Under normal circumstances waking to the gentle tapping of rain on the roof is enough to induce a sleepy smile, a deep sigh and maybe a body reposition that is conducive to returning to sleep. When on a small island in the Caribbean and your day is dictated by the weather, the morning rain can cause stress and trepidation. I don’t know who woke first, but as usual, the three of us roused simultaneously.
Other than the rain, the first sound I heard was a giggle and the statement, “Sorry about last night, dude”. I eased one eye open and cautiously turned my head to face the other bed. (for this next part of the story, I must change names to protect the innocent) Frank…. uhhh… I mean “Tank” said to… “Jeff”, “I woke up last night and had my arm across you”. “Jeff” replied, “I must have slept through it because if I was awake you would be dead right now”! I was glad to have my own bed.
Frank opened the door to a predominantly grey morning. Everything beyond the threshold was dripping with fresh rain water. The air among the palm trees was calm and affable. We knew two things for sure. We would not be launching the kayaks any time soon and we needed breakfast. We planned to take full advantage of our location and agreed to walk to the Soggy Dollar Bar for a hot breakfast.
We walked along the beach to the west and followed the path up and over the rocky hill that separates Ivan’s from the rest of the bars and diners of White Bay. We crossed over and walked into the Soggy Dollar Bar and ordered breakfast. I don’t mean I had the Key West Omelet, Frank ordered a short stack, and Hef a #6 breakfast combo with an extra side of corned beef hash. No, we ordered “breakfast”. Turns out that breakfast is one entree. You get what they are cooking. It turned out to be a good breakfast consisting of a couple of eggs, a johnny cake, and a few extras. It was just enough to fill us up with the first warm breakfast we had eaten on the trip. Because the rain was still a looming threat, we set noon as our cutoff time. If we could not depart by 12:00, we would be forced to write off the day and try again tomorrow.
As we were finishing breakfast, the sun broke through and provided the perfect light and temperature for a flawless tropical morning. After paying the bill we walked down to the beach, made small talk, and kept looking out over the water with a new sense of vision. The water, although beautiful, was no longer scenery. It was terrain that required contemplation, planning, foresight, and respect.
From the beginning of this trip our itinerary changed daily. Our initial plan was to begin on the island of Virgin Gorda and then paddle southwest through a long chain of small islands making our way back towards St Thomas. Perpetual issues would arise forcing us to alter our plans constantly. Our latest goal would be to spend this day crossing over to Great Thatch Island where we would rest. Then our plan was to continue crossing to St John where we would spend the night. We then planned to spend the next few days circling St John and eventually crossing over to Norman Island (which, according to legend, inspired Robert Louis Stevenson to write Treasure Island)
With full bellies we walked back over to Ivan’s where we packed up our things and loaded up the kayaks. From our previous day’s paddle we already learned a few things about packing. I learned to keep the food bag within reach, to keep a flashlight and a knife in my “quick bag”, and to keep my bilge pump easily accessible. As we were bundling up our things we sensed a change in the weather. The wind picked up and grey clouds started to creep in from the east.
We were finishing up the loading process by taping the ends of our boats as one last precaution to keep our stowed cargo dry. That is when the sky opened up and rained out any plans for an early departure. Knowing what needed to be done we walked up the beach to Ivan’s bar.
It is at this point I should describe what makes Ivan’s so unique. Ivan’s Stress Free Bar is an open air bar that is decorated with faded pictures of visiting tourists and celebrities. The spaces on the walls between the pictures are covered with glued sea shells and black marker graffiti. The “stress free” part is located at the bar itself. There is a small bar that has two coolers behind it and a couple of shelves of liquor on the rear wall. Located on a shelf below the bar is the bottom half of an old Plano tackle box. A small rectangular sign that reads “Cash box” in black marker was taped to it. A price list for general drinks written in ink pen is taped to the wall behind the bar. At Ivan’s you serve yourself and pay on the honor system. No one is running the bar. The beauty of it is that most include a tip (out of habit I suppose) when they throw money into the cash box so Ivan makes more money than if he had hired someone to stand behind the bar.
We opted to wait out the weather with some cool beverages while we worked out alternate plans in case we were rained out completely and lost the day. We all agreed that there if one is place to be stuck, that was certainly it! After about an hour the rain let up and the sky appeared to be more blue than grey. We recognized our window of opportunity and hurried down to the beach.
We each gave a quick re-check of our equipment. A local walked by and told us not to head out to sea that day. “It’s too dangerous”, he said. “I am police. If you go I arrest you.” He smiled as he said it, but his warning was meant to be taken seriously. We promised him that we would be safe. He shook his head, smiled, and headed towards the bar.
Frank requested to shove off first because he had been the slowest paddler and that would give him the benefit of a head start. He quickly cut through the incoming tide and was headed out to sea. Hef and I were not far behind him. We noticed that Frank’s lead was diminishing. In fact, he appeared to be stopped just beyond the bay. When we caught up to him it was obvious why he stopped. From that point we could clearly see to the east where heavy rain was falling. We all quickly agreed that an attempted crossing at that point would be foolish, so we headed back to Jost Van Dyke. As we paddled closer to the shore, the rain was falling harder and harder. By the time we hit the beach we were caught in a tropical downpour. Well… back to the bar.
The next hour was spent waiting out the weather under the protection of Ivan’s bar. We agreed that once the weather broke (notice our optimism) we would wait an additional thirty minutes before attempting another venture out to sea. Our 12:00 deadline came and went, but since our kayaks were already loaded we were okay adding some additional time. As 1:00 arrived the sun burned through the clouds with enough confidence that our thirty minute wait lasted about ten or fifteen minutes. The three of us excitedly scurried down to the beach and shoved off.
Once we paddled beyond the protected waters of the bay, an immediate and noticeable change occurred. The water was darker and deeper. It began to rise and fall in a regular but inconsistent pattern. The wind became much more of a factor. Each time my boat would rise and fall with a swell my core would tighten, my feet would press hard against the foot pegs, and I would loudly make that throaty grunt sound that people make when getting punched in the stomach.
Rather than set my pace and paddle hard until I reached shore, I opted to do a better job of staying with the group. I stayed back a little bit as Hef and Frank pulled out ahead of me. It was about an hour into the paddle that I started to notice the weather was going to be with us for this trip. The sky was royal blue and the islands in the distance were crisp shades of green due to the foliage that provides their canopy. The kayak had become a part of me. I no longer was grunting with each swell. In fact, I noticed that I was even able to relax a little bit. I stopped paddling for the first time, took a drink of water, and even snapped a few pictures.
By that time Frank and Hef were probably a half a mile a head of me. It was time to pick up my paddling cadence a little bit and catch up. After about thirty or forty minutes of hard paddling, I was close enough to see that Frank was caught in a repetitive series of paddle, pump out water, repeat. Hef noticed that I was closing in and decided that he would continue on towards Great Thatch. There was a “saddle” or a depression in the hill that makes up the center of the island. That would be our goal. “Go for the saddle”, was called out and repeated back between the three of us.
As I closed in on Frank his frustration became obvious. He was doing a much better job of keeping his frustrations at bay than the day before. I was not the recipient of a single F bomb, derogatory comment regarding my mother, or the intended target of projectiles coming from his kayak. His boat was sitting low in the water and with each wave that swept across his deck, more water was pouring in to his cockpit. I saw him slam his paddle down, take a deep breath and drop his head. He would then pull out his bilge pump and pump with the ferocity of a man about to break. I paddled up next to him. “I don’t know if I can make it, man. I’m taking on too much water”. Because of the design of our kayaks there was no way I could take him aboard nor could I salvage anything and risk weighing down my boat. The best I could do would be to throw him my life jacket and paddle beside him until we both made shore.
Frank kept his composure and muscled through an extremely difficult crossing. Hef had become a bright yellow dot on the horizon that appeared to be at or near the shore. As we came closer to the shore, Frank noticed that Hef appeared to be in trouble. Frank had gained control of his boat and was keeping ahead of the water. Ensuring Frank would be okay, I left him and paddled as hard as I could toward the shore.
I approached Great Thatch and noticed that it appeared to be an island of rocky shore surrounding a thick wooded mountain. There was not much inviting about it. It was about a twenty minute paddle to get close enough to see that Hef was standing in the surf and struggling with his kayak as the waves were driving he and his boat onto the rocky shore. Having enough experience with water I knew not to get too close. I brought my boat in close enough that Hef and I could communicate without yelling, but not so close as to become part of the problem.
All Hef could say is, “I just couldn’t paddle anymore. I needed to get to shore. I think I f#cked up.” He was standing in waist deep water about ten feet from the shore. Regardless of the many ways that he was attempting to enter the cockpit, the pounding waves were relentless and would not allow it. The rocks and coral were cutting up his feet and he was battling fatigue as he attempted over and over to gain control of his boat. I paddled dangerously close to Hef. We talked about and tried several different options but we could not seem to get him back in his kayak. (We would later find out that the rocks tore a hole in the skin of his boat. All of our attempts were in vain)
Frank paddled up and I told him the situation that we were in. It was about 4:30 in the evening. We only had about two hours of daylight left and were in a real predicament. I told Frank that if he would stay with Hef, I would paddle around the east side of the island and try to scout out a sandy beach where we could safely land.
It took about thirty minutes to follow along the north side of Great Thatch to get to the east side of the island. The paddle was amazingly pleasant. The water was bumpy but not treacherous. The sun was shining but dropping (too quickly for my comfort) behind me to the west. When I rounded the corner things changed in a hurry. The narrow pass between Great Thatch and Tortola caused extremely turbulent water near the coast of Great Thatch. I would like to say that my superior physical attributes along with survival instincts allowed me to sustain the perilous journey. The truth is I paddled out of sheer unrelenting fear. My boat would rise on a wave, start to drop off the back side, and then get hit again by another wave. There was no pattern, it was a constant barrage of angry surf. I was taking on water from all sides. Waves would crash on my deck over and over. I thought I was going to lose everything I had stored on my deck. My entire body was tense. I do not recall any thoughts other than to stay in motion.
I have no idea how long it took to pass Great Thatch. By the time I had put the island behind me, I could see Tortola to the east, Little Thatch in front of me, and beyond that was St John. I saw a beautiful sandy beach straight ahead on Little Thatch. I paddled hard. I was hoping to make land and dig out my cellphone. I needed to contact Frank and Hef somehow and tell them NOT to follow me. Between Hef’s fatigue and Frank’s boat there was no way they could make the crossing that I just had done. I paddled for a while before I made the beach of Little Thatch. I could see a few small buildings and began to wonder if I could find a secluded spot to camp for the night.
My boat slid up on the powdery white sand and I crawled out of my boat. A scene that, to an observer, must have looked something like a foal trying to stand for the first time or the whiskey drinker at the end of the bar who gets up to go to the bathroom. I was wobbly and awkward. I quickly dug out my phone and by the grace of God, had a signal. I tried calling Frank and Hef with no luck. I tried calling Frank’s wife who could take over calling for me while I figured out just where I was. I had no luck there either. I ended up finally getting a hold of a mutual friend who called Frank’s wife for me and relayed the message: “Don’t follow Scott. Go west around Great Thatch and meet in Cinnamon Bay tomorrow”.
I put the phone away and sat down in the sand. I had about another hour of daylight left. One of my friends was stranded on the rocks of an uninhabited island. The other friend was hovering off shore for him. I had no way of getting to them before dark. I could not communicate with them. And to top it all off, I could see rain over Tortola that was heading towards us all.
As I was taking stock of the mess that we were in and what could be done at this point I realized that there was no going back for them. I could not make it. There was no time, the weather was turning, and physically I knew I could not go back through that. The best thing I could do would be to secure a place to pitch a tent and then somehow make sure that they were okay. I went to my kayak to get myself a much needed drink and realized my water bottle had been swept off the deck at some point. I was in trouble. No water. Before I went in search of drinking water I knew that I had stolen a lot of the ocean and was storing it in my boat. It needed to be removed. I used my bilge pump until every bit of water had been returned to the ocean.
I looked around and saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Of all the things I expected to see, I would have to say that two little naked blonde haired white kids running towards me along the beach would have to be somewhere near the bottom of the list. But that is what I saw. Following closely behind them was a black woman in her thirties or forties. She smiled and waved, but made no attempt to ask what this stranger was doing on their small island. I approached her and asked if I could camp there. She replied something to the effect that a very rich man was staying there and I would not be allowed to stay. “Much security”, she said. I thanked her (doing my best to hide my look of defeat) and walked back towards my kayak. After a few steps I turned back around and asked her if I could get some water from her. She said yes, but I would have to watch the kids while she went to get me a drink. (yeah – she was the caretaker of these two children and asked a shirtless scruffy faced stranger who paddled up onto her island to watch these two children that were not hers, but were in her care.) I agreed despite my disbelief that I was in the Caribbean on a strange island, my two buddies were stuck out at sea while I was babysitting two strange naked kids.
She returned with two large bottles of water and two apples. I must have had a look of disbelief. She smiled as she handed me her gifts. I thanked her profusely and immediately tore into one of the Fuji apples as I shoved off. At that point I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be alone for the night. The sun was setting fast and the rain was still off to the east but was inching closer. I paddled around the western point of Little Thatch and headed towards St. John.
The eastern side of St John is different than the western side. I was looking at a rocky shore, dense wooded mountains, and not a sign of civilization other than one lone sailboat that was anchored about fifty yards offshore. As St John became nearer my paddle strokes became less aggressive. I was tired. Really tired. My muscles ached and I had the pesky little issues looming overhead such as finding shelter and if my friends were dead or alive.
As I approached the coast of St John I had been paddling for about four straight hours. Most of those were spent paddling in fear of losing my boat, my life, or both. The sun was disappearing over St Thomas and I still had not found a place that I could land my boat. I paralleled the coat of St John for a while. It must have been an hour. With each point that I would pass my optimism peaked and as I rounded each point to find more rocks, my frustration grew exponentially.
The bright blue sky had become a dull grey. Clouds were now overhead. The turquoise water was a dark and menacing foe. I was at an all time energy low. Several times I stopped paddling, lay my paddle across my lap, and looked around. Being close to defeat I could feel my head hanging low. Darkness was beginning to blanket the islands. Tortola, to my east, was now a colorless blur because of the falling rain. I looked to my north at what I thought was Great Thatch. (I could not be sure of anything at that point) I saw a small stretch of land that could have been sand but the low ambient light was playing tricks with my tired eyes. I thought to myself that I would go for it. I would paddle straight for the sand and if sand proved to be a mirage, I was done. I would be able to get to land with my life, but my boat would not make it and I would have to hope for a cell phone signal or a passing boat to save me. Without giving it anymore thought I placed all of my chips on that spot of land and paddled with all that I had left.
My strength to paddle came from a spot deep inside of me. A spot that did not want to be stuck out at sea at night during a storm. A place I call my “I don’t want to die” spot. It had nothing to do with skill, it was sheer adrenaline. As I approached the land I could see that the sand was not a mirage. Night had fallen and the rain was starting to fall. I paddled hard until I glided up on the sand. I hopped out of my boat, threw my paddle on the sand ahead of me, and immediately dropped to me knees wretching. The adrenaline, fear, and hours and hours of paddling had come to a very unromantic ending. I was on my knees, at night, in the rain, all alone on an uninhabited island and throwing up. Not quite the cool movie climax scene that I would have like to have played out.
I stood up from my little “episode” and immediately scanned the coastline. I spotted a place about thirty yards to the west that had sand that climbed a bit deeper into the forest that would allow me to pull my boat, with any luck, out of reach of the tide. I walked out into the water and walked my boat along the coast to the new spot amidst increasing wind and rain. (this relocation may have caused a catastrophic mistake that I will come back to later)
After this experience I can honestly say that there is such a thing as survival instincts. I did not consciously plan my next moves. I am saying this not as a credit to me or self prescribed ego stroke, but as a testament to our most primal instinct: self preservation. My boat was too heavy to drag, so I raised the stern and walked a few steps. I raised the bow and walked a few steps; see sawing my way up the beach.
I pulled the rope bag off the deck and tied the kayak to a nearby sturdy tree. The rain was falling at a steady rate as I grabbed my quick bag (that held wallet, passport, iPod, flashlight, knife, and sunblock). I quickly climbed the beach in search of shelter. Fortunately just inside the tree line was a small clearing that was just about the size of my tent. I ran back down in the rain and unzipped my kayak. I do not know how I stayed afloat. Water had filled the lower half of my boat. I would have to worry about that later. I grabbed my tent, ran up the beach and tossed it in the clearing. I then immediately ran back down for my water bottles and food bag and ran them up to the clearing.
I was keeping dry for the most part thanks to the canopy of trees. If tent putting together were an Olympic event, I could have come home with a medal. (probably a silver because the Croatians are world renowned tent putter togetherers and I don’t think I could compete with that) I did not even notice the tree branches clawing at my skin as I threaded the poles through the tent and raised it. The tent fit like a puzzle piece in the small clearing. I tossed in my food and water and then went back down to grab everything off of my deck that might get blown off by the storm, washed off by the waves, or taken by some refugee hiding in the bush who would try to sell my $20 Wal Mart life jacket on the Virgin Island Craigslist.
The view of my camp in the daylight the following morning:
Once inside the tent with all my easily accessible valuables (anything below deck I was willing to risk because, in all honesty, beyond the basics, I did not care anymore). I peeled down to nothing and hung my clothes on tree branches outside my tent to dry overnight. It was time to find Frank and Hef. By the grace of God, I had a cell phone signal (this was virtually the only place in the islands that I was able to make/receive calls ???) I had no luck getting a hold of either of the guys but was able to make contact with Erin, Frank’s wife who said that they had been rescued and that was all she really knew at the time. ….sigh. Thank God. We were all okay.
I made a few phone calls to let family and loved ones know that I was alive. Once I was sure Frank and Hef were okay and I called those closest to me, my stomach relaxed enough that I knew it was time to eat (for the first time since breakfast at the Soggy Dollar Bar which, at that point, seemed like days ago). I quickly remembered my can opener was somewhere under water inside of my kayak. Fortunately I had one can of spaghetti that had a pull top on it. I tore into the spaghetti like a kid on Christmas morning. (to imply that kids eat spaghetti on Christmas morning - not that there’s anything wrong with that - might be a bad analogy, but you get my point) I washed it down with warm bottled water and decided to treat myself to a dessert of water saturated m&m’s. They were colorless and dripping wet, but tasted like… well… crap. I recklessly ate them anyway and was happy to do so.
After about an hour on the island, the rain had stopped and I had food in my belly. I was cautiously content. I had no idea what the island looked like in the daytime. What exactly did “Frank and Hef were rescued” mean and where were they going? What kind of strange animals or people live on small uninhabited islands? More importantly, do any of them eat people? I began to get restless again wondering about my friends and unsure of my surroundings.
Then, almost on cue, my phone rang. To say that it scared me would be a gross understatement. I kept an open knife at my side in the tent that was almost driven right through the center of my phone. I looked down and saw “Hef” on my caller ID.
Note: This next part of the story is where the adventure takes on a fictional feel. I can assure you that I can not make this stuff up. The following conversation is as factual as I can recall and still, as I type this nearly a month later, feels like a fish tale coming from “that guy” that everyone knows. The guy that gets 10 reality points deducted from every story he tells. But, again, I couldn’t create this if I wanted to.
I excitedly answered the phone wanting to know what in the world had happened to them. “Hey man, are you okay?” I said right off the bat. Hef laughed, “Hell yes, we’re okay. We’re on a yacht.” I had a movie moment where everything stops and the star looks at the camera to have a conversation with audience. I pulled the phone from my head, looked at the fictional camera and mouthed the words “a yacht???” Back to the conversation. Still laughing Hef said, “We were rescued by Dutch airline pilots. They keep throwing Heineken at us.” Again, I will take a moment away from the story and recap the latest statement. Frank and Hef were rescued by a yacht full of Dutch airline pilots and were currently on said yacht drinking an endless supply of imported beer.
* The details of Hef and Frank’s story will be revealed later over rum drinks at the Quiet Mon. Stay tuned. *
After getting off the phone with them, I took a deep breath. My friends were okay. I was okay. It was at that point that the gravity of the situation dawned on me. If I was correct, I was on the south side of Great Thatch Island. I was alone on an uninhabited island. That was the dream. I was alone on an uninhabited island! I didn’t even have a single one of the top three records that I always talk about having in that exact situation.
A moment of digression… A friend of mine turned me on to the Chuck Klosterman book “Fargo Rock City” where he claims that on a deserted island he would take the gold remastered 24 k gold Pink Floyd discs. “The content of the disc is irrelevant; I simply assume gold would be malleable enough to pound into an arrowhead so I could kill myself a wild boar. Gold is also nice and shiny, which is ideal for bartering with the natives (maybe they could trade me a kayak or something).”
I unzipped my tent and stepped out. If you want to know what it looks like on an uninhabited island at night close your eyes, put on a blindfold, and then hold your hands over it. It is dark. I flipped on my flashlight and walked down to the beach. The waves were hitting the shore with a constant rhythm. In true tropical fashion, the storm had blown in and blown out in about an hour. I looked up and the sky looked exactly like I hoped it would. There were more stars than darkness. I could see the lights of St Thomas to the west. I stood there in silence and awe. That lasted about a minute. Then it dawned on me; I did not know where I was or what else might be there with me. So my moment of awe and wonder was quickly gone and I scurried back up to the security of my paper thin tent.
I took a swig of Cruzan from my bottle of rum and attempted to write a little bit in my water logged notebook. The following is the best I can make out from a wet journal written by a shaky hand cramped and tired. I wrote:
“10/21 22:00 – I am here alone on Great Thatch Island. Hef and Frank have been rescued by Dutch airline pilots (long story). I am living the deserted island fantasy although it’s not much of a fantasy. It’s hot. It’s lonely. It’s creepy. Every noise outside the tent a footstep. Every gust of wind a whisper. I lay here tired, yet cannot sleep. My entire body throbs with the dull ache of paddling eleven miles. Almost none of which was relaxing. It felt more like survival half of the time. I find myself taking a moment of pause and reflecting on life and decisions and can’t help but wonder how/if this trip will affect me from now on. Too much to think about and my brain, like my body, is exhausted. Time to say a prayer and thank God for our safety today. Tomorrow – Lord willing – Cinnamon Bay”.
Fatigue combined with waves crashing and the sounds of the night forest created a soothing island lullaby. I fell asleep still sweating, naked, with a headlamp across my forehead and an open knife in my hand. Try to get that mental picture out of your head. You’re welcome.
