BVI
2020

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. ...”

When we booked our flights in May of 2019, Betsy and I could not, of course, have imagined how the timing of our trip would play out. In the common vernacular, Corona was a beer*, not a virus. “Flatten the curve” would have been an odd way to phrase losing a bit of weight, not an attempt to save our health care personnel and capacity. And “social distancing” was taking a two week break from Facebook, not a survival skill.

*Okay, it wasn’t really a beer in any sense of that word.

A week and a half before our departure for the British Virgin Islands, the world had changed (and had only barely begun to change). “Too bad we didn’t book for a week earlier,” we said.

Half a week before our scheduled flights to Miami (MIA), San Juan (SJU), and finally Tortola (EIS), the average American ... us certainly included ... still didn’t really know what was about to hit. “Should we still go? Will we be able to get back?,” we asked.

On Thursday, Jill and Diane opted out, with too many balls in the air back at home to take the risk. Our 47’ sailboat chartered through Sunsail was now down from six to a crew of four. We would be joining David and Robyn, who had taken the lead in organizing the trip.

SATURDAY MARCH 14

The alarm chimed at 3:45a. By 4:15a, we were in a taxi bound for Logan. By 6:15a, we were wheels up. The scale at baggage check-in confirmed it ... packing like a boss.

Sure, we’d been taking care to wash our hands for several weeks. Sure, we were used to the drugstore shelves being empty of hand sanitizer for several days (we’d been making our own: 2 parts 90%+ isopropyl alcohol, 1 part aloe gel). Sure, we were getting word that working from home was about to be the order of the day. Sure, we wiped down surfaces on the plane with disinfecting wipes (but didn’t really think much about social distancing). And we sure didn’t yet appreciate what we were leaving behind.

No, our biggest worry was my connection in San Juan. Betsy’s reservation was through all the way to Tortola, but due to how we’d needed to pay for the flights via a combination of dollars and miles, I needed to exit security at SJU, get my bag, then re-enter.

No dice. By the time I’d collected my bag (all 49.5 pounds of it) and gotten to the Seaborne Airlines desk, it was too late. By plan, Betsy flew ahead while I attempted to wrangle a later flight. (I won the wrangle, if you’ll allow that paying $200 to buy a new ticket constituted winning.)

Either I missed seeing TSA Pre-check or it wasn’t set up at the time, so regular security it was. The line was long but not unbearably so. And I used the time productively—I was on hold with American Airlines hoping to get a refund on my original SJU-EIS ticket for the flight I’d missed. With about five minutes to go before I’d have to go through the metal detector, I finally connected with an agent. “I’m sorry you had to hold,” she said.

We got most of the way through the transaction before I had to tell her I was passing my phone through the X-ray machine. I picked it up on the other side. “I’m sorry you had to hold,” I echoed.

“Good news!,” she replied. “I managed to get you a credit of $50 that you can apply to a future flight.”

“Good news ... for American,” I thought, as some quick math showed me I had now paid a net of almost $400 for a $240ish ticket.

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” anonymous tells us. “And then find someone whom life gave vodka,” comedian Ron White tells us. Taking this wisdom to heart, I found my way to SJU’s Margaritaville franchise, whom life had given limes, simple syrup, and tequila.

What we had planned on being a 1:50p flight to Tortola for the two of us had become a 4:50p solo effort. This wasn’t all bad news, however. Yes, that was 3 fewer hours in paradise, but on the plus side, in addition to the margarita, was my not having to join the grocery shopping expedition. After all, the boat wasn’t going to provision itself. And now, neither was I.

The Tortola-bound plane seated 35. That’s 10 rows of 3 and an 11th row of 5. I know, because I had seat 11E on a full, not-at-all socially distancing flight. At least that meant a window seat—the view on the way over was something of a consolation prize for being last to disembark.

Which put me last at the impromptu temperature check station scanning for COVID-19. Fast writing and taking a bit of liberty with the information requested by the health form had me 5th to be FLIR’ed*, however. Which put me 5th in line to clear customs, likely gaining me back 30-plus minutes.

*FLIR: from “forward looking infrared radar,” the name of the company making the thermal imaging cameras used to quickly check body temperature.

I hopped the not-at-all socially distancing Moorings shuttle with a half dozen guys on spring break from U Tennessee. They asked where I was from.

“Boston.”

At which point a hulking guy two rows ahead of me, without turning around, raised his right arm, clenched his fist, and said firmly but without yelling, “SOX.” It wouldn't be my last New England sports encounter of the trip.

Arriving at the Moorings with my bourbon* flask now only half full (because I’m an optimist), I climbed out of the shuttle. Turns out, I was probably supposed to pay for the ride, but at the time, I didn’t know that as I melted away toward dock C6 where David was waiting on board the Crazy Diamond of Cardiff.

*"Woodford Reserve

Checking for a wifi signal, I was surprised to see dozens bearing the MOORINGS NNNNN designation. I connected to one and checked in. By prearranged plan, we would be using the secure Signal app for group text communications. (We had opted not to pay the $35 per day to get cellular-connected wifi for the boat.)

I learned that Betsy and Robyn were off doing the shopping. I got my thing stowed, then on their return helped them bring the groceries aboard. Our tasks for the day complete, we adjourned to the Moorings restaurant for a decent dinner (sans conch fritters) before calling it a night.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: n/a
(1 = best, 3 = meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2
(1 = all-out panic, 3 = didn’t affect the trip)

SUNDAY MARCH 15

The original plan was to get the Moorings safety briefing around 9a. Our briefer came early, and we hadn’t yet taken possession of the stand-up paddle board and kayak we’d reserved. We circumvented the delivery, grabbing the two vessels from a rack, stowing them on-board ourselves, promptly receiving paddles from a helpful staffer clearly not yet familiar with the concept of “island time.” The boat ready to go, we exited the slip with the guidance of a Moorings pilot.

The day’s destination was Trellis Bay adjacent to the airport. We moored before noon, made lunch, then dinghied to shore to look around. Elapsed time since arriving at the boat: 18 hours. Approximate net distance traveled since landing: several hundred yards.

13.8 nautical miles (nm), 2h 26m moving time (mt), average speed 5.7 knots (kn)

While I still had Verizon bars, we all checked for wifi. Many of the Moorings boats were equipped with modems, and several such boats were close enough that we could poach off their signal. No wonder I'd seen so many wifi networks back at the Moorings--they weren't just networks on shore, but also on many of the hundreds of boats at the dock. We ate what would become our standard lunch: cold cuts and cheese on a wrap, with hummus for those so inclined (I wasn’t—hummus is not a condiment).

We headed ashore for a quick walk around … and the acquisition of some Goslings Rum (the grocery store on Tortola having only had Mount Gay), the key ingredient in one of our two favorite BVI cocktails as spelled out below.

Back on Crazy Diamond, Betsy and I prepped the kayak for launch. Our destination: The Island Last Resort restaurant and bar on Bellamy Cay. Set on a tiny island in Trellis Bay, the establishment had seen better days. When Hurricane Irma ripped through the BVI in September of 2017, its destruction included wiping out the Last Resort. Upon our arrival, the walls still stood, but not much else. The interior was littered with random debris that would have made a college student proud.

Betsy's and my expedition complete and the kayak back aboard, David and I served up a cocktail hour of Dark & Stormies* (David and Robyn) and Painkillers** (Betsy and me).

*Dark & Stormy
1 part Goslings rum
2 parts ginger beer
lime

**Painkiller
2 parts rum
4 parts pineapple juice
1 part orange juice
1 part cream of coconut nutmeg

Sufficiently lubricated, and having checked and discussed the news, we dinghied back to shore and Jeremy’s Kitchen for dinner (hand-washing yes, social distancing not really necessary given the scarcity of crowds). My choice of entree is lost to the mists of time, but I certainly recall the conch fritters. David and Robyn have a thing for that particular delicacy (and now, so do Betsy and I). They rated these a best-possible 1 on an impromptu 1-3 scale we created.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: 1 (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 panic, 3 meh)

MONDAY MARCH 16

Our job for the day—sail to Leverick Bay on Virgin Gorda. Moor. Explore. Cocktails. Dinner. Except for the specific destination, that would pretty much be the order of business each day of the trip.

Distance, time, and average speed were all a bit less than yesterday.

12.4 nm, 2h 12m mt, 5.6 kn

We had considered exploring Gorda Sound before mooring, but seeing relatively few mooring balls in Leverick Bay, we headed right in. Good call, as we ended up getting one of the last ones (not that anchoring would have been a particular challenge). And a nearby Moorings boat yet again provided wifi. (Not surprising given the number of Moorings boats out for charter, and given that many boats tend to follow a similar clockwise wind-friendly direction around Tortola.)

As we prepared and ate lunch, we spawned a rule. While anyone was free to check the news, no one was allowed to share if the topic rhymed with “vorona-kirus.”

Once ashore, we took a walk. From the dock on pretty much any of the islands in the BVI, taking a walk of any distance means going up. We ended up gaining 700’* of elevation on a hike that we might not have undertaken had we known its strenuousness at the outset. We're not mountain goats, after all.

*For comparison purposes, the climb from the base of Mt. Wachusett to the summit is 1000'

Back on the boat, someone violated the “no news” edict, sharing a story about insanely long lines at customs in San Juan. Nothing to do, and besides, any such fiasco was days off. A round of Dark & Stormies quickly distracted us.

Dinner was at Jumbies, the casual restaurant at the Leverick Bay hotel. I had the fish and chips. And of course, there were conch fritters.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 panic, 3 meh)

TUESDAY MARCH 17

Despite visits in 1990, 1997, 2003, and 2008, Tuesday would mark new territory for me. We were heading for Anegada, an island about 15 miles north of Virgin Gorda. Anegada’s high point is marked by beach-level palm trees, so it’s not visible from Virgin Gorda—it probably took us close to half the sail before we were able to catch a glimpse of land.

Our plan was to leave early to improve our chances of finding an Anegada mooring ball. It’s not clear how early we would have left if technology hadn’t intervened, but sometime between 5a and 6a, an alarm* on the boat sounded.

*A good rule when boating--when you hear a noise you haven't heard before, check out what's making it

We’d already gotten used to (and learned to ignore) the overcharge alarm on the auxiliary battery, but this time it was the domestic (primary) battery squawking an undercharge alert. An undercharged domestic battery bodes poorly—the engine might not start, and jump-starting a boat adds a whole new set of logistical complications above and beyond restarting a car.

Fortunately, the motor DID start. And, we were all now wide awake. A bit after sunrise, we departed the mooring, headed out of the channel, and pointed north.

17.3 nm, 3h 16m mt, 5.3 kn

Well, not exactly north, as the wind didn’t quite allow us that heading. But we were close enough, requiring only a late tack to lay the tricky channel entrance. Before we knew it, we were on the mooring and making plans for the rest of the day. And not only was there Moorings wifi from a nearby boat, we now recogized the wifi network name (MOORINGS 71241)--we were repeatedly poaching off of the same Moorings boat out of several candidates.

The focus of the rest of the day was two-fold: Cow Wreck Beach* for the afternoon, then the Lobster Trap for dinner. Robyn and David had raved about Cow Wreck Beach, and with good reason.

*The story that we had heard involved an ill-fated ship carrying cows destined for the big islands of the BVI. The actual story appears to be somewhat less dramatic: “Visitors to Cow Wreck Beach may wonder how is got its name. In the late 19th century, before the age of plastic, cow bones were used to make buttons and various other items. A ship laden with cow bones was wrecked off Anegada's northwest coast, and for years afterwards cow bones were swept ashore.”

The BVI may not top the list of “out of the way” destinations from Boston or LA, but given that the only direct flight is from San Juan, and that getting to San Juan often requires two legs, it’s in the conversation.

Within the BVI, Anegada certainly qualifies as out of the way … so that put us at out-of-the-way-squared. And Cow Wreck Beach? Well, that's a 15 minute cab ride from the mooring area and dock … out-of-the-way-cubed.

We settled at a table adjacent to the bar and enjoyed our favorite libations (Red Stripe for me). While waiting at the bar for our drinks, Betsy struck up a conversation with the gentleman standing next to her. Turns out, he ran a fishing charter out of St. Thomas ... and was from New Hampshire. Betsy played her UNH card (UNH being notable primarily for having dual mascots, Wild E. Cat and Gnarlz) and quickly had a line on a place to ride out the storm--and a way to get there--should the travel situation go sideways in a hurry.

When the crash of the aqua waves, the dazzle of blue skies, the brilliance of the white sands, the majesty of the palm trees, and the endless stock of the bar bar got to be too much for us, we caught our return ride back to the big city of Anegada proper.

Betsy and I kayaked around the harbor, then joined Robyn and David back on board for Dark & Stormies. Appropriately lubricated, and before heading in for dinner, we brainstormed COVID-19 music playlists. Good suggestions came fast and furious. Here's my list, based only on title, taken entirely from music already on my phone.

1. All Revved Up With No Place to Go - Meatloaf
2. Alone and Forsaken - Neko Case
3. Alone Apart - Glen Hanserd and Markata Irglova
4. American Idiot - Green Day
5. At My Funeral - Crash Test Dummies
6. Between Two Lungs - Florence and the Machine
7. Don't Stand So Close to Me - The Police
8. Everybody's on the Run - Jimmy Buffett
9. Girlfriend in a Coma - Jerry Chapman
10. I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry - Cowboy Junkies
11. Lawyers, Guns [sic] and money - Warren Zevon
12. A Lot to Drink About - Jimmy Buffett
13. Lovely Cruise - Jimmy Buffett
14. Medicine Man - Marc Cohn
15. The New Sad - Barenaked Ladies
16. On the Run - Pink Floyd
17. Only the Good Die Young - Billy Joel
18. Party at the End of the World - Jimmy Buffett
19. The Sound of Silence - Disturbed
20. Survive - Jimmy Buffett

Anegada is known for its fresh-caught lobsters (but not its so-so conch fritters, at least not the Lobster Trap variety). And while these lobsters are clearly cousins of the Maine variety, they aren’t siblings. I’m not enough of a foodie to be able to describe the difference in taste, but the preparation difference was clear enough. They’re split in two down the centerline, spiced, and barbequed. Fantastic.

As for the coronavirus, well, the embargo on sharing news was the star of the day.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 3 (1 panic, 3 meh)

WEDNESDAY MARCH 18

In advance of the trip, I had asked my friend John B for suggestions of non-obvious items to pack. John's an accomplished sailor, and familiar with the BVI ... one of my life-affirming experiences was a 1997 sail, with John and another friend Tony M, from Tortola to the Dominican Republic.

"Pancake mix and maple syrup," John replied. Excellent addition to the packing list--with the help of Betsy who (a) knew how to light the stove and (b) knows how to cook, I prepared a fine serving if I do say so myself.

Today's sail was the longest of the trip, from Anegada down to Cane Garden Bay on the northwest section of Tortola. It was downwind, so it didn't feel as fast as the jaunt up to Anegada, but the time passed quickly and we were soon on a mooring in a relatively quiet corner of the bay.

26.5 nm, 4h 46m mt, 5.6 kn

Afternoon, evening, and overnight showers are as common in the BVI as they are brief. Preparing the boat before heading ashore means closing the hatches leading in to the various cabins. "Better safe than soggy."

The highlight of the afternoon ashore was a visit to the Callwood Rum Distillery. Alleged to be more than 400 years old and also the last of the once-many rum distilleries still standing on the island, its tour was as simple as it was impressive. A guide showed us around the outside of the facility, talking us through the process of converting cane sugar into delicious brown liquid. We then stepped inside for a tasting, a photo, and a purchase or two.

left to right: David, Robyn, Betsy, Jeff [credit: Callwood team member]

Careful readers are no doubt interested to know whether our Moorings wifi buddy had made its way across from Anegada. Well, on the long relatively open water crossing, Betsy had made an interesting discovery. At that point, we were well out of wifi distance from any other vessel. Yet a wifi scan showed MOORINGS 72141. Suspecting that to be a saved network, she refreshed her wifi. Still there. Hmmm. She hunted around below, eventually finding an operating modem. WE were our own wifi buddy! And as far as we know, without the $35/day fee.

We accompanied cocktails (Painkillers today) with a brief discussion about whether we might adjust our return travel arrangements. I had asked one of my sons to see what he could suss out about where it might be best to clear customs. Our two options were San Juan as planned (David and Robyn on Sat, Betsy and me on Sun) or St. Thomas as a Plan B. Part of the US Virgin Islands and therefore US soil, St. Thomas is less than an hour from Tortola by ferry.

The concern about San Juan: long lines at customs and a rumor that there might be a shutdown of the airport ordered by the Puerto Rico governor. That would leave us on the outside of the US looking in. The concern about St. Thomas: easy to get in, no idea what customs would be like other than being on island time. Lodging might be a bit of a dice roll until we could find a flight back to Miami and then Boston (presumably, American Airlines would allow this change without fees, but who really knew). Having weighed all the options, we made a firm decision: we'd finish our cocktails and kick the travel can down the road.

Our dinner venue was Pusser's at Myetts. I zigged where the others zagged, selecting barbeque wings and a shrimp Caesar salad. Preceded by an order of conch fritters, of course. About which nothing more needs to be said.

Back on the boat as we prepared to turn in for the evening, Robyn learned that US-funded airports, of which San Juan is one, cannot unilaterally be shut down by a governor. Such an extreme step needs to be approved by the FAA. Our concerns somewhat mollified, we nonetheless went to sleep on a day, for all its high points, clouded by the worst possible scores on both the conch fritter and coronavirus scales.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: 3 (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 1 (1 panic, 3 meh)

THURSDAY MARCH 19

On this glorious morning, we welcomed the first day of spring. That obligation out of the way, and the clock having struck 7:00am, we turned our attention to important matters. Namely, the reserving of a BoatyBall.

There is nothing neutral about BoatyBall. Like gun rights/gun safety, Donald Trump, and which direction to hang your toilet paper, there is no middle ground to occupy.

vessel departing Anegada's mooring field
the morning of Wed Mar 18

Mention the name BoatyBall (or its slightly less inciting alternative, "One-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named") among BVI sailors and you risk fisticuffs. Maybe even full-on kerfuffle.

What is BoatyBall, you naively ask? Short version: it's a BVI service that allows boaters to reserve select mooring balls for a $10 surcharge on top of the standard $30 mooring fee (most harbors also offer first-come/first-serve mooring balls). For smaller harbors and ones with fewer mooring balls, especially when boat traffic is high, arriving to an already packed parking lot is a very real possibility. In some cases, space or sea bottom topography may eliminate the option of anchoring. So, what's a sailor to do? One, get up early (a task often impeded by the previous evening's rum) and head for the day's destination. Or two, BoatyBall.

In theory*, the BoatyBall concept is simple and logical. In practice, AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH.

*"In theory, theory and practice are the same. In practice, they aren't.""
--Yogi Berra

If you have cellular or wifi service, reserving a BoatyBall moooring is as simple as logging in to the mobile app (as early as 7:00am), entering your destination, and selecting an open mooring from a map of your destination harbor. Many sailors who know they won't have a connection arrange for friends back on terra firma to do the reserving for them.

Of all of the mooring fields in the BVI, none is arguably in higher demand than Great Harbour on Jost Van Dyke. Home to the iconic Foxy's (it's so old it's almost as old as I am), and only a short dinghy ride to the nearly-as-iconic Soggy Dollar Bar in adjacent White Bay, Great Harbour offers 20 BoatyBall moorings (2x the number at any other BVI harbor). More saliently, Great Harbour doesn't offer many (if any) first-come/first-serve mooring balls. In short, it's (BoatyB)all-or-nothing.

As of this writing (Sun Mar 29), here's what the BoatyBall app show for Great Harbour: at 10 minutes before the 12:00n mooring availability window opens, a full 20 of the 20 moorings are there for the taking (open moorings are orange, gray indicates are reserved). While Sundays aren't the prime target for Jost Van Dyke arrival, that number of open moorings is both stunning and not good news for the BVI economy.

By 7:02am, we had our Great Harbour mooring ball reserved (#24, for those scoring at home). BoatyBall reservations span from 12:00n on arrival day to 12:00n the following day. As such, there's no need to arrive too early ... in fact, the earlier you get there before 12:00n, the longer you have to wait to moor (by attaching to a different, currently-unclaimed, BoatyBall; by anchoring; or by motoring about).

We headed out from Cane Garden Bay for the quick crossing to Jost Van Dyke.

6.1 nm, 1h 5m mt, 5.6 kn

We arrived in Great Harbour around 11:00am. We poked around for a bit to find our BoatyBall. (Yes, the BoatyBall yarn is still underway.) A boat was on it, but nothing odd in that regard--there was still an hour to go until we would be entitled to take possession. So we picked up BoatyBall mooring #22, took care of some tidying up, and sat back to enjoy the view.

There was no sign of life on the boat, and the dinghy was missing. The crew was no doubt ashore. That said, with an hour to go, they had plenty of time to get back, pack up, and drop the mooring.

While we waited, Betsy and I dinghied over to a large motor vessel anchored at the entrance to Great Harbour. Unbelievably, Betsy was pretty sure that it belonged to a couple she knew from Chebeague Island, Maine. We pulled alongside and hailed them ... sure enough, it was Michael and Barbara Porter aboard the impressively sturdy and Porter-designed "Barbara." We tied up but stayed in the dinghy (this was the only social distancing we practiced the entire time in the BVI), chatted for ten minutes, then headed back to our Crazy Diamond.

So now the practice part of the theory-and-practice aspect of BoatyBall reared its ugly head. At 11:30am, no sign of the returning party: "plenty of time" had changed to "just enough time." At 11:45am, "cutting it too close" had arrived. At 12:00n, we were now officially in miffed* status.

*If it's fair to characterize lounging on a yacht in the Caribbean in no real hurry to get anywhere as cause to be "miffed"

Finally, at 12:30p, they (figuratively) strolled up. In an impressively quick 15 minutes, they hauled their dinghy aboard (it was a catamaran, and most catamarans have stern davits for stowing the dinghy), yelled at each other a bit, appeared to acknowledge that we were waiting, and cast off. A few minutes later, we were secured to our rightful mooring with all signs of miff having dissipated in the island breeze.

[credit: Robyn]

To put a cap on the BoatyBall saga, our experience had turned out fine. But if the countless and overwhelmingly hostile online diatribes are to be believed, far worse BoatyBall standoffs are fairly common. So much so that as part of our sign-up process, we were sent the following communication.

HELP! THERE IS A BOAT ON MY RESERVED MOORING!!!!
This happens sometimes and we will do everything we possibly can to correct the situation quickly. Below are the steps we recommend to-help bring this to a quick resolution.

1) You should attempt to contact someone on the offending boat [emphasis added]. Most of the time, the people that have tied up to your mooring have no idea it is a reservable mooring ball. They generally will move to another mooring ball once the error is pointed out to them. If you see a white mooring ball, tie up to that for the time being if you can’t make contact with the offending boat.

2) If no one is aboard the offending vessel, email BoatyBall at: info@BoatyBall.com. Please include the following in your email: The bay you are in, the number of the mooring ball you reserved, the name of the offending vessel [sic] and the charter company it is from and if you have tied up to a first come first serve mooring. A picture of the offending boat would also be welcomed.

3) Notify the owner of the mooring ball by calling by phone, by radio, or sending someone in on the dinghy. We have excellent relationships with all the bays that participate in our program and they will help handle this issue.

4) BoatyBall has also established relationships with the majority of charter companies in the BVI who have agreed to help enforce. If the boat is in a charter program we will contact the charter company and notify them of the situation. Most of the charter companies have agreed to educate users and help drive compliance.

We will do everything in our power to rectify this situation. We realize that this situation causes undue stress and we work hard to educate the broader boater community to prevent this from occurring.

Under no circumstances should you untie another vessel from a mooring.

Thank you for using our service and we hope you have an excellent trip.

Be safe and have fun,
The BoatyBall Team.

The "Under no circumstances should you untie another vessel from a mooring" is priceless because approximately 100% of all aggrieved BoatyBallers fantasize about taking exactly that action.

Next up was a dinghy ride to shore. We checked out Foxy's, taking note of the Trump flag we presume was not being flown ironically, then swung by David's and Robyn's preferred Corsairs for drinks. In the course of consuming those drinks, we heard from Vinny, the proprietor and an acquaintance of theirs from their last trip.

Referencing the topic of the day, “This ain’t no fuckin’ flu. We know better, right?,” Vinny opined.

Robyn and Betsy, Trump sticker in the background [credit: David]

A bit of shopping, a bit of walking, and back to the boat.

Betsy and I launched the kayak and headed downwind in a stiff 15-20 knot breeze for White Bay, wholly cognizant of the paddling effort that it would take to get back. Objective: the legendary Soggy Dollar Bar (I'd been to Jost Van Dyke before, but never White Bay or the Soggy Dollar).

Beaching the kayak at White Bay, we quickly spotted the flag marking the Soggy Dollar. Arriving at the bar, we were crushed to find that it was closed due to the coronavirus. We'd later learn that it closed just the day before. Okay, planning starts now for BVI 2021 [Ed. Note: It's cute that at the time of the original writing, I assumed that things would easily be back to normal by Mar of 2021, when I'm adding this note. Second Ed. Note: Today is Mar 14, 2022, our two-year BVIversary. And to think that "flatten the curve" once (falsely) promised 6-8 weeks. The Omicron surge is in the rearview mirror, at least, and packing's started for our next adventure this coming Sat, so fingers crossed, I guess.]

We made do with Hendo's Hideout for the afternoon's pre-cocktail hour cocktail. We watched the surf and some beach volleyball (pretty much the only sport in this or any other town) before paddling back, the stiff wind not presenting all that much challenge given our fierce strength (and more likely, position low in the water).

Cocktails (of course).

Dinner back at Corsairs: conch fritters (of course), equal to the high mark set in Trellis Bay, preceding fantastic Ahi tuna for me.

Still no firm decision on San Juan vs. St. Thomas for re-entry into the US, but we made contingency plans (Plan C?) to stay at the house of a friend in St. Croix, the "big island" of the USVI about 30 miles south of St. Thomas. When it comes to friends, the good ones will do that. Plan C would add travel complications, but if we had to ride things out for an extended period, St. Croix would be the way to do it.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: 1 (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 panic, 3 meh)

FRIDAY MARCH 20

Sailing life features three kinds of water: drinking, fresh, and salt. We poured our drinking water from gallon jugs. The ocean provided our salt water--great for a swim, a cooling dunk, or a pre-shower rinse. Our fresh water came from two large tanks on the boat--we used this for showers and washing dishes.

With only four of us on a 47' boat, and with all of us experienced enough not to be excessive in our use, we'd have fresh water to spare. Tank 1 didn't go dry until Friday morning.

No problem, we'll just switch over to tank 2. Uh, problem ... how exactly do we do that?

Said switchover turned out to be missing from the Moorings' pre-sail briefing on how to operate the boat. We made short work of what turned out to be a temporary glitch. Through the luxury of our very own wifi, we fired up YouTube, searched for something like "Jenneau Sea Odyssey 479 water tank switches," and found this 9-second gem. Now, in our defense, this video is not for the 479, and the placement of our switches was a bit harder to find. Knowing the general area of where to look and what to look for was a big help, though--we just had to remove the trash can and its sliding drawer mechanism to get at the switches tucked away in a dark space behind.

Back in business, my attention turned to the morning's planned project--another batch of pancakes. That mission accomplished, we cleaned up and prepped for the sail to Norman Island where we'd be spending our final on-boat night of the trip. Norman's a great place for watersports including snorkeling and cave exploring.

We headed for the cut between Great and Little Thatch Islands.

Once through the cut, we headed east up the Sir Francis Drake Channel. It was about that time that Betsy received a note from a friend of hers who works at the US State Department.

The friend's message was to the effect of, "Now wouldn't be the worst time to get back in the country. Sooner rather than later."

We were already in coin-toss mode about cutting the trip a day short. The message cinched it: press the eject button.

Instead of bearing east-southeast for Norman Island, we called an audible and went east-northeast for Road Town. We used the remaining time to get packed and go online to change flights and hotels. Back in the channel into Road Town, we radioed for the pilot to take us into the dock.

13.0 nm, 2h 40m mt, 4.9 kn

The rest of the day was a bit of a slow-motion blur. Get showered at the Moorings facilities on shore. Leave unused/unopened provisions* for the Moorings staff.

*This time, we didn't leave it all. We divided up the remaining toilet paper among our two households and packed it away in our bags.

Hand over the boat. Get our luggage to the front desk. Catch a cab to the airport. Wait for check-in. Clear security and get to the gate. Oddly, the television near the gate was showing CBS Boston (WBZ 4). All the while waiting for something to go wrong, most likely in the form of a travel edict prohibiting us from getting to San Juan.

Nothing went wrong.

Our 45-minute flight was scheduled to depart at 6:05pm. Apparently, the ten or so people who had booked a seat were all checked in, so we were early in being led out the door and across the tarmac to the plane. As the wheels went up at 5:20pm, I noted to Betsy the oddity of departing so early. In fact, we'd end up landing at 6:02pm, three minutes BEFORE we were to have taken off. That was a first for me.

Now for the dreaded customs nightmare. Picture the line waiting for the release of the latest iPhone, except moving on island time. With probing medical checks at every step along the way with a thoroughness to inspire jealousy in the most, uh, thorough of alien abductors.

The ten of us walked into a smallish customs area to a bank of as many digital kiosks. We answered a few questions and received a printout. In that amount of time, our bags had arrived on the conveyor (no one else on the flight had checked bags, apparently). Betsy and I took the opportunity to use the restroom while David and Robyn went ahead. By the time she and I got to customs, we were the only ones left. We handed over our printouts, expected questions that never came, and walked through the door to set foot on US soil.

It. Couldn't. Have. Been. Easier.

Surely, there was another shoe to drop. (Or would that be the first shoe?) Would it be a problem changing our flights? Getting to the hastily-arranged hotel? Finding an understocked minibar?

Having had absolutely no luck getting through by phone earlier in the day, the four of us headed for the American Airlines desk, getting ourselves temperature checked along the way.

Betsy being temperature scanned [credit: Robyn]

With no remaining flights that day, the large check-in area was a ghost town. David and Robyn went to look for a cab to their hotel (we were staying in different places). Without much hope, I tried the American number one more time. In less than five minutes, I was through to an agent. We explored some options and were relatively easily able to move Sunday flights to Saturday. Not only that, but we'd get in about 4 hours earlier: 8:30pm instead of 12:30am. And not only that, we'd be avoiding change fees AND booking new flights at $61 each. That, according to the agent, was going to put about $900 back in our pockets.

To be sure, this wasn't pure "profit." I was out $160 for the flight change on the way over. We had to eat the $300 we'd spent on Saturday night lodging at Maria's by the Sea in Tortola. And now we had a $200 hotel near the airport in San Juan. I could do the math, though--that ended up roughly $250 to the good compared with the $660 hole we'd been staring at just minutes ago. [Ed. note: To our knowledge, the alleged $900 never materialized.]

The short cab ride to the hotel was uneventful. Checking in was uneventful. Picking up some takeout pizza, beer, and wine (the latter in a plastic kid's cup with a lid and accompanying straw) from the adjacent restaurant was uneventful. No conch fritters. The dark view from our small window was uneventful. But we were back in the USA before the doors had closed.

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: n/a (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 1 (1 panic, 3 meh)

SATURDAY MARCH 21

We were supposed to be drinking coffee on the boat prepping for the sail back to Road Town to drop off the boat. No doubt, we would have been sharing stories of the great sights we'd seen while snorkeling the Norman Island caves. David and Robyn would have been packing for their afternoon flight, while Betsy and I would have been dreaming of warm, high pressure showers and toilet paper in quantities greater than two squares at a time in the spacious bathroom at Maria's by the Sea.

Instead, what a fantastic morning! We woke and opened the shade. Last evening's uneventful "dark view from our small window" had been replaced by this (when we first looked, the angle was more to the right, straight-on at the face of the tall building).

We packed quickly, taking the liberty to shift as much of the heavy stuff from carry-on to checked bags. As always, doing that with my massive Patagonia bagged risked a hefty surcharge. We went online (we miss you, MOORINGS 72141), found a candidate breakfast spot 15 or so minutes away, and planned a walk along the beach to get there.

Breakfast was at the Bistro Cafe. Like all restaurants in San Juan, it was coronavirus-inspired takeout only. They'd then bring the food out to you curbside. And all orders had to be placed by phone ... even if the person on the other end of the line was standing 20 feet away just inside the door.

On the map, it appeared that it wasn't far to what might be a nice waterview spot to eat our breakfast. Before we got to that spot, we found a path pointing down toward the beach. The path was lined on both side by walls. The walls on both sides were adorned with graffiti. And this was no low-end graffiti--the talent level was off-the-charts great. Literally, it was one of the best galleries I'd ever encountered (full set of "gallery" images begins here in the gallery also linked to at the beginning of this write-up ... you remember the beginning, right? ... granted, it was a while ago).

At the end of the gallery walk, we came upon an amazing spot for breakfast. A bit on the breezy side, but the vista more than made up for that.

Betsy had ordered an omelette bigger than her head ... arrayed on an Avocado bigger than her head. Clearly a double violation of the tried and true rule. My choice was "Pancakes Locos"--even this gringo knows that means crazy pancakes. They may not have been as big as my head volume-wise, but mass-wise, who knows. And I learned that Nutella makes an acceptable substitute for maple syrup.

Breakfast done and back at the hotel, we got our bags and called for a taxi. A few minutes later, we were tipping the driver and heading in for baggage check. My "50.0" on the baggage scale put the outbound trip's "49.5" to shame.

For once, I won the security lottery. Both of Betsy's carry-on bags were flagged for additional screening. Mine, on the other hand, laden as it was with a Best Buy's worth of electronics (laptop, tablet, phone, camera, GoPro, Garmin, large backup battery, sex toys*, and two small backup batteries), flew through unscathed.

*Just checking to see how closely--and far in--people are reading

Social distancing-wise, the trip home wasn't bad. We had a row to ourselves on the sparsely populated SJU-CLT leg. CLT itself was busy in a few spots, but it was easy to steer clear. (I'm reminded now of a zombie movie, except that the zombies are blind so you just have to keep your distance.) The CLT-BOS was the most crowded part of the return trip, but 10 days later, neither of us is showing any symptoms. Back at BOS walking to and standing at baggage claim, there was plenty of space to be distant.

This image, taken near the gate at CLT, does as good a job as anything reflecting the crazy world to which we had returned.

Wall art at CLT (in part because there always has to be a bicycle)

CONCH FRITTER SCORE FOR THE DAY: n/a (1 best, 3 meh)
CORONAVIRUS AWARENESS SCORE FOR THE DAY: 2 (1 panic, 3 meh)

EPILOGUE

I'm not done typing, so you're not done reading. Three quick things to close this out:

1. Things to see next time: the Baths on Virgin Gorda, a rebuilt (we hope) Bitter End resort, the Soggy Dollar Bar, and Norman Island

2. Back in California, Robyn found two articles suggesting that (a) had our trip been a week later, even if we had wanted to go, we would have been denied entry (border closed as of Thu Mar 19*) and (b) had we somehow gained entry, we might not have been able to get back home.

*Per the second article, it appears that the closure to incoming non-residents didn't take place until Mar 22, so we might have just gotten in

3. Big picture, here's what our trip around Tortola ended up looking like, as told by GPS.

90 nautical miles, 16h 25m moving time, average speed 5.4 knots/hour