Thurs. 4 Jan 01, Beef Island, Tortola:

After finishing my happy hour shift at Mo's Caribbean today, I stepped off the bar with my tip cup and a pint of Jack and Coke, tipped down and cashed out, and headed home to pack for the BVI's. Since I normally pack 15 times before I'm ready to go (the first 14 don't count), I took my time and used three different bags, knowing I'd be playing musical luggage and tossing two of them aside in any event. I packed and repacked, and then slept for 30 minutes, showered, and headed back to Mo's for a nice little happy hour with Rand, a/k/a Randall McDaniel, a/k/a Ransom Stoddard, attorney-at-law (c.f. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, John Ford, 1962). We sipped a couple tall cocktails and played 9 holes of Golden Tee, then piled our gear into a yellow cab and headed for JFK. I was pushing, pulling, and otherwise cajoling my gear through the terminal at the pace of a snail going backwards up a vertical incline when my attorney advised me none too gently to drive with all due speed, worried that we'd miss our flight. I therefore redoubled my efforts, and we arrived at the gate just in time to stand at the end of the check-in line for half an hour. We were headed for Tortola, British Virgin Islands (BVI) to charter a 38-foot Admiral Catamaran with Jeff Johnson and Alex Ercklentz, two of the original crewmates of the Out Of Bounds, the 46-foot Swan that went around the world from '96 through '99 (along with their other mate, Bill Van Wyck). Also crewing with us would be Jeff's and Alex's lady friends Kristi McCarthy and Samantha Parris. Once on board the plane I looked around for Alex and Samantha, knowing they were booked on the same flight and feeling confident I would recognize at least Alex from his photos on the Out Of Bounds website (www dot outofbounds dot com), but could not locate him. I was about to settle into my seat when I looked up and there he was, coming down the aisle.

"Alex," I said, and he immediately looked up. Samantha was with him, and we shook hands as I called Rand over from his seat; we introduced each other all around, did a legal shot each of Jack from my handy little flask, and our trip was officially under weigh.

Fri. 5 Jan 01, Marina Cay:

Landed at Beef Island Airport after a short layover in San Juan, and arrived at Tradewind Yacht Club by minivan from the Landing Zone, courtesy of our driver, King, who I thanked for the ride. As he pulled away from the dock, leaving us in the heart of this foreign little village, I said "If you make it back to the airport, send lawyers, guns and money." Samantha heard that, and we both got a laugh half a minute later when we stepped onto the pier and heard Warren Zevon singing his song by that very name, piping over the stereo from a boat across the way. We were directed down the dock to our charter, a 38-foot Admiral Catamaran from Poverty Flats, Idaho, (what?) commissioned "Abrazo." We didn't know what in the world "Abrazo" meant, but it didn't take us long to begin inventing our own definitions for the name, of which more later. We all took a few minutes to unpack, waited shortly for Jeff Johnson to arrive, and partied on very little to no sleep. We ate dinner at the restaurant right there on the pier, and I picked up Ivan's guitar that was sitting in the corner--sans high E string--and played for Alex and Sammy, but apparently (unbeknownst to me) the rest of the house, too, because everyone clapped when I was through. Islanders, no taste in music at all. We made a quick exit, stage left, and returned to the boat to meet Tony the local coconut vendor in time for the Beef Island Shakedown...but that's another story entirely. (See G.D.'s fiction page, it'll be reprinted there if it gets published.)

Next morning Jeff, Alex and I conducted a shakedown on the boat's particulars with Peter, one of Tradewind's proprietors, which included a topside orientation, including sail plan (which in the case of our Cat was quite simple, as we would be sailing with just mainsail and jib), the running rigging, including identifying the main halyard, main and jib sheets, traveler, topping lift, outhaul, reef lines, jib furling system, blocks and cleats, fairleads and toe-rails, anchor, ground tackle, and electric windlass, deck fillers for fuel and water tanks, two-speed, self-tailing winches and winch handles. We moved into the cockpit for a shakedown on the binnacle, wheel, and instruments, including engines, engine oil and fuel, and transmissions, throttle controls and engine gauges, windex and auto-helm (Otto Von Helm, as we like to call him when he's got the wheel). We ran down a checklist of safety equipment, ensuring that all required PFD's were on board, including a Type I for each crew member and one Type IV Horeshoe-shaped readily available above-decks (loosely attached to our starboard stern-pulpit); we checked for flags and flares, bells and whistles, some of which were not required as we were under 40 feet in length, but we had them nonetheless, and the fire extinguishers, one below-decks in each hull and one in the cockpit, beside the instrument panel. Peter reviewed the heads and bilge pumps, galley and freezer, including the solonoid for the stove and oven, the nav station, including the electrical systems, both AC Shore Power and DC House System, and VHF Radio, including the local hailing channel (16) and on-board cell phone, set to automatically dial up the Tradewind home office in case of emergency.

We then joined Scotty, Tradewind's other proprietor, at the head of the pier for a short but informative, and quite funny shakedown on the islands, including a suggested float plan, although Jeff's chartered here before and knows his way around the islands quite well. Nevertheless, Scotty gave us the heads-up on the local knowledge, including tips on navigation through each of the island's anchorages and mooring areas, and the idiosyncrasies of their particular buoyage systems. He told us which bars and parties not to miss, and which restaurants were just names without any real value, and did it with a running dialogue that was half informative and the other half stand-up comedy, which made the rundown quite painless and enjoyable. Peter also dropped us off some lacing line for the tramps, as our first steps onto the starboard tramp broke the lacing in two places. I repaired those, and kept the remainder of the line for future reference, as further repairs would be needed along the way.

That was all we required, and Jeff powered up the engines and motored us out through the anchorage and around the point to Trellis Bay to pick up his friend Kristi, and we watched as her plane landed on the same L.Z. we'd blown in on twenty-seven hours earlier. With Kristi safely on board we motored across the way to Marina Cay and dropped anchor, unable to find a mooring ball. I also dropped a tumbler overboard while flaking one of the lines, and resolved to snorkel for it later on. For dinner we all hopped into the dinghy and went in to Pusser's Landing, where we circled round a nice patio table overlooking the cove and I promptly rested my head on the table and slept for 45 minutes while the chef prepared my plate of soup. Later, back on board the Abrazo, I did indeed don my wet-suit, mask, fins and snorkel, and with my dive knife strapped to my ankle (surely a much-needed precaution in the dangerous waters of the Marina Cay mooring bay) I did indeed dive for the elusive tumbler, under both a black sky and the ridiculously insane delusion I might possibly be able to find it under thirty feet of dark, murky water on three jack and cokes at midnight, nice try, no dice, no tumbler, no way, no woman, no love, good night. And, unbeknownst to me, while I was down there Sammy and Rand were on the boat trying to jury-rig a fishing pole with a tumbler-fish on the line to dangle before me as I groped my way beneath the boat. They never got it done, too busy laughing at me is my guess, but it was a nice touch considering my sublimely absurd endeavor.

Later on, when all else were asleep, Rand and I were in the cockpit enjoying the night when we noticed we were drifting pretty close to the boat moored just aft of our stern. I thought we were going to hit it, and presented my opinion to Ransom Stoddard. He assured me we would be fine, but after a few minutes passed, during which we drifted even closer to said sloop, even Ransom Stoddard was beginning to feel skeptical, at which time we knocked on the door to Jeff's cabin and made our worries known. Jeff came topside in his shorts, rubbing his eyes. He assessed our position, the position of the other boat, and the water.

"We'll be just fine," he said.

"You sure?" I persisted.

"We're fine, boys," he said. "It's all about boat mass and current." And he turned and went back down to his cabin, leaving Rand and me standing at the stern-pulpit, our mouths hanging open and brains scattered, trying to process "boat mass and current" and 10 minutes later the current had shifted and both boats were drawn back on their ground tackle, resting nicely, and a good thirty yards apart.

Abrazo: the half-turn too far a key makes in a dead-bolt, preventing its removal from the lock.

Quote of the Day: "We're fine, boys. It's all about boat mass and current." Jeff Johnson

Sat. 6 Jan 01, Virgin Gorda:

On Saturday morning Alex brewed up his special brand of strong, rich coffee from his Starbucks coffee press. Verra nice. He then proceeded to cook for us the most astounding breakfast of spiced, lightly scrambled eggs with diced onions and red and green peppers, wonderfully crisp bacon, melted cheese, and toasted English muffins. Abrazo! He is close to my heart. After breakfast we motivated to the Dogs for some scuba diving, but were unable to find a mooring ball at North Dog Island (the one available ball was already in use) and so motored past it to the north end of Great Dog Island where we dropped anchor for some solid snorkeling, (including a hilarious sunken jeep chassis which some years past someone must have submerged for a mooring anchor, eitherwise it's a little off the main highway from here), before weighing anchor and heading for Virgin Gorda. We motored out into the channel, then raised the mainsail and unfurled the jib, hoping for some wind from the south, which never really materialized, but oh well. Still, we did some sailing, and I roped some knots into a spare spring line, tied it to the port-side stern deck cleat with a good bowline, lowered myself into the drink and spent a good 10 or fifteen minutes body surfing behind the boat at 5 or 6 knots, my first taste of the Caribbean in many years (pun fully intended, as this was apparently also the first day with my new mouth, and I hadn't yet figured out how to keep it shut under water). We reached the anchorage at Bitter End Yacht Club and picked up a mooring ball at $20 a night, and kicked back while Alex and Sammy prepped for dinner, upon the completion of which Aldo proceeded to cook up one the finest chicken, rice and broccoli dishes ever served on the high seas. It's going to be quite enjoyable sailing with these two culinary wizards.

We settled onto our mooring ball and took the dinghy ashore to meet Sammy's cousins, Chris and Andrew Kriz, at the Bitter End Yacht Club for cocktails with their crew. These guys (actually 7 guys and 2 gals, including Chris and Andrew, Emma, Steve, Greg, Rob, Scotty, Bruce, and Claudia) have their monohull, (officially commissioned the Gif Caribe but immediately, if unofficially, tagged the Kriz Kraft by yours truly), anchored all the way north in the mooring area, just off Saba Rock. We all piled into the dinghies and made it back to the Kriz Kraft, where we partied quite wonderfully throughout the night, enjoying splendid cocktails and fine Caribbean appetizers, and playing guitar until around 1 a.m., when I noticed the Abrazo's red trilight shining from the masthead all the way at the other end of the anchorage, and was struck with the decidedly brilliant notion of swimming back to her from the Kriz Kraft. Step it up and go, ladies and gentlemen, stripped down and jumped in. Randall McDaniel followed suit (pun intended), and actually beat me into the drink while I was disrobing and swam off in the wrong direction, his navigational skills sharpened by his diminished senses. Half a mile later the Abrazo was in sight and I was ready for the lift that Slammy (Sam's nickname, derived from the best-friend's sister's brand-new Mercedes-Benz stock-car extravaganza, but that's another story, too) and Aldo (Alex's nickname, believed to have originated aboard the Out Of Bounds) and Jeff and Kristi were offering as they pulled alongside in the mighty dinghy, T/T Abrazo! Rand wanted to finish the swim, which was fine by me, so I pulled myself up into the lifeboat and was grateful for the lift, and actually jumped out a few yards from the finish line, feigning victory, call me Rosie Ruiz and put me in the marathon.

Afterwards, there was the episode of the Cap'n. Tidee Whitaay, which I don't totally recall but completely, apparently, created. Rumor has it I was dancing on deck with my tighty whiteys on my torso and my black Hanes mid-thigh briefs on my head. Ouch. Apparently there are photographs documenting said episode, and I can only hope that is a blasphemous rumor, as I was actually attending a business meeting in Philadelphia at the time, and was nowhere near the idiot sighting. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it. There was also the failed experiment of sleeping with my wetsuit on, out on the trampoline, trying to keep warm, but it was no go as I awoke at 3 a.m. freezing my barnacles off, and had to retreat down through the topside hatch into my cabin and the warmth of the Abrazo's hull. Verra nice.

Quote of the Day: "The ocean has no doors." Andrew Kriz

Sun., 7 Jan 01, Bitter End Yacht Club:

On Sunday we got up and hit the shore, opting for chaise lounges beachside while Rand and Slammy took the first of their open water dives with the dive charter. Aldo and Kristi went along, as well, and dove with rest of the dive party that was going down that morning. Meanwhile, Jeef (Jeff's nickname, derived from an e-mail accidentally addressed that way by Slammy) and I stayed ashore and read our books. I was reading Bernard Moitessier's The Long Way, the story of the great French sailor's solo circumnavigation in '68 as part of the Sunday Times Round The World Race for solo yachts, which Moitessier won, but passed up the Golden Globe trophy and £5,000 prize at the finish line just to keep sailing. Jeef was reading Frank McCort's Angela's Ashes, which he started that morning and completed late that same afternoon, a Herculean feat we would learn was nothing unusual for our skipper, for he did the same thing three days in a row, starting and finishing three books in as many days. Sheesh! Moreover, Jeef was an excellent host and island guide, as he left for a brief interval and returned with tall, frosty strawberry margaritas to enhance our reading pleasure. Verra nice. A short reconnaissance yielded unfavorable results regarding the Giants-Eagles playoff game, however, as the Bitter End Satellite was out of commission, which I witnessed myself firsthand, upstairs in the Bitter Office. But a short dinghy ride to Saba Rock yielded better news, as they had the early game cranked up to the legal limit, with a promise of the Giants game to be showed at its appointed hour. Saweeeeeeet! The dive party returned from their expedition, anxious for some liquid refreshments, which they enjoyed at the bar while my partner Ransom Stoddard dropped me in the dinghy and I was alone with the New York football Giants on Saba Rock for about twelve minutes. That's when I met Bill and Gretchen, a great young couple who'd just crossed the Atlantic from the Mediterranean on their monohull, Rhumb Line. We had lots to talk about, including cruising monohulls, the sailing life in general, offshore passages, and literature. I didn't get to focus very much on the Giants game, but made some great new friends instead, who Rand and I may even crew with later this spring when they sail Rhumb Line back up the Gulf Stream from Florida. After the game ended (a Giants playoff victory), Rand rejoined me for some cocktails, and Jeef and Kristi & Aldo and Slammy then went out to Saba Rock, while I stayed aboard Abrazo for some R&R, and life was pretty damn great for the crew of the Abrazo at Bitter End Yacht Club here in Virgin Gorda.

Abrazo: tent shorts.

Quote of the Day: "And I remembered the page on destiny in Wind, Sand and Stars, on the absolute need to follow one's fate, whatever its outcome. I, too, was going to end up like Saint-Exupery's gazelle, whose destiny it was to leap in the sunshine and die one day under a lion's claw. Yet I regretted nothing as I floated in the warm, very light water, making ready to peacefully leave on my last journey." Bernard Moitessier, La Longue Route ("The Long Way"), 1973, translated by William Rodarmor.

Mon. 8 Jan 01, Saba Rock:

This morning we were all up by 8 a.m. as Rand and Sammy had to be at the dive shop early for their final open water dives. Aldo Ray (further embellishment of Alex's nickname derived from my insatiable thirst for extricating the intricate and complicating the complex) made up his usual great pot of Joe, and we powered up the screws and motored over to the service dock for a fill up on water and fuel. I asked to dock the boat, and with Aldo at my side for guidance I did just that, bringing her starboard side to the dock, easing up on the throttle, kicking the port screw into reverse for just a little restraint as we eased gently to dockside. We filled the water tank, filled up on fuel for the dinghy, brought the grabbage (sic) on shore and reprovisioned before motoring across the mooring area to where the Kriz Kraft was anchored. We picked up a mooring ball and made fast for the day. After lunch Jeef, Kristi and I took the dinghy over past Saba Rock for a little snorkeling. The water was pretty shallow, but we anchored the ding on a sandbar and went down for a looksee. After that we cleaned up and headed into Bitter End for a group dinner at The Carvery. I, myself, opted out of the $38 buffet, which is the sole item on their menu, and walked back down the path to the Emporium, where impresario Jerry cooked me up a nice Cuban curry chicken pocket with a side of chef salad and a large Diet Coke, to which I naturally added the contents of my last remaining airline bottle, I'm certain it was Johnny Walker Black, a gift from Rand, actually, upon his return from Michigan at Christmas time, which I'd been sandbagging the whole trip for an occasion just such as this. I rejoined the pack after dinner, and most of us went over to Saba Rock for more cocktails and the sweet pulse of kettle-steel drums. After the band broke down Scotty picked up one of the guitars leaning in the corner, motioning for me to grab the other, and we broke into an hour long set of Pink Floyd, Dylan, and the Dead. Rand disappeared during this time, and reappeared about a half-hour later, talking with the managers, a married couple named Demetrius and Jessica, and looking as if he'd just been force-fed a full bottle of island hootch: his eyes were glazed over and were host to a bewildered, dazed expression which seemed to originate somewhere at the middle of his chest and emanate outward, toward nothing in particular, giving him the look of a crazed religious fanatic on a suicide mission. He looked pretty roughed up.

"G.," he said.

"Where you been, dog?" I asked him.

"Dude, I went on a tour," he said.

"A tour? Pal, you look cashed in, bro."

"Dude, I was up in the presidential suite, these guys gave me a tour of the place."

He was so blazed he couldn't sit, stand, walk, or talk straight, but when we got back to the boat he wanted to swim over to the Kriz Kraft to party with our comrades-in-arms. I finally convinced him to hit the rack and, when I was sure he was asleep, jumped in myself and swam over there for a quick visit. Jessica was over there, too, and we had a beer and talked for a while. At first we couldn't figure out why Rand was so roughed up, but we woke the next morning and realized he'd just been narked up on nitrogen from four open water dives in 24 hours, followed by cocktails especiale. Live and learn. Anyway, it didn't stop him from pulling out the deck brush and giving the decks a once over, as he did every morning to start the day.

Abrazo: a crooked seam at the back of a woman's nylon. Hey, get it straight. Abrazo!

Tues. 9 Jan 01, Anegada:

We got up early enough for Rand and Samantha to run ashore and have their dive tickets punched, while Aldo, overhung though he was, was busy making coffee, mixing pancake batter and frying up sausage links for breakfast. And every time Rand or Jeef lit a cigarette Aldo got the dry heaves, he was pretty roughed up from the night before, as were the rest of us. But Jeef got us organized, and we motored out to open water and raised the mainsail and jib, and sailed the 14 miles over to Anegada, seeing a nice Stingray along the way. We would also, the next day, experience a nice Flipper sighting, as a dolphin was nice enough to escort us part of the way back from Anegada. Anyway, we negotiated the shallow reefs well enough to find good anchorage just a duck snort from the dinghy-dock. We paid for a taxi ride over to Loblolly Bay on the other side of the island, and sat waiting for half an hour while Mr. Wheatly waited for the sun and moon to eclipse and all the planets to align before taking us over, and after half a mile one of the 10 Italians in the back called out "Paula!" and we had to go back for Paula, the sole woman in their party. Well, we picked her up and headed back out, and got a full mile before the engine died. Good man Wheatly coaxed it back to life with a whisper and a prayer, and we coasted back to base for a second time, and pulled what can only be described as a full-dress Caribbean fire-drill, piling out of one truck and into the other, and headed out for a third time, and this time actually did complete the twenty minute trip to Loblolly Bay, but only after Jeef lost a fin a.w.o.l. out the side of the truck and had to jump out and run back after the misbehaving apparel. Still, we experienced some of the best snorkeling to date on our trip, and Rand met a fellow Michigan native, a burned-out hippie named Richard who juggled flaming pins and burned carvings into driftwood with a magnifying glass, and Rand bought him a few beers and took over the driftwood concession, burning his lady-friend Gillian a souvenir piece of driftwood with "Wish U Were Here" on one side, and his special signature on the other. Verra nice. Then Jeef played soccer-ball hacky-sack with the Italians while we waited for the return truck for the ride back, battling the no-see-ums while Kristi and I practiced tying sailing knots in a short length of lashing line I'd purloined from the Abrazo!

We dropped everyone off and Jeef, Rand and I took the dinghy back ashore to find us a place to eat, and we wandered into the simplest, quaintest little shack you ever saw, just a big, open, very white, three-walled room with an outside bar and big kettle grill on one side, and a nice man tending the fire, name of Berto, pronounced quickly as "Beddatoe." We asked if he had lobsters and he said he could seat the 6 of us at 8pm, and we were set. We went back and cleaned up, had a few cocktails, and then headed back to Berto's place, actually called Whistling Pines after the beautiful trees that skirt the property and whistle in the breeze. Berto's daughter served bread and butter, and pitchers of water, and his partner Dean ambled over from the bar to take our drink orders. The lobsters were served shortly after, and they were more tender, tasty and delicious than any lobster I have ever eaten before or since, and I grew up in Maine. Berto marinated his lobsters in butter, garlic and wine, and then grilled them perfectly, and served them slathered in that wonderful butter/garlic/wine sauce, and they were mouth-watering and incomparable. These Caribbean lobsters have no claws, but there is more delectable meat in the tails and bodies of these sweet beauties than you could possibly imagine unless you have had them. The baked potatoes, mixed vegetables, salad, and coconut pie (home made and matchless) were fabulous, but really just afterthoughts in comparison to these singular crustaceans. Wow. Rand befriended the two little Chihuahua mixed-breeds that were hanging around the bar, and after dinner Berto and Dean bought us a round on the house and invited us to sign the wall of their bar, as others before us had done. I drew the 2 Idiots logo on the wall and Rand and I signed and dated it, and then Sammy drew ABRAZO beside it, and we all signed that, and got a couple snapshots of all of us beneath the logos. Rand had made fast friends with Berto and Dean, and they promised to visit us next time they got to New York. When we got back in the dinghy we discovered that the French visitors on the Cat next to Abrazo! were partying pretty well. Rand steered near to them to say hello, and it looked like the two women might have been skinny-dipping, so when we got back to Abrazo! Rand dove into the water and swam over to party with them, but found there was nothing much going on, and quickly returned.

Wed., 10 Jan 01, Jost Van Dyke:

We weighed anchor and motored out of the harbor at West End, Anegada, finding and staying between the buoys as we went, Rand at the helm as we left the site of perhaps the best meal of our lives behind us. When we cleared the channel we raised the mainsail and unfurled the jib, and had very little wind coming at us from a beam reach as we made our way across the open water toward Jost Van Dyke. I trimmed the sails and picked up as much wind as we could, but it was only 4 knots coming from the east, and Rand set the auto pilot and held to our course. After a time I offered to take the helm and steer us by hand, and Rand slid over and let me drive. I learned quickly, and with the advice of Jeff and Alex, to steer by sight rather than attempt to maintain a compass bearing, due to the time differential in the boat's reaction to the rudder. I was tacking back and forth, losing all the wind until Jeff directed my course and Alex suggested that I pick a landmark on the horizon and line it up with the forestay, and steer by that alone. Once I used that technique everything went smoothly and the boat held both course and wind beautifully (what precious little there was), and we were living large and loving life, sailing across the most beautiful expanse of island-specked water with nary a care in the world. When we lost the wind entirely we powered up the screws and did some motor-sailing, attaining a whopping 5 knots with the screws churning and sails up. I relinquished the helm in order to nap on the trampoline, and when we reached Jost Van Dyke we anchored at Sandy Cay and Sammy hauled out the Frisbee, and Sammy, Aldo, Rand, Jeef and I took turns tossing it from the dinghy while we jumped from the canopy to catch it in midair, and Kristi snapped some pictures of our antics before joining us in the drink. Then we did some diving off the canopy, and Aldo threw his first back flip ever, and a good one it was, and followed it with a series of increasingly excellent back flips, he was on a roll (pun fully etc.).

There's reportedly good diving around the point at Sandy Cay, and we were supposed to dive it today, but once again are behind schedule and must pass up the opportunity. At 4pm we motored into Great Harbour and dropped anchor not far from Foxy's, where we will surely head for cocktails after Alex's wonderful dinner of shrimp, marinated in teriyaki sauce and garlic, sautéed in a skillet and served over white rice with sautéed onions and red bell peppers, likewise marinated in teriyaki and garlic, and heads of broccoli, followed by a simple salad of sliced red tomatoes marinated in Basil olive oil and Balsamic vinegar. You cannot imagine a more wonderful repast while sitting in the cockpit of our by-now beloved Abrazo!, anchored in Great Harbour at Jost Van Dyke and loving life very much. Doesn't suck to be us right now. We are once again indebted to Alex for his culinary tastes and expert preparation. After dinner we kick back with some tunes and cocktails, and after just the right amount of time we motor over to the dinghy-dock and walk over to Foxy's for a looksee at the huge crowd diggin' on the reggae band that in truth consisted of one guy with a Strat (c.f., Fender Stratocaster) and mike, mixing board and sixteen synthesizers, and some idiot standing next to him on stage, just dancing, but this guy was making it happen and it sounded great. We had some cocktails there and read the race results from Foxy's annual regattas, going back to 1974, in every size and category, which were etched onto great teak plaques overhanging the patio deck. We left Foxy's for a little reconnoitering down the beach, where we found Ruby's and Paradise Club, both empty and closed down, probably in deference to Foxy's immense popularity on this particular night, and Ali Baba's, where there are old Lady Liberty silver dollars embedded in the bar, and proprietor Bobby hooked us up with nice cocktails and a little local history, and even extended the courtesy of the key to the restrooms long after he'd himself closed down, as we were hanging on the beach in front of his place. And there was the Christmas tree out front of Paradise Club, a tall pine with Christmas ornaments tied to the branches, but the ornaments were worth the price of admission: they weren't real Christmas ornaments at all, but just old empty bottles and cans, some of them hysterical, as the empty Clorox bottle, assorted bottles and cans of beer, a shaker bottle of Tabasco Sauce, and the coup de gras, the star at the top of the tree was an empty spray can of Off! And to complete the illusion, there was a gift under the tree, an authentic bottle of Pusser's Rum from Pusser's Landing at Soper's Hole, with a ribbon tied about the neck. Rand used the public phone out front of the police station to call Gillian, putting us all on to say hi to her, and then we all motored back in the ding and hung out on the tramps for a while, before cashing in.

Abrazo: getting busted with the field glasses spying on other boats by someone else with glasses spying on yours.

Thurs. 11 Jan 01, Pelican Island, The Indians:

We rose very early this morning (actually Jeef and Kristi and Aldo and Slammy rose early, and motored us out toward Soper's Hole on the southwest tip of Tortola while Rand and I slept an extra hour) and we docked and re-filled the water tanks while Aldo and Slammy cooked up a provision list. I ran those two over to the Jolly Roger for breakfast, as Aldo wanted to revisit an old stomping ground--he had been there on the second leg of the Out Of Bounds trip around the world, and had met the proprietor, Lou, who had been most hospitable and helpful at that time. I ran the ding back to Pusser's Landing and met Rand at the Ample Hamper, where he had just about finished provisioning with the money Aldo Ray had given him from the kitty. We got back to the boat, picked up Aldo and Slammy from the Jolly Roger Inn, and motored across to Pelican Island, just northwest of Norman Island, where we motored around a bit, looking for a proper mooring ball, as these coral reefs are protected and anchoring is prohibited. Matter of fact, certain colored mooring balls are designated for mooring only, while others are designated for mooring and diving, with a one hour time limit specified. While Sammy was busy scouring the area for available mooring balls Jeff and Alex quickly found one, and snagged it and tied on before you could say "got it!" Jeef stepped out from behind the helm and took up the glasses to scope out the area when all the sudden Sammy steps out and calls "there's a mooring ball over there!" We all agreed that there was, indeed, a mooring ball toward where she was pointing.

"Let's take that one," Sammy persisted, and the rest of us exchanged perplexed glances, and someone checked her coffee cup for alcohol.

"Jeef, there's one right there," she kept calling, pointing to the vacant mooring ball.

"Sammy," Alex said to her, "we're already moored."

"Oh, we are?" she said, to which the rest of us, and even Sammy herself, had a nice little chuckle.

Another sailboat approached, and began dropping anchor, and Rand called out "Are you aware this is a no-anchor zone?" in response to which he received some blank stares and probably unprintable gestures. Ten minutes later Rand was in his scuba gear and about to dive from our boat, when someone suggested that the guys on that other boat were probably thinking "Excuse me, are you aware that is a no-diving ball you are moored to?" Pretty funny group, that Abrazo! crew. Anyway, we all dove the Indians, a beautiful series of rock formations that go down to about 60 feet. I went down too fast, all excited to dive again, and ran out of air too quickly because my dive rig that I'd brought over to the dive shop for an overhaul had a slow leak in the pressure gauge hose. Mannnn! We'd started with 3000 psi and I was down to 1500 psi while Jeef still had 2200, so I figured I'd need the other half to get the rest of the way back, and wanted to give myself enough time for a 3 or 4 minute safety stop at 15 feet, so I wrote on my slate that I was going straight up to for a safety stop, and pointed to my pressure gauge, and headed up. Turned out I had enough air left to have taken my time getting back, so I left too soon and made Rand, Jeff and Kristi come back a little too soon as well. Sorry about that, guys. Anyway, after that Alex and Sammy dove, as we were sharing rigs, and when they resurfaced we all motored over to Norman Island, anchored at the Bight, and bought nicely crafted jewelry handmade by Pearline, who came alongside in her dinghy to peddle her wares. I bought a choker for myself that she'd made of hematite (volcanic rock); I put it on once, it's been on me since, and it ain't comin' off 'til it falls off or breaks. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

While I was sitting on the bow pulpit, just taking in the scenery, a guy drifted by in a tender, a twenty foot dinghy with a 90 hp engine, a steering station and a ski deck off the stern, and I waved at him and said hello. He was looking at our Cat and asked how long she was, and some of the specifics, and I gave him what I knew. He was very friendly, and one discussion led to another, and turns out his name is Joe and he is the captain of a hundred-plus foot mega-yacht anchored at the mouth of the Bight. He's got his 3,000 ton license, been skippering vessels for 16 years, and makes his home out west six months a year, on a little ranch in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. He saw the scuba tanks strapped to our lifelines and asked if we'd been diving, and we told him we had, and I asked whether the dive shop we'd refill the bottles at might be able to repair my leaking pressure gauge. He said they probably couldn't, but that he might be able to, and invited us to load our 6 bottles into our ding, grab my diving rig, and follow him over, and he'd fill our bottles and have a look at my rig. Solid! We did so, although calling his vessel a boat is like calling the World Trade Center a high-rise; it's more like a private country with a hull. Rand and I followed Joe past the compressor, into the engine room, and we looked around in awe.

"Holy smokes!" I said. "Don't touch anything," and Rand agreed. Everything in that engine room had a label, and even the labels had labels.

Anyway, Joe filled four of our six tanks before he had to outfit his own tender to take his crew out for a night dive at the Indians. But he said he'd refill the last two and bring them over in the tender after his dive. This is one nice guy. He also changed the O-ring on my rig, but the leak was actually caused by a scored thread on the gauge itself and we were unable to seat it properly. No problem, I'll just use another rig and pop my dive computer into the console when I go down. Meanwhile, Joe did indeed return the bottles after his dive, and we invited him to join us for some dinner and drinks. We were cranking some Allman Brothers over the stereo and Joe caught hold of that groove, and we discovered that we both play and sing. He said he had a couple guitars on the boat and I invited him to fetch them and come by for a jam. Meantime, Slammy's cousin Andrew had swum by from the Kriz Kraft for a beer, and invited me to come back to the Gif Caribe for some fine, pre-dinner appetizers, which I promptly, er reluctantly, agreed to, forthwith. I loaded him into the ding and brought him back home, and he served up the most righteous appetizers, ladies and gentlemen, and you could look it up. On the way back to Abrazo! in the ding I stopped thirty yards off the stern and pushed the tiller full to starboard, throwing the ding into a long, intense series of tight corkscrews, like spinning doughnuts in the snow in the high school parking lot. Abrazo! Our crew saw me doing that and gathered in the cockpit to watch my antics, cheering me the whole way, and then I finally came back aboard for a dinner of al dente spaghetti and Slammin Sammy's famous sauce, which I can truly say is the only marinara sauce I have ever tasted that I would rather have than my own. (Must be the Calamata olives, Sammy.) Shortly after dinner, the mix of cocktails and appetizers, combined with the nitrogen from the day's dive, cashed me out quickly. I fell asleep on the tramp and was out for the count. I heard the partying going on while I recharged, and Rand and Jeef came by to tell me that Joe was topside with his axe, and the boys from the Kriz Kraft too, and I could hear them jammin, kicking up a storm, but I was spent. About an hour later Rand came down to ask me the words to "Landslide" and I couldn't even get the melody into my head. I dozed another few minutes and then shook myself loose from my stupor and climbed back into the cockpit where I was just in time to join in a nice rendition of Stevie Nicks' great classic, and this time I managed to get both the lyrics and the Travis-picking right, and we pulled it off neatly, with Joe accompanying on both chords and harmonies. Verra nice. We jammed a couple hours, every twenty minutes or so hearing Rand's bellow from the roof of the Willy-T calling "Abrazo!" as he grabbed his shorts in one hand and did a naked, full chest flop into the drink with his dinghy flashing and barnacles flailing. Wrecked his shoulder a bit on one of those drunken plunges, but oh well. After that Joe packed up his box and shoved off for the night, and Rand got a lift back to the boat in the Rhumb Line's dinghy, with Bill and Gretchen, and in his inebriated state he had some trouble negotiating the transfer of his personal self from the ding to the Cat, but when I tried to help him aboard he wanted none of it.

"Don't finger me!" were his exact words, and we're still not sure what it means, but it's funny as hell, and we're still using it. Anyway, I punched my ticket after that and cashed myself in for the count, after setting the alarms on my Palm Pilot and Casio watch for an 8a.m. wakeup for the dive at Salt Island.

Abrazo: Diving naked thirty-five times off the roof of the Willy-T for free tee-shirts only to find out later it only applies to women!

Fri. 12 Jan 01, Peter Island:

Woke at 8 as planned and tapped on Jeef's stateroom door to wake him up.

Tap-ta-rap-rap.

"Yo," he called out.

"8 o'clock wake up," I said softly, so as not to rouse everyone else unnecessarily.

"Check," he said, and I went up front and readied to lift off the mooring ball and motor out to Salt Island to dive the wreck of Rhone. On the way over, Sammy made up the most special lunch you've ever heard of, name of Pineapple Specials, a little treat her mom used to make for her when she was a kid. To hear it described you might not think so much, but check this out: toasted English muffin, a generous layer of mayonaisse, thick slice of fresh pineapple, several rashers of crisply grilled bacon, topped with melted cheddar. Are you kidding me? When she told me what was on it I had my doubts, but WOW!, this is some treat, you won't believe it 'till you try it. Do yourself a favor and make one up, you won't be disappointed, and full compliments to Sammy & her Mom. Meanwhile, we reached the site of the R.M.S. Rhone, a Royal Mail Steamer that was anchored outside Great Harbour, Peter Island, on October 29, 1867, taking on cargo and provisions for the return voyage to Britain. A great storm blew and the Rhone was forced onto the rocks at Salt Island where she heeled over, broke in two, and sank instantly, taking all hands with her save the ship's steward, who was aloft in the crow's nest. We picked up a mooring ball close to the barrel which marks the wreck site, with Jeef steering us in and myself reaching down with the telescoping hook to snatch up the eyelet and lash it to our lead with a good firm bowline, which Alex had shown me a great, fast way to tie, and in less time than it took to sneeze we were firmly moored.

Joe pulled alongside in his tender and lent our dive party some gear, and we followed his group down the mooring line to the bow of the Rhone, its midsection resting in 80 feet of water, its iron superstructure a hallowed, sacred reminder of the power and beauty of nature's unforgiving burial ground at the bottom of the sea.

After the dive, to 80 feet for 25 minutes, we surfaced and had some finger sangwiches (sic) and soup, and chilled for a couple hours while out-gassing. Joe came by after a safe surface interval and led another group of divers, including Alex, Samantha, Kristi, and Chris and Andrew Kriz, down to the stern section, which rested a short distance away in shallower water, while Jeef took the ding for provisions on Norman Island, and Rand and I lounged on the tramps with cocktails and Bernard Moitessier's "The Long Way," gifts to both of us from Gillian. We talked about sailing and read about sailing and actually were sailing, so it was a pretty cool moment, really. Steve came over from the Kriz Kraft, and we talked sailing with him for a little while, and then we began seeing bubbles from our divers' safety stops just below the mooring ball, and Jeef returned in the ding at exactly the same time. Joe brought around the tender and we returned all his gear, and made arrangements to pull our rig alongside his big boat for a refill on the water tanks, necessary after we'd refilled the tank yesterday morning and then someone left the kitchen tap on during our little party last night and cashed our tank bone dry. We motored over to his big rig, dropped the fenders over the side and threw up a couple spring lines, and Joe lowered a hose from his water tank, allowing us to fill ours, which took longer than we'd expected, though we couldn't figure out why, but it gave us an opportunity to talk about life a little bit, resting on the decks of our respective vessels. I said I was gonna go visit him out west.

"Bring your snowboard," he said.

"No way, you board?"

"You bet, he said. You?"

"Dude," I said, "I grew up in Maine, skiing, but since I discovered snowboarding in '94 I haven't been back on skis."

"Great," he agreed. "You got a saddle?"

"Nope," I said, "but I know how to use one. Been riding all my life."

"Great," he said, "I've got Morgans."

Nice!

We mentioned getting together later that night for another jam session, although Joe said he might not be able to make it as he had some things to take care of, and I didn't ask her name. The water tank finally topped off, and I pulled the hose and returned it to Joe, and we motored back to the anchorage, to where the Kriz Kraft had moored, just off Great Harbour on Peter Island, and lay low for a short bit, and then Jeef came topside, laughing.

"What's up?" I asked.

"We just found out why it took so long to fill the water tank," he said, a huge grin pasted to his face.

"Is that right?"

"Shoot," he said, "the whole time we were trying to fill the tank Kristi and Sammy were down in the heads taking showers!"

Opportunism on the high seas. Well, we had a pretty good laugh at that, too.

An hour later three of the crew from the big boat, Karen, Tim and Mick, idled up to Abrazo and hailed me to the side.

"Ahoy, mates," I said, taking their line, and then Mick handed me up Joe's Gibson over the side.

"What's this?" I said. "Where's Joe?"

"He's got some plans tonight," Mick said, "but he wanted you to have it for the jam."

I told you this was one great guy.

"Wow," I said. "Unbelievable. Thanks, guys."

"No worries, mate," Mick said, "we'll see you after dinner."

So those guys all went to dinner while Rand and I cleaned up a bit. They went on shore to some prix fixe arrangement which Rand and I opted out of. Instead, I took a shower out on the stern deck, with the fresh-water hose and Aldo's soap, which he has been lending me the whole trip, and the soap, naturally, went into the drink. I went in after it but too late, the soap was a goner. I would have to tell Aldo and Sammy the bad news when they returned. Anyway, Rand and I took the ding in the opposite direction down the bay to where Aldo Ray had told me we could get a much less expensive meal, maybe even a pizza. We beached the ding and tied her to a tree, then followed Aldo's directions through the woods, down the beach, over the hill and down the road toward the little restaurant where they play a great six-piece island band and serve pint-tall cocktails and pizza in every combination. After only a few steps one of those little golf carts pulled up and a very nice man named Ali invited us in for a lift. Turns out he works for the company that manages many of the resorts and restaurants on these islands. Anyway, he dropped us off and we ordered the shrimp and asparagus pizza and kicked back, talking about women and sailing and diving and no-decompression limits (but not necessarily in that order). When we had finished we walked back toward the ding and hadn't gone fifteen steps before Ali showed up in his golf cart again and brought us back to base one. We hiked again back toward the ding, made a wrong turn through some local's property and received a stern but friendly warning that the beach was in the other direction, which helped us right ourselves and find the way back through the dark.

We hopped into the ding and motored back to Abrazo, and I pulled out Joe's Gibson and began playing out in the cockpit, sharing the moon and a nice Heineken with my good buddy Randall McDaniel. The gang from the Kriz Kraft were back aboard the Gif Caribe, and heard me singing and playing out on deck. They called on me to motor over and join them, which I did, as Rand was cashed in for the night. We hung in the cockpit, talking and singing and playing, and after an hour or so the big tender idled over and Joe and Karen jumped aboard and Joe and I played and sang for another couple hours, enjoying the hell out of this beautiful, quiet cove out in the middle of Utopia. By the time it was 2 a.m. I was pretty well cashed in myself, and headed back to the Abrazo. I had Joe idle over in the tender as I wanted to give him my Traffic cd, John Barleycorn Must Die, as he'd been working out the tabulature for the song but couldn't get a couple of the parts right. I told him I had the cd over on Abrazo so he said if I lent it to him overnight he'd be back in the morning with the whole song worked out. I gave him that one, plus some others I knew he'd have trouble finding out here in Utopia, like John Lennon's Imagine, Leo Kottke's 6- and 12-String Guitar, the Allman Brothers Decade, and the coup de gras, Led Zeppelin (the first and greatest). He said he'd bring them back in the morning, but I told him we'd be gone by then, I wanted him to keep them. He resisted, trying to hand them back, but I told him it was actually a selfish gift on my part, as I would now be able to go back to my own little corner of the world knowing that somewhere out on the seven seas my new friend would be kicking to the tunes I'd left him. That's gonna give me more pleasure than he's gonna get from the listening. Fair enough, he agreed, and we parted ways for the time being. But I know we'll be in touch, and one of these days he'll be in New York or I'll be out west, or both, and who knows, maybe we'll even sail together some time. You could do a lot worse than sailing with a good salt like Joe who's been doing it all his life and probably already forgotten more about sailing and seamanship than I may ever hope to learn.

Abrazo: the little squiggly nubs of saran wrap knotted at each end of an Italian sausage or Mozzarella cheese.

Sat., 13 Jan 01, The Baths, Virgin Gorda:

I slept out on the tramp last night, the moon and stars too alluring to ignore, and I couldn't bring myself to lock up below-decks in the stateroom, as I like to call it, though it is nothing more than a V-berth down forward in the starboard hull. I fell asleep watching the moon shine down into my life, and all the magic planets we call stars, aligned in their heavenly manner and grouped by the constellations as we have named them: Orion and his belt, the bears (dippers)--Ursa Major and Minor, the Greater and Lesser Dogs--Canis Major and Minor, Monoceros (the Unicorn), Taurus the Bull, Eridanus the River, Lepus the Hare, Gemini, and, fittingly, the sailing stars, Puppis (Stern), Vela (Sail), Carina (Keel), Antila (Air Pump), as well as Hydra (Sea Serpent), Volans (Flying Fish), Centaurus (the Centaur) Columba (Dove), Draco (Dragon), Cepheus (King), Cassiopeia (Queen), Perseus, and Pegasus, the beautiful winged horse. They shine down from Olympus, reminding me that ages and ages past my forefathers and their forefathers before them lay also beneath these sparkling monuments, inventing heroic names to match their perfect beauty, unrivaled in the vast universe, and ages hence when I have long been gone they will continue to shine down, reminders that we are forever humbled by their power and immortality.

I was roused, but not really awakened, at 7:30 a.m. when Jeef kicked over the screws and released the mooring ball, motoring us toward the Baths at the west end of Virgin Gorda, wanting to get an early start in order to snag a mooring ball before they were all taken, as this area is a protected landmark, and anchoring is expressly prohibited. I slept through most of that, and even had my ass slapped by some errant waves, and slept through that as well, merely adjusting my sheets to keep the wind and sun out of my eyes. When I finally came 'round it was 9:30 and we were nearly to the Baths, the famous rock caverns that invite you to hike through and sample the rushing warm springs and virgin sand beaches that are unduplicated anywhere in the world. Aldo had cooked up some of his by-now famous scrambled eggs with bacon and toasted English muffins, and saved me a generous helping warming in the oven down in the galley. Verra nice.

We reached the Baths and did, indeed, find a mooring ball available (but only one!) due to Jeef's excellent foresight (something we were getting used to on this trip, as time after time he had pegged the proper route for us to take, or anchorage to lay overnight, or restaurant to eat at). His BVI experience (he'd chartered here thrice previous to this) combined with the fact that Alex and he had sailed around the world on Out Of Bounds, made for a thoroughly enjoyable, in-depth learning experience. He and Alex are expert sailors, and at every turn provided Rand and me with incredible instruction in every facet of the experience, from checking the fuel and filling the water tanks to cranking the screws and docking the big Cat, each of which they permitted Rand and me to execute ourselves for the experience.

Anyway, we picked up a ball at the Baths and watched in amazement as a middle-aged mother and her two grown children jumped off their boat with masks, fins & snorkels. They swam past our boat, and nobody said anything, but we watched Sammy's dazed expression, which seemed to be saying "Are you kidding me!" Fact is we saw many people out in the islands who oughtn't to have been wearing Speedo's, but none more than this lady, 'nuff said. Not only that, but she swam like a St. Bernard trying to scratch its belly with a hind leg. We restrained ourselves pretty well, but someone broke the seal, with "Careful, it's gonna beach itself!" and the floodgates were opened. "Drag it back to sea...keep the blow-hole clear...the kids'll be poking it with sticks," were just some of the indelicate remarks that were heard emanating from the cockpit of the Abrazo. Then, to top it all off, the old bat was swimming straight for the rocks, with the surf pounding and the swells fierce rush threatening to do some real harm. Her kids got her out of there, and we all breathed a little easier.

After that we took the ding into shore, riding it to the beach and making an amphibious landing to rival any of those at Normandy or Guadal Canal, as the surf was strong, one wave crashing to the beach as it's predecessor ebbed back out, creating a very difficult arrangement for beaching a dinghy loaded to the gills with six people and their gear. Alex and I were at the bow, and he told us "This has to be fast, we won't have any time once we hit," and he couldn't have been more right. I pulled the beer cooler up firmly onto my shoulder and stood holding the trip line, with one foot on the edge of the bow and one on the deck, ready to jump out when we landed. "Now!" he called, as the boat hit the beach, Jeef cut the motor and pulled it out of the water, and then we hit hard and I was flung backward onto the deck, crashing into Sammy as Rand was jettisoned over the side like Wiley E. Coyote being shot from one of those ACME slingshots. Only Aldo and Jeef came through it unscathed, as they'd beached many a ding during their Out Of Bounds days, and had it down cold from soup to nuts. The rest of us, well, we'll need some more practice, I guess. Anyway, we pulled the ding on shore and tied it to a tree before hiking to the beach and climbing into the caves. I quickly and easily located the place Gemma and I had visited in '87, although time and erosion had changed it's prominence in the great scheme of things, and it was now completely overgrown with roots and there was no longer any water flowing there.

Alex, Sam and I let the others go ahead while we found a nice little cubby hole off the beaten path to sit down, open a few Heinekens from the cooler I was carrying, and have some of the appetizers I'd brought along, which we ingested thankfully there in the privacy of our own little nook. Alex was exploring a little, and he found a treasure trove up above us, and around a corner. There, resting on a flat rock, he found a St. Thomas Ironman Triathalon coffee mug containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, and disposable razor, and beside them a paperback book, by the author of Dynasty. Below that were the accoutrements of a castaway's existence, including a zip-lock bag containing three small boxes of matches, the bag long corroded and insect-ridden, and in one corner the remnants of a fire, the tinder and flat boards half burned and then burned out, and a pair of running shoes long now abandoned, pinned beneath the rocks in a permanent resting place. Whomever had lived here, he had stayed some time and then left and never returned, leaving his belongings for us to find and remember him by. We left everything untouched, exactly as we had found it, and named the historic site "Castaway Cave," and will visit it again whenever we return to the Baths, as only the three of us know where it may be found.

When we again rejoined our party, we hiked through the caves, bending low at one point to hike under a low branch and it turns out someone must have known we were coming, as Rand called out "Jeef, you've been here already!" and we turned to see his name "JEF" carved into the side of the limb. We found a nice deserted beach, where we body-surfed, and challenged each other to remain stationary in the sand against the churning tide. Jeef won that contest. Then Rand found the V-hole, an inverted, V-shaped rock formation that led from the cove to the beach. The water would rush through the hole and up the beach, and then rush back down again, and Rand would run down with it and wait for the incoming rush, then retreat just before he would be swallowed by the wave. I joined him in this game, and Jeef soon followed, and the three of us were running up and down into the V-hole, screaming "Abrazo!" and retreating from the cave like Harrison Ford outrunning the giant boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Then Aldo and I walked around the rocks to the other beach, and before long we saw Rand and Jeef out in the open water, on the far side of the V-hole, and one at a time they were catching the wave and riding it into the V-hole, up into the rocky crevice and, miraculously, back out again, riding the whole wave in, up, down, and out again, Abrazo! Of course, this was very dangerous, as the crevice was fairly narrow, the rocks craggy, and the waves rush quite powerful. But they were like a couple of kids doing what they weren't supposed to be doing, and Jeef said later he half expected his father to come out yelling "hey, you kids, stop doing that!" A fine Abrazo! moment.

Sun., 14 Jan 01, Cooper Island:

After our frolic, we climbed the steep, seemingly endless pathway to the Top Of The Baths, a little plaza of shops and a nice restaurant, where we swam in the refreshing freshwater pool and Natasha brought us blended daiquiris and lunch entrees. We snagged a taxi-van into Spanish Town to re-provision, and I tried to call my Dad to wish him a happy birthday, but couldn't get through to a AT&T operator, credit card calls only, but I didn't have mine on shore. I remembered the little mall at the marina, however, as Gemma and I had been there in '87 for a big parking lot kettle-steel party, and the supermarket and shops, and Dive BVI shop were all familiar, as well. We cabbed it back to the beach and dinghied it back to Abrazo!, and were back under weigh, headed toward Cooper Island, where we dropped anchor at Manchioneel Bay, a beautiful, palm lined beach with the lights of Road Town coming at us, where we could lay low for our last night aboard the Abrazo! Aldo cooked up the rest of our food, which consisted of cheeseburgers and mac & cheese, grilling the burgers on the little hibachi attached to the port-side stern pulpit, and donated two of them to the local marine life when it turned out he was using the spatula without the special stern-pulpit Ginsu-finger attachments for flipping burgers. We drank up the rest of the cocktail mixings, which consisted of Absolute Bloody Mary's (with the Habanero Bloody Mary Mix we'd purchased at the Ample Hamper at Soper's Hole), Absolute & Cokes, Absolute & Ginger, and Absolute shooters, yipee-kiyay! We cashed in for the night, Rand and I opting one last night to sleep out on the trampolines under the stars. His particular rig was more comfortable as he'd pulled the mattress from his V-berth up onto the tramp. Myself, sleeping on the tramp was all I wanted, with a pillow and a sheet and the whole of the heavens above me. That turned out to be a little too much heavens, though, as around 3am I felt some raindrops and woke to a small rain shower. Rand woke too, and I was thinking these things sometimes pass very quickly, but sometimes do not. When the drops started coming larger and faster, I began gathering my gear for a hasty retreat.

"This might blow over," Rand said.

"You're probably right," I agreed, as I scooped up my rig and disappeared down the hatch like Bugs Bunny leaving Elmer Fudd with a lit stick of dynamite. Half a minute later the clouds opened up and poured 10 days worth of rain onto poor ole Randall McDaniell, laying out under the worst of it with his mattress, pillows, sheets, and whatever was left of his conviction. Another minute after that and Jeef and Kristi, Aldo, Sammy and I were all gathered in the saloon below-decks, dogging all the hatches and wondering how long Rand was going to take to figure out this actually might not blow over. Abrazo!

We woke in the morning to a beautiful, sunny last day, and began the arduous process of consuming the rest of the beer so as not to incur a stupid tax for leaving it on board when we departed. Rand, Aldo Ray and Slammy took the dinghy and snorkeld beyond the reef, and had what was perhaps the best dive of the trip, scuba or otherwise, when they saw a giant puffer fish, two octopi, and, for the coup de gras, what Rand described as an 8-foot, black-tipped shark, but was really just Schmoopy, the little Jack Russell terrier from the sloop next to ours, who'd jumped in after the dinghy and followed them to the reef. Well, it's hard to see under three feet of water, what with the mask and all.

When they returned we had just enough time to pack and motor back across Sir Francis Drake Channel to Beef Island, Tortola, to return the Abrazo! to Tradewind Yachts. Rand and I had the early flight, so we said our heartfelt good-byes and climbed back ashore, not looking back as we headed down the pier toward the taxi-van that awaited to take us to Beef Island Airport, and the journey home. We'd had the vacation of our lives, shared with new friends whose company alone was worth the price of admission, and gained knowledge and experience incalculable and invaluable from a couple of sailors who've done what we hope ourselves to do: circumnavigate the globe. Verra nice. We've made great strides in our sailing careers, and we've made friends for life with people we'd sail with again, any time, any place, any boat.

And take it from me, so would you.

P.S. Oh yeah, and during our 2 hour layover in San Juan on the way home we got to see the Giants open a big ole can of whup-ass on the Vikings for a ticket to the SuperBowl and some nice little payback for 90 seconds of shame in the '97 playoffs. Verra nice, indeed.

G.D. Peters

2 Idiots In A Boat

Wed. 17 Jan 01, New York