LURE OF THE HORIZON

Virgin Island Kayak Liner Notes

I have been asked where the idea was born for three guys from Kansas to attempt an ocean kayak trip.  It  was a combination of a couple of crucial ingredients that all came together about the same time.  I don’t recall exactly where, but I came across a review of a book called On Island Time by Scott B. Williams.  Scott is an author/adventurer (sound familiar? - except his business cards probably don’t have “wanna be” in front of that label as mine would).  He wrote a book about his solo kayak trip where he paddled down the coast of Florida and crossed over to the Caribbean islands.  My wife bought me the book and I devoured it. 

About the same time that I was wrapping up the book, my friend, Frank, had just returned from his honeymoon on St Thomas.  He actually came to me with the idea that it would be fun to go down to the islands, rent a few kayaks, and island hop.  I told him about the book I had just read and turned him on to On Island Time.  The hook was set.  We were going to kayak the Virgin Islands.

In borderline stalker fashion I used the internet to track down Scott B. Williams to thank him for the inspiration and solicit any advice.  To my surprise he quickly responded, offered words of encouragement, and gave us some pointers.  Even after the trip he was kind enough to give this blog a write up on his blog: Scotts Boat Pages.  

So, before I put the 2009 Virgin Island Kayak Adventure to bed I had to give credit where credit is due.  Thanks to our families, friends, and total strangers who light the fires beneath us.  So, what’s next?  We’ll see.  I’m not looking for inspiration.  It finds its way to me. 

Epilogue

It is now mid November. I am sitting in my home in Kansas closing out this story of my trip to the Virgin Islands. Outside the temperature is hanging in the thirties, raining, and by looking out the window I am overcome with lethargy. One month ago I was on the beach in the Caribbean just coming off of one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Writing this blog has helped maintain my inner warmth, so it is with great sadness that this story has come to a close.

I suppose I should tell you how the last few days were spent. Frank, Hef, and I spent the one night at the Westin on St John. Knowing that we could not afford to stay there any longer we packed our bags and headed into Cruz Bay, St John where Frank and I mailed our kayaks back to the states. We learned that you can actually mail a canvas bag full of boat parts with little resistance. We also learned that after lugging an 80 pound bag in and out of cabs and ferry boats for a week, that money becomes no object. We walked into the post office with complete and overwhelming apathy. When the slightly annoyed man behind the counter weighed our bags, we could not have cared less what the dollar amount came to be. I placed my credit card on the counter and felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders as he placed the $70 postage stamp on the bag.

With no more kayaks to lug around, we walked over to Woody’s for one last blackened mahi sandwich and a couple of beers. We then headed down to the ferry, bought our five dollar tickets, and cruised into Red Hook, St Thomas. From there we took a cab to Bolongo Bay where Frank’s wife Erin would be meeting up with him to celebrate their anniversary. Hef and I considered asking if we could crash with them, but did not want to face the certain rejection so we opted to get our own room.

After Erin’s arrival Frank came up with the idea that we could rent a boat and head back over to salvage some of Hef’s things. So on our last full day in the islands together, we headed in to Red Hook and rented a boat. Frank was the captain and motored us out across the ocean. Erin sat alone in the back taking in the scenery while Hef and I moved around the boat viewing the waters with different eyes. To this day I am still amazed at how different I view the ocean. I remember looking down as we cruised right over the waves thinking that prior to that trip, the sea would have seemed relatively calm.  But with the education of experience I noticed the true texture of the water; every swell and drop. The three of us had received an overwhelming respect for the power of the ocean and it was palpable in the unspoken words as we cruised towards St John.

Before Operation: Salvage Hef’s Crap we decided to stop at Water Lemon Cay in Leinster Bay, St John to snorkel a bit. We saw dozens of starfish, abundant sea life, and even a reef shark. It was what we needed. That stop made the Virgin Islands a vacation destination again.

We then motored over to the north side of Great Thatch where Hef and I swam ashore and salvaged some of his things. It was sad to leave his kayak there on that island, but we really had no choice. It is possibly still there to this day. E-mail me and I’ll get you the GPS coordinates.

We spent the remainder of the day over on Jost Van Dyke where we stopped in at the Soggy Dollar Bar in White Bay and then a brief stop at Foxy’s in Great Harbour. The weather was warm. The water was clear. The drinks were cold and savory. The perfect ending to the adventure. As Frank drove us back west towards Red Hook that evening I could feel the imminent end of the trip. The sun was setting on the day and on my visit.

The Virgin Islands are my happy place. I will visit often until I can call them my home.

I want to thank you for reading along and taking this journey with us. The stories here are all from MY perspective. Hef and Frank could write their own books about the journey from their view and it may be completely different than my story and probably even more compelling.  We are all fortunate enough to have friends in life. I am happy to brag that I have many great friends that I care about deeply. But there are few that could/would have gone on a trip like that and made it the adventure that it became. We quite literally rolled with the ebb and flow and manged to laugh at every turn. There were times we were ready to kill each other, but at the end of the day we were in each other’s corner. Fellas, we toasted with Cruzan bottles on the beach of Brewers Bay, Tortola to kick it off and celebrated the end with rum drinks at The Quiet Mon at Cruz Bay, St John. Thanks for having my back as we challenged ourselves and the unknown and for taking the brotherhood that we live to the next level. Even though we questioned our sanity over and over again over the past year…    we f#cking did it!!!

Here’s to livin’ the dream!

Day 6: The final chapter

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Day 5: The adventure takes a serious turn

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.

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.

Day 3: Why do all of the locals think we’re crazy?!?

 Day three of the trip began with me waking to the sounds of barely audible conversation outside of my tent.  Frank and Hef woke before me and were already discussing the previous night and the day ahead.  Being the morning person that I am (not at all), I unzipped my tent and crawled out grumbling and wearing a scowl that is typically reserved for snowy Kansas mornings and inept waitresses.  It did not take long for that scowl to disappear.  The sun had not yet climbed over the hills surrounding Brewers Bay.  The warm morning air was still as the waves rolled up on the sand twenty feet in front of me.  Frank and Hef stopped their conversation to laugh at me as I ascended from my tent and tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes and take in the scenery.  It was about 6:00 a.m. and I did not want to be awake yet.

I asked them how they slept.  Apparently the soothing sound of waves lapping the shore are not for everyone.  Hef laughed as he said, “If I have another night like that; hot, loud, and uncomfortable… f#ck that.  I’m getting a hotel”.  I knew he had a rough night, but beyond that statement, he had no complaints.  I think we all truly appreciated that we were basically alone on the shore of an amazingly scenic beach in the middle of the British Virgin Islands.  I slept very well and could get used to the sound of the ocean and the full moon as my night light.

I looked down and noticed that Frank, unsurprisingly, had already dragged his boat bag down to the beach and started construction on his kayak.  Hef and I were not quite as motivated to get started.  I dug into my food bag and pulled out a package of Pop Tarts as Hef waded out into the water for a brief morning swim. 

Frank’s eagerness was contagious.  It did not take long for Hef and I to drag our boat bags down to the beach and join in on the fun.

Boat construction was time consuming but went surprisngly smooth.  Occasionally a local or a random vacationer would trundle by.  One particular passerby asked early on in construction what we were building.  We told him our intentions and he gave a perplexed and almost sympathetic smile.  He wished us luck and walked away.  (he could have at least had the courtesy to get out of earshot before he giggled and shook his head)  Later he happened back by, gave a smile and said, “Well, they’re the right shape at least”.  …thanks.

Everything came to a halt when it came time to zip the skins around the frame.  As both a positive and a negative the skins were extremely tight.  Had we more time to test and evaluate the kayaks we most likely would have changed a few things, specifically the zippers that enclosed the poly skin around the frame.  They were EXTREMELY tight.  In fact we broke two zipper pulls just trying to get skin around the first frame.  Thankfully Frank had the foresight to bring a few extra zipper pulls.  I just wished we had not gone through them so quickly!  This would prove to be the most frustrating part of the whole construction process.  Frank would cuss, wipe sweat and walk away.  Hef and I would look at each other helplessly.  If I had not mentioned before, Frank was the brains behind the whole process so Hef and I were hesitant to try anything without being told it was okay.   Especially at this make or break juncture. 

A few local young men were fishing down the beach.  When one of them caught an eel I saw him trying to step on it and pull the hook out of its mouth as he kept saying “Yuck.  I hate eel.”  Not one to shy away from conversation, I walked quickly down the beach to get a closer look.  I had questions about the fishing and he had questions about the aluminum monstrosities that were tainting his pristine beach.  He pointed out to sea and said, “You taking them out there?”  I, somewhat sceptically, nodded.  To which he replied with a laugh, “You’re crazy”. 

Back to the boat.  Things were not going well and we needed a break.  Hef was frustrated, Frank was pacing and mumbling under his breath, and I needed to walk away for a few minutes.  I decided to grab my snorkel gear and explore the bay.  There is something exhilirating about being out in the ocean all alone.  You become in touch with your limitations as a land dwelling mammal when in the ocean.  You are a guest in their world and are subject to the law of the jungle.  …in the water.  After allowing the skins to sit in the sun for an hour they were pliable enough to stretch and with a few minor modifications, the boats were built! 

When I first climbed into the kayak it seemed very unstable.  I paddled out into Brewers Bay to get used to riding the ups and downs of the ocean while keeping my butt beneath me and maintaining balance.  My whole body was tense and several times I audibly cursed as my kayak would rise and fall with an especially large wave or unaccounted for swell.

After the three of us took turns paddling out and around the bay we decided that we would have lunch at camp and then head out around the point and attempt the thirty or forty minute paddle along the northern coast of Tortola to Cane Garden Bay.  It was around two in the afternoon and it was time to refill the tank.  I was hungry!  We all enjoyed another round of canned meat or tuna sandwiches and washed them down with warm water from the plastic gallon jugs.  After finishing off the last of the mystery meat po boys Hef and I paddled out, still acclimating to the art of trying to propel forward while maintaining balance. 

Once out past the mouth of the bay, Hef and I hovered far enough off the coast to be officially out at open sea, but close enough that we still felt relatively safe.  After ten minutes or so we decided that Frank was not coming so we headed back towards our camp.  We saw Frank’s kayak up on the shore and he was up among our tents visibly frustrated.  He was having issues with his seat and struggling to maintain balance. 

An executive decision was made to scrap the Cane Garden Bay trip.  We decided to spend the remainder of the day getting used to the boats.  We would break camp first thing in the morning and head west along the Tortola coast and then cut across to Jost Van Dyke where we would camp.  There was not much of a plan beyond that.  Our trip so far had been a series of alternate plans and punts.  We were taking it one day at a time.   

We needed to pay for our camping so we wandered inland a short distance to the “house” that seemed to be an open air combination bar/kitchen/storage facility/livestock shelter.  A woman was passing by and she asked if she could help us.  We told her that we needed to pay for our campground.  She said that it would be $21.40 per night.  Okay, that seemed like a random number for island pricing, but who was I to judge?  “Per tent”.  Huh?!?  $21.40 per tent?!?  That meant that our three little tents crammed into one small area of sand was going to cost us over $60/night.  We would definitely need to be moving on.  (In hindsight I’m thinking that she probably did not even work for the campground but happened to be passing by when we asked how much it was to camp)

The remainder of the day was filled with an underlying skepticism regarding the direction of this trip.  Yes, we made it.  Yes, the boats were built.  But if we could not load our camping gear on it and stay balanced on top of the water we would be tethered to Brewers Bay.  We were standing at the threshold of the adventure that we had been working toward for a year and could possibly be denied due to our inability to test the boats.  Grrr.  Throughout the evening we all would exchange ”It’ll be fine.” type of comments, but we were all nervous about what the next day would bring. 

I drank alone that night as everyone turned in early under the pressure of the pending momentous morning that was looming over our heads.  There was a new weight to the warm tropical breezes.  The following morning was going to decide the direction of the entire rest of the trip.  Once again the sound of the waves lulled me into an amazingly restful sleep.

Day 2: The boys and boats are all finally together - let’s do this.

I woke to the faint glow of tropical sunlight creeping through the cracks in the curtain and the soothing sounds of waves lapping up on the shore.  …actually, the waves kind’ve sounded like an angry fly trying to escape through a window.  As the fog lifted from my brain I realized that it was my cell phone dancing on the night stand.  It was Hef.  He had arrived safely in St Thomas without his kayak.  We were afraid of that.  He would catch a cab to our hotel and we formulated plan C.  …or D.  I’m not sure which version we were on at that point.  Hef’s boat would not arrive until 3:00 in the afternoon so we decided to spend the day in downtown Charlotte Amalie picking up odds and ends for the trip. 

If you have never been to the Virgin Islands I will let you in on a little secret.  The beaches are beautiful, but the real adventures happen in the cabs.  The drivers are almost always full of personality and advice.  Our cab ride into Charlotte Amalie came courtesy of Cassius.  It turns out Cassius was a basketball fan and more specifically a University of Kansas fan.  Hef graduated from KU so they had much to talk about.  At some point on the trip Cassius had shifted gears from roundball to dispensing advice on love and life.  “Life is an attitude, okay buddy?”, he offered tagging on the end a half hearted request for affirmation.   Okay, maybe his statement was not very profound, but to Cassius this was a mantra.  And somehow to us, it was deep as we smiled and nodded in approval.

The downtown square was filled to the brim with locals celebrating the release of the Virgin Islands quarter.  Many were waiting in line for a long time to receive their free quarter.  We opted to look at them for a moment, look at each other, and agree unanimously to bypass the hour wait for a quarter.  We hit a few shops and then decided it was time for lunch.  We sought out (the Cassius recommended) Gladys’ Cafe.  The food was decent but the highlight came when Hef and I decided to try some of their home made hot sauce.  They had several varieties to choose from; not one with a heat rating or parental warning label.  The first sauce was tangy and had a little bit of a bite.  Not bad, but we were both looking to kick our chicken up so we went to bottle #2 and poured a small puddle on an unoccupied portion of our respective plates.  Somehow this stuff permeated everything on the plate like a bad horror movie.  After only a few bites Hef and I were drinking entire glasses of water in a single gulp and wiping sweat, snot, and possibly blood from different facial orifices.  One waitress walking by noticed the two grown men crying and repeatedly and rhetorically asking, “why?  why?!?”, and casually stated “Oh yes, Gladys makes a MAD hot sauce”.  I sarcastically said to her, “NO KIDDING?!?”  Actually I thought about saying that, but all she heard were whimpers that were gurgling through a bloody pharynx that reverberated off of newly formed oral burn blisters. 

We survived Gladys’ and headed back to the hotel to hang on the beach for a few hours while we waited the arrival of John’s boat. 

At 3:00 we met our old buddy Cassius in front of the hotel and headed to the airport to hopefully meet up with Hef’s boat.  Frank and Hef disappeared into the airport while I stayed out in the cab with Cassius and all of our gear.  They were inside for roughly ten minutes that felt like an hour.  Finally they emerged carrying Hef’s boat.  Sweet relief.  Cassius, trying to either hook up his patrons or inflate his tip, stopped by two newly arriving scantly clad women and offered to give them a ride as well.  They declined.  Cassius said laughingly, “I tried!”  The three of us laughed and shook our heads.  We were focused.  We wanted to get to the British islands so we could finally kick our adventure off!

We were dropped off at the Charlotte Amalie fairy dock where we would soon learn that we were allowed one carry on bag, the rest we would be charged by weight.  NOT good!  Our kayak bags were between 70 and 80 pounds apiece and we each were carrying one or two duffel bags that were stuffed to the hilt and stressing every zipper and Velcro strip on the thing.  Fortunately the woman behind the counter took pity on us and charged us an extra forty dollars which seems like a lot but was a mere pittance compared to what the bill should have been.  Ahhh… we were finally on our way to the the British Virgin Islands. 

The ferry ride was relaxing and filled with static excitement.  Frank and I were looking back on the waters and islands that we love so much and Hef was taking it all in for the first time.  We docked in Roadtown, Tortola.  We watched the boat hands cuss and shake their heads as they offloaded our kayak bags.  We easily cruised through customs and immigration.  As we stepped out of the building I went to hail one cab driver out of the dozens that were hovering like vultures. 

(note: There has to be some kind of unwritten protocol among island cabbies.  They are always gathered in packs and not once have I seen an argument or fight as a result of someone needing their services.  It always seems that they know whose turn it is.  That may be my next project when I return to the Virgin Islands.  I will report on the true life of island cabbies.  …probably not.)

The one poor, unsuspecting cab driver offered to haul us and our gear across the islands with a stop at a market for $30.  The fool.  After we loaded our (literally hundred of pounds worth of) bags and boats into his van we set off across the island of Tortola.  He was kind enough to stop at a market somewhere in the middle of the island.  The market was packed and Hef and I quickly learned about island pricing.  Everything was at least double the price it was back home.  We purchased for each of us a half a dozen tuna cans, two jugs of water, canned meat, a loaf of bread, etc.  It was enough food that could last us probably five days without stretching too thin.  Our half filled cart came to a grand total of $225.  Ugh. 

We rode another half an hour through the winding narrow roads that seemed to be at a 45 degree (or greater) angle somehow one way or the other for the entire journey.  Rather than use the brakes, the cab driver opted to downshift so at any given moment the engine rpms were about triple what a typical engine should run safely.  He finally delivered us to Brewer’s Bay campground on the North central coast of Tortola. 

We were dropped off in darkness and greeted by Carl.  He was the representative for Brewers Bay Campground.  Carl was a unique and unknowingly comical character.  He was utterly listless and shuffled along at the speed of a stoned slug.  He mumbled things under his breath that were barely audible above the small rectangle radio that he carried and maintained a steady volume of eleven.  He showed us where we could set up our tents and said we could pay for them at some point the next day. 

The boys and I decided that first thing is first.  Under the flashlights that we hung in the overhead tree branches we tore into our food stash and enjoyed sandwiches, chips, and Cruzan rum. 

We then set up our tents with a controlled eagerness.  No one said the words but a palpable excitement was in the air.  We each had our own tents and had them set up in a small huddle within 20 minutes.  To finish off our first night officially on our own we dragged three chairs down onto the beach.  We sat in our swimming trunks and flip flops under a canopy of a thousand stars and toasted our accomplishment.  We made a plan.  We struggled, sweat, laughed, fought, cussed, and ultimately conquered the construction of these boats.  They were built and sitting in bags on the beach of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. 

For our first toast I quoted the welder from New Jersey who said to me on the shores of St Thomas several years ago; “Who’s better than us tonight, right?”  We tapped our Cruzan rum bottles together and drank.  It was warm and sweet and tasted like victory!  We made several more toasts, drank rum from the bottle, questioned why we live in Kansas, and relished in the metaphoric mountains that we had climbed in order to make it to the beach and begin our real journey.  No matter what happened the next day… we made it.

Day 1: KC to Dallas to Miami to St Thomas

For my “travel day” from KC to St Thomas I decided that rather than waltz you, the reader, through my day using witty puns and verbal ornamentation that is humorous yet compelling I decided to use simple notes and random thoughts.  Although instead of embracing technology I opted for a good old fashioned pen and notebook.  I like to refer to it as “roots” Twitter.  Enjoy.

(Pic below is the sunrise above the clouds somewhere beween KC and Dallas)

- Lousy weather in KC.  Lousy weather in Dallas.  I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.

- Dallas/Fort Worth airport: soldiers returning from Iraq.  The airport came to a standstill while everyone clapped until every single deplaning soldier had passed by.  Very cool moment.  A rare feeling of patriotism not felt since 9/11.  Thanks fellow travelers!

- Air between Dallas and Miami: I find myself getting emotionally involved in Deal or No Deal playing on the overhead screens.  I just need to walk away.  …but can’t.  Oh, Howie.  How you have your claws in me.  Deal!  Deal!!  TAKE THE DEAL!!!

- Touched down safely in Miami.  I see sunshine and palm trees.  I am happy.

- Miami: Hef’s flight out of KC cancelled.  He can get to Puerto Rico tonight and meet us in St Thomas tomorrow.  No word on if his luggage (boat) will be with him.  ..and so it begins.  Frank should be here soon.  We’ll start formulating plan b over airport beer. 

- Air between Miami and St Thomas:  an underlying nervousness is starting to set in.  How are we going to pull this off?  Have we bitten off more than we can chew?  Untested boats on the ocean with three of us who have 0 boat building experience and 0 ocean kayaking experience.  …ready or not.

- Air between Miami and St Thomas:  Is our in flight movie really Grease?!?!?

- Cyril E King airport, St Thomas:  walking down the steps and onto the tarmac feels like walking into my sanctuary.  Warm, tropical air.  I close my eyes.  I take a deep breath.  I smile.

- St Thomas airport to Emerald Beach hotel: $4 per person + $2 per small bag + $4 per big bag + grand total of 60 yard drive from airport to hotel = $30 cab ride. 

- Over Beachside Pusser’s Rum Frank and I learned about the ins and outs of Illinois psychosis, the benefits of an Iowa auctioneering college, and how to get a non bipolar diagnosis at the mayo clinic.  …all from one dude at the Emerald Beach bar.  I love the islands.

- Does a moonlight barefoot stroll on the beach in the Caribbean with another dude make you gay?  …how about the after stroll sex?  Does that make you gay?  (post trip note:  That was a joke and if you can’t laugh at that you may not want to read on as this trip progresses.   Although sarcastic gay sex will not be a primary topic of conversation, my trip stories will probably offend you at some point)

- Tomorrow the adventure begins.  Quick prayer and off to sleep.  Goodnight.