Sailing to Paradise

The Voyage of the vintage 1926 Herreshoff staysail schooner 'Mary Rose' from Rhode Island to Tortola, BVI, by way of Bermuda


Part 10, Finale - Tortola at Last – A deflating dinghy – Rum punch and social calls – Island Life – Tropical evening falls – Dinner, Hail and Farewell, and a salute to our Captain

We arrived in Tortola on Saturday morning, December 4, passing between the islands of Jost Van Dyke and Tobago, and then into the passages between the islands to finally moor in Soper’s Hole, a harbor on the western-most end of the big island of Tortola. We were surrounded by islands that are basically steep mountains covered with dense vegetation. Jason and Andy had worked hard the day before to ready the Mary Rose’s old, sun-baked, inflatable dinghy, a thing that looked for all the world as though it had been conceived and built from the sap of the very first rubber tree that grew in Eden. The forward part of it would not hold air for very long, and after Tom, Andy, and Jason had made a valiant attempt at patching its holes, it held air for a little while longer, but still needed occasional re-pressurizing with the foot pump. It looked as though it belonged to one of the natives, or some expatriate down on his luck. On top of that it leaked water, and the hand-pump could not empty it, so the best way to get it dry was to operate it at speed so that its leaky hull would self-bail.
 
The day was warm, the sun strong, the temperature in the mid-80s, with light breezes, low humidity, and happily, no insects. The water was a deep, lovely, clear blue. After the preliminaries of clearing customs, we explored the harbor – with particular attention to its two bars, Pusser’s Café, and the more affordable Jolly Roger, which came alive at night with music and all the local live-aboards including a couple we knew from Bristol, the Knowleses; some folks from New Bedford; we even saw a Swan yacht of mostly jolly Finnish fellows whom we had met in Bermuda come sailing in on Sunday morning. They had left Bermuda the day after we did, on Monday, but encountering lighter airs, they had taken longer to reach Tortola. “When did you get here?” the skipper called out, in perfect English, as they cruised by our mooring on their way to the fuel dock. “Three days ago” I lied, with a straight face, and saw the frowning shadow of consternation fall across his. Jason could not abide my deception, however, and told him the truth, which relieved them somewhat and generated a chuckle all around.

There isn’t much to do in Tortola, or the other islands, beyond pure recreation. Sail, swim, snorkel, eat, drink, socialize, and soak up the sun, dab a little varnish, clean up, visit the grocery store, the fueld and water dock, the chandlery, and the bars. There is no need to be productive in the northern Yankee sense, in fact any sort of productive work ethic is entirely un-cool and generally frowned upon. One may explore, but remember that the roads are poor and generally go around the island perimeters rather than through the steep, hot, mountainous interiors. But in practically every destination, where an anchorage is half-encircled by a pink-sand beach and a few seemingly ramshackle tiki bars and beach hangouts, the food is excellent, the rum punch is marvelous, and the companionship of other cruisers is the real treasure.

In the open-air Jolly Roger bar at night one meets everyone who lives out on a moored or anchored yacht, and who has come ashore for the evening, the dinghy dock crowded with inflatables nose-in and nestled together, waiting obediently at the ends of their painters, ready to head back out into the dark harbor and home aboard once the evening is done. There is laughter; there are friends new and old to meet or become re-acquainted with; the sun sets in a blaze of color, the dark rounded peaks silhouetted against the fiery sunset as the first bright stars peek out of the deep blue that slowly descents in the west with the last curtain-call of the day. Laughter and eager conversations ring out; the aroma of food grilling on the open-air barbecue wafts about, spreading its happy news of steaks and spiny lobster.

It is my last evening in paradise. Tomorrow I will board a plane with my Captain, bound for San Juan, then on to Philadelphia and at last to Providence. Andy will stay behind, in his new job as caretaker of the Mary Rose; Jason will leave in a day or two, after the two guys have explored the island without the old guys looking over their shoulders. I should feel sad, but I do not; too much happiness is welling in my soul. Our voyage was a success; I am with my shipmates and friends with whom I have been through ordeals as well as swell times, adventure and discovery, through the cauldron, through the eye of the needle and have lived not only to tell about it but to savor this moment. Another round of rum punch comes to the table; we three crewmen of the Mary Rose stand and toast our Captain; and suddenly and spontaneously, everyone seated at the tables around us, hearing what we were about and most of them already familiar with our story, rises and joins in, with hearty shouts and earnest well-wishing, much to our delight and surprise. It is the community, the fellowship of cruisers and adventurers, Hermandad de La Mar, the Brotherhood of the Sea. Captain Tom is grinning; this is his moment, saluted by his crew and fellow captains and sailors and bon vivants all encircling. We vow to return again, and to meet again. But for now, we will think only of the joy of this moment; tomorrow is a different day, and by God, it ain’t here yet!