Marooned

Hurricane season begins today and I’m thinking about two of my favorite old salts, one British, one American. We had lunch a few weeks ago in the British Virgin Islands at a place called Peg Legs at Nanny Cay in Tortola. It was one of those perfect Caribbean days, with a piercing blue sky, and very hot, but with a heavenly breeze in the shade or at sea. It was a good day for sailing—judging from the numerous boats on the water—if, that is, you were lucky enough to have a boat in the water which, at that particular moment, neither of my old salts were.

Old Salt #1, the Brit, was getting close. He was working at the Nanny Cay Marina that day, overseeing a frantic push to get his new boat, a sweet little 31-foot sloop, ready to launch. He had a time slot to splash—put the boat back in the water—late in the afternoon, but the bottom was still being painted, and the new pulpit had to be installed, and a few other odds and ends needed to be repaired, and you were unlikely to get anyone’s undivided attention for more than a few minutes, there was so much to be done, everywhere you looked. There were slips for only a handful of boats in the marina—most of the long finger docks were gone, blown away by Irma and Maria—but the boatyard was packed, injured vessels all around, the smell of fiberglass heavy in the air over a massive nautical triage operation.

In the midst of this enterprise, my old friend still had made time to meet me at the ferry dock in Roadtown that morning, his bright red Mt. Gay cap—the unmistakable mark of a sailor in the Virgin Islands—visible the moment I disembarked. In a different time, I might have teased him for wearing something so new—unweathered hats are for newbies!—but not this year. The red hat was from the annual BVI Spring Regatta, held just a couple weeks prior, and this season no one takes any sailing for granted.

Old Salt #2 was wearing his red hat, too, but his trademark cap was faded, sun- and salt water-bleached to an acid-washed pink. His was from the Sweethearts of the Caribbean race in 2016, not so long ago, but it must have felt like forever to this seasoned sailor who has been landlocked since September 6. His beloved boat of nearly three decades—also his home—sank in Trellis Bay. Some say it was one towering wave that took out the whole lot of sailboats riding out the storm in that cove, an entire fleet submerged or dashed on the rocks by Hurricane Irma in one fell swoop. This friend, the American, had just flown in from the States to look at a potential new boat, but his lead didn’t pan out. For eight months now he’s been looking for a ship, and so far not one of his leads has panned out, disappointment after disappointment piling up on top of the destruction.

We were hunched over the outdoor bar, looking at the water, as Deborah, the bartender, mixed up Dark and Stormys—cocktails of rum and ginger beer—and a reminder of how I first met these two. They were—are—both members of Tortola’s West End Yacht Club, sponsors of the Dark and Stormy Regatta, a three-day race to Anegada. I had planned to sail in the race with a crew from St. John, but our boat ran aground on our way to the starting point. Old Salt #2 invited me to sail with him. I was new to sailing at the time and nervous about racing with strangers, but the captain and his kind, distinguished crew were warm and welcoming. I hopped aboard Old Salt #2’s beautiful sailboat for the race, and met Old Salt #1 when we anchored next to his catamaran in Anegada. That was more than a decade ago, and I thought they were old salts back then. Now both are in their 70s, one just shy of 80.

The last time we all got together for lunch, my father had just died. Old Salt #2 told a story about a long-distance sail during which a sparrow flew aboard and made himself at home. When the little bird died, the crew gave him a proper burial, sending him off to sea in a tiny box with some Eastern Caribbean coins “to pay the toll at the River Styx,” he explained. Old Salt #1 nodded, pointing to the gold stud in his right ear. “That’s why I wear this.” What captain has time to scramble for booty when his ship’s headed for Davy Jones’s locker? Should misfortune strike, he would be ready to meet the man who ferries the souls of the dead to the next world.

Somehow the tenor of the conversation that day was more upbeat than on this sunny day at Peg Legs. It was hard not to compare the current fortunes of these two good men. Old Salt #1—who had sold his boat and business a decade ago to take care of aging parents abroad—was now poised to spend more time on the island where his own children and grandchildren live. Since the two hurricanes, he has bought not only a new boat, but also land. For every person you talk to who’s doing all right, there’s someone sitting next to him who has lost everything.

I suggested a drive over to West End, site of our last lunch and home to their yacht club, but both men demurred. “You don’t want to go there, sweetheart,” said one. The West End of Tortola is the closest point to the East End of St. John, where Coral Bay is, and, like Coral Bay, the West End got decimated. If you look at a map, you can envision Hurricane Irma barreling straight up the Sir Francis Drake Channel, her eye walls crushing the two fragile pieces of land on either side, obliterating the harbors. “Soper’s Hole is a ghost town,” said the other, referring to the lively little port that hosted so many festive post-regatta parties.

Island tour scuttled, I switched topics to the news of Coral Bay, another mixed bag in the sailing department. The massive iron schooner Silver Cloud, a flagship of Coral Bay, had pulled some three dozen boats from the water, and where just a few months ago the shoreline was littered with beached boats, the harbor was now full of floating vessels, albeit many without masts or rigging, including Silver Cloud, who was minus all three of her masts. Some boat owners can’t afford to make the necessary repairs and, in any case, it seems prudent to wait until after this hurricane season to wait and see what happens. More than one sailor confessed to wishing their boat had sunk, the better to spare them the tough decisions, the expense, the mess.

There is plenty of positive news. One couple sails into the harbor with a new boat. A woman with a sailing business also has a new boat. A family who lost everything is now in a bigger, better boat. Another couple is lovingly restoring their boat at Coral Bay Marine, behind the dinghy dock. All signs of hope, like the small shoots of green and red just starting to show on the flamboyant tree over Skinny Legs, which is open, and busy, hosting its annual Kentucky Derby party and a weekly trivia contest. Pickles in Paradise has open mic night. Indigo Grill sponsors a chili cook-off to benefit the Land Conservancy.

In town, the Bajo El Sol gallery opens an exhibit, titled “Aftermath,” including artworks made from reclaimed hurricane debris. The St. John Community Foundation sets up an “Angel” website, profiling hurricane survivors and allowing donors to send them the specific things they need, registry-style. The Hurricane Recovery Choir gives a Motown concert at St. John School of the Arts. Singers who didn’t have sequined dresses or sparkly shoes accessorized with flashy table runners, courtesy of an island wedding planner. A local couple gets married on Jost. Another couple gets engaged.

The Coral Bay Yacht Club met in advance of the Commodore’s Cup race May 5. Is anybody sailing? asked the commodore. I don’t have any sails, replied one member. The annual April flotilla did go on, with one boat. For some Coral Bay sailors, the most recent outing on the water was a memorial for a local man who died in his sleep. One attendee tells me she’s doing fine, she hasn’t cried since the storms, not even at the memorial. Maybe I should work on that, she adds.

Everybody’s fine. Just ask them. The person who no longer goes to the beach he used to love is fine. The person without a kitchen who hasn’t been able to cook a meal in eight months is fine. The person who works hard all day and retreats to his boat by 3 in the afternoon most days is fine. The person who lost her house and her car and her business is smiling and is fine. The indomitable spirit of Coral Bay is just fine, thank you very much.

The yacht club gave away $5,000 in a scholarship contest. Students were asked to write about the hurricanes. There were 10 winners and a pile of rejected essays referred to as “the losers.” “That’s the way I was brought up,” said one judge, with no apologies, after seeing me wince. “This kid wins, that kid loses,” the era of participation trophies notwithstanding. That is the story of the whole island, winners and losers, side by side.

After lunch, Old Salt #1 goes back to work on his boat and I go with Old Salt #2 back to Roadtown, to Village Cay, for more drinks and conch fritters that the waiter insists we have to try. They smell delicious. They are delicious. We don’t need more drinks, but I’m not ready to end my visit and I know my friend is getting antsy so I keep inventing more activities so he’ll stay. Drinking is an activity we can agree on.

We sit in the marina restaurant, overlooking the harbor. Lots of yachties walk through, including boaters who know my captain friend, people who haven’t seen him…since. Our friend is grieving and others stop, briefly, to mourn with him, not just for the loss of a home but possibly the loss of a way of life. People react like anyone offering condolences, with a weird variety of responses, from sincere concern to nervous laughter. Who the hell knows what to say? It’s getting to be too much, this funereal air. Our time is waning. When we finally say goodbye, he is still holding it together, and I am the one sobbing.

***

It took the better part of a day to get back to St. John by ferry and if it wasn’t sailing, at least we were on the water in a fresh breeze.

Old Salt #1 did get his boat launched as planned that Friday afternoon and, two days later, got his first sail on her with his family, one day before he had to go back to England until next season. The boat, by the way, is called Jera, a Celtic word meaning “harvest” or “a good year.”

Old Salt #2 when last we saw him was headed to Virgin Gorda to look at another boat. The name of that boat was Godspeed.