Day 6: The final chapter

I woke to the bright glow of the sun shining down through the trees. It was about 5:30 a.m. It was amazing how exhaustion aids in a getting a good night’s sleep. I immediately hopped up, grabbed my knife, put on my flip flops and headed down to the beach to take inventory. My boat was right where I left it! I stopped, looked at it, and took a huge sigh of relief. My boat and I made it through the night. We had survived a night alone on an uninhabited island! It was the first time in the past eighteen hours that I was able to take a moment and be happy. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the water was relatively calm, and I had my boat and nothing but time. I looked around and tried to once again take in the beauty of the islands. The sun had just climbed over the eastern part of Great Thatch. St John, directly to the south, was shrouded in morning haze and the more distant islands and keys were mere suggestions of land in the distance.

 As I took a moment of pause something caught my eye. About forty yards to my left was my paddle. Right where I initially had come to shore the night before, threw my paddle on shore and hopped out of my kayak. It then dawned on me what a stupid mistake I had made and how devastating it would have been to lose my paddle. Stupid!!! I would have been forced to fashion a paddle out of fallen tree branches with a captured pelican on each end. Once again, someone up above was looking out for me.

 I quickly but carefully broke down camp taking special care to pack correctly. I had learned the benefits of having a flashlight, knife, food, and water within reach. As I packed I received a phone call from Frank who said that they had spent the night on the yacht (after spending the evening playing Dutch drinking games and eating tuna steak). They had been brought to Tortola and were formulating a plan on what to do about their respective kayaks and how/where to meet back up with me. I told Frank that I would be departing Great Thatch in about thirty minutes. My plan was to cross to St John and parallel the coast until I reach Cinnamon Bay. I would then pay for a campground and wait to hear from them. He said he would call me right back and let me know their plans to get Hef back to the U.S. and Frank and his kayak to meet up with me. I walked the beach for about forty minutes, had not heard anything, and then decided it was time to go.

 As I approached my kayak, my phone rang. It was Frank who told me that he would load up his boat and head for Cinnamon Bay. John was going to take the ferry to Cruz Bay. Once we were all on St John, we would figure out what to do next. We had a plan.  I turned off my phone, put it safely in the dry box and took a moment to look at the island and capture it in my mind. I made a point to take in the scenery before I departed. I could feel the morning sun on my shoulders. The soft breeze that was blowing across my face. Even with the water gently rolling on to the shore, it was amazingly quiet. I closed my eyes and tried to hold on to that feeling of serenity. Deep breath. Okay, it was time to shove off.

 I walked my kayak down the sand and into the surf. The once difficult entry into the boat had become an action without thought. I waited for a wave to pass. On the back side of the wave I placed one leg into the cockpit. With my hands on the gunwales I would stiffen my arms raising my body up, maintaining balance, and eased myself past the combing and into the cockpit. As I paddled out to sea the muscle ache had awakened. It was mostly the little muscles in my hands and feet and in weird places in my back that were not used to the kinds of repetitive motion that I was requiring of my body.

 The further from shore I paddled the more I started to remember how deceiving the water can be. When you are basically eye level with the water, there are no subtleties. Every rise and fall are felt. St. John was becoming closer with every stroke and the lactic acid was being forced out of my muscles. The pain subsided as I turned to the west and began to parallel to the coast.

The morning sun was rising quickly and the air was becoming warmer. The coast to my left was beautiful but unfriendly. It was lined with jagged rocks that climbed sometimes forty or fifty feet out of the water. The water seemed to hate these rocks because of the constant barrage it was placing against them. As I approached these points my anxiety would rise in proportion with the restless water. I was forced to be more aware of the incoming wave sets. At several points I would have to point my kayak away from shore in order to head into especially large waves so as not to get rolled.  I paddled extra hard to get beyond these points.

 I was looking for Cinnamon Bay, but without a map, was going off of memory alone. There are no signs out at sea and no gas stations to stop and ask (not that I, as a man, would use even if they were available). I was expecting to paddle about an hour before I reached Cinnamon Bay. Each bay that I would face looked beautiful, but did not look quite like I remember. So I would continue on telling myself that it must be the next bay. …or the next bay. ….or the next bay.

 After paddling for several hours I was becoming increasingly skeptical and frustrated. My body started to ache again. My muscles were fatigued. My lungs hurt from sucking wind for hours. My legs were numb and my core had been held tight for hours. The “fun” was virtually gone from this trip. The islands seemed to be mocking me. The water was no longer beautiful, but a constant challenge; a foe who was out to get me. I was beginning to feel like a mad man. I would talk out loud to myself when the challenges became severe. As I was getting pushed towards the shore or see rocks just below the surface I would say out loud, “Come on, come on, come on”, “Not the rocks, not the rocks!” (the repetitive comments are an unconscious reaction to stressful situations. If you do not believe me, watch the dog fight scenes in Top Gun.) When I was at my most frustrated points I would talk to the water. Through clenched teeth I would growl, “You will NOT get me! Not today! Not ever!” I’m laughing as I type this because I remember all too well the clash of fear and bravado.

 To this day I do not know where I was, but at one point I had to get to shore. I had taken on too much water and was exhausted. I approached what I thought could be a safe place. About twenty yards offshore I was made painfully aware of what Hef had experienced the day before. It was too late to back out and too rocky to land. I did my best to maneuver around the subsurface rocks and when I got close enough to hit bottom I hopped out of my boat. I held it in place and as waves would approach I would walk my boat with the wave until it touched rock again. I would then stop and wait for the next wave. I repeated this movement until I was on shore. The barrage of water and rocks had me pinned in. I was furious. I had not come that far for the story to end like that. I sat on the shore in an attempt to regain feeling in my legs. I then walked around the beach a little bit. I knew that St John was a very populated island and that I was safe, but it was about the principle. I was not going to leave my boat on that rocky shore and go for help. I would make it to the finish line.  I WOULD win!

 Determined to triumph over the elements I pumped the water out of my boat and reversed my previous walk over the waves and into the water. That proved to be much more difficult. I was going the wrong way down a one way street. I had to get the kayak out far enough to be off the rocks, but shallow enough that I could re enter it without flipping it. Add that to constant waves and knowing that as soon as I left my feet, the boat would be pushed back into the rocks. It had to be a quick fluid motion. I needed a whole lot of luck. I waited for my chance, hopped in, and in a quick awkward movement started paddling like I had never paddled before to get off the rocks before they ripped a hole in my hull. I crept over the incoming waves, around the rocks and out into the ocean. I had done it.

 I had a similar experience at the following bay, although I stayed far enough off the shore to keep myself in the water. I needed to find sand. I was beginning to feel defeated. I rounded what I would later find out to be Hawknest Bay and into Caneel Bay. There it was. Powdery sand with not a single soul in sight. It was a beautiful beach and I needed to get to it. I slid my kayak up on to the beach. I pushed and dragged it as far up on shore as I could. I tied it to a tree and, as tradition would dictate, I dropped to my ass and sat in the sand for a few minutes.

I needed to find out just where I was and how far away I was from Cinnamon Bay. I walked up on land and I was on the property of some resort that appeared to be closed for the season. I found a man working on the landscaping and explained that I had just beached my boat and was looking for Cinnamon Bay. “Oh, it’s not far”, he said. “Just a couple of bays over”. As he said that he pointed in the direction of Cinnamon Bay. He pointed to his right which is EXACTLY where I had just come from. I missed it. I paddled for my life a quarter of the way around the island PAST where I needed to be. I could feel a wave of anger sweep over me. I asked if he had a map of St John that I could see. His hospitality had expired. He then told me that he did not and that I was trespassing and should get off the property.

 I walked back down to the beach in defeat. I was exhausted. I had been afraid for my life at multiple times throughout the morning. I was tired of paddling. Cinnamon Bay had the only legal campground that I knew of so I needed to get there so I could get out of my boat for a day or so and decide what to do with my remaining time in the islands.

 With no energy or motivation I pushed back out to sea and headed back the way I came. This was the worst journey to date. I was tired.  I was angry.  I was heading back the way I came in hopes that I would land in the bay that I had already passed once. Literally each stroke was a struggle. I paddled back past Hawknest Bay and headed for a beautiful post card beach that had to be Cinnamon Bay. Everything in me wanted to quit but I kept telling myself that with each paddle the end was closer. The shore was just beyond my reach but was getting bigger by the second. The last hundred yards was the worst. I could feel my muscles wanting to quit. I hit the beach, hopped out and breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was done! I was there! I did not have to paddle any more unless I wanted to. Thank God! A pregnant woman who was picking up seashells came walking by. I asked her, just for confirmation, “Is this Cinnamon Bay?” What happened next is a blur. But I’m pretty sure I heard the words, “No, this is Trunk Bay. Cinnamon Bay is the next bay over”. It felt like a boulder had landed on my head. I don’t even think I thanked her, I pushed my boat back out, hopped in and started paddling with an anger that I had never known before.

 As I left Trunk Bay and rounded the point toward the next bay, I turned my kayak toward the beach.  I recognized Mary Point. I remembered it from when I passed it the first time TWO HOURS prior to that. I remember thinking that I no longer cared if it was Cinnamon Bay or not. I was done paddling. I hit the beach, climbed out of my boat and threw my paddle in frustrated anger up toward the trees. I was pissed. I was tired and more than anything, I was DONE. A local man with shorts that had the interesting combination of hanging low and yet being extremely short came walking by. He had dreadlocks that were halfway down his back. As he passed I asked (not really caring at that point) if it was Cinnamon Bay. He nodded and gave an affirming, “yes”. I threw my head up towards the sky and took a deep breath. I looked back at him as he walked about ten steps past me, faced the woods and starting peeing right there on the beach. Nice.

 I did it. I had arrived at Cinnamon Bay. After taking a few minutes to catch my breath and get my legs underneath me, I walked up the path leading from the beach up to the building that houses the gift shop, diner, and where you pay for your camp sight. With each step I began to feel more accomplished and less angry. My goal was now to get a “legal” place to camp and then find out where Frank and Hef were. I walked up to the booth and saw they had snacks behind the counter. The first thing I did was order two cans of Coke and a Whatchamacallit candy bar. (don’t judge me – my choices were very limited!) As the unfriendly woman behind the counter was digging out my candy bar my eyes wandered to a sign posted to my right. “Campground will be closed through October. Will open again November 1st, 2009”. ………………………..

 (that line of periods represents a moment in time where everything stopped and I stood there alone and in shock)

 I had paddled over an hour PAST Cinnamon Bay, then finding out my mistake, paddled an hour BACK to Cinnamon Bay for the sole purpose of getting to a campground and now it was CLOSED?!?!? I opened up my first can of Coke and drank it dry. I threw the can away in surrender. This was the end of the kayak trip for me.

 I noticed a line of wheelbarrows all chained together and locked. I asked one of the passing maintenance men if I could borrow or even rent a wheelbarrow. I was going to break down my kayak on the beach, wheel it up, throw it in a cab, and head for a hotel in Cruz Bay. He said he did not have a key, but would drive his truck down and pick me up. Good enough for me!

 I strolled back down toward the beach with an almost arrogant air about me. Someone could have come and put a gun in my face and I would have smiled and stuck my finger in the barrel cartoon style and said “pull the trigger”. It was almost cathartic. I truly had not a care in the world. I was on dry land. I did not have to worry about the weather, a schedule, packing, unpacking, repacking, replacing, misplacing, or where I tucked my toilet paper. Life was now easy again. The ocean did not beat me.  The sun was shining and I had nowhere to go and no one to be.

 I slowly took my boat apart while being the recipient of constant sideways looks from tourists who came to the pristine beach. I felt like I was a pimple on the face of Mona Lisa. People were almost angry with me for tainting their view. Once again, I did not care. I maintained a smile and an arrogance that kept me above everyone and everything else. I would take a section apart, rinse it in the ocean, and then place it across a dead tree to dry.  I maintained my cocky swagger almost daring someone to approach me to question me or tell me I couldn’t be there. It took me about two hours to take it down, rinse, dry, and repack everything.

 As I was finishing up, a couple came motoring up in an inflatable rented dinghy. I could tell it was a rental because of the sharp eye for water craft that I had developed over the past few days. ….and the “RENT ME” painted on both sides. They were on the beach but barely. I turned and said to the guy with confidence “You’re too close. You better push it up further”. He smiled a friendly smile and said, “Naa, I think we’re high and dry”. And with the arrogance of someone who had been raised on those waters, I said, “for now” and then walked away. I felt cocky and sure of myself. The tide was climbing up the beach with each wave and I knew it would be under his boat within the hour. I kept a watchful eye on their boat as I took mine apart. And, of course, within fifteen minutes the rental was being slowly reclaimed by the ocean. I caught him out of the corner of my eye running back to the boat. I smiled and walked over and grabbed the side of the boat as it was now floating in the shallow surf. He did not say a word about it, but I could tell he felt dumb.

 He and his wife decided that they would be shoving off and were asking me about my boat. I told them a brief version of our story and told them that I had no cell signal and no real idea where my friends were. They offered up their cell phone. I declined at first and then realized that this was no time for pride. I changed my answer and accepted their offer. I called Frank, not knowing at the time that his phone was at the bottom of the ocean. I then called Hef who answered and told me that he was at the Westin on St John. There was no statement I could have heard that made me feel like that one did. He was on the same island as me and already had a first class hotel room (with indoor plumbing, clean bed, and EVERYTHING!).  Say no more.  Destination: the Westin!

 I thanked the couple (who were on vacation from Arkansas) and then headed up to flag down the “guy with the truck”. He saw me first and shouted out, “You ready?”. I hopped into the back of his truck and headed down to the beach. We loaded up my bags and he delivered me back up to a waiting cab.

 My bags and I were delivered to Hef’s doorstep at the Westin. I walked into the room and felt like collapsing onto the bed. The adventure was over. It was then time to relax and enjoy the trip!  I told Hef I was not mad at anyone, I was just tired and beat up.

I took a long, hot shower, got out, and put on clean (which is a relative term at that point of the trip) clothes. I then laid down on the king sized bed and, without consciously thinking about it, my eyes closed.  My eyes were stinging in painful ecstasy.  It felt so good to close them.

 Hef had talked to Frank who was still on Tortola but would be on the 4:00 ferry.  So we caught a cab to Cruz Bay to wait for Frank.  Hef and I wandered into Woody’s Saloon (a local favorite) and ordered blackened mahi sandwiches and couple of Coors Lights (both on special).  Each bite of the sandwich was better than the previous one. The beer was cold and delicious.  We then wandered down to Margarita Phil’s for a change of scenery and a few more beverages while we waited for Frank.

 Right on schedule, Frank arrived on the 4:00 ferry. We gave him a room key and he took a cab to the Westin to unload his stuff.  About an hour later Frank met back up with us at the Quiet Mon Pub which is situated right next door to Woody’s in Cruz Bay.

We spent the remainder of the evening drinking, laughing, and drinking some more. We deserved this release. We became completely sauced.

 We had done it. We set a goal. We built the boats. We came to the Virgin Islands. We found adventure. We took a trip that most would never dream (and granted, for good reason). Most importantly we survived to tell the story. On an island in one of the most beautiful places in the world we were all alive and toasting everything we could think of as the rounds kept coming. We stepped out of our respective comfort zones and stepped into the ring with mother nature. With a fresh perspective , an unquestionable respect for the ocean, and a renewed sense of self we came out on the other side as better men. That night we were not toasting ourselves, but the good life. The life not spent in the confines of the subdivision. A toast to those who dare to venture from the cookie cutter existence that shackles so many. Here’s to those who aren’t satisfied with going to see the mountain, but need to experience it. Experience it with all of their senses; to feel it against their skin, smell the air on the way up, and know the view from the top.

 Here’s to three fools from Kansas who dreamed to build boats and take them across the ocean. …and did it.

 Cheers.