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Friday February 23

Today we fly into St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. We will spend the night on our sailboat in Road Town, on the island of Tortola, British Virgin Islands (BVI).

We awake in frigid, snowy Ann Arbor, MI at 5:45 am. I am grateful not to have overslept. Though barely coherent I conjure a steaming mug of thick black coffee. An airport taxi we expect at 6:30 is outside by 6:10. We hope the driver is prepared to wait. We hurriedly finish packing, take one last look around the house, and climb into the taxi. Ian directs the driver to Kim and Bob's house. They aren't ready either. A shadowy figure moves at the front window. Soon they appear out of the dark to join us in the warmth.

NPR wafts back from the radio, an unexpected sound in a taxi. A few sips of brew drag me out of my fog. I begin to grow excited. We arrive with time to spare, yet Kim and Bob hurry. Ian shuffles along, favoring an injured knee. Kim and Bob have boarding passes but we do not. Bob turns a long wait in at the ticket counter into a few minutes at curbside check-in. On Bob’s recommendation, none of us checks luggage.

We fly into Charlotte, NC airport. Travelers rock leisurely in tall-backed white rocking chairs under potted trees. Live piano music dances in a spacious atrium. I would enjoy spending a layover here, but we must catch our connecting flight to St. Thomas. As we fly over North Carolina, land gives way to water. Before long, there is just water. Few clouds obscure an endless field of blue.

Bob has loaned us two sailing books but we have not read a single page. Late in the flight Ian digs them out of his backpack. We read only a few pages before our descent begins. We fly over tiny islands. Soon, roads and dwellings come into focus. Suddenly the runway rushes beneath us and we are landing.

St. Thomas

Bob takes charge from the beginning. From the plane he phones the ferry requesting that it wait. On “island time”, such requests are possible. We disembark onto a hot tarmac. Soon we will be unable to face the sun without dark shades and sunscreen. Kim and Bob hurry ahead, but then Bob outpaces Kim. We catch up with Kim, joking that she should take us along more often so she needn't walk alone.

Bob secures a taxi, and we are on our way. In the Virgin Islands, vehicles drive on the left side of the road. Our ride is a montage of heavy traffic, schoolgirls in uniform, a pastel-colored school, and adults dressed for both office and blue-collar work. At the ride’s end Bob thrusts two $20 bills into the driver's hands, impatiently waving away his offer of change. I request $2 in exchange for my twenties. The driver complies but turns away in mild disgust. I feel mild shame.

I bumble at the ferry dock with customs forms, our tickets, and the credit card receipt. The line to board is congested when I enter the lavatory, but my party is the last on shore when I return. Being the last to board, we must ride below deck. I am disappointed, but kneeling on a seat, I can see through the filthy windows. The topography of the islands begins to reveal itself. Other vessels pass in the opposite direction. An occasional spume of water jets up as we crash through the inter-island swells. Bob joins me at the window, explaining some of what I am seeing.

Most passengers are tourist, but a few are island commuters. The tourists buzz with excitement. In large measure the language I hear is English, but a small group of French-speaking twenty-somethings huddles nearby. The natives sleep or shrink into their seats, looking resigned. For them, throngs of white tourists must be a daily fact of life.

Road Town, Tortola

We wait to pass through customs in a fenced area. Ian completes the necessary forms. We should have compared notes with Kim and Bob, however. An agent turns us away due to incomplete paperwork. We do not know what we have missed. We return to the line, but the humorless agent rejects us again. We have omitted our visiting address. We wonder what it could be, since we will be sailing. Luckily an overheard conversation informs us that the name of the yacht leasing company will suffice.

Re-joining our friends, we consider how best to enjoy Road Town before claiming our sailboat. We will take a short taxi ride to the marina later, but until then we stow our luggage at the taxi stand. Kim, an avid reader of travel guides, recommends a nearby restaurant called The Roti Palace. As we cross the road, I look the wrong way. Only my hearing keeps me from stepping into the path of oncoming traffic. After a few steps along a narrow side street, we find the steep staircase to the roti eatery. Bob greets the proprietress respectfully, explaining that we have no reservations. I smile inwardly because the establishment is empty. We choose a long communal open-air table.

We may choose among vegetable, beef, chicken, conch, whelk, or goat roti. Conch tempts me, but goat is an easy choice. Bob learns that Carib is available. Not knowing what it is but wanting some, I follow him into a darkened room to fetch some from a cooler. Carib is a lager beer brewed in Trinidad. Bob claims it is close to water, but I think it’s tasty. Our food arrives along with sweet and spicy chutneys. My goat is moist and flavorful. As we eat tiny cats climb nearby trees and scrabble on the fiberglass roof over our heads.

Our conversation takes a philosophical and spiritual turn. Although we do not exactly argue, there is a tension between the spiritual and scientific perspectives. The beer, food, and conversation fill me with warm contentment. Our meal and conversation seem, to me, like a wonderful beginning to our journey together. After our food is gone, I am enjoying a second Carib and our discussion is not over. But Bob, growing restless for the sailboat, urges us to finish. We take our first dose of Dramamine. Kim and Bob recommend it for the duration of our voyage.

The Eucalyptus

In the taxi our driver points out the location of the farmer’s market. It is open only between 4 or 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. At the marina the driver helps Bob to locate the paperwork for our sailboat. We will be sailing the “Eucalyptus”. As we lug our bags along the dock, the first boats we see are enormous white catamarans. To eyes ready for a sailboat, they look quite strange. Large, overly opulent, and rather ugly, they seem inelegant and a little menacing. I dislike them and am glad that we are not renting one.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/67126329@N00/428683130/

Bob locates the Eucalyptus, a 36-foot sailboat. She is lovely and comparatively modest. The cockpit is compact, as is the hold. The tiny kitchen features a stove, an under-counter refrigerator, cupboards, and a sink with running water. The remainder of the hold contains a “navigation station”, an eating area, three cabins, shelves and cupboards, and the "head". At the navigation station we find the ships radio and a power panel with at least ten different switches.

The cabins are quite small, conforming to the shape of the vessel. The front cabin is arch-shaped. The rear cabins are smaller and oddly shaped. Each cabin is largely bed, with narrow shelves, an attached bureau, an oblong porthole, and a hatch opening onto the deck. Nearly all vertical surfaces in the hold are highly polished wood veneer. We all choose rear cabins. While space seems cramped at first, over the week, we will quickly adjust.

Kim and Bob begin unpacking our food, checking off each item on an inventory sheet. When they finish, Bob demonstrates how to operate the "head". In the BVI, Bob explains, emptying raw sewage into the water is forbidden but everyone does it. For tonight we can use the bathhouse. On other evenings we will be close enough to shore to use on-land lavatories.

I begin to unpack in our cabin. The hold is extremely hot and stuffy. I worry because I struggle with insomnia. Heat and claustrophobic conditions can keep me from sleeping. Ultimately, I choose to sleep alone in the forward cabin. Although I fear that Kim and Bob will think that Ian and I always sleep apart, my choice means that I can toss and turn without waking him.

When our burst of unpacking subsides, we retire to the semi-circular benches of the eating area. The cushions are navy blue velvet, as are the comically small, stiff curtains for each oblong porthole. A small plastic fan hums quietly, circulating stale air. Bob explains that the Eucalyptus is hot because it has been closed up all day. Although several of the portholes and all four ceiling hatches are open, the hold is stifling.

Bob pours small goblets of Pusser's rum and we adjourn to the cockpit. The fresh air is an immeasurable relief. We lounge on benches lining the cockpit. Stars paint the sky. The harbor is merry. Conversation and laughter from other yachts filter through a gentle breeze. Across the way a Scotsman serenades his companions with ballads as he strums a guitar. This sweet sound moves me. I recall stories of my father’s childhood, when the family’s homespun music was the evening's entertainment. We applaud in appreciation. The Scotsman calls back a humble acknowledgement.

As Kim scans the harbor, she comments, “Look, candy striping.” She directs our gaze to sailboat with a rolled foresail like a blue and white peppermint stick. She explains that this happens when the sail is improperly rolled. Bob explains that the blue of the sail is “sacrificial” cloth sewn on to protect it from the sun. Properly rolled, the foresail should be completely blue. I am puzzled. How could someone with the skill to sail such a vessel be so careless?

Although I long to remain outside in the fresh air listening to the Scotsman, we retire for the evening. Kim must rise early for the farmer's market. I bid Ian good night and retire to my hot, airless cabin. After tossing and turning for ages, I finally begin to relax. But each time I doze, an especially sharp pitch of the Eucalyptus jerks me awake. Eventually, sleep claims me.

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