorkeling certainly was. We hooked up with a descendant of the “salt baron” family Harriott, one Tim Dunn, who is the proud owner of a lovely new twin-hulled boat which anchors his business Crystal Seas Adventures.
We had Tim’s undivided attention and his fast powerboat to ourselves, as we snorkeled several reefs over the next two days. The best reefs were located not far offshore right in front of our cottage. You can see this series of circular reef formations in the aerial photo I took. In the photo, the furthest reef to your right is the one where I spotted a bull shark, my very first (and I hope last!) sighting of these critters with the well-deserved reputation as seriously dangerous to human health.
I won’t stoop to the lurid “man-eater” moniker but let’s just say I was glad it was seemingly intent on cruising the sand at the base of the reef some 45 feet below me and that Robin was safely (?) swimming over a different part of the reef (ironically, trailing after a nurse shark) and managed to miss being buzzed by this 6+ footer. The reef fish, at least, had holes in the reef to dart into, and I watched them scatter as the shark swam rapidly along. I remained very still and was glad the critter just kept going until it disappeared around a bend in the reef.
Robin soon appeared. I mentioned the sighting, and we agreed to slowly make our way back to the boat. I saw Tim pull himself aboard and give us a relaxed wave. I figured he hadn’t spotted our visitor, which Tim confirmed once we got back aboard. He said he’d seen few bull sharks in his many years of diving the TCI (over 500 dives) and that the overall shark population was very healthy in these islands, which was most heartening to hear but I must admit that thoughts of ocean conservation weren’t uppermost in my mind when I first figured out I wasn’t gazing at a sleepy, harmless ol’ nurse shark!
In spite of SCUBA diving and snorkeling the Caribbean waters since the 1970s, (I have no idea how many dives I’ve been on but a coupla hundred would likely be a fair estimate), I’ve only been in the ocean with A) lots of nurse sharks (too many to count), B) one reef shark, C) one lemon shark and D) that’s quite enuf sharks for now, thank you.
Back on land, we totally loved the perfect quiet and isolation of the cottage. Over the course of our 3-night stay, we went to bed under a huge, bright-white-light full moon. The brisk breezes coursing through open screen doors and windows and the ceiling paddle fans made the mosquito netting superfluous and a light blanket welcome during the wee hours. We were nightly lulled to sleep and daily awakened to the sounds of the ocean waves rolling along the shoreline, the breeze through the scrub and the frequent calls of birds. No human voices. No planes or traffic sounds. No telephones. No radio or TV. No smart-phone alert sounds. Just nature. Bliss.
Our decision to stay some distance away from the little community near the town dock/harbor was a wise one, as the resident donkeys and roosters kicked up enough noise and drama to steal some sleep from the only other visitors (four adults) on the island. The visitors had chosen to stay near the center of the settlement, where, apparently, the beasts and fowl also chose to hang out. Some of the tales the other party told about the jacks waging bloody battles over the jennies were amusing, if somewhat alarming. Wouldn’t want to get between them! (The jacks, not the visitors…)
When not snorkeling or resting at the cottage, we hung out at the Coral Reef Bar and Grill right next to the little harbor near the town “square”.
While our meals there ranged from just-passable to awesome, we mostly enjoyed chatting with “Miss Debbie”, the proprietress of the bar/grill, the Tradewinds guest suites nearby, Salt Cay Divers (the primary dive operator on the island), and Salt Cay Real estate. Before long we were chatting about the TCI, Grand Turk (where we were headed next), whale watching, the resident donkeys, island history and online marketing tactics. Debbie sure is connected, and as far as I could tell, is the Go-to person on all things Salt Cay. Debbie’s life is apparently deeply rooted on Salt Cay, which struck me as different than the other 60 or more ex-pats who call the island their second home.
We were told by Tim and others that most of the ex-pats had left the island a few weeks ago, as the season wound down. Besides Paul and his wife, the only other folks we met on the island were locals (“Belongers”, as the folks in the TCI refer to themselves.)
After our three laid-back days of quiet on Salt Cay, we caught one of the few-and-far-between flights from Salt Cay over to nearby Grand Turk. Here we were slated to spend the next week enjoying the comfort of a 3br, 2 bath, fully air-conditioned private villa called “Palm Villa”, which I had found on VRO.com. We had secured the place, pre-paid, months before, after exchanging emails with the owner, a Canadian resident. We arrived at the airport to find we had no ride awaiting us from the owner’s on-island “property manager” and, abandoned at the airport, we stood around searching in vain for a pay phone (no such thing in the 21st century, anywhere, apparently). Debbie had luckily caught the same Cessna we did to GT and came to our rescue, using her cell phone to call the number I had been given for the PM, whom she apparently woke up and who admitted he had “forgotten all about” picking us up! This after I had called him, using Paul’s cell phone, from Salt Cay to remind him of our scheduled arrival!
The situation went from bad to worse. The condition of the property was simply awful– broken down, worn out, no linens, no AC, filth, exposed wiring. Suffice to say we hired a lawyer while on-island due to rectify a situation where the owner lied, misrepresenting his property in dated photos, refusing to compensate us a cent, etc. The lawyer made as much as we recovered. Lesson learned. Buy the insurance to protect yourself from property owners who are less than honest.
We managed to squeeze lemonade from lemons, and ended up moving lock, stock and over-the-barrel to the Bohio resort on GT, which turned out to be a lovely spot on the relatively undeveloped north side of the island.
Tom, the manager, was very kind to offer us a corporate rate on a standard, motel-like room when we washed up on his beach after our little surprise at “Palm Villa”. He, like everyone we spoke to over the course of the next few days, knew all about those brown houses, where they were, their decrepit state, etc and was as horrified as other islanders and business owners over the treatment we had received.
For the next 6 days and nights, the Bohio management, staff and surrounds served up a combination of off-season quiet relaxation, delicious meals, and multiple opportunities for us to jump into a boat and run a couple of minutes out to the edge of the wall and 7,000 feet of ocean blue depths. We were delighted to be situated so close to the wall, and found ourselves on a boat every day, experiencing another amazing snorkel spot.
One afternoon Tim came over to GT from Salt Cay to help with cruise ship overflow for an outfit he used to work for. I saw his boat go by and gave him a quick call on a borrowed cell phone and sure enough he was free that afternoon. Soon he anchored off the beach in front of the tiki bar at the Bohio, we jumped aboard and he took us to the northwest point of the island to a dive spot he referred to as his favorite, the “Ampitheater”.
We ended up snorkeling the Amphitheater atrium, a shallow (15-45 foot) area shoreward of the marked dive location. Wow, was that area teaming with fish! The (full moon!) tide was coming in, creating serious currents in a deep channel between fingers of reef. A large swell was running as well and the water was cold, all of which accounted for the fishy environs. The angle of the afternoon sun’s rays lit up the west-facing reef line like a spotlight, and all the colors of the hard corals, soft corals and tropical fish simply danced in our vision. Massive goose bumps under our thin dive skins finally drove us to get back aboard and we grinned like kids, enthusiastically thanking Tim for sharing a special spot with us.
Debbie’s Salt Cay Divers skiff, with skipper Ollie, was also available at the Bohio a couple of mornings, so we had Ollie and his boat all to ourselves as he took us to 3 different locations on the wall to snorkel. All in all I think we snorkeled eight different locations during the 5 days we had available for snorkeling. By the time we were ready to pack our gear, we discovered our skins were almost worn through and my mask and snorkel were getting pretty ragged and leaky after the past 3 years of Caribbean trips. Hey, a nice problem to have!
We actually got around GT quite a bit in the didn’t-want-to-start-or-keep-going golf cart, while we had access to it for the first two days on the island. We shopped for food stuffs and went to the bank to fetch money for the lawyer we hired, drove up and down Front Street innumerable times, popped into the national museum, checked out a couple of other motel-like properties I had come across during my research, had a ho-hum lunch at one of them, took photos of the short stretch of historic Duke Street that most visitors photograph (believe me, the Abacos are far prettier as examples of scenic Bahamas streets!), ate lunch out of a food wagon on dusty, hot Front Street (cruise ships were in so the street vendors were out), ate another (not-so-great) lunch at a local hole-in-the-wall eatery on dusty, hot Middle Street (where to locals live), visited a couple of thinly-stocked “convenience stores”, and saw a lot of trash and stray dogs and the shanties where the homeless Haitians lived.
We also dodged speeding cars, kids who chased our golf cart for fun, crazed cruise-ship zombies racing rented golf carts up the main drag of Pond Street, a group of cruise-ship zombies being herded, er I mean led on a tour of the town salinas on their rental Segways, and gave way numerous times to donkeys and horses that would appear suddenly and either dash madly or stroll leisurely across the street in front of us and disappear in the brush or behind a modest dwelling where the folks sitting in the shade of the porch would wave at us and call “Hello!” We always returned the wave with a smile.
After such frenzied activity, we were glad to give up the golf cart and remain “stuck” at the Bohio the remainder of our stay.
All in all, I believe this vacation goes down as one of the more unusual. Not exactly what we had hoped for, much less planned, and the additional expense of paying for, in essence, two places to stay kinda put a damper on our enjoyment. But, really, I found it hard to stay upset for long while I rested my tired-out-from-snorkeling self on a lovely padded beach chaise lounge in the shade of the casuarinas, enjoying a terrific breeze, watching Robin leisurely paddle a sea kayak against a backdrop of layers of Caribbean greens and blues stretching out toward the setting sun. Somehow, the world and my tiny spot in it clicked right back into place and kept on going round, and round, and round.
We were also recovering from a flu bug that was amplified by an extraordinarily intense spring that left our sinuses full of pollen and fine particulates. We were looking forward to having a week of breathing fresh sea breezes before returning to the not-so-balmy air of Atlanta, where Code Orange days are routine in the summer months. But I digress.
Flash forward as we each sip a first frozen concoction at the Pump Room, situated above the downtown ferry dock on St. Thomas, USVI. The almost-4-hr plane ride from ATL to STT was uneventful, and the fact that we didn’t check luggage facilitated a rapid transfer from the airport to the ferry dock and much-anticipated refreshment.
My body ecstatically soaked up the familiar tropical heat and humidity as we tooled over to Tortola on the, as it turned out, SLOW ferry. Not to worry, we arrived at West End in fine fettle, cleared Customs relatively painlessly, and greeted our rental car host, who tripped us over to his office nearby and, quick-as-a-bunny we were driving on the left and tooling up one of many steep, switchback roads, headed to the Heritage Inn, our home for the next week.
We made a quick stop in Cane Garden Bay to get water, rum, cokes and snacks, then doubled back over Windy Hill to the Heritage Inn, in ample time to check in, get a hug from Rosa, who remembered me from 2006, unpack a few items in our room, then down the stairs to the Banakeet Café, home of delicious food and drinks and the best sunset view from any eatery on the island.
Beautiful sunsets and gorgeous, virtually deserted beaches were hallmarks of our stay. We didn’t venture far on the island, as I had driven it a couple of times in 2006 only to discover that the best beaches were close to the Heritage Inn. However, a planned highlight was a day trip over to Anegada Island, rightfully famous for miles of pristine beaches, a nearby fringing reef and just a couple of small bar/restaurants on those beaches to serve the infrequent guests.
A 1.5 hr ferry ride, some of it across deep water (read: rough ride) took us to Anegada early of a morning. After a bite to eat at the only “resort” on the island, near the ferry dock, we shared a jitney ride across the island to Cow Wreck beach, one I had read featured great snorkeling.
The beach was simply awesome, curving away to both horizons, with nobody, no boat traffic, only 2 kite-boarders having a ball in 17-knot winds—which were blowing hard directly onto the beach. The surf was booming out over the reef, and the normally placid water inside the reef was dense with suspended sand. But hey, we donned our skins and got right in, before the winds could pick up any more, which of course they always do as the afternoon comes on…
Welcome to Olympic snorkeling, swimming against wind-driven tide and shallow water surge. We battled our way out toward the reef, carefully picking our way between coral heads that came close to the surface, and keeping our distance from patch reefs that were hard to see in the low visibility.
On our way out to the reef, I spotted a 5-foot nurse shark resting on the sand in about 15 feet of water. I pointed it out to Robin, who was tickled pink to see her first shark in the wild. We let the surge take us quietly near the critter, which glided away when it saw us. That left us with a large, curious barracuda, who kept turning toward us and disappearing in the turbid water, only to present its flank, as if to remind us that this was a sizable (4 feet in length) fish. We went on about our business and left the ‘cuda to its patch reef.
The usual reef denizens appeared in and out of the visibility curtain, and we soon tired of fighting the current and surge. A lengthy swim back to the beach provided ample opportunity for Robin to learn to ride the surge, resting as the wave return pushed us out toward the reef, waiting some 5 seconds, then catching the in-coming swell and kicking hard to take advantage of the ride. This was surely an exercise in patience, but also the smartest and most energy-efficient way to return to the beach safely.
As Robin learned, getting out of the water can be the most awkward challenge. My experience was: The surge rapidly took me in to the shallows, where the water became solid with suspended sand and I couldn’t see a damn thing. I reached out and down with one hand, prepared to fend off the bottom if necessary. I saw a few small chunks of rock sweep under me – my eyes adjusted to focusing on the rock then lost a focal point again as sand swirled. Vertigo reigned. I peeked above the water and saw I was still 30 feet or so from the water’s edge. Looking down, I saw a cluster of sharp rocks in what was suddenly very skinny water. Finning over these knee-knockers quickly, I came to the sand trench typically dug by strong onshore currents. Wallowing in the trench while getting battered by incoming waves, I worked quickly to get my fins off, before the next BIG wave, aided by a wicked undertow, could tumble me over those rocks I just crossed. Grasping my fins tightly, I danced two quick, steep steps onto firm sand and I was home free.
Behind me, Robin was tumbling in the surf, struggling with her fins. I gave her a hand and soon we were both standing, reeling really, on hard-packed beach, our snorkel skins covered with sand. The wind was blowing hard enough to threaten to snatch the gear out of our hands. Slowly we made our way back up the beach to our lounge chairs, where we collapsed gratefully.
The high winds attracted two kite-boarders, whom we enjoyed watching throughout the day as they flew across the bay, jumped the outer reef, turned flips and maneuvered skillfully around an inflatable anchored near the Cow Wreck beach bar. I struck up a confab with Bob-the-dentist-from-Texas, who proudly watched as his wife Cathy zoomed past. He explained she had taken the sport up a few months earlier. At 49, she looked every bit the pro to me, and I was amazed someone could master a sport that appeared tough to learn. Seems Bob and Cathy came to Anegada for 3 months every year to play on kiteboards—what a life! And a very nice couple.
The day flew by and soon it was time to head back to the ferry. On the way we passed a few skinny cows wandering around the dunes behind the bar. Cow Wreck, indeed. Poor things were bony, small and look half-starved.
Our next adventure was a day sail with snorkel stops aboard Kuralu, a 50 foot Catamaran I had been aboard in 2006. The day was windy—great for sailing but not so for snorkeling where I really wanted to go, which was at the exposed rocks called The Indians.
We almost called it off, especially since Robin was feeling a bit shaky after what we suspect were bad crab cakes she’d eaten the night before. However, she decided she should be fine aboard, as she “never” gets seasick, so off we went. Big Mistake. Not 10 mins after the sails unfurled, she hurled and kept at it for another 6 hours. She barely made it into the water for a brief snorkel stint at our first stop off Norman Island in protected waters.
The rest of the day she heaved every 20 minutes. She was close to needing rehydration via IV but she did manage to get enough fluids, including Gatorade, into her system to aid in a slow recovery. In any event, poor Robin remained off-her-food and listless for another 5 days.
Our final day of vacation was less adventuresome and allowed Robin to chill on a virtually deserted beach on a nearby island, Jost Van Dyke, a short ferry ride from Tortola. We caught a jitney over the mountain from the harbor to scenic White Bay and enjoyed a restful, quiet day swimming in clear, calm water and lounging in the shade in front of Ivan’s Stress-Free bar. Ivan’s offered delicious, if strong, Pain Killers, my favorite BVI drink. Robin sipped her Gatorade and we shared a delicious fish sandwich. A rain squall passed through, providing a welcome fresh-water rinse.
I had a nice chat with a somewhat waspish middle-aged Aussie woman who was the purveyor of a small display of driftwood, each piece crudely decorated with small shells, bits of colorful plastic and other curiosities apparently gathered from the high-water wrack line on the beach. Her story was interesting: she and her husband had suddenly, with-no-warning-to-the-kids-or-family, sold their home and furnishings in Sydney, provisioned their 35 foot sail boat, and taken off for ports unknown. Apparently the mid-life-crisis that brought on this abrupt change of venue took the kids by surprise, and months later the parents were still receiving telephone and email entreaties to “Come Home!” and to basically explain themselves! Mum and The Old Man were happy to be away from (apparently) a life of children-with-drama-issues, and they found themselves back on Tortola, where they had lived some 30 years previously (apparently before the kids came along!)
These days Mum made crappy sea crafts that she sold to passing White Bay tourists and The Old Man drove a cab on JVD. Nights were spent aboard their sailboat, she explained, pointing to a somewhat weathered mono-hull anchored out in the bay. I asked Mum if she and The Old Man had any plans, and she shrugged, admitting that they weren’t making any money and would likely head back to Sydney once they either managed to scrape up enough money to provision for the trip or if the kids would be willing to send some money along to help pay for the trip!
Of course there was more to the story, what with the kids holding the promise of money over the parents’ heads, contingent upon the parents selling “that damned boat” and flying back home. And of course the parents were refusing to give up the boat, their only valuable and the essence of their determined independence. In any case, the story was soon interrupted by the arrival of a large Windjammer sailing vessel to the bay, which vomited a crowd of loud, obnoxious, drunk or determined-to-get-drunk-rapidly American tourists onto the beach in front of Ivan’s. Their arrival signaled our departure, and so ended our bucolic day at Ivan’s on White Bay, JVD.
So many islands, so little time! This was my 2nd stay on Tortola, and as I watched it drift away under the wing of our Atlanta-bound Delta jet, I knew we’d likely not return. I determined that as soon as I got another job (having been out of work for 7 months in the Big Recession), I would start planning our 2010 trip to, lets’ see…Anguilla or Barbuda, those 2 islands keep coming up in conversation with seasoned, off-the-main-path Caribbean travelers. Hmmm – eeny, meeny miney, mo…
Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale to St. Thomas (STT) by plane can, on a good day, put you at the downtown (STT) ferry dock, awaiting one of the ferries for Tortola in about, oh say, maybe 8.5 hours – not counting the drive to the ATL airport or the 15 min taxi ride from the airport to the ferry dock. But, it’s the full moon in May, 2006, the Saturday afternoon sun is bright, a steady breeze blows dust and dirt along the streets of St. Thomas and ruffles the amazingly blue and clear waters surrounding Charlotte Amalie.
We are already, in our minds, on Tortola, sipping a cold something and watching the sun set from the outer edges of the Banakeet restaurant at the Heritage Inn – our home for the next 7 days or so. It will be a short, adventurous, pleasant, and somewhat painful stay. But first, the hour ferry ride over to Tortola, which gives us plenty of time to slowly get into limin’ mode, which is slang for, well, limin’. Think of it. A lime. A drink. Sittin’ in the shade on a breezy beach – limin’.
Clearing customs in any port is no joy but the standard operating procedure at West End, Tortola, treated us gently, and so we made our way out of the breezeway and into the sweltering sun to ask around for Denzyl Clyne, who showed up, as agreed, to take us 2 minutes down the shore road to his car rental shack, where we yakked with other eager vacationers doing the same paperwork drill to secure the must-have 4WD jeep capable of negotiating the steep, winding, treacherous hills and switchbacks of this 59 sq. mile chunk of the British Virgin islands.
Tortola is located some 90 miles east of Puerto Rico, a stone’s throw from the USVI’s St. John and a world away from the stress of work, household upkeep, lawn chores and other bothers. Officially, some 22,000 humans call the island home, about 2/3 of them living in and around the capital and seat of commerce, Road Town, which we steered clear of as we went up, up, up and over and down, down, down one of what would be many “hills”, to cross to the side of the island where the tourists tend to congregate.
Driving along the North Coast Road (a fairly flat section), we enjoyed the water views, the pelicans and frigate birds wheeling, flapping and, in the pelicans’ case, diving. The driver, Lynn, managed to negotiate narrow streets, parked cars, stopped cars, chickens and the odd goat and wandering pedestrian with aplomb, while driving on the left of the skinny road. Luckily, driving on the left is like riding a bicycle, (for those who have done it before, I should say) – although here it’s not recommended one falls off – it can be a very long, very direct way down to sea level.
Soon, it was time to shift back into 4WD and head way up, up and winding and up and switchback (4 of them, keep count) and here we are, home for the next week. Park the jeep and walk toward the edge of that precipice just under the Tamarind tree and, oh my gosh. Look at that view. From over 400 feet up, on this breezy hill, where you can smell the salt sea air, the loamy soil, green growing things and the singular tart odor that always reminds me of the jungles of Mexico and Belize. The islands to the north are clearly etched against a soft, dusty blue sea way below. Boats sailing between us and the nearby island of Jost Van Dyke make tiny white scratches on the surface of that incredibly blue Caribbean Sea. I don’t have enough names for the different hues of blue I’ve seen these waters reflect – it’s been a few years since I’ve been in this section of the Caribbean and I’m almost overwhelmed again by the intensity of the sight and my reaction to it. Or maybe I just need a pina colada. Time to unpack and head for the bar of the Banakeet!
The sunset was awesome, the food and drinks at the Banakeet lived up to the restaurant’s reputation. The room at the Heritage Inn was rather small, cramped really, but we didn’t spend much time in there – well, except for the days it poured rain and threatened to wash the place off the mountain. Speaking of which, Sage Mountain, the highest point on the island at over 1,700 feet rose directly behind the Heritage Inn. The peak was often shrouded in mist and light rain during our stay, except for the one day we managed to hike the trails in the Mt. Sage Nat’l Park. It was dark and cool under the canopy of huge fig trees and other, rampant growth. Birdcalls surrounded us as we trekked through the jungle-like greenery- it was a tiny piece of rain forest on an otherwise rather arid island that boasts mostly cactus, succulents and other moisture-hungry plants.
During our stay we drove to various beaches, discovering chilly waters and interesting snorkeling at Brewer’s Bay, as well as a delicious meal at Nichol’s beachside grill there. At Brewer’s Bay, cattle were resting in the deep shade of the sea grapes well above the high water mark and chickens pecked through the leaf litter. A small village of tarps sagged in the deep gloom of the shade. More like a hobo camp than party destination, the place was abandoned (except for the cows and chickens) and gave me the willies as I curiously poked around.
Another scenic and out of the way beach is Smuggler’s Cove, way down at the west end of the island. Negotiating the very rough and steep track is made worthwhile when you arrive – no real facilities here but you can buy a t-shirt or sarong from the ad-hoc beach vendor or even get a frozen drink, mixed to your specs with the assistance of a car battery.
One night’s dinner at Myett’s in Cane Garden Bay, the main tourist center on the north side of the island, gave us reason to avoid the place and try Coco Plums in Carrot Bay- a much tastier proposition. In spite of the resident and voracious no-see-ums that hang out at Coco Plums, we ate there several times and came away delighted with the quality of the food, service and atmosphere. Funky place, great prices, decent service and the seared pan mushrooms were a much-anticipated appetizer! Just don’t hit that big fig tree when you go to back out into the street…
Early in the week we caught the 8am ferry for a 20-minute ride over to nearby Jost Van Dyke island. Frequent Caribbean travelers know that early morning ferries are mostly peopled with workers, and so we weren’t surprised to discover no taxis waiting at the other end to take us across a steep hill to White Bay, a well-known gorgeous beach area with a string of bars and small boutiques along the white sands. So we grabbed our stuff and hiked into town, which we could see just around the curve of the harbor. Found a taxi driver awake and secured a quick trip over to Ivan’s on White Bay, where we set up camp for the morning under the shade of yet more sea grapes. A handful of sailboats, mostly 40+ foot catamaran’s, rode anchor or mooring balls on the beautiful, crystal clear water, providing a picture-perfect backdrop.
After swimming and limin’ for a coupla hours, we hiked down the beach and around a pointy-and-jagged ironshore headland with the aid of a slippery goat trail. We stumbled, sweaty and hot from our trek, down the soft beach sand to the famous Soggy Dollar bar. Party boats had made their way to anchor just off-shore by then and a crowd of rowdy high school kids were raising a ruckus, but that didn’t keep us from enjoying a delicious lunch, a couple of pain killers, a couple of beers, and taking pictures.
Dinah used her Blackberry to call back over to our hostess Rosa at the Heritage Inn to follow up on arrangements for a sail/snorkel day trip for the morrow- all was set!
Wednesday (the morrow), we were up and at ‘em early to drive back down the North Coast Road, through Carrot Bay and around Apple Bay, across the mountain on Zion Hill Rd., shifting out of 4WD again and tooling over to Soper’s Hole in West End, the yachting mecca and upscale shopping area catering to folks with a lot more money than sense. Just kidding- Soper’s Hole is scenic and justifiably famous for something or other. Lotsa slips at the marina, anyway. One of them hosted our skipper Robin’s catamaran Kuralu.
After a bite of breakfast at the little Pisces restaurant, we joined 4 other folks on board Kuralu for a terrific day of sailing, snorkeling and enjoying the company of our skipper, his hunky son Tom, Kaley-the-wonder-dog and fellow passengers. Just enough wind to push us along, so off we tacked to the Indians, some tall rocks sticking up out of the ocean bottom, swarming with more soft corals and fish life than I’ve seen for years, outside of the reef off Ambergris Caye in Belize. Cool water didn’t keep us away from almost an hour communing with the fishies – I was in heaven. Snorkeling the Indians was just like snorkeling a wall, except one could move from one wall to another. Depth to the sand was approx. 40-50 feet and lotsa sun shining down lit everything up beautifully.
This stop proved to be the highlight of this snorkel trip and provided a potent visual that is indelibly etched into my memory. One of those magical moments unfolded, simply out of nowhere, when I swam around one of the rocky outcrops and encountered a huge school of silversides. Thousands of 4-6″ long fish formed a large ball, approximately the size of a car, creating a dazzling, shimmering display in the rays of sunlight spearing the blue water. As I swam toward the ball, it parted just wide enough to let me into the center, and then the gap closed behind me. I found myself in the core of a solid vertical tunnel of fish that stretched from a foot below the ocean’s surface down to the sandy bottom below. I held my breath as long as I could and slowly corkscrewed toward the surface, mesmerized by the fishy envelope around me.
I lost track of time, but likely only enjoyed a few minutes of this amazing swim before the fish shoal moved out into open water, leaving me behind, where I floated, dazed and grinning from ear-to-ear.
Back aboard Kuralu and drying off, we were entertained by Kaley, who would leap off the stern with a big SPLASH and swim like mad to fetch the Frisbee that Tom tossed overboard. Once Kaley had it in her mouth, she’d turn around, swim back to the stern and board the boat using the swim ladder! Truly a wonder-dog!
The cobalt blue of the ocean slipped astern as we headed over to anchor off Norman island for a fantastic lunch aboard Kuralu and some desultory snorkeling in a somewhat brisk current over mostly boring, half dead and fishless reef. That swim didn’t last long, although the two nubile sisters from Miami Beach did spot a turtle. Darn, we missed it.
The sisters got to show off a bit more skin than previously displayed around their miniscule “swim suits” when we headed around the corner to another bay, where the infamous “pirate ship” (think Disney with rust stains), the “Willy-T” lay at permanent anchor in an almost pristine setting of soaring green hills.
The old scow of a boat was anchored in about 40 feet of crystal clear water over a white sand bottom, with a few, long and dark shadows lurking just under the surface in the shade of the boat. I thought the fish were Jacks. I’m sure they and other critters are accustomed to eating anything that falls or is tossed off that boat.
Anyway, the thing is, if one jumps off the upper deck of the ship into the water some 30 feet below, er, naked, one Gets The T-Shirt. Of course the girls went for it.
A few fellas were hangin’ at the bar and happy to provide an appreciative audience. The girls were concerned that the impact of hitting the water might damage the investment they had in their superstructures, but a self-entitled “surgeon” who claimed he had “done a million of them” (I doubt he meant jumps) suggested the girls might hold onto their attributes tightly as they struck the water. Some fellas thought this was bad advice, as it might ruin the view. The women all encouraged the girls to protect their investments. I was given the task of capturing the seminal leap, using their digital camera, which I managed to do, quite to their satisfaction. They decided that was one shot they weren’t going to share with Dad and StepMom…
Post-leap and the donning of “swim suits” in the pellucid waters, we all (Kaley included) piled into the dingy for a quick run back to Kuralu and headed back to port, where the beginning of what was to be a day and 2 nights of torrential rainfall awaited us.
The Big Rains caught us at breakfast at Rhymer’s down in Cane Garden Bay the next morning. Like the 15 or so other patrons, we were stuck there for well over 2 hours, with no letup in sight. Finally, we headed out in the rain to the Suzuki and carefully made our way toward the Heritage Inn, crossing the bridge over a “ghut” (large gully that drains water from the steep hills around) that was filling faster than it could drain into the bay.
Half way up the first of several steep hills, we could go no further – the road in front of us was awash with fast-flowing, muddy water with boulders and rocks tumbling along, easily as deep as the tires on the Suzuki. Turning around, we were stymied when arriving back at the bridge over the ghut – the bridge was under water and there we sat, waiting for the water level to drop. It was about an hour later that the rains let up and we slowly picked our way past rocks, boulders, holes in the road and hillsides washed onto the roadway, to arrive back at our room.
At some point I managed to slip on wet tiles on the stairs to our room and damaged my leg rather severely, which laid me up with ice and Ibuprofen for an evening or two, but didn’t keep me from snorkeling and, luckily, had no direct affect on the articulation of either elbow.
Our last full day we drove down (up?) the island, getting lost along the way and finally found Lambert Bay – a very scenic place with the added attraction of Lambert’s Resort. We hung out on the resort’s beach loungers, which allowed us to put the little sand chairs we’d packed all the way from the ‘states back in the Suzuki (later we donated the sand chairs to the Heritage Inn, which had none for guests to use.) Lunch at the resort’s restaurant and a coupla pina coladas later and soon it was time to head back to our room and head back out for dinner.
On our ferry ride back to STT, I overheard someone say that he preferred to take the slower route to and from Tortola (vs flying in), because it gave one the time to slowly either wind down (upon arrival) or wind up (to get ready to clear Customs and Immigration and deal with the hassles of modern-day air travel). I couldn’t agree more, I thought, as I watched Tortola and St. John slip astern and, later, as I got my final glimpse of those incredible blue Caribbean waters just before the plane rose above the clouds.