Day 4: Against logic and common sense our heroes attempt their first open ocean crossing

The anticipation of breaking camp, loading the kayaks, and heading out to sea proved to be greater than any thought or desire to take advantage of a perfect vacation morning by sleeping in.  Once again we all crept from our tents earlier than anyone on a “vacation” should.  Without speaking a word we individually took a mental inventory of our own supplies and analyzed the water of the bay; specifically the wave sets and if we would be able to time a successful launch between hits. 

We also instinctively scrutinized the weather.  It was amazing to me how quickly, when one’s day is so intimately involved with the elements how the weather becomes not only a perpetual topic of conversation, but causes constant critical evaluation.  That day, God wanted us to cross the ocean.  The water was not calm, but did not appear to be overwhelming.  The sky was blue, the winds calm, and the sun bright.  The horizon was inviting. 

As usual, I was not about to attempt as much as a morning yawn without digging through my food bag for some grub.  I grabbed a breakfast bar, a cup of pudding, and a few hits of tepid water from my trusty plastic jug.  I (and I assume the other two guys) was doing my best to maintain some attempt at personal hygiene.  I performed a water bottle camp tooth brushing as I walked down to the water.  Then, probably in vain, I executed a coastal camping bath (I walked out into the water, rubbed my body a little bit, walked out, drip dried, and then applied deodorant).

We all packed, downsized, broke down, wrapped up, folded up, threw away, put away, dry bagged, and squeezed our entire supply of food, water, clothing, shelter, and various supplies into the 18 foot kayaks.

Frank and Hef proved to be better packers than I (insert joke here).  Their kayak deck rigging mostly contained safety equipment.  Mine included much more including my clothing bag.  I was concerned how this would affect my balance, but later proved to be a non factor.  We planned to move down the beach to launch the boats, but the incoming waves slowed enough that we felt comfortable timing our launch so as not to keep getting washed back up on the beach.

Frank was the first to launch and quickly sliced through the bay waters.  It was merely minutes before he was an orange speck on the turquoise water.  John and I soon joined him at the mouth of the bay.  The water beyond the bay was darker, deeper, and busier.  It was not treacherous, but certainly required constant attention to maintain balance.  Our plan was to head west along the northern coast of Tortola.  We would consider a stop in Cane Garden Bay and I also had talked up the Bomba Shack that is located in Cappoon’s Bay, Tortola as a possible layover.  Our plan was to casually parallel the coast, stop when we wanted and at some point, make the big crossing over to Jost Van Dyke.

We made Cane Garden Bay in about thirty minutes (sooner than any of us had expected).  Although we initially considered stopping, we were just finding our groove in the kayaks and were feeling (over) confident.  We opted to cut north instead and make our way to Jost Van Dyke. 

It did not take long to realize that we were caught in a heavy cross current that was pushing us east as we were trying to paddle northwest.  I think I paddled on the starboard side ten times for every port side paddle.  (note:  Starboard is right and port is left.  You should also know that due to the nature of this trip I will be carelessly throwing out random nautical terms with reckless abandon in order to give the illusion that I grew up on the sea and have saltwater in my veins.  The truth is that I only fantasize about growing up on the sea and the only saltwater in me is primarily in my sinuses due to some bold body surfing attempts) 

Before departure we agreed that we would stick together in case anything were to go wrong.  It did not take long to realize that due to the current, the wind, and different kayaking abilities this may have been a little bit naive of us to try to maintain close proximity.  Within a half an hour we were spread out over a mile.  Frank and Hef would disappear and reappear as the water would swell and relax.  It was at this point that I began to be concerned.  If anything were to go wrong with any of our boats we would have no way of telling the other guys, let alone be rescued. 

In a little over an hours time we had crossed from Tortola and were approaching what we would later learn was Sandy Cay.  It was a beautiful small Cay thats perimeter was half jagged, angry rocks and half immaculate postcard style beach.  Due to fatigue I nearly tried landing on the rocks.  I quickly learned that this was a bad idea.  I found the first sandy spot I could and paddled quickly towards the shore. 

With the assistance of the waves my kayak basically javelin’d the beach.  I hopped out and immediately sank to my calves in the virginal soft, snow-like sand.  I walked up the beach to regain sensation in my legs and feel something beneath me that was not in constant motion.  Somehow among the sound of the trade winds blowing past my ears and the waves hitting the sand I heard a faint and distant, “Finazzo!!!” (which happens to be my last name).  I turned toward the water and I could see Hef’s kayak about a hundred yards off shore.  But something caught my eye in the surf between where I stood and Hef’s boat.  It was my kayak!  Apparently the ocean wanted it back so it crept on the beach while my back was turned and stole it.  I ran out into the water and started to swim towards it.  As I approached it a wave began lifting it up over my head.  Remembering the “duck dive” from my Hawaiian surfing experience, I opted to dive under the boat and the wave rather than try to stop it with my face.  I popped up on the other side, kicked back to it, and then swam us to shore. 

About that time Hef was arriving.  We dragged our kayaks a safe distance up on the beach, spotted Frank still out at sea, and then took a moment to take it all in.

       

Hef and I took the opportunity to catch our breath, stretch our legs, and stare out at the amazing shades of blue in the surrounding waters.  I remember standing next to my kayak looking out toward the horizon and seeing Tortola to my left, St. John in front of me, St. Thomas a little further to the right, Jost Van Dyke on my far right and thinking, “I can’t believe we did this.  We actually did it”.  It was an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and reverence.  I took a deep slow breath, looked up to where reality had become the inverse and the sky was now reflecting the water and mouthed the words to the higher power responsible for making all of this and keeping us safe, “thank you”. 

And as quickly as it started, my moment of piety ended.  Frank was coming ashore and I needed to bail water out of my boat and take stock of my supplies to see how I fared on our first major crossing.  Other than taking on some water I made it unscathed.  Hef was almost as lucky.  He lost one shoe from his deck rigging.  (Which presented a somewhat humorous (to me) situation.  There are no trash cans on an uninhabited Cay so it forced Hef to continue stowing a single shoe.  Okay, sitting on my couch in Kansas typing on a laptop right now, I realize that this is not quite the knee slapper that it seemed to be in the Caribbean, but at the time… I thought it was damn funny.  …fear and exhaustion do funny things to a man.  Don’t judge.)

Frank brought his boat up next to Hef’s where we all met and exchanged smiles of achievement.  They decided to find a shady spot to lay down and take a few minutes to actually enjoy the serenity that the islands offer.  I, on the other hand, have a sense of adventure that cannot be contained.  All of a sudden fatigue took a backseat to my curiosity of what was back in the trees.  I meandered into the foilage where there appeared to be a few worn paths where others had ventured before.  As I walked, dozens of lizards would scurry in every direction with each step that I took.  I climbed to the summit of the Cay where I found a spot on the north side that was what I was looking for.  It offered a bird’s eye view of the islands that was atop a jagged rock ledge where six or seven pelicans took turns diving into the crashing waves below to grab a snack.  I sat and watched for a moment and decided to head back down.  I passed Frank on the path whose sense of adventure got to him as well.  I told him how to find my secret spot and headed back down to the boats. 

Hef was arranging some things on his boat so I decided to continue taking advantage of the down time.  I grabbed my snorkel gear and wandered out into the water in search of sea life (and Hef’s shoe).  The water was amazingly beautiful, but there wasn’t much happening below the surface so after about a half an hour I swam back to the beach to find out if the boys were ready to continue on to Jost Van Dyke. 

The journey was not over.  We headed back out into the sun and surf.  It was a short (30 minutes - ish) over to eastern coast of Jost Van Dyke.  As we began to parallel the coast on our way to Great Harbour we noticed a change to the east (the weather comes in from the east down there due to cyclical weather patterns).  It was grey.  Mort importantly, the island of Tortola, that was so clear an hour before, was now engulfed in a grey cloud.  It was raining on Tortola and raining hard.  Here is where the first friction among the three of us occurred. 

Frank (being the wiser of the bunch) called out that we should cut in to the nearest bay and wait out the weather.  I (who more times than not rely on instinct rather than logic) was adamant about continuing along the coast and not turning in until we had to.  Hef (being the most apathetic of the group) gave a bold and decisive, “whatever”.  Frank and I yelled our opinions back and forth to each other with about forty yards of water and several layers of frustration between us.  He gave in and trusted my idea which turned out to pay off.  The weather stayed to our south and we remained dry as we continued west.  (note: what I just labeled as instinct could just as easily be argued as pure dumb luck.  Frank’s opinion is usually and rightfully the default)

The weather was not the only issue we would face on that crossing.  As we approached Little Harbour the wind was picking up, the water became more restless, and the eastern current that was working against us seemed to be getting stronger.  In addition to that, fatigue and frustration were setting in.  To some more than others.  Frank, in particular, was becoming increasingly frustrated and becoming more and more vocal about it.  At one point I think heard him audibly cussing the boat, the wind, the water, the pope, peanut allergies, college basketball, long lines, and the color green.  I am not sure what the latter topics had to do with anything but he was obviously angry.  The mother f bombs and adjectives that would cause an oil rig worker to be offended flowed freely and openly.  My level of irritation had not boiled over yet as his obviously had.  I still was enjoying the ride.  I attempted to pick up morale (foolishly not recognizing the level of tantrum that was being thrown).  I called out, “Just keep paddling, man. We’ll get there!”  Frank’s reply caught me a little off guard and honestly made me laugh a little bit under my breath; “Don’t you think I’m f#cking trying, Scott?!?”  …wow.  He used my NAME!  That meant he was mad and I was in trouble.  Needless to say Frank, Hef, and I kept paddling.  The anger subsided as we breached the mouth of Great Harbour and paddled through the calm crystal waters towards the sandy shore.

We first made land on Great Harbour, Jost Van Dyke in front of Foxy’s Bar, a Caribbean landmark.  Because it was still down (hurricane) season, Foxy’s was not yet open.  Though Foxy himself was wandering through the bar.  I approached and introduced us to Foxy.  He offered a warm smile, some very offensive (funny) racial jokes and offered us a Bud Light.  I have consumed beer in many, many different cities around the world.  After drinking nothing but warm water for several days and crossing the ocean in a self built boat I can say that the best beer in the entire world is the Bud Light at Foxy’s.  He was nice enough to walk us around the bar and even took us around back where the local high school kids are building a sloop. 

After the tour and the beers we thanked Foxy and promised to return at some point and then wandered down the path of small bars that line the narrow shore of Great Harbour in search of hot food.  We found a single place that had just the combination that we were looking for.  An place that was open and had someone there that was willing to serve us food.  Perfect!  We each ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke.  Again, those may have been the best cheeseburgers we had ever eaten.

After about an hour or two in Great Harbour we mustered up the strength to endure one last trip for the day.  We needed to get to Ivan’s Stress Free Campground located in White Bay.  The paddle there was beautiful but relatively uneventful.  We made shore together at Ivan’s, tied our boats off and went in search Ivan.  We wanted to get camp set up so we could finally fully relax for the day.  After locating Ivan, another Virgin Island legend, at the bar we inquired about camping.  Ivan’s words were soft spoken and mumbled.  He moved a lot like Brewer’s Bay Carl (see day 2’s posting).  What we could discern was that it would be twenty dollars per tent per night.  (Yeah - twenty bucks per night per tent!!!)  Or we could rent a cabin for sixty five dollars.  Being the math experts that we are we deduced that for five extra dollars we would not have to get out, set up, and eventually break down tents.  “Mister Ivan, we’ll take a cabin please!”

While the cabin was being prepared we followed the path over to the famous Soggy Dollar Bar.  It was here that Hef found true happiness.  It was a small little open air bar that is a necessary visit for anyone in the Virgin Islands.  I ordered three Painkillers (for the record that was one for each of us, not all for myself) and we sat, watched the scenery and drank.  After three or four round of Painkillers we decided we should go ensure our lodging for the night so we sadly said goodbye to the Soggy Dollar Bar and went back to Ivan’s where our cabin was ready and inviting.  (as inviting as a painted plywood shack with two dirty beds in it can be).  As it started to rain we retrieved valuables and necessities from our boats and began to vent our frustrations about everything we owned being perpetually wet.

Because every place was closed we were forced to enjoy another canned meat dinner.  We ate in Ivan’s Stress Free Bar where we met a dope smoking Grandma who gave us her unsolicited take on island life.  After discussing the next day’s course of action we retired back to our cabin.  I will avoid detail here, but I will just say a quick game of rock, paper, scissors determined the sleeping arrangements of three guys and two beds.  (I will simply offer the advice to “throw what you know” and you will be the one sleeping alone in a bed while the other two guys are in the adjacent bed.  …and it was sweet!)

    

The cabin turned out to be a blessing that we did not even realize until about 1 a.m. when it started POURING and did not let up all night long.  Though our intentions for the trip were to rough it, we were all okay cheating that one night. 

This day we covered a lot of ground and accomplished what we came to do.  We had crossed the ocean in the kayaks we had built.  Everything beyond that point was going to be somewhat impulsive and would change with the weather and our moods.  We could go or do whatever we wanted.  …or so we thought.