The Uxbridge Girls Soccer teams have always been pretty strong. They usually finish at or near the top of the league standings and make it into District playoff action. Unfortunately, that's where they usually stop. In the past, they've just not played up to their potential in the really big games. This year was shaping up to look pretty much the same. They were seeded #2 in the District playoffs and had a bye in the first round. Their first game was with Leicester (say "Lester") and they won 3-1 to advance to the semis for, I think, the first time ever. That was an exciting game and Carly almost scored a blistering shot that hit the crossbar. It bounced up in front of the goal and Steph (something like 34 goals this year) headed it in. Already this was farther then they had gotten.
The game with Oakmont was on a frigid Auburn High School turf field and they came a way with a 2-1 win. There was wild celebration that they had made it into the District Finals! We found out that the #1 seed and arch rival Millbury (who had defeated them in Districts last year) would be their opponents in the finals.
The Finals were scheduled for Saturday, November 15 at Auburn High but it was raining and I guess there was lightening so it was postponed to Sunday at 1:00. A little after noon, I got in the car to head to Auburn. Deb's choral concert was today and Kyle was going to Wheaton to practice with the team so it was only me. I got to Auburn and quickly realized that I had a big problem because there was nobody else there. Hmmm. OK, I guess I'll strangle Carly after I figure out where the heck they are. I used my Blackberry to go to the Scheduling web site but the browser on my phone doesn't really render web pages that well and it refused to show me any details about the game. I called Kyle who was at home getting ready to leave for Wheaton and asked him to use a real browser to see if he could find out where they were. He got the page up but it didn't have any information about where the game was. I didn't have phone numbers for any of the other parents on the team and I could not figure out how to find the game. I called the sports desk of the local paper hoping they could help me but only got an answering machine. I finally Googled "Uxbridge Soccer MIAA" (MIAA is the Mass Interscholastic Athletic Association) and got a page with the tournament bracket. It was pretty jumbled on my tiny screen but I managed to find a link to the Finals and it said "Location: Foley Field". Great, I wonder where that is. I Googled "Foley Field" and found what had to be it - with driving directions to boot!
Luckily, it wasn't that far away so I as I got there and was walking in, I saw that it was halftime and the score was 3-0. Uh-oh. I was pretty sure that Millbury would be the one up by that big of a margin but when I got in and talked to the Uxbridge Athletic Director, he said "No we're up and your daughter scored a goal!" Woo-hoo!
The wind was howling straight down the field and, since it's a turf field, the ball just runs. Basically, whichever team is playing downwind has a huge advantage. Uxbridge had downwind the first half and got the big lead and now would have to hold on for 40 minutes of relentless pressure. Of course I didn't see Carly's goal but everyone told me she ripped one from the top of the 18 yard box and put in the opposite side netting. It sounded like a beauty.
The second half was a wild and woolly affair. When the Uxbridge girls would attempt to clear the ball it would basically get blown back in their faces. Millbury sent one of many corner kicks into the box and managed to ping it around and into the goal. They got another off of a deflection off of an Uxy defender. So it was 3-2 with time winding down and the crowd on it's feet. When the final whistle blew, it was pandemonium in the stands and on the field. When the girls finally came over to the stands, there were hugs and pictures all around. It's a fantastic achievement and I'm really proud of the team.
They are now in the State Semi-Finals and the game will be played later this week. Here's hoping for more success to prolong this improbable run.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Blast From the Past
I came across this document while browsing my computer tonight. I enjoyed reading it again and thought it might be fun to add to the blog...
CARIBBEAN HOLIDAY
As recorded by Deborah Hudgins
AUGUST 23, 24, 1985
I couldn't believe that we were finally leaving for ten days in the Caribbean. After Packing and repacking our luggage several times and patting our cat goodbye, we left the house in our neighbors' hands and headed for the airport with our friends, the Furriels. They dropped us off at our terminal with well wishes and warnings to "stay out of hurricanes".
Little did we know, as we wended our way to the ticket counter, that our flight was two hours behind schedule. We were not extremely thrilled to learn of the delay, but were able to see the bright side at least we'd be able to get a good head start on the novels we'd brought.
About half a book later, roughly 1:00 a.m., we were called to board the L1011 "Whisper Liner". We were seated in the middle section with a hefty couple seated directly in front of us. Naturally, they reclined and landed in our laps. Our "carry on" Luggage used up what little legroom we had, so the flight was not the most enjoyable. We were amazed at the way the plane shook at take off and landing; we thought she'd come apart at the seams. Obviously, nothing of the sort happened, and we made it all the way to Puerto Rico.
Why Puerto Rico when our destination was supposed to be St. Thomas? We wondered the same thing. As it turned out, Eastern Airlines had been unable to hold our connecting flight for an additional ten minutes, so, Puerto Rico was where we were left.
It was stifling hot as we walked from the main terminal to make our final connection. Tom made an executive decision and booked us on a little twelve passenger rubberband operated deal to St. Thomas. I was nervous, but tired enough not to really mind. There we were, packed into that mosquito of a plane like sardines, headed down the runway! As soon as we'd lifted into the air, I wished the pilots would land and take off all over again, just for the fun of it. It was frightening, but more exhilarating. The scenery below was beautiful; the water around the islands was multicolored blue, the clouds white and puffy. It was interesting watching the pilots at work in the cockpit. The descent through the clouds was a bit bumpy, but the landing was smooth. We'd arrived!
The airport in St. Thomas was the beginning of our culture shock; it was a converted World War II flight hangar. I plumped down on our bags while Tom tried to find out where one of our pieces of checked luggage had wound up. I inspected the scene: A throng I presumed was headed for a tour was being herded into groups according to hotel accommodations by a bossy gentleman, fortyish, wearing a loud shirt and touting a walky talky. Mr. loud Shirt continued to bark orders first into the walky talky and then to the bedraggled tourists. The tourists slouched listlessly on Suitcases or leaned heavily on one foot. Some sipped free rum punch they'd been offered when they entered the terminal. Finally, the crowd dwindled down to the inevitable two who hadn't heard their hotel called, and Mr. Loud Shirt first bellowed something into the walky talky, then escorted the stragglers out.
A few moments later, a couple stood practically on top of me; they were explaining their plight to an attendant... "You see, we just got in from Toeerrr tola and must have missed our connection... He was wearing a wild tropical print shirt and a cowboy hat, she an ankle length mumu. Though they were agitated about missing their flight, they spoke in an abrasively unhurried drawl, saying they'd just have to catch another plane for Texas. Somehow I'd known all along that they were from Texas. I was glad when they'd moved on; she was wearing a powerful perfume, and they were blocking the breeze.
After watching some garbage guys take away three loads of trash and the free rum lady mix another batch, Tom returned. Not surprising, our suitcase was lost. We were used to this sort of thing. The funny part was, neither Eastern nor Crown Air would accept responsibility for returning it to us. All the time I'd been luggage sitting and People watching, Tom had been hustling back and forth between ticket counters trying to get somebody to say they'd handle the case of our missing bag. At long last, one of them told Tom they'd call our hotel when it arrived. We loaded up our gear and headed for the taxi vans we were off and running.
We arrived at Secret Harbour Hotel hours late. Mom and dad were there, relieved that we hadn't been lost in the Bermuda Triangle or hijacked to Cuba. It sure was a pleasure to give hugs all around. We popped open a complimentary bottle of champagne and toasted our togetherness for a terrific vacation.
That evening, we shared an incredibly romantic first dinner. Despite the fact that the bugs were out for blood and the guys were wearing shirts and ties and sweating to death, it was postcard perfect. We sat on a patio surrounded by dipping palm trees, the water lapping at the beach, a pink sunset. We dined on roast duckling, filet mignon and fresh fish, and pinched ourselves to remind us that everything was real. That evening will long live in my memory; it was a dream come true.
AUGUST 25
We regrouped on Sunday morning, bade farewell to Secret Harbour and headed for Caribbean Yacht Charters (CYC) to claim our boat. Her name was Tattoo, and she was a beaut. We received brief instructions on the operation of the boat, where everything was, how to fix minor mishaps, how to work the radio. Then we sat around a table in the lounge area of the CYC office and listened to a crash course in navigating around the Virgin Islands. Our guide rippled around a map of the islands with colored markers, pointing out good and bad anchorages, places to see and avoid. He highlighted his whirlwind lecture with stories of "Fat Albert" at the Jost Van Dyke customs office, Clementine, an old storyteller on the island of Virgin Gorda, and how our boat, Tattoo, had been named...
"It seemed that time had run out. The owner was at wit's end trying to come up with the perfect name for his yacht. At the last possible moment, his wild secretary and girlfriend stopped by to show him what she'd gotten that day. She threw open her shirt and there it was, a tattoo on her breast!" And so our boat was named.
Our guide left the room for a moment; we glanced at each other apprehensively. We knew that we would never remember half of the things he mentioned. Next time, we decided, one of us would take notes!
While the guys went aboard to check everything over, mom and I braved a taxi ride into town to do the grocery shopping. Pueblo Market was very similar to a grocery store in the states. We stocked up on canned soups, spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and loads of canned soft drinks. It took nearly an hour to gather what we needed and to check out. On the way back in the taxi, we were dismayed to find that our driver had no idea where Caribbean Yacht Charters was located. What a panic! Fortunately, we passed some landmarks that mom and I'd noticed on the way to town, so we were able to steer the driver in the right direction. At long last we arrived at the dock, stocked the boat with the supplies we'd brought and were ready to leave.
A CYC guide maneuvered Tattoo out of the Marina and into open waters, then left us on our own. We were sailing! Our destination for that first night was Christmas Cove off the island of St. John, a brief trip across the channel from St. Thomas. It was early in the day, so we were able to go for our first snorkeling expedition. Mom had never snorkeled before, so I showed her what Tom had taught me. I'll never forget her brilliant happy smile as she came up out of the water. It really was fun! I was amazed at how clear and turquoise the water was, at how many fish and sea urchins there were. The undersea world was beautiful and fascinating.
On board, we ran up against our first problem: we found that we had no water pressure. We fretted for a while before we realized that we hadn't flipped on the switch. I also discovered that our toilet, "the head", was tough for me to pump. I needed help in doing it, as a matter of fact. I later learned that I could manage by myself if I wore my sailing gloves to better grip the pump. Other than those minor details, it was interesting and fun discovering that the stove rocked, that the plates, bowls and cups had sticky rubber on the bottoms, and that there was a special trick to opening cupboards and drawers.
At dusk we noticed that our battery, the #1, was almost out of juice. It didn't pose any real problems since we had the #2 to fall back on. Each morning we were to run the engine for about an hour to keep the batteries charged and the refrigerator cool. At 8:00 p.m., we listened to the weather and "traffic" (messages for sailors) report, and watched the moon rise. There were millions of bright stars dotting the sky; it was beautiful.
No one slept well that first night, however. It was amazing how many unusual sounds that boat and its rigging produced. It took us a while to get used to the creaks and groans, the dinghy nudging and squeaking and the moon as bright as a flood lamp.
AUGUST 26
Before we headed out to sea, mom and I decided to take the dinghy out for a spin. We took a crash course in operating the outboard motor from the guys, and then sped off in the direction of a tiny island to do some snorkeling. As we approached our destination, we asked one another, "How deep do you suppose this is?" Then "scrape THUD" and we were aground on crunchy coral. Fortunately, we'd switched the motor into neutral. We couldn't, for the life of us, figure out how to lift the prop. So, I jumped overboard and 'Lifted the back end of the boat, careful not to step on sea urchins. I guided the dinghy over the coral and finally was able to swim and pull it into deeper water. I threw my shoes into the boat, grabbed my snorkeling gear and swam for Tattoo; mom got the dinghy going and kept me company on the way back. We spent quite awhile laughing at ourselves, afterward.
Our first real sail was to Frances Bay, and it was a wild one. We encountered heavy wind it was rather unnerving. All I seemed able to do was scramble madly from one side of the deck to the other, or peel my hands away from security for a moment to tail the winch. I sure prayed that the other guys knew what they were doing. There were some unfriendly looking rocks jutting from the swirling white capped water directly in front of us. And we were worried about negotiating Johnson's Reef, a place where the buoys had been known to mislead boats to their watery graves. I wasn't exactly scared; I was too busy hanging on to think about anything else. Grey wild sea, wind whipping, dark clouds scuttling I checked to make sure I didn't have an albatross around my neck. Finally, Tom kicked on Tattoo's trusty diesel engine and we made our way safely to our night anchorage.
Once the storm had abated and we were settled in, Tom decided to go for a Swim. When he returned, he reported that held seen a small nurse shark not far from our boat! We all saw turtles swimming by, their yellow heads peeking out of the water every now and then. We were also able to see stingrays resting on the bottom; the water was beautifully clear. Rain fell intermittently throughout the afternoon. According to the weather report, we were in for a tropical wave, the precursor to a hurricane.
True to the report, a thunderstorm caught us late in the day. The guys went out in the dinghy during a lull in the weather action to set the plow anchor over the bow. I acted as the official "dinghy painter watcher". My duty was to make sure that the rope tying the dinghy to Tattoo didn't get caught in the propeller as we backed up. It often took many tries to set the anchor properly, and was a worrisome task. We all had visions of slipping away during the night into a reef, or waking in the morning to find ourselves lost at sea. So, great care was taken to set the anchors well.
Once we were securely battened down, Dad and Tom grabbed some soap and climbed up on deck for a shower in the shower! Unfortunately, dad lathered up a little late and missed his rain rinse, so he was stuck with sticky old salt water. They came back in and closed everything up tight behind them. We all nestled in to weather out the storms seven, to be exact throughout the night. None of us slept very well., needless to say.
AUGUST 27
Next morning dawned behind a misty fog. We locked up Tattoo and headed for shore in the dinghy; we were off to explore the old Annaberg Sugar Mill on the island of St. John.
We started walking inland along an old dirt road. The sun burned through the fog and made the day all of a sudden hot. We were surprised to find millions of tiny maroon purple colored crabs crawling all over the around like ants it was hard not stepping on them, there were so many. The plants were dark green and tropical looking, with vines everywhere. Above ground roots extended down from the sides of the trees to the ground like elephant trunks.
As we came off of the trail and onto a worn paved road, we noticed several signs, which read: "DANGER. MANCHINEEL TREE. EVERY PART OF THIS TREE IS TOXIC. THE SAP CAUSES SERIOUS RASH. EATING FRUIT CAN BE FATAL." Another sign said that Columbus described the small green fruits of the Manchineel Tree as "death apples". We all had a laugh imagining how Columbus coined that name in the first place..."Here Giuseppe, try this little green thing; it looks just like an apple"...
We walked for what seemed hours; the sun was really beating down, making our hike feel like a forced death March. We were relieved to finally reach the Bill compound. The most prominent structure there was the base of an old windmill, built from blocks of cut coral. In my mind's eye I could imagine wooden blades turning in the wind. There was also an enormous stone vat once used for storing rum, and a number of skeletons of buildings, all fashioned from the cut coral blocks. It gave me a sad feeling to see everything so quiet and unused no pirates, no rum raids.
A brief shower caught us on the beach as we ran for the dinghy. En route to Tattoo, a beautiful rainbow arched through the clouds. It was like a good omen as we set sail for Jost Van Dyke.
Because Jost Van Dyke is part of the British Virgin Islands (BVI), it was necessary for us to go ashore to clear customs. Once again we went through the process of setting the anchor, locking up and heading for land. Young children played in the water by the dock where we tied up, and some men were building grass huts on the beach to the sound of reggae music. We learned that the preparations were being made for a wooden boat race and festival to be held the Labor Day weekend.
The customs office was a small cluttered room. The desks were piled high with papers; bent louvered blinds hung awkwardly at the windows. A few fat lazy flies buzzed around as we waited for Albert Chinnery (Mom dubbed him Albert Chimney) to locate the proper paperwork. Mr. Chinnery was a stocky black man, rum soaked and sweaty. He asked a few questions about our boat, where we planned to go and when we planned to leave British waters. Dad signed the document granting us permission to visit the BVI as "The Master" of our vessel. We were then the official guests of the Queen!
We stepped outside into a wall of humidity. It felt good to hop back on the dinghy and return to Tattoo, where the breeze always seemed cooler, fresher than on land. Tom and I decided to go for a snorkeling expedition around the reef at the entrance to the cove. We were not impressed with the view a few dead or nearly dead fish, small stinging jellyfish and lots of what morn called "beer can coral" (submerged trash). I also had a hard time clearing the water from my mask and wound up getting a lot of salt water in my nose, which stung. By the time we climbed back aboard and dried off, it was early afternoon, and time to get moving toward our night anchorage: Cane Garden Bay, off the island of Tortola.
The sail to Cane Garden Bay was my favorite of the entire trip. We had plenty of wind to speed us along, and I finally began to feel comfortable climbing around the deck, always being sideways. Tom showed me all of the fun places to sit on the sides with my head through the lifeline or with my bucket over the edge. I guess I grew my sea legs that day.
Once we had set the anchor, we were able to take in the beauty of the Bay. Coconut trees lined the beach; the sand was bleached white. Turquoise water was still as glass and reflected the perfect blue sky. It was heaven on earth. As steel drum music drifted over from shore, we grilled steaks and watched the sun go down. After listening to the weather report and traffic, we hit the hay early for a good night's sleep.
AUGUST 28
As we ate breakfast, we discussed the game plan for the next couple of days and opted to stay at Cane Garden Bay for one more night. Snorkeling was the first item on the agenda; a trip into town on the other side of the island was the next.
Unlike our experience at Jost Van Dyke, the snorkeling off Tortola was magnificent. Tom pointed out varieties of elkhorn, fan and brain corals, all vivid shades of red, orange, purple, and blue. Millions of iridescent blue and silver fish swarmed in schools around us. We saw a hogfish and a big jack, and many tiny jellyfish. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time being in a strange environment; I felt like a visitor in an enormous aquarium.
At lunchtime we went into shore ready for adventure. We all had a pina colada or two and bought T shirts at a little variety store and bar on the beach, and then headed out on foot towards an old rum distillery we'd read about. Old was an understatement; the place was an ancient ramshackle shed filled with casks and bottles of rum. Everything, including the elderly man who worked there, was covered with a thick coat of dust. The old gentleman claimed that his rum was the best in the world "Have fun, dance and sing... no hangover!" Mom bought two bottles of the dark rum and a T shirt to wrap them in.
We then proceeded back to the store where we awaited a taxi to take us to Road Town. When it arrived, we wondered how it would ever make the trip. Choking black smoke billowed out the back, and it actually seemed to cough and wheeze. Before I even had the door shut, the driver tore off toward town own.
We took a very steep road over the mountain; there were many times we wondered if we'd have to get out and push to help the poor old taxi along. On the way down into Roadtown, the hairpin curves and fear of the driver screaming "NO BRAKES!" combined to create a hair whitening experience. When we weren't squeezing our eyes shut to block out impending doom, we were treated to a spectacular view of our bay and the harbor on the other side of the mountain. The water was deep blue and sparkling in the sun, a beautiful sight.
When we arrived in Road Town, our first impulse was to throw ourselves down to kiss the ground. Instead, we paid the driver and requested that he return in two hours to take us back to the bay. I suppose the pina coladas had impaired our abilities to reason. Our spending abilities remained functional, however, and we passed our time in town meandering through the shops, supporting the local economy.
Armed with bags of souvenirs, we waited at the meeting place we'd set for our cab. Our driver pulled up in a different car, a dilapidated station wagon. The trip into town had done in the first taxi, we guessed. So in we climbed and off we peeled. Exhaust fumes poured directly into the open back window, quickly causing me to feel carsick. It seemed rather ironic that three days at sea hadn't turned my stomach once. Teetering on the edge of extinction, we careened over the mountain and landed once again at the variety store.
It was late afternoon when we finally climbed aboard Tattoo with our purchases and a six-pack of Tab. We were hot and frazzled, so decided to go snorkeling once again, this time with mom and dad. Dad got caught in a frenzy of tiny silver fish, and decided that he wasn't too keen on seeing what the denizens of the deep had in store for him. He said that he figured there must be something bigger and more ferocious following all those little fish, and he didn't want to stick around to find out how many teeth it had. Instead of snorkeling, dad got out the windsurfer and had a go at that, along with Tom. Mom and I returned to the boat to make some supper.
Our menu was boiled chicken, broccoli and hot rolls, a real feast. After the dishes were done and we'd listened to the weather report, mom and dad decided to go back to shore to buy some milk and check out the night life in Cane Garden Bay. Steel drum music started shortly after they'd gone, and Tom and I heard lots of laughter and singing drifting from the bar. Toting a supply of irradiated milk, mom and dad returned much later. It turned out that they'd wound up in a limbo competition!
Moonlight washed over the bay; one by one the lights twinkled out on the other boats and on shore. It was another perfect evening in paradise.
AUGUST 29
Early the following day, we sailed in a northeasterly direction past Guano Island and Great Amanoe to a tiny island called Marina Cay. There was a restaurant and grocery store there that we had hoped to visit, but both were closed. Snorkeling, swimming and general laziness became the order of the day. We mostly lolled around on deck; I wrote postcards and got sunburned.
Four special remembrances stood out among the rest during our stay at Marina Cay. First was the discovery of a current of hot water that flowed around the island just below the ocean's surface. We wondered if the heat thermals were caused by volcanic activity. The second was a woman's high heel, an old fish net and some pieces of coral; treasures found when mom and dad explored nearby Scrub Island. The third was the fun of sharing our hamburgers with a family of sea gulls. And the fourth, my favorite, was dad holding mom, dancing on deck beneath the full moon.
AUGUST 30
We sailed for a place known as The Baths on the island of Virgin Gorda, next. Tattoo wouldn't point, as usual, and it took us many extra miles to reach our destination. We had some excitement when a rainstorm blew by; dad expertly tacked away out of its reach.
Our first impression of The Baths was the enormity of the boulders scattered on the beach like carelessly tossed pebbles. We slid our boat into the bay along with the other sightseers and took the dinghy to shore.
Mom and I poked around the base of the boulders while the guys took off climbing. After exploring the pathways that wove around the rocks, we better appreciated their enormity, and wondered where they had come from. Having become warm like lizards baking in the sun, we all decided to do some snorkeling. And it was on that extraordinary occasion that I saw them. Three horrible grinning barracudas hanging motionless about four inches below the surface, looking Tom and I over.
My first instinct told me to get the heck out of there. The second best thing to do was grab Tom's arm and cling and hope that those 'cudas had lunched earlier. Tom motioned me to the surface and reminded me that we were not filming a sequel to Jaws 3D, and that we probably wouldn't be ruthlessly chewed to shreds as long as they were still grinning. So, we made a slow nonchalant escape, pretending that we were too busy admiring the coral to even notice them. The barracudas must have realized that they didn't have any bread large enough to make a sandwich out of us, so we were spared.
Having cheated certain dismemberment, we wallowed out of the water only to find our bathing suits completely filled with sand. It took us another half hour to unload before heading back to the boat.
As we sailed toward our next anchorage at the Bitter End Yacht Club on the island of Virgin Gorda, I got to daydreaming about why The Baths were called The Baths, and wrote the following story.
How The Baths Got Its Name
The way I figure it, the pirates must have given it the name. You see, rather than make pirate hopefuls walk the plank to prove their worth, they were taken to "The Baths" for a more grueling test of will.
Everyone knows that pirates were foul stinking vermin who had never experienced a Mennen Speed Stick. Think of it. Months, years at sea ... and no Life Bouy (Judging 'from the way I smell after only 24 hours without a shower, those guys must have been absolutely flammable!). Anyway, as part of the pirate initiation ritual, the seasoned pirates would strike out for the Baths first, under a bright full moon. They'd then hide behind the boulders and wait for the unsuspecting pledges. The guard on board counted to 100, if he could count that high, and then sent the young scallywags ashore. The pledges' main objective: to return to the ship alive.
Soon, the ambushes began. The old crusties would leap from the caches and wrastle the pledges into the little tide pools. It was customary for the pirates to dunk the pledges under for three counts, three times. If the pledge drowned, it proved that kindness and decency still owned his heart, a cardinal sin among pirates. If he lived, he was forced to endure the remainder of the night as an object of ridicule, for cleanliness had no place on a pirate ship.
The punishments for these poor souls were mean. After being heartily flogged, they were forced to sing boisterous sea shanties until their vocal cords were raw. They were then rolled in wild cow dung, spat upon, cursed and finally locked below in the aft compartment to heighten the effects of seasickness. Only after vomiting on themselves did the pledges earn the forgiveness of their peers, and the right to fly the scull and crossbones.
This initiation for pirate pledges all started at the place affectionately known by all true pirates as "The Baths". And we were there.
As soon as we kicked on our diesel engine, we realized we were without tach, volt or bilge. We were afraid to turn off the motor for fear that we might not be able to get it started again, and the destination we'd chosen required more accuracy than our sails could provide.
It was a long, hot uneasy motor all the way to Bitter End. We took great care not to hit coral reefs and jutting rocks; the passage was a dangerous one, but not impossible. Again, Dad and Tom's skill and our guardian angle brought us safely to our anchorage. We were treated to the luxury of a mooring bouy no setting of the anchor, no worrying about dragging away during the night. We'd reached an oasis.
We went into the yacht club for some breakfast milk and to order dinner. Somewhere along the line we fell into some margaritas and nearly drowned. We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing over things I don't or can't remember, and trying to get from the dock to the dinghy to Tattoo. We then showered, changed into civilized clothes and went back to shore for dinner.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly. Flags representing yacht clubs from around the world hung from the ceiling, the lighting was subdued, candles flickered at each table. I ordered conch soup, a steak and french fries, quite a spread of food. The conch soup sounds exotic, but it actually tasted bitter, like burnt clam chowder. However, after having done our own cooking for the last few days, eating out was a luxurious treat, even if the soup did taste unusual.
As we enjoyed our dinner, we became acquainted with a man seated at the table next to ours, a Mr. Fritz Seyforth. He was a writer and a salt, and looked like both. His hands were gnarled, his pants drooped down below his waist exposing the top of his underwear and his feet were bare. His eyes were deep set; his face, rugged and wind worn. Fritz plunged headlong into a sea tale about how his boat had been cut in two by a freighter, then peaked our interest by telling us that his book, Tales of the Caribbean, was on sale in the bookstore' Without a moment's hesitation, mom was gone and back again with two copies for Fritz to sign for us. We had experienced our first island character.
That night we were serenaded by a ship's cat howling on the boat moored next to ours. It had been a fun day.
AUGUST 31
We awoke to a dead engine in the morning. We radioed CYC first thing, and were told not to worry; Rene was in town. He arrived shortly carrying his tool kit and a few other odds and ends for repairing our ailing boat. He was fortyish, handsome and incredibly smelly. Every pore on that man must have emitted ten cubic feet of stink. He crawled into our cabin and from there entered the hot engine room, where he continued to radiate body odor.
To escape the stench, mom and I went to shore to do some reading. We reclined in lounge chairs, poured ourselves some cold cokes and dug into our novels. The best part of the day was using the flush toilets, something we'd recently begun to dream about.
Two and a half hours later, the men returned for us. Dad held out a mass of burned twisted wires. It was apparent that we could have had a serious fire had we run the engine any longer. Again we thanked our guardian angel.
Since Rene's musk lingered nauseatingly on the boat, Tom and I decided to rent a laser and do some sailing around the cove. It was a small boat, and easy for me to handle with some coaching from Tom. We took turns hiking our bodies out over the water to keep her from capsizing as we flew back and forth across the cove. It was exciting to feel the strength of the wind, to be able to use that power to take us where we wanted to go.
When our time was up with the laser, Tom and I took the dinghy out to Sabba Rock, a point that seemed to separate the shallows from deep ocean. We spent an hour snorkeling and sunbathing there. When we returned to Tattoo, we separated from our mooring and motored a short distance to Drake's Anchorage to settle for the night. It was a very difficult place to set the anchors. Dad and Tom planted both, but still worried about getting a good hold on the sandy bottom. Tom went down with a mask to see how much depth we had under our keel. He came shooting up to report that we were in shallows, dragging toward a sandbar and reef! Like lightening they pulled in and reset the anchors. In his haste, Tom accidently caught the dinghy's life jacket strap on the anchor line, and we watched as the jacket spiraled down to the bottom. Something about having a life jacket on the anchor started us all laughing, lifting the tension we'd experienced moments before. Our angel also had a sense of humor.
That evening we watched the lights of a sailboat attempting to find its way into Drake's. After the trouble we'd had in broad daylight, we couldn't imagine how she could negotiate the reef and set anchor in the dark. Long after her lights disappeared from our view, we wondered if she'd arrived safely to her destination. I spent some time appreciating the care, the foresight, the skill with which my shipmates sailed Tattoo. Stars filled the sky; we were able to see the Big and Little Dipper. The moon took its time rising, but once it did, its beams shimmered and danced across the ocean. A cool wind blew, and all was calm.
SEPTEMBER 1
We left Drake's Anchorage early, around 8:30 am., and sailed a reach for Salt Island. A rainstorm came up, so we skirted it by jibing away towards Tortola. When the squall had passed, we headed back and anchored in Lee Bay around a mooring bouy. It was here that the Rhone had wrecked on the rocks during a hurricane in 1867, killing all 125 aboard. Tom and I grabbed our snorkeling gear and took the dinghy out to the point to take a closer look.
The view was eerie, almost frightening. The hull was mostly disintegrated, and looked like the ghostly bones of what was once a ship. It was very large, and though seventy odd feet below the surface, looked as though it were close enough to touch. I didn't like swimming near it; I had no desire to dive down closer for a better look.
The fish were glad to see us; they probably thought we were there to bring them goodies as other visitors had. There were some medium sized black fish with yellow tails and others with black and yellow stripes that seemed to hang in front of us begging for handouts. They were a friendly bunch.
We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up once again to Tattoo, ready to head for the Bight, on Norman Island. Without the aid of the engine, we sailed effortlessly out of the bay and had a smooth ride to our destination. Once there, we anchored in among three other boats, only to slip away towards shore. We tried the engine and found it dead due to some failure in the oil pressure system. Tom and I quickly took the dinghy out and set the other anchor, and Tattoo stopped drifting. Meanwhile, dad called CYC about our engine. They said they'd send someone out in the morning. So much for the wonders worked by the odiferous Rene.
I had a case of sun poisoning, bumps all over my hands, knees and ankles, so I stayed below, took a quick shower and did some reading. Tom and dad went wind surfing most of that afternoon. Later that day one of the "stinkpots" (Non sailing vessel) spilled gasoline into the bay, covering both Tom and the windsurfer. Dad was especially angry and menacing. The owner of the guilty boat came over to apologize, but none of us were too interested in forgiving him Tom and the windsurfer, not to mention Tattoo's hull, were a smelly oily mess. It took the rest of the day to clean everything up.
Mom cooked dinner that evening Dinty Moore over noodles, with dumplings made out of muffin dough that had popped from its tube. We were amazed at the number of boats that came into the bay as night started to fall. Many had their diesel and gasoline engines running, and their generators blaring. Some were lit like tennis courts, TVs and radios competing. We longed for peace, quiet and fresh air.
SEPTEMBER 2
All morning we awaited the arrival of the CYC maintenance crew to arrive and fix our broken engine. I again remained below to stay out of the sun. When the guys got there at 11:00, we were all surprised to hear the engine start right up, as though nothing had ever been wrong with it. The bilge was working and all. Jim, the head mechanic with the Harley Davidson tattoo on his arm, did detect a squeal in the refrigeration unit, however, and decided to check it out. During his inspection, the belt broke, and he didn't have a spare, so we were left refrigerator less. The final word on our temperamental engine was that a wire had jiggled loose, disconnecting our clutch. We decided, after they left, that they had no idea what they were doing, and that Tattoo had been the recipient of a miracle cure.
At any rate, we gleefully left the Bight behind us and sailed that day to Salt Pond, off St. John, a beautiful secluded spot where we were again by ourselves. Dressed in my long shorts and baggy shirt I went snorkeling with Tom to explore by some rocks and a reef. We saw huge furry finger like coral, and fish traps down at the bottom. We also saw five large stingrays and a school of fish thrashing around creating billowy clouds of sand. It looked like a feeding frenzy.
After swimming, I took a good shower, applied ointment to my sun spots, and went to the galley to make pizza and salad for supper. It was an inky black night, the moon not making its appearance until 9:30, and even then behind a veil of clouds. Perhaps because it was so dark, the spectacle we beheld was even more beautiful millions of phosphorescent fish or organisms blinking in the water all around us. As quickly as it started, it stopped; we were glad to have seen it.
We then settled down to listen to weather and traffic. The captain of The Puffin kept calling for the Cookie Monster: "Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, this is the Puffin..." We couldn't help laughing at the ridiculous names of these two boats. We joked about the Puffin running aground on Fraggle Rock, or needing a shipment of Scooter Pies. Then The Blue Hen's captain came on the radio. He had a low husky voice, as if to dare anyone to make fun of the name "Blue Hen". We all laughed again until we cried.
SEPTEMBER 1
This day we decided to go through customs at Cruz Bay, on the Island of St. John. We motored around Steven Cay and came into the bay, where the water was ten feet deep and filthy looking. It was balmy and very hot there; we hated closing up Tattoo while we walked around town.
We took our dinghy around the Bomba Challenger, a big old passenger boat, and slid into a spot by the dock. We arrived at the Customs Office at 12:24; it was closed until 1:00. So, we decided to have some lunch first, and walked up the hill to Frank's Restaurant. Frank, originally from New Jersey, had a long crooked nose and dirty hair. His son, co owner of the restaurant, looked exactly like his dad only 35 years younger. We all talked awhile as our lunch was prepared. I had a delicious cheeseburger and homemade french fries that tasted like heaven. It felt good to be on land, eating a burger and fries.
We were in and out of the Customs Office, mercifully. On our way out, mom asked the officer, "Don't we have to declare anything, or show receipts... Tom and dad steered her out the door fast, rolling their eyes as they went.
Afterwards we stopped at Mongoose Junction, a shopping complex, to do some souveniring. There was a wide variety of goods there yards of tie dyed material, T shirts, pottery, jewelry, hand painted bathing suits, billowy blouses and skirts. I purchased some tiny ceramic tropical birds to hang in my kitchen window.. We stopped in a small grocery and packed a box with fresh supplies some ice, cans of pop and beer, granola bars, fruit then went to the dinghy. We were just about to leave when we spied a man selling ice cream cones; naturally we couldn't pass that opportunity!
Back on board, we lathered on another coat of sunscreen, stowed our purchases below and headed back out to sea. Our night anchorage was to be Christmas Cove, off the island of Great St. James our last evening aboard Tattoo.
Despite the wintery, cheerful name, Christmas Cove was hotter than hot, the most uncomfortable hot we'd experienced on the trip. To add to the discomfort, there were strange currents and swells buffeting the boat! both a bow and stern anchor were needed to hold us down. We ate all of the leftovers for dinner macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, baked beans. The mosquitoes decided to join us. We doused ourselves with OFF and another more potent smelling bug repellent. The wind completely died, the dinghy bumped against Tattoo, it was hot, we were being eaten alive, and to top it all off, we found out that our, water supply was gone. No showers, no washing dishes, no nothing.
Needless to say, we all slept very poorly that night. Between the mosquitoes buzzing around our heads and the dinghy bumping against the hull , we were able to catch a few fitful winks, however.
SEPTEMBER 4
We awoke early in a sweltering sweaty mess, bug bitten and smelly. I finished packing what things I hadn't felt like packing the evening before, then went up on deck for breakfast. We were all in fairly foul moods. Thank goodness we had some sense of humor left to laugh at ourselves and our predicament. I washed all the crusty dishes from the night before and our breakfast bowls in salt water, dried them and put them away. We rounded out the morning by packing and cleaning, packing and cleaning. Then we motored to CYC, our starting and ending point.
Chris, from CYC, came out to greet us and pilot us into the harbor. It didn't take long to unload our gear onto the dock. After the night we'd just spent, we were not entirely sorry to be leaving Tattoo behind, but we did feel a little sad to be at the end of our adventure. It had been an experience of a lifetime.
Soon we were in a taxi en route to Secret Harbour Hotel, visions of water from a tap and flush toilets dancing in our heads. We dropped, off our bags, cleaned up and decided to go into the big city, Charlotte Amalie, for some lunch.
Charlotte Amalie is a very colorful town, full of street vendors, jewelry shops, linen stores, restaurants. There were three cruise ships in the harbor, a Royal Caribbean, and NEI, a Holiday. They were enormous. There were people everywhere, quite a contrast to the lonely quiet places we'd visited during our time on the boat.
We ate lunch at Chang's Patio and Bar, a breezy outdoor cafe. Afterwards, we did some browsing and shopping. Beautiful coral jewelry, finely appliquéd linens, tablecloths, tie dyed skirts and wide brimmed straw hats lined the shop windows. It was an exciting and interesting place to visit.
Back at the hotel that evening, we packed and repacked our luggage, trying to perform a miracle by getting everything to fit. We all enjoyed luxurious hot showers, then relaxed in air-conditioned bliss. It was hard to believe that we were heading for home the next day. We opened a bottle of champagne and toasted our safe return, and our time together.
CARIBBEAN HOLIDAY
As recorded by Deborah Hudgins
AUGUST 23, 24, 1985
I couldn't believe that we were finally leaving for ten days in the Caribbean. After Packing and repacking our luggage several times and patting our cat goodbye, we left the house in our neighbors' hands and headed for the airport with our friends, the Furriels. They dropped us off at our terminal with well wishes and warnings to "stay out of hurricanes".Little did we know, as we wended our way to the ticket counter, that our flight was two hours behind schedule. We were not extremely thrilled to learn of the delay, but were able to see the bright side at least we'd be able to get a good head start on the novels we'd brought.
About half a book later, roughly 1:00 a.m., we were called to board the L1011 "Whisper Liner". We were seated in the middle section with a hefty couple seated directly in front of us. Naturally, they reclined and landed in our laps. Our "carry on" Luggage used up what little legroom we had, so the flight was not the most enjoyable. We were amazed at the way the plane shook at take off and landing; we thought she'd come apart at the seams. Obviously, nothing of the sort happened, and we made it all the way to Puerto Rico.
Why Puerto Rico when our destination was supposed to be St. Thomas? We wondered the same thing. As it turned out, Eastern Airlines had been unable to hold our connecting flight for an additional ten minutes, so, Puerto Rico was where we were left.
It was stifling hot as we walked from the main terminal to make our final connection. Tom made an executive decision and booked us on a little twelve passenger rubberband operated deal to St. Thomas. I was nervous, but tired enough not to really mind. There we were, packed into that mosquito of a plane like sardines, headed down the runway! As soon as we'd lifted into the air, I wished the pilots would land and take off all over again, just for the fun of it. It was frightening, but more exhilarating. The scenery below was beautiful; the water around the islands was multicolored blue, the clouds white and puffy. It was interesting watching the pilots at work in the cockpit. The descent through the clouds was a bit bumpy, but the landing was smooth. We'd arrived!
The airport in St. Thomas was the beginning of our culture shock; it was a converted World War II flight hangar. I plumped down on our bags while Tom tried to find out where one of our pieces of checked luggage had wound up. I inspected the scene: A throng I presumed was headed for a tour was being herded into groups according to hotel accommodations by a bossy gentleman, fortyish, wearing a loud shirt and touting a walky talky. Mr. loud Shirt continued to bark orders first into the walky talky and then to the bedraggled tourists. The tourists slouched listlessly on Suitcases or leaned heavily on one foot. Some sipped free rum punch they'd been offered when they entered the terminal. Finally, the crowd dwindled down to the inevitable two who hadn't heard their hotel called, and Mr. Loud Shirt first bellowed something into the walky talky, then escorted the stragglers out.
A few moments later, a couple stood practically on top of me; they were explaining their plight to an attendant... "You see, we just got in from Toeerrr tola and must have missed our connection... He was wearing a wild tropical print shirt and a cowboy hat, she an ankle length mumu. Though they were agitated about missing their flight, they spoke in an abrasively unhurried drawl, saying they'd just have to catch another plane for Texas. Somehow I'd known all along that they were from Texas. I was glad when they'd moved on; she was wearing a powerful perfume, and they were blocking the breeze.
After watching some garbage guys take away three loads of trash and the free rum lady mix another batch, Tom returned. Not surprising, our suitcase was lost. We were used to this sort of thing. The funny part was, neither Eastern nor Crown Air would accept responsibility for returning it to us. All the time I'd been luggage sitting and People watching, Tom had been hustling back and forth between ticket counters trying to get somebody to say they'd handle the case of our missing bag. At long last, one of them told Tom they'd call our hotel when it arrived. We loaded up our gear and headed for the taxi vans we were off and running.
We arrived at Secret Harbour Hotel hours late. Mom and dad were there, relieved that we hadn't been lost in the Bermuda Triangle or hijacked to Cuba. It sure was a pleasure to give hugs all around. We popped open a complimentary bottle of champagne and toasted our togetherness for a terrific vacation.
That evening, we shared an incredibly romantic first dinner. Despite the fact that the bugs were out for blood and the guys were wearing shirts and ties and sweating to death, it was postcard perfect. We sat on a patio surrounded by dipping palm trees, the water lapping at the beach, a pink sunset. We dined on roast duckling, filet mignon and fresh fish, and pinched ourselves to remind us that everything was real. That evening will long live in my memory; it was a dream come true.
AUGUST 25
We regrouped on Sunday morning, bade farewell to Secret Harbour and headed for Caribbean Yacht Charters (CYC) to claim our boat. Her name was Tattoo, and she was a beaut. We received brief instructions on the operation of the boat, where everything was, how to fix minor mishaps, how to work the radio. Then we sat around a table in the lounge area of the CYC office and listened to a crash course in navigating around the Virgin Islands. Our guide rippled around a map of the islands with colored markers, pointing out good and bad anchorages, places to see and avoid. He highlighted his whirlwind lecture with stories of "Fat Albert" at the Jost Van Dyke customs office, Clementine, an old storyteller on the island of Virgin Gorda, and how our boat, Tattoo, had been named...
"It seemed that time had run out. The owner was at wit's end trying to come up with the perfect name for his yacht. At the last possible moment, his wild secretary and girlfriend stopped by to show him what she'd gotten that day. She threw open her shirt and there it was, a tattoo on her breast!" And so our boat was named.
Our guide left the room for a moment; we glanced at each other apprehensively. We knew that we would never remember half of the things he mentioned. Next time, we decided, one of us would take notes!
While the guys went aboard to check everything over, mom and I braved a taxi ride into town to do the grocery shopping. Pueblo Market was very similar to a grocery store in the states. We stocked up on canned soups, spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and loads of canned soft drinks. It took nearly an hour to gather what we needed and to check out. On the way back in the taxi, we were dismayed to find that our driver had no idea where Caribbean Yacht Charters was located. What a panic! Fortunately, we passed some landmarks that mom and I'd noticed on the way to town, so we were able to steer the driver in the right direction. At long last we arrived at the dock, stocked the boat with the supplies we'd brought and were ready to leave.
A CYC guide maneuvered Tattoo out of the Marina and into open waters, then left us on our own. We were sailing! Our destination for that first night was Christmas Cove off the island of St. John, a brief trip across the channel from St. Thomas. It was early in the day, so we were able to go for our first snorkeling expedition. Mom had never snorkeled before, so I showed her what Tom had taught me. I'll never forget her brilliant happy smile as she came up out of the water. It really was fun! I was amazed at how clear and turquoise the water was, at how many fish and sea urchins there were. The undersea world was beautiful and fascinating.
On board, we ran up against our first problem: we found that we had no water pressure. We fretted for a while before we realized that we hadn't flipped on the switch. I also discovered that our toilet, "the head", was tough for me to pump. I needed help in doing it, as a matter of fact. I later learned that I could manage by myself if I wore my sailing gloves to better grip the pump. Other than those minor details, it was interesting and fun discovering that the stove rocked, that the plates, bowls and cups had sticky rubber on the bottoms, and that there was a special trick to opening cupboards and drawers.
At dusk we noticed that our battery, the #1, was almost out of juice. It didn't pose any real problems since we had the #2 to fall back on. Each morning we were to run the engine for about an hour to keep the batteries charged and the refrigerator cool. At 8:00 p.m., we listened to the weather and "traffic" (messages for sailors) report, and watched the moon rise. There were millions of bright stars dotting the sky; it was beautiful.
No one slept well that first night, however. It was amazing how many unusual sounds that boat and its rigging produced. It took us a while to get used to the creaks and groans, the dinghy nudging and squeaking and the moon as bright as a flood lamp.
AUGUST 26
Before we headed out to sea, mom and I decided to take the dinghy out for a spin. We took a crash course in operating the outboard motor from the guys, and then sped off in the direction of a tiny island to do some snorkeling. As we approached our destination, we asked one another, "How deep do you suppose this is?" Then "scrape THUD" and we were aground on crunchy coral. Fortunately, we'd switched the motor into neutral. We couldn't, for the life of us, figure out how to lift the prop. So, I jumped overboard and 'Lifted the back end of the boat, careful not to step on sea urchins. I guided the dinghy over the coral and finally was able to swim and pull it into deeper water. I threw my shoes into the boat, grabbed my snorkeling gear and swam for Tattoo; mom got the dinghy going and kept me company on the way back. We spent quite awhile laughing at ourselves, afterward.
Our first real sail was to Frances Bay, and it was a wild one. We encountered heavy wind it was rather unnerving. All I seemed able to do was scramble madly from one side of the deck to the other, or peel my hands away from security for a moment to tail the winch. I sure prayed that the other guys knew what they were doing. There were some unfriendly looking rocks jutting from the swirling white capped water directly in front of us. And we were worried about negotiating Johnson's Reef, a place where the buoys had been known to mislead boats to their watery graves. I wasn't exactly scared; I was too busy hanging on to think about anything else. Grey wild sea, wind whipping, dark clouds scuttling I checked to make sure I didn't have an albatross around my neck. Finally, Tom kicked on Tattoo's trusty diesel engine and we made our way safely to our night anchorage.
Once the storm had abated and we were settled in, Tom decided to go for a Swim. When he returned, he reported that held seen a small nurse shark not far from our boat! We all saw turtles swimming by, their yellow heads peeking out of the water every now and then. We were also able to see stingrays resting on the bottom; the water was beautifully clear. Rain fell intermittently throughout the afternoon. According to the weather report, we were in for a tropical wave, the precursor to a hurricane.
True to the report, a thunderstorm caught us late in the day. The guys went out in the dinghy during a lull in the weather action to set the plow anchor over the bow. I acted as the official "dinghy painter watcher". My duty was to make sure that the rope tying the dinghy to Tattoo didn't get caught in the propeller as we backed up. It often took many tries to set the anchor properly, and was a worrisome task. We all had visions of slipping away during the night into a reef, or waking in the morning to find ourselves lost at sea. So, great care was taken to set the anchors well.
Once we were securely battened down, Dad and Tom grabbed some soap and climbed up on deck for a shower in the shower! Unfortunately, dad lathered up a little late and missed his rain rinse, so he was stuck with sticky old salt water. They came back in and closed everything up tight behind them. We all nestled in to weather out the storms seven, to be exact throughout the night. None of us slept very well., needless to say.
AUGUST 27
Next morning dawned behind a misty fog. We locked up Tattoo and headed for shore in the dinghy; we were off to explore the old Annaberg Sugar Mill on the island of St. John.
We started walking inland along an old dirt road. The sun burned through the fog and made the day all of a sudden hot. We were surprised to find millions of tiny maroon purple colored crabs crawling all over the around like ants it was hard not stepping on them, there were so many. The plants were dark green and tropical looking, with vines everywhere. Above ground roots extended down from the sides of the trees to the ground like elephant trunks.
As we came off of the trail and onto a worn paved road, we noticed several signs, which read: "DANGER. MANCHINEEL TREE. EVERY PART OF THIS TREE IS TOXIC. THE SAP CAUSES SERIOUS RASH. EATING FRUIT CAN BE FATAL." Another sign said that Columbus described the small green fruits of the Manchineel Tree as "death apples". We all had a laugh imagining how Columbus coined that name in the first place..."Here Giuseppe, try this little green thing; it looks just like an apple"...
We walked for what seemed hours; the sun was really beating down, making our hike feel like a forced death March. We were relieved to finally reach the Bill compound. The most prominent structure there was the base of an old windmill, built from blocks of cut coral. In my mind's eye I could imagine wooden blades turning in the wind. There was also an enormous stone vat once used for storing rum, and a number of skeletons of buildings, all fashioned from the cut coral blocks. It gave me a sad feeling to see everything so quiet and unused no pirates, no rum raids.
A brief shower caught us on the beach as we ran for the dinghy. En route to Tattoo, a beautiful rainbow arched through the clouds. It was like a good omen as we set sail for Jost Van Dyke.
Because Jost Van Dyke is part of the British Virgin Islands (BVI), it was necessary for us to go ashore to clear customs. Once again we went through the process of setting the anchor, locking up and heading for land. Young children played in the water by the dock where we tied up, and some men were building grass huts on the beach to the sound of reggae music. We learned that the preparations were being made for a wooden boat race and festival to be held the Labor Day weekend.
The customs office was a small cluttered room. The desks were piled high with papers; bent louvered blinds hung awkwardly at the windows. A few fat lazy flies buzzed around as we waited for Albert Chinnery (Mom dubbed him Albert Chimney) to locate the proper paperwork. Mr. Chinnery was a stocky black man, rum soaked and sweaty. He asked a few questions about our boat, where we planned to go and when we planned to leave British waters. Dad signed the document granting us permission to visit the BVI as "The Master" of our vessel. We were then the official guests of the Queen!
We stepped outside into a wall of humidity. It felt good to hop back on the dinghy and return to Tattoo, where the breeze always seemed cooler, fresher than on land. Tom and I decided to go for a snorkeling expedition around the reef at the entrance to the cove. We were not impressed with the view a few dead or nearly dead fish, small stinging jellyfish and lots of what morn called "beer can coral" (submerged trash). I also had a hard time clearing the water from my mask and wound up getting a lot of salt water in my nose, which stung. By the time we climbed back aboard and dried off, it was early afternoon, and time to get moving toward our night anchorage: Cane Garden Bay, off the island of Tortola.
The sail to Cane Garden Bay was my favorite of the entire trip. We had plenty of wind to speed us along, and I finally began to feel comfortable climbing around the deck, always being sideways. Tom showed me all of the fun places to sit on the sides with my head through the lifeline or with my bucket over the edge. I guess I grew my sea legs that day.
Once we had set the anchor, we were able to take in the beauty of the Bay. Coconut trees lined the beach; the sand was bleached white. Turquoise water was still as glass and reflected the perfect blue sky. It was heaven on earth. As steel drum music drifted over from shore, we grilled steaks and watched the sun go down. After listening to the weather report and traffic, we hit the hay early for a good night's sleep.
AUGUST 28
As we ate breakfast, we discussed the game plan for the next couple of days and opted to stay at Cane Garden Bay for one more night. Snorkeling was the first item on the agenda; a trip into town on the other side of the island was the next.
Unlike our experience at Jost Van Dyke, the snorkeling off Tortola was magnificent. Tom pointed out varieties of elkhorn, fan and brain corals, all vivid shades of red, orange, purple, and blue. Millions of iridescent blue and silver fish swarmed in schools around us. We saw a hogfish and a big jack, and many tiny jellyfish. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time being in a strange environment; I felt like a visitor in an enormous aquarium.
At lunchtime we went into shore ready for adventure. We all had a pina colada or two and bought T shirts at a little variety store and bar on the beach, and then headed out on foot towards an old rum distillery we'd read about. Old was an understatement; the place was an ancient ramshackle shed filled with casks and bottles of rum. Everything, including the elderly man who worked there, was covered with a thick coat of dust. The old gentleman claimed that his rum was the best in the world "Have fun, dance and sing... no hangover!" Mom bought two bottles of the dark rum and a T shirt to wrap them in.
We then proceeded back to the store where we awaited a taxi to take us to Road Town. When it arrived, we wondered how it would ever make the trip. Choking black smoke billowed out the back, and it actually seemed to cough and wheeze. Before I even had the door shut, the driver tore off toward town own.
We took a very steep road over the mountain; there were many times we wondered if we'd have to get out and push to help the poor old taxi along. On the way down into Roadtown, the hairpin curves and fear of the driver screaming "NO BRAKES!" combined to create a hair whitening experience. When we weren't squeezing our eyes shut to block out impending doom, we were treated to a spectacular view of our bay and the harbor on the other side of the mountain. The water was deep blue and sparkling in the sun, a beautiful sight.
When we arrived in Road Town, our first impulse was to throw ourselves down to kiss the ground. Instead, we paid the driver and requested that he return in two hours to take us back to the bay. I suppose the pina coladas had impaired our abilities to reason. Our spending abilities remained functional, however, and we passed our time in town meandering through the shops, supporting the local economy.
Armed with bags of souvenirs, we waited at the meeting place we'd set for our cab. Our driver pulled up in a different car, a dilapidated station wagon. The trip into town had done in the first taxi, we guessed. So in we climbed and off we peeled. Exhaust fumes poured directly into the open back window, quickly causing me to feel carsick. It seemed rather ironic that three days at sea hadn't turned my stomach once. Teetering on the edge of extinction, we careened over the mountain and landed once again at the variety store.
It was late afternoon when we finally climbed aboard Tattoo with our purchases and a six-pack of Tab. We were hot and frazzled, so decided to go snorkeling once again, this time with mom and dad. Dad got caught in a frenzy of tiny silver fish, and decided that he wasn't too keen on seeing what the denizens of the deep had in store for him. He said that he figured there must be something bigger and more ferocious following all those little fish, and he didn't want to stick around to find out how many teeth it had. Instead of snorkeling, dad got out the windsurfer and had a go at that, along with Tom. Mom and I returned to the boat to make some supper.
Our menu was boiled chicken, broccoli and hot rolls, a real feast. After the dishes were done and we'd listened to the weather report, mom and dad decided to go back to shore to buy some milk and check out the night life in Cane Garden Bay. Steel drum music started shortly after they'd gone, and Tom and I heard lots of laughter and singing drifting from the bar. Toting a supply of irradiated milk, mom and dad returned much later. It turned out that they'd wound up in a limbo competition!
Moonlight washed over the bay; one by one the lights twinkled out on the other boats and on shore. It was another perfect evening in paradise.
AUGUST 29
Early the following day, we sailed in a northeasterly direction past Guano Island and Great Amanoe to a tiny island called Marina Cay. There was a restaurant and grocery store there that we had hoped to visit, but both were closed. Snorkeling, swimming and general laziness became the order of the day. We mostly lolled around on deck; I wrote postcards and got sunburned.
Four special remembrances stood out among the rest during our stay at Marina Cay. First was the discovery of a current of hot water that flowed around the island just below the ocean's surface. We wondered if the heat thermals were caused by volcanic activity. The second was a woman's high heel, an old fish net and some pieces of coral; treasures found when mom and dad explored nearby Scrub Island. The third was the fun of sharing our hamburgers with a family of sea gulls. And the fourth, my favorite, was dad holding mom, dancing on deck beneath the full moon.
AUGUST 30
We sailed for a place known as The Baths on the island of Virgin Gorda, next. Tattoo wouldn't point, as usual, and it took us many extra miles to reach our destination. We had some excitement when a rainstorm blew by; dad expertly tacked away out of its reach.
Our first impression of The Baths was the enormity of the boulders scattered on the beach like carelessly tossed pebbles. We slid our boat into the bay along with the other sightseers and took the dinghy to shore.
Mom and I poked around the base of the boulders while the guys took off climbing. After exploring the pathways that wove around the rocks, we better appreciated their enormity, and wondered where they had come from. Having become warm like lizards baking in the sun, we all decided to do some snorkeling. And it was on that extraordinary occasion that I saw them. Three horrible grinning barracudas hanging motionless about four inches below the surface, looking Tom and I over.
My first instinct told me to get the heck out of there. The second best thing to do was grab Tom's arm and cling and hope that those 'cudas had lunched earlier. Tom motioned me to the surface and reminded me that we were not filming a sequel to Jaws 3D, and that we probably wouldn't be ruthlessly chewed to shreds as long as they were still grinning. So, we made a slow nonchalant escape, pretending that we were too busy admiring the coral to even notice them. The barracudas must have realized that they didn't have any bread large enough to make a sandwich out of us, so we were spared.
Having cheated certain dismemberment, we wallowed out of the water only to find our bathing suits completely filled with sand. It took us another half hour to unload before heading back to the boat.
As we sailed toward our next anchorage at the Bitter End Yacht Club on the island of Virgin Gorda, I got to daydreaming about why The Baths were called The Baths, and wrote the following story.
How The Baths Got Its Name
The way I figure it, the pirates must have given it the name. You see, rather than make pirate hopefuls walk the plank to prove their worth, they were taken to "The Baths" for a more grueling test of will.
Everyone knows that pirates were foul stinking vermin who had never experienced a Mennen Speed Stick. Think of it. Months, years at sea ... and no Life Bouy (Judging 'from the way I smell after only 24 hours without a shower, those guys must have been absolutely flammable!). Anyway, as part of the pirate initiation ritual, the seasoned pirates would strike out for the Baths first, under a bright full moon. They'd then hide behind the boulders and wait for the unsuspecting pledges. The guard on board counted to 100, if he could count that high, and then sent the young scallywags ashore. The pledges' main objective: to return to the ship alive.
Soon, the ambushes began. The old crusties would leap from the caches and wrastle the pledges into the little tide pools. It was customary for the pirates to dunk the pledges under for three counts, three times. If the pledge drowned, it proved that kindness and decency still owned his heart, a cardinal sin among pirates. If he lived, he was forced to endure the remainder of the night as an object of ridicule, for cleanliness had no place on a pirate ship.
The punishments for these poor souls were mean. After being heartily flogged, they were forced to sing boisterous sea shanties until their vocal cords were raw. They were then rolled in wild cow dung, spat upon, cursed and finally locked below in the aft compartment to heighten the effects of seasickness. Only after vomiting on themselves did the pledges earn the forgiveness of their peers, and the right to fly the scull and crossbones.
This initiation for pirate pledges all started at the place affectionately known by all true pirates as "The Baths". And we were there.
As soon as we kicked on our diesel engine, we realized we were without tach, volt or bilge. We were afraid to turn off the motor for fear that we might not be able to get it started again, and the destination we'd chosen required more accuracy than our sails could provide.
It was a long, hot uneasy motor all the way to Bitter End. We took great care not to hit coral reefs and jutting rocks; the passage was a dangerous one, but not impossible. Again, Dad and Tom's skill and our guardian angle brought us safely to our anchorage. We were treated to the luxury of a mooring bouy no setting of the anchor, no worrying about dragging away during the night. We'd reached an oasis.
We went into the yacht club for some breakfast milk and to order dinner. Somewhere along the line we fell into some margaritas and nearly drowned. We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing over things I don't or can't remember, and trying to get from the dock to the dinghy to Tattoo. We then showered, changed into civilized clothes and went back to shore for dinner.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly. Flags representing yacht clubs from around the world hung from the ceiling, the lighting was subdued, candles flickered at each table. I ordered conch soup, a steak and french fries, quite a spread of food. The conch soup sounds exotic, but it actually tasted bitter, like burnt clam chowder. However, after having done our own cooking for the last few days, eating out was a luxurious treat, even if the soup did taste unusual.
As we enjoyed our dinner, we became acquainted with a man seated at the table next to ours, a Mr. Fritz Seyforth. He was a writer and a salt, and looked like both. His hands were gnarled, his pants drooped down below his waist exposing the top of his underwear and his feet were bare. His eyes were deep set; his face, rugged and wind worn. Fritz plunged headlong into a sea tale about how his boat had been cut in two by a freighter, then peaked our interest by telling us that his book, Tales of the Caribbean, was on sale in the bookstore' Without a moment's hesitation, mom was gone and back again with two copies for Fritz to sign for us. We had experienced our first island character.
That night we were serenaded by a ship's cat howling on the boat moored next to ours. It had been a fun day.
AUGUST 31
We awoke to a dead engine in the morning. We radioed CYC first thing, and were told not to worry; Rene was in town. He arrived shortly carrying his tool kit and a few other odds and ends for repairing our ailing boat. He was fortyish, handsome and incredibly smelly. Every pore on that man must have emitted ten cubic feet of stink. He crawled into our cabin and from there entered the hot engine room, where he continued to radiate body odor.
To escape the stench, mom and I went to shore to do some reading. We reclined in lounge chairs, poured ourselves some cold cokes and dug into our novels. The best part of the day was using the flush toilets, something we'd recently begun to dream about.
Two and a half hours later, the men returned for us. Dad held out a mass of burned twisted wires. It was apparent that we could have had a serious fire had we run the engine any longer. Again we thanked our guardian angel.
Since Rene's musk lingered nauseatingly on the boat, Tom and I decided to rent a laser and do some sailing around the cove. It was a small boat, and easy for me to handle with some coaching from Tom. We took turns hiking our bodies out over the water to keep her from capsizing as we flew back and forth across the cove. It was exciting to feel the strength of the wind, to be able to use that power to take us where we wanted to go.
When our time was up with the laser, Tom and I took the dinghy out to Sabba Rock, a point that seemed to separate the shallows from deep ocean. We spent an hour snorkeling and sunbathing there. When we returned to Tattoo, we separated from our mooring and motored a short distance to Drake's Anchorage to settle for the night. It was a very difficult place to set the anchors. Dad and Tom planted both, but still worried about getting a good hold on the sandy bottom. Tom went down with a mask to see how much depth we had under our keel. He came shooting up to report that we were in shallows, dragging toward a sandbar and reef! Like lightening they pulled in and reset the anchors. In his haste, Tom accidently caught the dinghy's life jacket strap on the anchor line, and we watched as the jacket spiraled down to the bottom. Something about having a life jacket on the anchor started us all laughing, lifting the tension we'd experienced moments before. Our angel also had a sense of humor.
That evening we watched the lights of a sailboat attempting to find its way into Drake's. After the trouble we'd had in broad daylight, we couldn't imagine how she could negotiate the reef and set anchor in the dark. Long after her lights disappeared from our view, we wondered if she'd arrived safely to her destination. I spent some time appreciating the care, the foresight, the skill with which my shipmates sailed Tattoo. Stars filled the sky; we were able to see the Big and Little Dipper. The moon took its time rising, but once it did, its beams shimmered and danced across the ocean. A cool wind blew, and all was calm.
SEPTEMBER 1
We left Drake's Anchorage early, around 8:30 am., and sailed a reach for Salt Island. A rainstorm came up, so we skirted it by jibing away towards Tortola. When the squall had passed, we headed back and anchored in Lee Bay around a mooring bouy. It was here that the Rhone had wrecked on the rocks during a hurricane in 1867, killing all 125 aboard. Tom and I grabbed our snorkeling gear and took the dinghy out to the point to take a closer look.
The view was eerie, almost frightening. The hull was mostly disintegrated, and looked like the ghostly bones of what was once a ship. It was very large, and though seventy odd feet below the surface, looked as though it were close enough to touch. I didn't like swimming near it; I had no desire to dive down closer for a better look.
The fish were glad to see us; they probably thought we were there to bring them goodies as other visitors had. There were some medium sized black fish with yellow tails and others with black and yellow stripes that seemed to hang in front of us begging for handouts. They were a friendly bunch.
We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up once again to Tattoo, ready to head for the Bight, on Norman Island. Without the aid of the engine, we sailed effortlessly out of the bay and had a smooth ride to our destination. Once there, we anchored in among three other boats, only to slip away towards shore. We tried the engine and found it dead due to some failure in the oil pressure system. Tom and I quickly took the dinghy out and set the other anchor, and Tattoo stopped drifting. Meanwhile, dad called CYC about our engine. They said they'd send someone out in the morning. So much for the wonders worked by the odiferous Rene.
I had a case of sun poisoning, bumps all over my hands, knees and ankles, so I stayed below, took a quick shower and did some reading. Tom and dad went wind surfing most of that afternoon. Later that day one of the "stinkpots" (Non sailing vessel) spilled gasoline into the bay, covering both Tom and the windsurfer. Dad was especially angry and menacing. The owner of the guilty boat came over to apologize, but none of us were too interested in forgiving him Tom and the windsurfer, not to mention Tattoo's hull, were a smelly oily mess. It took the rest of the day to clean everything up.
Mom cooked dinner that evening Dinty Moore over noodles, with dumplings made out of muffin dough that had popped from its tube. We were amazed at the number of boats that came into the bay as night started to fall. Many had their diesel and gasoline engines running, and their generators blaring. Some were lit like tennis courts, TVs and radios competing. We longed for peace, quiet and fresh air.
SEPTEMBER 2
All morning we awaited the arrival of the CYC maintenance crew to arrive and fix our broken engine. I again remained below to stay out of the sun. When the guys got there at 11:00, we were all surprised to hear the engine start right up, as though nothing had ever been wrong with it. The bilge was working and all. Jim, the head mechanic with the Harley Davidson tattoo on his arm, did detect a squeal in the refrigeration unit, however, and decided to check it out. During his inspection, the belt broke, and he didn't have a spare, so we were left refrigerator less. The final word on our temperamental engine was that a wire had jiggled loose, disconnecting our clutch. We decided, after they left, that they had no idea what they were doing, and that Tattoo had been the recipient of a miracle cure.
At any rate, we gleefully left the Bight behind us and sailed that day to Salt Pond, off St. John, a beautiful secluded spot where we were again by ourselves. Dressed in my long shorts and baggy shirt I went snorkeling with Tom to explore by some rocks and a reef. We saw huge furry finger like coral, and fish traps down at the bottom. We also saw five large stingrays and a school of fish thrashing around creating billowy clouds of sand. It looked like a feeding frenzy.
After swimming, I took a good shower, applied ointment to my sun spots, and went to the galley to make pizza and salad for supper. It was an inky black night, the moon not making its appearance until 9:30, and even then behind a veil of clouds. Perhaps because it was so dark, the spectacle we beheld was even more beautiful millions of phosphorescent fish or organisms blinking in the water all around us. As quickly as it started, it stopped; we were glad to have seen it.
We then settled down to listen to weather and traffic. The captain of The Puffin kept calling for the Cookie Monster: "Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, this is the Puffin..." We couldn't help laughing at the ridiculous names of these two boats. We joked about the Puffin running aground on Fraggle Rock, or needing a shipment of Scooter Pies. Then The Blue Hen's captain came on the radio. He had a low husky voice, as if to dare anyone to make fun of the name "Blue Hen". We all laughed again until we cried.
SEPTEMBER 1
This day we decided to go through customs at Cruz Bay, on the Island of St. John. We motored around Steven Cay and came into the bay, where the water was ten feet deep and filthy looking. It was balmy and very hot there; we hated closing up Tattoo while we walked around town.
We took our dinghy around the Bomba Challenger, a big old passenger boat, and slid into a spot by the dock. We arrived at the Customs Office at 12:24; it was closed until 1:00. So, we decided to have some lunch first, and walked up the hill to Frank's Restaurant. Frank, originally from New Jersey, had a long crooked nose and dirty hair. His son, co owner of the restaurant, looked exactly like his dad only 35 years younger. We all talked awhile as our lunch was prepared. I had a delicious cheeseburger and homemade french fries that tasted like heaven. It felt good to be on land, eating a burger and fries.
We were in and out of the Customs Office, mercifully. On our way out, mom asked the officer, "Don't we have to declare anything, or show receipts... Tom and dad steered her out the door fast, rolling their eyes as they went.
Afterwards we stopped at Mongoose Junction, a shopping complex, to do some souveniring. There was a wide variety of goods there yards of tie dyed material, T shirts, pottery, jewelry, hand painted bathing suits, billowy blouses and skirts. I purchased some tiny ceramic tropical birds to hang in my kitchen window.. We stopped in a small grocery and packed a box with fresh supplies some ice, cans of pop and beer, granola bars, fruit then went to the dinghy. We were just about to leave when we spied a man selling ice cream cones; naturally we couldn't pass that opportunity!
Back on board, we lathered on another coat of sunscreen, stowed our purchases below and headed back out to sea. Our night anchorage was to be Christmas Cove, off the island of Great St. James our last evening aboard Tattoo.
Despite the wintery, cheerful name, Christmas Cove was hotter than hot, the most uncomfortable hot we'd experienced on the trip. To add to the discomfort, there were strange currents and swells buffeting the boat! both a bow and stern anchor were needed to hold us down. We ate all of the leftovers for dinner macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, baked beans. The mosquitoes decided to join us. We doused ourselves with OFF and another more potent smelling bug repellent. The wind completely died, the dinghy bumped against Tattoo, it was hot, we were being eaten alive, and to top it all off, we found out that our, water supply was gone. No showers, no washing dishes, no nothing.
Needless to say, we all slept very poorly that night. Between the mosquitoes buzzing around our heads and the dinghy bumping against the hull , we were able to catch a few fitful winks, however.
SEPTEMBER 4
We awoke early in a sweltering sweaty mess, bug bitten and smelly. I finished packing what things I hadn't felt like packing the evening before, then went up on deck for breakfast. We were all in fairly foul moods. Thank goodness we had some sense of humor left to laugh at ourselves and our predicament. I washed all the crusty dishes from the night before and our breakfast bowls in salt water, dried them and put them away. We rounded out the morning by packing and cleaning, packing and cleaning. Then we motored to CYC, our starting and ending point.
Chris, from CYC, came out to greet us and pilot us into the harbor. It didn't take long to unload our gear onto the dock. After the night we'd just spent, we were not entirely sorry to be leaving Tattoo behind, but we did feel a little sad to be at the end of our adventure. It had been an experience of a lifetime.
Soon we were in a taxi en route to Secret Harbour Hotel, visions of water from a tap and flush toilets dancing in our heads. We dropped, off our bags, cleaned up and decided to go into the big city, Charlotte Amalie, for some lunch.
Charlotte Amalie is a very colorful town, full of street vendors, jewelry shops, linen stores, restaurants. There were three cruise ships in the harbor, a Royal Caribbean, and NEI, a Holiday. They were enormous. There were people everywhere, quite a contrast to the lonely quiet places we'd visited during our time on the boat.
We ate lunch at Chang's Patio and Bar, a breezy outdoor cafe. Afterwards, we did some browsing and shopping. Beautiful coral jewelry, finely appliquéd linens, tablecloths, tie dyed skirts and wide brimmed straw hats lined the shop windows. It was an exciting and interesting place to visit.
Back at the hotel that evening, we packed and repacked our luggage, trying to perform a miracle by getting everything to fit. We all enjoyed luxurious hot showers, then relaxed in air-conditioned bliss. It was hard to believe that we were heading for home the next day. We opened a bottle of champagne and toasted our safe return, and our time together.
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