Sunday February 25

Today's voyage will be to Virgin Gorda, North Sound

I sleep in, not leaving my cabin until 9. Everyone has been up for hours. I feel splendid. Although Bob has brewed strong coffee, I am roused without it. Breakfast is bacon, eggs, fruit, and coffee cake. I leave the table fulfilled.

The Journey

I anticipate the day's trip with pleasure. I am ready to face any challenge Bob slings my way. Today's sail will be lengthy. We will leave Trellis Bay heading east, pass Scrub Island, sail among the three "Dog" islands, and skirt Virgin Gorda Island to sail between Mosquito and Prickly Pear Islands. Our ultimate destination is the North Sound, bounded by Virgin Gorda, Prickly Pear, and Mosquito islands.

I remember few particulars of this voyage. We tack a lot, since the wind blows almost constantly from the east in the Islands. I learn to keep the Eucalyptus on course. I follow Bob’s instructions to pick a point on the horizon for reference. I have difficulty keeping us on course at first. I occasionally turn the wheel the wrong way. Kim grows nervous. I work to improve, but after awhile I tire of constant vigilance. I relinquish the wheel into more capable hands. In retrospect, of course sailing into the wind would challenge a novice.

We plan to stop at George Dog Island for lunch and snorkeling. Several hours after embarking we glide between West Dog and Great Dog Islands, approaching George Dog Island. As we coast toward shore, we scan for a free mooring. One sailboat is already moored but Bob believes there is a second mooring. We cannot find it, and sail on. See http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/423060558/

We sail for several more hours, always within sight of land. We reach the North Sound without incident, easily securing a mooring. This time, we grab the mooring ball from the deck, readily fastening ourselves to it. Once we are immobile, Kim and I swim. It has been a long, hot day. The cool water is sweet relief.

Snorkeling

Bob recommends that I swim to a reef some distance away for snorkeling. I aim for telltale waves, but the current constantly pushes me away from my target. I must frequently correct course. When I am near the waves I slow my movement to peer down at the seabed. I notice a small stingray. A white, spotted fish swims lock step above it. As I watch the stingray uneasily, I can see its eyes staring back at me. I experience a sharp stab of fear. I don’t know whether I am in danger, but I edge away gingerly, hoping not to startle it.

My mask works well, but there are few fish to see. For some excitement I swim into the small breakers. They sweep over me, moving me just a bit. Before I know it, I am in dangerously shallow water. I can barely move without grounding myself. Just as I cut my hand pushing against the sea floor, Kim and Bob motor up. They offer me a ride but I decline in favor of swimming back. First, I must find water in which to swim.

Saba Rock

We are moored close to Saba Rock. A posh resort consumes this tiny island between Prickly Pear and Virgin Gorda Islands (see http://www.flickr.com/photos/67126329@N00/428682892/). The dinghy carries us the short distance to shore. An open-air restaurant abuts the dock. The restaurant has little in common with last night's raucous little dive. It is redolent of Money. Colors are rich and space is luxurious. A stout, platinum-haired woman helps us tie up the dinghy. She hooks us up with a young hostess she calls "Baby". Our table is close to the dock, affording a picturesque view of the Sound. We order a round of our favorite drinks and some conch fritters.

As the sky darkens lamps under the dock illuminate the water. Large fish prowl lazily. I cannot pull my eyes away from the circling fish. I don’t know what draws them. We pay the bill and approach a shallow rock-enclosed fish tank. We watch from above as multi-colored fish and a large speckled lobster circle endlessly. The lobster feels its way over rocks like an insect with its long skeletal legs. At the dock children inform us that the prowling fish are barracuda. The light draws smaller fish, and in turn the fish draw barracuda.

A summery breeze wafts off the water, rustling palm fronds, ruffling hair, and caressing skin. By now it is quite dark. We drift along a tiled, enclosed walkway. A climb up red tile stairs reveals an elegant tropical garden surrounded by guest suites. Cultivated lawn is abundant. Bordering each lawn are hundreds of white conch shells. These conch graveyards make me smart with regret for having eaten so many conchs. In a grove of conch-encircled palm trees, two-person hammocks hang invitingly at the water's edge. I sink into a hammock and fantasize about living like this. Our stroll ends back at the dock. The restaurant has grown more vibrant. From the dock we climb down wooden rungs into our dinghy for our return trip.

Bob is our chef tonight. He fires up the oven and slips in two ready-made trays of quiche. The oven pivots on an axis with every roll and pitch of the boat. We converse over rum as our dinner heats. Kim and Ian are not very hungry, but I eat my share.

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