Our vacation on Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, was in many respects a mirror of my visit there in 2006. (You can read that older entry in this blog to get some of the details of the island). Which is to say, it was a delightful place to kick back, enjoy the beach, and relax. We also came to recuperate and regenerate. Robin's brother Don had passed away suddenly less than 2 weeks before our scheduled vacation-- the same week we learned that my brother Mike was diagnosed with Stage 4, pancreatic cancer. We understood we were in a trough on an ocean of emotional upheavals, and tried to make the best of our down-time.

 

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 Denzyl Cline, 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. Well. 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, 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 sizeable (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 it 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. I worked quickly to get my fins off, before the next wave, aided by a wicked undertow, could tumble me over those rocks I just crossed. Two quick steps onto the 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 at 35 or more MPH, 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, 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 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 and remained sick for another 5 days. Not a great way to end her last 2 days on the island or go through a long day of travel to return home.

 

Our final day of vacation day 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 yet another 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 terrific way to end an all-too-brief vacation in the tropics.

 

So many islands, so little time! This was my 2^nd 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…

Sounds so picturesque, rolling off the tongue even with an awkward American accent. A former Banana Republic, Roatan is the largest of the Bay Islands, which are a part of Honduras, lying about 50 miles from the northern coast of the Honduran mainland. Trace your fingertip on a large-scale map; down the east coast of Mexico, below Cancun. Continue down the coast of Belize and, as you reach the country of Honduras, where Central America has a big “hump” or shoulder, let your finger drift out to sea, and you will run right into the Bay Islands. 

Descriptions of the Bay Islands typically run something like: “… a vacation paradise, home to pristine white sandy beaches, amazing tropical jungle-covered hills, a diverse and unique reef system, heartwarming people, unique cultures and authentic Caribbean charm.” For a Caribbean getaway often referred to in this Internet age as a “best-kept secret”, the island has been known to SCUBA divers at least since the 1970s, when diving and air travel both became somewhat more affordable to a broader American public. That’s when I first heard of Roatan. I was a neophyte diver living in my home state of Florida, listening to friends as they described the arduous and often dangerous trip to and from what was then an incredibly remote diver’s paradise. At the time I remember thinking they were nuts, spending all that money to travel somewhere when I was enjoying some pretty incredible diving right off the coast of Florida. Of course, time went by, and development in Florida, global warming, storms and pollution have since taken their toll on not only Florida’s reefs but many reefs that struggle for survival in the increasingly more-heavily traveled, trampled and developed eastern Caribbean.

My own experiences traveling throughout the Caribbean in search of stellar diving and snorkeling have been challenged in the past few years. I did find one section of the reef off the northern coast of Ambergris Caye in Belize in 2006, in the national park, that is about as pristine as possible, but that has been the exception. Still, I search for islands I can get to fairly quickly and relatively inexpensively, where I can stay in affordable, relatively comfortable and safe digs while I explore for a week. Overbuilt islands, resorts, all-inclusive anything are not my bag but I do want a place where I can eat the food (if not drink the water) without having to report to the CDC when I return to the U.S. But I digress.

In my annual vacation destination quest Roatan didn’t make my consideration list until the spring of 2007, when I was gazing at an online map of the Caribbean, trying to figure out where Robin and I were going for our 2008 vacation. I performed much the same finger trailing described above, although my search area encompassed the eastern and western Caribbean basins. I kept looking at Belize, thinking “Dare I go for a third time? Haven’t I Been There, Seen That?” Roatan somehow jumped out at me, got me thinking, and after a few hours (days, truth be told) of Googling and reading info ranging from tourist sites to Travel Advisor forums, I decided I’d found the right spot, at the right time. I say the right time because I got a very clear image of an island sinking from too much love, too many cruise ship passengers leaving tons of trash behind, and too many ex-pats spurring a building boom that has left vast, untended infrastructure problems for an island ill prepared to meet the 21^st century. And that was before we learned of the lawlessness, which we didn’t become aware of until mere weeks away from packing for the trip. But I digress.

From a tourist perspective, Roatan is indeed a lovely corner of the Caribbean. During our week's stay, Roatan shared her many faces, from the sunsets every night to views from an afternoon drive to more rural areas of the island.

Our focus was snorkeling, and here we were able to do so every day. Our favorite spot was the west end of West Bay Beach, up the sandy channel from the water taxi dock. One early morning we spotted a young Hawksbill turtle. The sun was angling down through absolutely cobalt blue water and the turtle was just hanging there, snoozing, at about 40 feet of depth. We could see the sand and the bottom of the reef at about 60 feet below us, where the light from the early morning sun was just starting to penetrate. We were floating over the top of the reef, which at that place was about 20 feet below us. The reef fell away to the sand and we could hear little pops and squeaks and crackles of fish eating and shrimps snapping-- it was a busy reef.

As we followed the sand channel that paralleled the iron shore, a large Queen parrot fish spotted us and she rose about 20 feet from her grazing spot on the reef to approach me face-on, apparently hoping for a hand-out! Talk about tame fish. I waved hello and when she figured out we didn't arrive with any Cheez-Whiz or other foodstuffs, she dropped back down to the reef and resumed munching on the coral. I determined that all that bright orange offal streaming out of the many parrotfish all around us was hardly the normal, fine sand by-product from a strictly coral diet. Something tells me that Cheez-Whiz and parrotfish innards may not mix well. Next thing "they'll" be advertising the orange sand beaches on West Bay beach! I say leave the junk food at home.

We likely swam over a nautical mile in an hour and a half, slowly cruising up and down the shallow part of the reef offshore and then moving out to the deeper reef, which is where we spotted the sleeping turtle. I kept a sharp eye out for fish cleaning stations and, after I pointed several out to Robin, she became expert at spotting this common fishy behavior. Like many things in nature, if you take the time to be still, quiet, and observe, you'll often be rewarded with remarkable sights.

One day we were snorkeling the reef approx. 500 yards offshore from Villa Joya when we were visited by the squid equivalent of the Blue Angels. The underwater precision maneuvers of these 7 critters was as intriguing as it was spectacular. They basically ignored us as they formed up in varying formations in mid-water, first sculling this way then quickly darting to realign on a different diagonal, followed by a languid pivot. They reminded me of when I was in marching band, carefully monitoring and correcting to hold the exact distance between myself and marchers around me as we executed intricate formations on a football field. But here, the precision took on a whole new dimension - the Third Dimension. Imagine keeping track of your position in a formation in 3-D! To make matters more interesting, the squid would sometimes individually shift translucence and/or colors, either over one or the other lateral face of their body or radiating up or down the length of their sleek form-- rather like a psychedelic Circque du Soleil. We were fascinated for probably 10 minutes or more until the formation slowly moved off over the reef.

I always look for large, spotted puffer fish when we snorkel, but it wasn't until our last day on the water that we found one. We had joined our friend Linda Kay at her home in Palmetto Bay Plantation, somewhat up-island from Villa Joya, situated in absolutely beautiful, lush foliage and right on a lengthy, untouched sandy stretch of sugar-sand beach tucked into a protected bay. Linda Kay arranged for us to join her aboard the dive shop's boat for a mid-day quick trip just offshore to "The Wreck,” remains of a steam boiler and other ships' parts on a shallow reef. Toward the end of a very fishy swim around the wreck and surrounding shallow reef system, we spotted a really large puffer, its broad head barely noticeable under a reef ledge in about 15 feet of water. I dove down and swam around the backside of the little coral haven where it was cringing (they are very shy and easily frightened). The fish responded to my presence by slowly poking its head out, long enough for Robin to get a really good look at it from her surface position. We then backed away so as not to scare the poor thing. They always look so downcast and plum terrified, with those big, brown cow eyes and wide, slightly down-turned mouth.

Another day we joined friends Pat and his wife Carol, whom we'd met on a Travel Advisor Roatan forum, for a day-sail aboard a 39-foot catamaran. It was a breezy day to sail up-island, and the 6-foot seas made for fun trampoline riding for Robin. The bow horsed through the waves, drenching Robin each time the bow dropped into the oncoming waves while she clung to the tramp ropes and grinned like a fool. After a couple of hours of riding the wind, we arrived at a snorkel stop, where I watched the depth-finder rise from over 100 feet to less than 15 in less than 3 boat lengths-- time to drop that anchor! The wave heights were running 3 feet or more in the lee of the reef but we still enjoyed floating along, looking off into the void where the reef dropped away to the sand. I dove down 20 feet or more to check out a large crab that I had spotted from the surface as it slowly crept out from under the reef. The crab's body was as large as a serving platter. As soon as the crab spotted me, it slowly pulled back into its gloomy hole.

Beyond snorkeling, our accommodations, carefully researched and selected, was the 2 bedroom, 2 bath Villa Joya, located on the beach at “Bayside”, a small community of 6 condos on the east end of West Bay Beach, just east of Las Rocas dive resort and busy bar. This was a very quiet location, perfect for us. The shared pool provided us with a refreshing setting one starlit night when a meteorite streaked down the sky right in front of us, sizzling green and blue and yellow, before fizzling out within 20 feet of the sea. Other highlights include walking to the condo from a beachfront restaurant after dinner on West Bay Beach under a full moon, the warm breezes on our skin, the water gently lapping at our bare feet. And of course snorkeling every day. 

Adventures included rental car SNAFUs in which “The Little Car That Could” (dubbed by Robin) had 2 flats, one of which was the morning we were to catch the catamaran for a day-sail. Pat-from-Canada changed the tire lickity-split while we girls stood around sipping early morning coffees. Turned out the spare went flat overnight, and after waiting 3 hours for the rental car folks to go back and forth from the town center of Coxen Hole to get proper tires and tools, we headed out for what was originally scheduled to be a day-long tour of the island. We were approximately 15 minutes into our drive, headed to Coxen Hole, when the car let out a big BANG. I managed to steer it over to the side of the road in Flowers Bay, before the car arrived at its final resting place. Robin, ever the optimist, had the cell phone ready and, in a flash, connected with the rental car agency. They didn't seem surprised to learn we had been stranded by LCTC. After another 45 minutes of standing in the shade, enjoying the breeze off the ocean while providing idle amusement for locals killing time at a tiny veggie stand perched on rickety stilts over the iron shore, we greeted the rental car guy as he showed up in a new car. We didn’t wait around for him to tinker with poor, dead Little Car That Could. I signed the paperwork and we were off, headed up-island. Highlights of our afternoon drive through the countryside were the vistas of wind-swept, grassy hills and the stop for a bite at The View restaurant atop one of the highest ridges of a once-active volcanic island. We made it as far east as Oak Ridge, a scenic fishing village built on stilts out over the protected bay waters. All too soon, it was time to head down island, (West) to arrive back at Villa Joya in time for a dip in the pool, a sunset libation next door at Las Rocas and a pleasant stroll down the beach to another dinner spot in West Bay Beach.

The beachfront towns of West Bay Beach and West End, while similarly named, couldn’t be more different. By water taxi, they are separated less than 10 minutes. Driving the precipitously steep, twisting roads between them is a mere 20-minute trek, even in the dark. However, the character of the settings, and the common denizens, are in my mind quite dissimilar. I would describe West End as a funky village, more hippy enclave than beachside, Third World Caribbean resort-ish. West End is dressed for, and welcomes, the hard-core, younger, serious drinking, and SCUBA set. The narrow, sand "street" running along the beach is squeezed in between rough-hewn buildings on either side, the road a stitched-together, potholed ride for anyone daring enough to creep along its jaw-grinding potholes. We soon learned to park up at the "top" of the town, near the little roundabout, in the shade, and walk the hot, dusty street to restaurants and hot, dusty shops. Did I mention it was dusty?

Restaurants abound in West End, and the two we tried on separate occasions were each perched over Half Moon Bay, where we could catch the few fitful breezes available at that time of year. Our island friends Linda Kay and Scott introduced us to one of their favorite restaurants on the bay, Mavis and Dixie’s, run by a mom and sister act that featured excellent food, attentive service, good prices and a view of the scattered night lights reflecting on the calm waters around the town dock.

In contrast, West Bay Beach is more touristy, up-scale, noisy, with bars and restaurants and condos beginning to crowd each other well above the high-water mark. The beach itself is lengthy and gently curving, with iron shore at either end, with narrow sand paths demarking the safer places to walk bare-footed. Our plans had led us to select digs well away from the noise and activity of this popular beach. As it was, we were easily within walking distance of world-class snorkeling, excellent restaurants and even our favorite coffee shop located in a small strip center with a small deli that featured good breakfasts and a nice selection of food stuffs and drinks. Plus, Linda Kay and Scott's condo was located on West Bay beach, so we were able to visit with them and enjoy the ambiance of the resort they called home.

Here, I will digress briefly to explain how we came to know Linda Kay (LK) and Scott. As property manager for Villa Joya, LK was our point person for all things Roatan, and as the months of vacation planning unfolded, we became friends via email and postings on the Trip Advisor Roatan forum. By the time we met LK in person I felt like we’d known each other for years. She and Scott were a delight to hang with, and their sense of dry humor played well, as they shared their knowledge and insight to Honduras and the experience of living as an ex-pat in a not-so-paradisiacal island paradise—one which Scott referred to as rather like a beautiful daughter who has been prostituted by her parents.

LK and Scott’s assessment is based on having spent six years living on the island, and can be somewhat summed up by snippets cut from the virtual front pages of the island’s police report: “Roatan has tourist police specifically to watch for the safety of tourists.  Areas with high foot traffic of tourists tend to be safe, even at after dark. Coxen Hole is not safe for foot traffic after dark.  In spite of stepped up police presence, most of the police force is on foot.  Violent crime and robberies have been increasing. Theft is common on the island, especially with the drug problems that persist. Remote homes have been the sites of home invasions, with armed intruders tying victims and robbing the homes.  Vehicles have been stopped at night occasionally in remote areas with road blocks for robberies. Taxi drivers have been killed occasionally. Guards were reportedly killed at Anthoney's Key resort, April 2008. April 15, 2008: Three security personnel were reportedly killed in Coxen Hole during a bank money transport robbery.”

Tourists are warned: “Some Honduran police have beaten people severely.  These incidents usually involve natives that argue with the police.  Do not ever offer a police officer a bribe.” And this insightful tidbit: “Highway robbers may obstruct the roadway with a vehicle or a log.  If they stop you, give them your money without hesitation.  They may kill you if you resist a robbery.”

Scott and LK filled us in on other incidents, accidents, and the never-ending issues with lack of clean water, sewage and garbage disposal, and electrical problems. Not that we didn’t experience sewer smells from the shower taps or electricity shutdowns, sometimes for hours at a time. One does expect some inconveniences when traveling to a country emerging from Third World status.  However, the more knowledgeable, and the more observant, we became, the more cautious we grew as we drove around the island, or walked the beaches after dark. I wasn’t sure if I was heartened or frightened by spotting the guards lurking in the darkness along beach property boundaries, riot guns slung over their shoulders. By the time we’d heard the stories and lamented over the conditions, we were more inclined to spend evenings in our little condo. Which was fine, as we were tuckered out by snorkeling all day anyway. But it’s one thing to stay indoors because you’re tired and want to go to bed early, and quite another to remain indoors to feel secure. I have to admit that in all my Caribbean treks, I have never before felt like I had a target on my back. Well, maybe in Santo Domingo, when I was there in the early 80s. The Dominican Republic does that to some people.

Ultimately, we enjoyed ourselves, enjoyed spending time with newfound friends, enjoyed seeing the beauty of the island and, to some extent, enjoyed the craziness of just learning how to get around in a very different culture. I believe that Roatan’s fate is much the same as many “discovered” Caribbean destinations, so I’m glad we chose to go now, before the new multi-million dollar cruise ship terminal is completed, before more homes and resorts crowd each other along the beautiful island beaches and bays, before the landfills become full and incinerators spew particulate matter into the wind and before the fragile reefs positioned so close to shore around this island jewel become bleached-out, damaged and barren of the shoals of fish that now swim in a virtually Cheez-Whiz free Caribbean ocean realm.

Belize City airport is hot at 11am Saturday morning. We easily catch the next Tropic Air flight, thanks to voucher arrangements made by the ever-efficient folks at Xanadu, our home for the next week.

 

We buzz over to AC, enjoying the views of the shallows between the reef and the mainland. Spotted a group of 3 sharks swimming in the shallows off an islet and a Mayan Air flight headed back to BZE.

 

Stood out in the hot sun at Ambergris Caye airport, getting windblown and dust-coated and grinning stupidly while waiting for luggage to be brought out of the plane's belly. Grab a cab and off we go to the Super Mart to get water and beer and other goodies. Back in the cab for a very short ride to entry of Xanadu. We're here! Alex meets us, grabs our luggage and, after we check in with Lupe at the desk and chat with Susan, we chill at the pool for a bit while our room is prepped. Soon we're unpacked and organized in our lovely, comfy and cool digs. Let's go chat w/ Lupe about stuff to do and get on a boat for snorkeling tomorrow!

 

The week flies by, each day taken up with activities. We snorkel Hol Chan preserve, visit sharks & rays at Shark Ray Alley, snorkel Mexico Rocks (our fav spot), where we swim with spotted eagle rays and a coupla large, curious barracuda. We spot a sleeping nurse shark and get eyeballed by a passing loggerhead turtle.

 

One day we trip over to Lamani ruins on the mainland, a highlight. We're accompanied by a group of middle-school age kids, who are on a romp. One poor soul, Carlos, gets motion sickness at the drop of a hat and between the fast boat from AC to the village of Bomba in the jungle, he's pretty green with the twists and turns as we zip along up-river in that fast craft, banking crazily around tight turns in the mangroves, throwing up a 10 foot wall of rooster tail off the lee chine.

 

We get to Bomba mid-morning, where it is hot, still, dusty. Some avail themselves of the "one star" el banyo while others poke their heads into dim, hot huts sporting local crafts that are, IHMO, overly priced and not particularly unique. A local boy is walking around with two orphaned baby parrots on his shoulders. People take pix and chat with the young man, who explains he found the birds in the nearby jungle and is taking care of them. They seem perfectly content to be perched where they are.

 

We hop aboard the dust express, where, after about 10 mins of roaring down a dusty track, zigzagging potholes, we screech to a halt to let Carlos rush down the steps and outside to lose his breakfast. The other kids peer curiously out the widows at Carlos then, all together, go "ughhh! Argh!!" and make faces. The adults roll their eyes and speculate on what can help settle his stomach. He will keep this up all day, on the bus, on the boat, back on the bus, back on the other boat... it will be a long day for poor Carlos.

 

The bus arrives at our mid-way point, where we break for the "two star" el banyos, baking in the heat. A large, open pavilion next to the New River gives some shade and catches fitful breezes as we await the signal to hop aboard the next boat and another fast, windy, twisting and high-banking ride 25 miles up river to where Lamani ruins perch on a high hill overlooking a large lagoon.

 

Gee, we're here just at noon, when the equatorial sun is at its zenith. We wilt in the heat under a pavilion, eating a nice, hot meal (!) of BBQ chicken and rice and plantains and oh-my-God I just want a frozen drink. Water and soft drinks are disappearing fast from the cooler. We soon make our way up to the airless museum, where we politely swelter and drip while our extraordinarily knowledgeable guide and boat captain attempts to hold the kids' attention while pointing out certain artifacts in the glass cases. Most folks wander outside to catch a breeze.

 

Off down the canopied trails to the ruins. This is the fun part, stomping along these high mounds made centuries ago by these ancient peoples, surrounded by jungle growth, bird calls and howler monkey grunts, groans and growls that echo through the trees. We trip over roots as we crane our necks- look, there’s a toucan! Very cool to spot one in the wild. Our guide knows all the critters by their calls and keeps us fully informed about all things Mayan, including trees and shrubs like the “stink toe” root, which, when cut, smells just as you might imagine—really yuk! Soon we approach the first of 4 excavated temples, one of which is a tomb.

 

Soon we are looking up at the steep stairs of the largest temple, and of course I break my promise to myself that I’ll not clamber up another danged pyramid again, not after doing my share in Mexico but no, it’s mid-day and the sun is baking me while I start up, up those steep and eroded steps to the top, where I doubt there is a stick of shade but where I know I can count on a breeze and a hellofa view across the jungle canopy to the lagoon below. Yep, there’s a view after all, and I perch on about 9 square inches of crumbling limestone, with a sheer drop all the way to the jungle floor at least 8 stories below, where I know there’s shade, if only I can get down these dang steps without falling headlong as my head swims from vertigo. Those dang teenagers are frolicking like mountain goats and I feel every bit of my middle age years. Ouch, that stone is Hot!

 

Safely back on terra firma, sucking on the warm water bottle like a mother’s teat. We catch our collective breath, round up the stray kids and stumble off to the other temples that have been torn from the jungle overgrowth. We know we are faced with at least 4 more hours of back-tracking, including the flying boat ride down the New River to the bus to the other boat. We run out of water, soft drinks, fruit, food and energy and poor Carlos never gets to keep anything in his stomach, all day. We finally approach the dock at Xanadu just as the sun is sinking rapidly into the sea, tired but happy travelers.

 

I seem to recall walking up the beach to, I think it was Blue Water Grill, where I intended to slowly sip a frozen Kalua Colada, but which I gulped greedily to “drop my core temperature”. This is critical therapy after a long, hot day’s trek into the jungle, be sure to make a note.

 

A wonderful meal (vaguely recalled), followed by a leisurely stroll (and a bit wobbly from the boat movement still going on in my head) under the full moon back to Xanadu and oblivion. We enjoyed our nightly walks along the beach under that full moon, in a brisk onshore breeze as we went to and from different restaurants.

 

The sun comes up and the birds start squawking about 5:30 am, so we were up too, getting an early (and s l o w) breakfast at Coconut’s up the beach. Later, we caught a boat to Hol Chan and snorkeled with the crowds – heaven knows what the place is like on season. It reminded me of cattle boats dumping crowds off at any number of sites in John Pennekamp State Park off Key Largo in Florida, my home. Oh well, it was cool and wet and plenty of fish to see and hear.

 

Next stop was Shark Ray Alley. If one hasn’t been close to somewhat tame southern sting rays and nurse sharks, it’s a fun stop—perhaps. Personally, I’ve been there, done that after 30 years of diving and I truly don’t approve of grabbing sting rays or any other animal and forcefully holding it and stopping it from locomoting as it will. Much less do I approve of grabbing rays by their sensitive noses, where there are literally thousands of minute sensing cells that they use and need to help them feed. One large female had her tail bobbed off at the root and nobody can convince me that wasn’t done by a human hand—I was appalled to see her mutilation and she was particularly shy of being handled. Good for her!

 

Subsequent snorkel trips were private charters or nearly so, as we were visiting on off-season. We took a day trip over to Caye Caulker and snorkeled a half day there on broken, beat up, bleached-out reefs lacking the fish life we had seen off AC. Operators on AC told us the business is unregulated on CC and the folks there simply don’t care for their reef as do the operators on AC—I believe it. I’ve seen some pristine reefs in my time and I’ve watched the Florida keys decline from the late 1960s through the late 1990s, when some areas have begun to recover, but slowly. The shape of things to come off CC is not a pretty story- the reef will take decades to recover, if it gets the chance, between storms and being loved to death.

 

We highly recommend Steve Rubio, owner of Unity Tours and captain of the No Rush catamaran, as a friendly, knowledgeable and delightful host for an all day excursion snorkeling, fishing and beach BBQ-ing or an evening sunset sail or a ½ day snorkel trip. Lupe at Xanadu will hook you up with Steve and anything else you may desire—believe me, the folks there know how to take care of guests, and they have the patience of saints.

 

Xanadu was our wonderful, relaxing, quiet home, not too far, not too close to the bustle of San Pedro town, which was as close as a walk or a bike ride.

 

All too soon it was time to retrace our steps, back to Tropic Air at the airport then to Belize City and the shock of arriving back in Atlanta to a cold, dreary, rainy Memorial Day weekend. We couldn’t even show off our tans, hidden as they were under long sleeves and jeans! Wahhh- take me back to Ambergris Caye, “la isla bonita”!

 

 

  

Talk about a bucolic Caribbean island! Bequia ("Beck-Way") certainly meets that definition.

 

Located in the West Indies near Barbados, Bequia is a tiny, 7-square mile, volcanic-based oasis floating on a sea of cobalt, aquamarine, Copenhagen-and-all-manner-of blues and greens. With approximately 5,000 residents, Bequia is truly quite undiscovered- no cruise ships call and the somewhat arduous connections to get there dissuade casual vacationers or those looking for even 3 star accomodations. Yachties know it well but even so it is somewhat off the beaten cruising path, unlike, for instance, the Bahamas or the Virgins. The island offers no hi-rise hotels, no resorts, just a few restaurants, 3 little stores, and very little shopping, primarily made of the same old T-shirts and mass-market crap in the few stores and sold by street vendors. 

 

The island is turning into a retirement destination for Canadians, Americans and UK types. I liked the greenery of the volcanic hills, all the Bouganvillia, every kind of Bird of Paradise and all sorts of Hibiscus and of course orchids everywhere. The fragrances were heady. Not to mention the brightly-hued little Quits, a species found throughout the Caribbean and the ubiquitous ground Dove, a smaller bird than the Mourning Dove found in North America. Several mornings we sat out on the villa patio and watched a squadron of hummingbirds work over a large, flowering tree that hung out over the steep ravine below. Finches, and Magpie-like members of the Crow family called and chatted, flitting about from tree to tree all day. Two mornings we heard a throaty, raspy loud series of calls that sounded to my hear very parrot-like. I don't know if the threatened Amazon Parrot found on nearby St. Vincent makes a home on Bequia, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised, as the islands are a mere 9 miles apart.

 

The other major boon of Bequia is all that fresh, salt-sea air, a balm to those of us who live in cities with poor air quality. 

 

Caribbean vacations are each different, in the context of the "sameness" of Caribbean travel- heat, inefficiencies, airport hassles, sullen locals, iffy and limited food selections, slow service, high prices for all goods brought to the island. But hey, one becomes more tolerant with age and experience, especially if assisted by a rum punch or two. However, those rum punches nearly proved my undoing, as I tooled around in a right-drive Jeep on the left on extremely narrow, winding and steep "roads", with no shoulders, just steep drop-offs on one side to the ocean and a concrete ditch between the pressing hillside and the narrow, switch-back roadway. The ditches were about 2 feet wide and 4 feet deep- just enough to capture your tire if you slipped into one, which I did when avoiding a cement truck that came whipping around a bend. I was careful to avoid snatching the tire back on the road (without power steering that was a trick!) and send us careening off the hillside. Such near-misses soon became routine and the subject of somewhat breathless giggling.

 

Water-borne activities were also a source of, if not panic, then a certain touch of consternation. Robin had a moment's hesitation when we were sailing over to Isla a' Quarte, a nearby undeveloped island. We were in 6-foot seas, fairly big in that small boat (32 feet) and it was quite windy so as we came up on the wind the boat heeled very steeply. Robin found herself on the lee side, sitting in the cockpit facing to the stern with her elbow on the combing- I guess her elbow got dipped in the ocean (we were heeled at about 40 degrees) and she asked if the boat was gonna tip over. I laughed and Nikki, our skipper, was kind enuf to just grin. He was perched with one foot on the high side and another on the low side of the cockpit, his bare toes curled to grip the edges of the bench seat, looking very piratical. I braced my feet across from my seat to the edge of Robin's and enjoyed the wind. She's never sailed before, much less under very brisk conditions on the open ocean but she decided she likes it.

 

The stars were right down on our heads every night. Lotsa meteorites! We'd turn off the lights in the villa and that was a DARK night- no light looms from towns or cities, and headlights from a car traveling the shore road miles away lit up the night like a spotlight. I could spot a campfire on the beach over 2 miles away as clear as a bell and could see people moving in front of the light cast by the flames! Amazing.

 

One day we were hanging on the beach- I swam out to a patch reef offshore and in about 30 feet of water watched a large Spotted Eagle ray feed for 20 minutes. Its wing span equaled my own, its tail was like 3X the body length. Elegant and magificent. It ignored me above and grazed the top of the flattish reef and nearby sand and grasses. Too weird- they have a pointed snout but when they feed they deploy these membrane-like flaps on either side of the mouth. The ray rooted in the sand or grass, digging up crustacheons no doubt and kicking up a cloud. Then it gulped once or twice, folded in the mouth flaps and swam to another likely patch and repeated the procedure. Way cool to watch.

 

The marketer in me wants to trumpet this not-so-discovered corner of the Caribbean to the world, but the weary, salary-slave-seeking-respite part says "Shhh! Keep it a secret!"

Off-season travel has its rewards...like less expensive stays, fewer people at the popular spots around the island, a personalized rain forest tour and having restaurants to yourselves.

We are seasoned Caribbean travelers and, I believe, arrived on St. Kitts with realistic expectations. We're accustomed to traveling off season (Floridians don't mind the heat and humidity), used to slow service with plenty of time to absorb the surrounds and not surprised by the typical challenges of negotiating poor roads featuring all manner of human and wildlife bent on getting struck by the inattentive tourist driver.

Among the Must Do’s for St. Kitts is Ottley's Plantation Inn. Be sure to make reservations in advance for Sunday brunch at this delightful, tropical oasis on the Atlantic side of the island. Unfortunately, one must pass through a couple of truly poverty-stricken shanties on the approach, which serve to emphasize the great financial, social and cultural rift between those who are able to sample Ottley's bucolic offerings and those who daily live a hardscrabble life.

Ottley's was virtually deserted when we visited on that windy, rainy morning. Heavy mist swept across and obscured the peaks of the rain-forested mountains in the near distance, leaving behind large dewdrops on the flowering bougainvillea and carefully tended lawns and ornamentals.

We were enjoying the silence and solitude accented by bird calls when we were approached by a large, friendly, wet and smelly golden retriever, who greeted us with a gentle tail-wag and a wet nose then led us down the royal palm-lined track that skirts the main building. Our canine host paused to munch on a ripe mango then followed us as we explored the rainforest trail located behind the property.

We spent a few minutes quietly stepping over fallen mangoes and looking up at the towering trees festooned with ferns and liana vines, then made our way back to the swimming pool area, where we were greeted warmly by the staff and served one of the most outstanding meals we enjoyed during our stay. Noon is a bit soon for us to be drinking alcohol, but the rum punch or mimosa comes with the meal, so we threw all caution to the wind and went for it!

We were amused by the black and white cat that slept on a low wall of the open-air dining area. An older couple dined right next to the cat, who snoozed quietly. Four businessmen showed up and started a loud conversation, which startled the cat and grated on our ears, formerly accustomed to the sound of the wind and the rainforest. The cat sauntered over to us to extend greetings, which we cordially returned. The reception it received at the loudmouth table, however, was a rude kick. We decided to steer well clear of such dismissive and arrogant interlopers.

After the meal we walked the grounds some more, as the sun came out and bathed the hillside in heat and a white-gold light. We ran into the operations manager, who greeted us warmly, inquired about our stay, where we were from, and offered to take a photo of us with our camera, which we accepted. Throughout our stay, we were continually asked by servers and others we met "How are you enjoying your stay? Are you having a good time?" Floridians who serve the public could learn a lot from such cordiality!

Thoroughly stuffed with excellent food and mellowed from the serenity of Ottley's, we hit the shore road and continued our island tour, counterclockwise. (As our friend Anne suggested, traveling counterclockwise round the island would help us to unwind!)

We passed numerous sugar processing ruins, which dot the island. After a couple of photo ops, we came to Black Rocks. Parking the car at the top of the headland in what appeared to be a small park, we dodged yet another flock of the ubiquitous goats, who had more sense than we did -- they didn’t even get close to the loose, steep track that led down the dangerously sheer hillside to the volcanic rocks below. Huge waves crashed all along the shore, as far as one could see in both directions, tearing themselves into spume and mist against the jagged, massive black volcanic rocks below. The scene was one of immense energy and I couldn't shake a sense of foreboding. Normally, I readily clamber over rocks and boulders encountered on hikes and tramps, but this place engendered in me a caution that kept me well away from the edge. Besides, the wind was blowing so hard that it I was afraid of being blown overboard, so we hung out, snapped a few shots and returned to the car.

Further along we came to Dieppe Bay, passing the Golden Lemon Inn, which we aimed to visit for a luncheon later in the week.

Around the top (northern end) of St. Kitts now, we spotted Brimstone Hill fortress on our left, where we had visited yesterday, our second full day on the island. Again, a Must See and, on a clear day, you enjoy the most magnificent views available (unless you do a rainforest hike -- more about that later.)

We typically bring along a small, collapsible cooler on our trips, and this visit was no exception. Fortified by bottled water, a Yoohoo, local soft drinks and Carib beer (potable if Very Cold), we didn't hesitate to leave our comfy digs at Timothy Beach Resort early in the morning and spend the day exploring the island. Power bars and other snacks kept us going until we chose a time and place to stop, eat, and chill.

A word about the drought: St. K and Nevis (and for all I know, surrounding islands in the West Indies) were, at the time of our late June visit, suffering through a deadly drought, which is in at least the third year, as best we could determine. Now, we just came out of 3 years' drought in Florida, with horrible fires to boot, but StK and Nevis were incredibly sere, dry, windblown, dusty and just plain uninviting to the eye -- EXCEPT for those areas in the mountains and foothills that get rainfall. Those areas were, for the most part, lush and green.

We saw postcards of the islands, including the southern peninsula, taken when they were green, and the difference between those scenes and the ones that we drove and walked through were vast. Frigate bay and other south peninsular areas were beyond the aridity of a St. John or Bonaire -- it was just plain crisp, and virtually denuded of any grass or greenery for the cattle or goats.

One day we drove over Monkey Hill just below TBR, and made our way down to Turtle Beach. On the way, we passed weakened cattle that were, without exception, horribly thin and malnourished. We passed a group of men loading dead cows into the back of a large pickup -- the stench was too thick to be blown away by the brisk onshore wind.

The rusted A-frame of a destroyed building, litter and the smell of cattle crowded around a fresh water tank greeted us at Turtle Beach. It was a holiday, and large groups of partiers were having their revelries. We bumped along through the soft sand, skirting the shore, to a quiet place where we could get out of the car, hoping to enjoy the view of Nevis across the way – only to be scoured by sand whipped up by the gale blowing across the two-mile channel between Nevis and St. Kitts. Oh well, not much snorkeling here today! In fact, it was difficult to keep one’s feet.

As to snorkeling – I’m a SCUBA diver from Way Back but do enjoy exploring island shorelines for snorkeling. Having done my homework by lurking on the St. Kitts/Nevis (http://www.geographia.com/guestbook/kittsnevis/) message board for several months, I determined we might head to the southern end of South Friar’s Bay area for snorkeling. Hmmm. Not much to see, except a couple of coral-encrusted canon which we were told had been recently “studied” by students from I-forgot-where. When we snorkeled over the canon, which were lying in about 10 feet of water approximately 70 feet from shore, we spotted dozens of small plastic zip-lok bags strewn all around the site. Each bag had a white, flat plastic “stake” in it. Each plastic “stake” had cryptic writing on it. Some of these bags were tucked in among the surrounding rubble, but most of them had floated free and were lying on the sandy bottom. It wouldn’t take much of a sea to scatter these bags all along the bay bottom and onto the shore, or out to sea. This “research” effort struck me as little more than litter, for certainly those plastic bags and tags will only add to the flotsam and litter we found everywhere piled above and below the high-water mark. Not to mention the danger to turtles and other animals, fish and coral reef structures. Not to mention the half-life of plastic litter. Unconscionable.

The best off-shore snorkeling we found was the shallow, man-made reef structure that parallels the shoreline along the northern end of South Friar’s Bay, from the Shipwreck bar north. The reef is located approximately 25-30 feet offshore (depending on the tide) and in about 8-10 feet of water. We found the reef best suited to early morning exploration, before the winds and seas kicked up. One can ride the gentle current that slowly pushes you northward, drifting and peering under the shallow ledge for shy critters like boxfish, trumpet fish, damsels, blennys, angelfish and all manner of juvenile reef fish. If the waves kick up, the visibility gets pretty low, so stick with the early morning dip for best results.

Again, we were dismayed by the amount of garbage and trash piled up behind the Shipwreck bar, at the base of the hill. Rusted out beach chairs, boxes, broken wooden seats and every manner of plastic container were heaped with no consideration for aesthetics or safety. As a commercial photographer, I am typically careful to crop such eyesores out of lovely beach scenics, but I did take several shots of the “alternative” views. I can’t help but believe this is merely a sign of laziness and Not My Job attitude on the part of people who own and operate these beach-side “businesses.” Personally, it’s a real turn-off to me, and a specific reason I refuse to give my business to or spend a dime with any operation that wantonly trashes the environment around them.

Another Must See is Romney Manor, the home of Caribe Batik. What gorgeous surrounds, lovingly cared-for, well- tended lawns and exotic plants and fruiting trees. The batik goods at this tropical “factory” are breathtaking – we just had to buy a gift for ourselves as well as family and friends back home!

The only “downer” is that, like the approach to Ottley’s and the Golden Lemon and other destinations, we passed through horribly run-down and poverty-stricken areas, with sights like a huge sow sleeping underneath a wrecked and rusted truck carcass and the troubling sight of a naked toddler wiping herself clean (and dropping the rag) after defecating in the bushes across from her home, which apparently, sported no running water or sanitary facilities. Such scenes do not hearten the tourist to return to the isle, however enchanting some areas may appear.

For perhaps obvious reasons, others who post on the above-mentioned discussion board don’t address the obvious problems that poverty, high unemployment and drought have visited upon St. Kitts and Nevis. I don’t intend to bash the islands, but the fact remains that much still needs to be done to even begin to bring these communities up to a level of order and cleanliness that will show obvious assets to the best advantage.

One final Must Do: A guided, leisurely trek through the rainforest with Hugh Rodgers. Elsewhere on the message board I have extolled his praises and here I’ll add that this was simply the highlight of our trip. Over the course of a couple of hours, we were guided up and down well-tended (but not well-worn!) trails under and through the triple-canopy as Mr. Rodgers shared with us his prodigious knowledge of the fauna, flora and history of our surrounds. It’s obvious Mr. Rodgers has been guiding groups for over 15 years and, as he informed us, he is able to accommodate people of all ages and abilities, even those who can walk but little, as he offers a 4X4 trip. His price is reasonable, his snacks and drinks welcome and he’s able to strike just the right balance between informational chat and allowing periods of silence to stretch out so that visitors can enjoy the sounds of the animals, insects and the wind through the trees envelop them in a sensory experience.

Other Notes: If you are inclined to splurge on a nice dinner, we strongly recommend Marshall’s at the Horizon Villas in Frigate Bay, offering an outstanding meal and supurb service in a romantic setting. Also, Dolce Cabana is a terrific place for an excellent meal at a good price. PJ’s in front of the Paradise Villas is another great dinner spot we recommend- good pizza! If you’re a rum aficionado, you’ll want to try Brinley’s Gold Vanilla Rum – one can see why it’s won numerous awards!

After briefly visiting other affordable places to stay, we were reinforced in our decision to book at TBR. We found the food excellent, if a tad expensive, and the service slow but friendly. Office staff were wonderful, without exception. The room was kept clean and tidy, the grounds well-kept, the pool clean – what more can one ask for?

And finally, a word of thanks to everyone who contributed to the online message board with tips and insight- especially our newest Best Friend Anne (AKA Banana Brickett), who is a delight and a ray of bright sunshine!

Travel Safely.

 

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 more cactus and succulents than 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. 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 had, for whatever reason, spring up 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 all 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 a 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, 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. After swimming and limin’ for a coupla hours, we hiked down the beach with our stuff 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, cross the mountain on Zion Hill Rd., shift out of 4WD again and tool over to 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.

We were entertained by Kaley, who would leap off the stern with a big SPLASH and swim like mad to fetch her Frisbee. Once she had it in her mouth, she’d turn around, swim back to the stern and board the dang 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 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” – 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. Crystal clear water, sandy bottom, soaring green hills all around and a few, long and dark shadows lurking just under the surface in the shade of the boat (looked like 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 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.