Thursday March 1

Today we sail back to Road Town, Tortola to return the Eucalyptus.

I rise just before 8, the last one up. We have just enough time for a quick breakfast before we must sail. We are racing against the clock (we must catch a ferry) and will be sailing into the wind. Bob's pleas to sail partway back yesterday had not been granted. Kim is reaching the end of her patience with the work of sailing. We will overnight at Maho Bay on St. John. Kim and Bob will stay through Monday, but Ian and I depart tomorrow. Kim things of Maho Bay as the relaxing part of the vacation.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/442672174/

This will be our last day of sailing and my last chance to shoot photos while under sail. I have taken far too few photographs. Most of what I have seen will return with me as memories. I am eager to sail after a day of anchorage.

Though short, the voyage is demanding. We tack four or five times. We reel in the jib, and let it back out. I learn to anticipate when we will tack and position myself at the winch. I feel chagrin when, in quick succession, I thread a winch in the wrong direction, grab the wheel for balance, and step on the skipper's foot. But I am gratified when cranking a winch sends my heart rate soaring from exertion. As we near Road Town I leap at the chance to be the one to pull down the main sail. I have become an enthusiastic and able crewmember.

Disembarking

I have coiled line in hand ready to throw to someone on dock. The Eucalyptus nears the dock, and without a hitch, line meets outstretched hands. We hurriedly pack what remnants we can from the hold. My backpack gulps down several beers, a couple of tonic waters, and some juice.

Bob engages a taxi to drive us from the marina to the ferry. This ride, of all our overland trips in the islands, is the ride of our lives. As he maniacally weaves through miles of heavy traffic, our driver proudly announces that his hobby is racecar driving. I am relieved, because I suspect that his racing skills and split second reaction times are what keep us safe.

We will take the ferry from Tortola to St. John. We must clear customs before boarding. Everything flows smoothly and before long we are aboard a ferry that rocks on the large swells between the islands. We disembark at Cruz Bay, stowing our luggage in a Maho Bay taxi for imminent departure. We procure ribs from a small street-side café. We will devour them at Maho Bay. Bob scores us each a tall, frosty alcoholic drink for the road.

Maho Bay

The drive is long and circuitous. At a gravel turnout, the driver pauses long enough for Kim to point out the Maho Bay Camp “tents” among the trees, across a bay. Seeing perhaps ten small roofs peeking out of the trees I imagine something quite different from the real Maho Bay Camps. See http://www.wheretostay.com/caribbean/us_virgin_islands/property-188-overview-Maho_Bay_Camps.html

After we have checked in at Maho Bay and are on our way to our tent, we begin to understand what the camp is really like. The tents are like rabbit hutches in a giant rabbit warren. The camp is spread across a steep hill. Long boardwalks connect the hutches. Wooden staircases connect many different levels. Several bathhouses serve large sections of the camp. A pavilion is the social and dining hub of the entire camp.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/424422916/ http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/424422921/ http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/424422918/

Kim and Bob's hutch (D16) is up the hill while Ian's and my hutch (B6) is closer to the beach. As Ian leads me to our hutch we take in our new environment. Each hutch is separated from the next by a respectful distance. Our hutch features two twin beds, a vinyl couch, a small table with two plastic chairs, some rudimentary cooking equipment, and a deck with more chairs and a clothesline.

Sparse wooden framing that also function as shelves separates the beds from the social area. Our beds overlook the deck. For privacy, or to keep out rain, a heavy plastic blind unrolls and fastens between the window frame and some pegs. Coarse fabric curtains unhook to form a barrier between the sleeping and living areas.

Other screened sections offer their own roll-down blinds. A broom hangs on the wall for tomorrow, when we will clean up after ourselves. I discover that sand and dirt may be easily swept between gaps in the floor wooden. Two interior lights and one "porch" light make the hutch homey after dark, and we can padlock a latch to keep our belongings secure.

Maho Bay is said to provide some of the best snorkeling in the islands. Kim and Ian are too exhausted to snorkel, even after feasting on ribs and resting. Bob and I don our snorkeling gear, and I follow him into the sea. The reef is superior to all others I’ve seen this week. It is steep, complex, and teams with life. Long skinny fish with long snouts and rows of teeth swim just at the surface. Colorful fish nibble at coral. A turtle lumbers through the water, seeming to fly in slow motion. Bob excitedly points down at interesting fish as we float overhead.

On the stairs back to our hutch, a small cat grooms himself. As I shoot a photo I hear rustling in the dry leaves. A second cat appears. The two begin grooming one another. Many photos later, I tear myself away. While Ian showers I make up our twin beds.

Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/sets/72157600044298160/

My shower turns adventurous. After hurrying because the water is a cold, I vacate my stall, having heard the voices of rambunctious children impatient to have their showers. As I enter toilet stall, where I plan to dry off, a little girl marches in, saying, “Excuse me, I need to use the toilet.” I explain that I am using the toilet, but this doesn’t stop her. She needs someone to wipe her bum. I am rarely around children, but I know to clear this with her mother, who is showering. While the child squeezes out tiny turds, she regales me with tales of her dreams. Apologetically, her mother rescues me from bum-wiping duty.

We meet Kim and Bob at their hutch for drinks. Bob pours what he says are gin and tonics, but later realizes are only lime-infused tonics. We dine at the communal pavilion among scores of other guests. The camp seems perfect for young hippie-backpackers. But at $150 per night, it caters to people who were hippie-backpackers in their heyday. Though the camp’s guests are earthy, they are parents and make good money. Some of their offspring look like budding hippie-backpackers.

We are all too tired for a nightcap. Ian and I return to our hutch. Exhaustion hits me hard. I recline on my bed rubbing my tired eyes. Ian and I talk for a while, then I get a second wind. We both read for hours. Between chapters, I make a trip to the bathhouse. Though darkness has fallen, songbirds still make music. Once, after visiting an aviary, I declared that I wanted to live in an aviary. Now, I realize that I could simply live in a forest.

All around, hutches glow with light. Laughter mixes with serious conversation. At the bathhouse a pre-teen murmurs tenderly into her cell phone. I climb down to the beach, where moonlight affords good visibility. A solitary woman in a beach chair carries on one side of a cell phone conversation. I am disgusted, but then a father and his little girl arrive. The man teaches his daughter about the constellations. She seems genuinely interested. I lay down on the beach, picking out the constellations my father taught me. The cats chase one another over the sand. Tiny insects nibble almost imperceptibly.

Not wanting to leave, but unable tolerate the insects, I return to the hutch. We extinguish our light long after most of our neighbors.

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