Because we spent more time in the U.S. Virgins
than we’d originally anticipated, our time in the
British Virgins was limited. We needed to be in
Saint Martin/Sint Maartin (the French and Dutch
spellings of the same small island, more on that
in a later installment) by Saturday, April 30. Our
friends from Coronado, Missy and Lindsey Cook,
would be flying in that day to spend a week with
us, and it wouldn’t be polite to not be there to
meet them at the airport. The BVI was our
staging point to wait for a favorable weather
window for the 80-mile trip across the Anegada
Passage to this next destination. We hope to
spend more time here on our way back to St.
Thomas in June, toward the end of our trip.
We left Caneel Bay, St. John, mid-afternoon on
Wednesday, April 10, and arrived in Soper’s
Hole, West End, Tortola, about 5:00 pm.
than we’d originally anticipated, our time in the
British Virgins was limited. We needed to be in
Saint Martin/Sint Maartin (the French and Dutch
spellings of the same small island, more on that
in a later installment) by Saturday, April 30. Our
friends from Coronado, Missy and Lindsey Cook,
would be flying in that day to spend a week with
us, and it wouldn’t be polite to not be there to
meet them at the airport. The BVI was our
staging point to wait for a favorable weather
window for the 80-mile trip across the Anegada
Passage to this next destination. We hope to
spend more time here on our way back to St.
Thomas in June, toward the end of our trip.
We left Caneel Bay, St. John, mid-afternoon on
Wednesday, April 10, and arrived in Soper’s
Hole, West End, Tortola, about 5:00 pm.
We picked up a mooring nestled deep into the crook between Tortola and Frenchman’s Cay, where we were
protected from virtually all hazards – wind, waves, wakes – save one. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, clouds
of hungry mosquitoes arose from the nearby mangroves and descended on our anchorage. We doused ourselves
liberally in DEET, but a few of the more determined critters managed to break through our defenses and draw blood.
We retreated from this scene of carnage early the next morning, but spent the next few days hunting down and killing
the uninvited travelers that had settled in on the boat with us, attracted by the nightly fine dining they found aboard.
The next morning, after clearing into Customs and Immigration, we moved to a slip at the Soper’s Hole Marina to
spend one day and night cleaning and provisioning. Since we’d already spent some time on Tortola a few weeks
before, when our neighbors the Lyons were visiting, as well as during previous vacations, we didn’t plan to spend
much time there.
So, on Friday morning we set out to sail to Peter Island, one of the chain of islands paralleling Tortola to the south. It
was a clear, breezy day, and the wind was perfect for a broad reach up the Sir Francis Drake Channel. In fact, we
were moving so well that, as we passed Peter Island to our right, we decided to skip it and sail all the way into North
Sound, Virgin Gorda. We arrived there mid-afternoon and moored off the Bitter End Yacht Club.
North Sound provides its own little cruising ground, with a number of resorts and beaches scattered around it. We
spent two nights at the Bitter End, then moved to Leverick Bay, closer to the entrance to North Sound, for three
nights. We taxi’d into Spanish Town, the primary town on Virgin Gorda, for lunch and sightseeing, and spent a
morning at the Baths, at the other end of Vifgin Gorda, where boulders the size of houses are jumbled together right
on the water, forming a string of small, protected beaches.
Some scenes/observations from our short stay in the BVI:
Getting Used to the Weather: There’s a small but well-stocked market in Soper’s Hole where we did our
provisioning. The day we were in the marina was hot, sticky, and uncharacteristically still, as the trade winds that
normally cool the islands weren't blowing. The air conditioning in the store provided a welcome relief. In shorts and t-
shirts we were comfortable … we could have stayed in there all day. The check-out clerk, however, being reared in
the islands, apparently wasn’t used to such a temperate climate. He manned the cash register wearing a fur-trimmed
parka, zipped to his chin, and with the hood pulled up to protect his ears from frostbite.
Imagination and Names: “Virgin Gorda”’ translates as “Fat Virgin.” An unsual name for an island, one for which we
haven’t heard a satisfactory explanation. Some of the tourist literature claims that it’s because, when viewed from the
water, the island resembles a reclining, Reubenesque woman, but in that event it must have been named by
someone with a far more fanciful imagination than ours. Maybe one of those same 16th century, too-long-at-sea
sailors who also sighted manatees and saw beautiful mermaids? In any event, the central mountain that dominates
the island – her belly – is so rotund and protuberant that she appears more pregnant than fat, although “Virgin
Embarazada” would, of course, be oxymoronic.
To Fuel or Not to Fuel: In the morning on the day we planned to move Dakota Rose over to Leverick Bay, we called
the marina on the VHF radio to confirm that they had a fuel dock, since we needed to fill up with diesel before leaving
for St. Martin. An hour later, when we arrived, we radioed the dock again to request permission to come alongside, at
which point they informed us that they were fresh out of diesel fuel. OK … so we hadn’t asked that specific question
an hour earlier ... when were they expecting more? “Oh, tomorrow mon, for sure.” We called the next afternoon: “Did
the diesel arrive?” No, but, definitely tomorrow. We called the next day: “Do you have diesel?” “Of course we do.” “Do
you have lots, if we wait until tomorrow will you have enough for us?” “Sure mon, we always have diesel!” At this
point, in the interests of maintaining good relations, Steve bit his tongue, thanked them and signed off. The next
morning we called once again for permission to come alongside and fuel up … but, did they have diesel? “No, no
diesel, haven’t had any all week … but, the truck just left Spanish Town [5 miles away] and is on its way ... it will be
here in two hours, no longer.” Two hours went by, then another two, then another … no sign of the truck. So, at 4:30
in the afternoon, Steve accepted the situation, jumped into the dinghy with four jerry jugs and sped across the Sound
to the Bitter End fuel dock, arriving a few minutes before closing time, where he bought 20 gallons for the bargain
price of $3.78 per. After Jay and Steve siphoned the fuel into Dakota Rose’s tank, we were ready to set out. As far as
we know, the truck never did arrive at Leverick Bay that afternoon; it must have been lost in the Bermuda Triangle.
Cost Effectiveness: Maddy has been searching for the most perfect rash guard for weeks, to replace the stretched-
out one she’d been wearing for just a little too long. (Rash guard: a tight-fitting shirt, of stretchy material, worn over
one’s swimsuit to protect against the sun and belly rashes when surfing, snorkeling, and so forth.) In the clothing and
gift store at the Bitter End, we found it, long sleeved, white, with light blue trim, it fit her perfectly. It was, of course,
twice the price of less perfect ones we’d seen in other stores. Steve balked, but was persuaded by Maddy’s
inescapable logic: “Think about how much money this will save us since I’ll use so much less sunscreen when I wear
it!”
Anthropomorphism: There's a tree in the Virgin Islands that the natives call the "Tourist Tree" ... because its bark
is red and peeling.
protected from virtually all hazards – wind, waves, wakes – save one. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, clouds
of hungry mosquitoes arose from the nearby mangroves and descended on our anchorage. We doused ourselves
liberally in DEET, but a few of the more determined critters managed to break through our defenses and draw blood.
We retreated from this scene of carnage early the next morning, but spent the next few days hunting down and killing
the uninvited travelers that had settled in on the boat with us, attracted by the nightly fine dining they found aboard.
The next morning, after clearing into Customs and Immigration, we moved to a slip at the Soper’s Hole Marina to
spend one day and night cleaning and provisioning. Since we’d already spent some time on Tortola a few weeks
before, when our neighbors the Lyons were visiting, as well as during previous vacations, we didn’t plan to spend
much time there.
So, on Friday morning we set out to sail to Peter Island, one of the chain of islands paralleling Tortola to the south. It
was a clear, breezy day, and the wind was perfect for a broad reach up the Sir Francis Drake Channel. In fact, we
were moving so well that, as we passed Peter Island to our right, we decided to skip it and sail all the way into North
Sound, Virgin Gorda. We arrived there mid-afternoon and moored off the Bitter End Yacht Club.
North Sound provides its own little cruising ground, with a number of resorts and beaches scattered around it. We
spent two nights at the Bitter End, then moved to Leverick Bay, closer to the entrance to North Sound, for three
nights. We taxi’d into Spanish Town, the primary town on Virgin Gorda, for lunch and sightseeing, and spent a
morning at the Baths, at the other end of Vifgin Gorda, where boulders the size of houses are jumbled together right
on the water, forming a string of small, protected beaches.
Some scenes/observations from our short stay in the BVI:
Getting Used to the Weather: There’s a small but well-stocked market in Soper’s Hole where we did our
provisioning. The day we were in the marina was hot, sticky, and uncharacteristically still, as the trade winds that
normally cool the islands weren't blowing. The air conditioning in the store provided a welcome relief. In shorts and t-
shirts we were comfortable … we could have stayed in there all day. The check-out clerk, however, being reared in
the islands, apparently wasn’t used to such a temperate climate. He manned the cash register wearing a fur-trimmed
parka, zipped to his chin, and with the hood pulled up to protect his ears from frostbite.
Imagination and Names: “Virgin Gorda”’ translates as “Fat Virgin.” An unsual name for an island, one for which we
haven’t heard a satisfactory explanation. Some of the tourist literature claims that it’s because, when viewed from the
water, the island resembles a reclining, Reubenesque woman, but in that event it must have been named by
someone with a far more fanciful imagination than ours. Maybe one of those same 16th century, too-long-at-sea
sailors who also sighted manatees and saw beautiful mermaids? In any event, the central mountain that dominates
the island – her belly – is so rotund and protuberant that she appears more pregnant than fat, although “Virgin
Embarazada” would, of course, be oxymoronic.
To Fuel or Not to Fuel: In the morning on the day we planned to move Dakota Rose over to Leverick Bay, we called
the marina on the VHF radio to confirm that they had a fuel dock, since we needed to fill up with diesel before leaving
for St. Martin. An hour later, when we arrived, we radioed the dock again to request permission to come alongside, at
which point they informed us that they were fresh out of diesel fuel. OK … so we hadn’t asked that specific question
an hour earlier ... when were they expecting more? “Oh, tomorrow mon, for sure.” We called the next afternoon: “Did
the diesel arrive?” No, but, definitely tomorrow. We called the next day: “Do you have diesel?” “Of course we do.” “Do
you have lots, if we wait until tomorrow will you have enough for us?” “Sure mon, we always have diesel!” At this
point, in the interests of maintaining good relations, Steve bit his tongue, thanked them and signed off. The next
morning we called once again for permission to come alongside and fuel up … but, did they have diesel? “No, no
diesel, haven’t had any all week … but, the truck just left Spanish Town [5 miles away] and is on its way ... it will be
here in two hours, no longer.” Two hours went by, then another two, then another … no sign of the truck. So, at 4:30
in the afternoon, Steve accepted the situation, jumped into the dinghy with four jerry jugs and sped across the Sound
to the Bitter End fuel dock, arriving a few minutes before closing time, where he bought 20 gallons for the bargain
price of $3.78 per. After Jay and Steve siphoned the fuel into Dakota Rose’s tank, we were ready to set out. As far as
we know, the truck never did arrive at Leverick Bay that afternoon; it must have been lost in the Bermuda Triangle.
Cost Effectiveness: Maddy has been searching for the most perfect rash guard for weeks, to replace the stretched-
out one she’d been wearing for just a little too long. (Rash guard: a tight-fitting shirt, of stretchy material, worn over
one’s swimsuit to protect against the sun and belly rashes when surfing, snorkeling, and so forth.) In the clothing and
gift store at the Bitter End, we found it, long sleeved, white, with light blue trim, it fit her perfectly. It was, of course,
twice the price of less perfect ones we’d seen in other stores. Steve balked, but was persuaded by Maddy’s
inescapable logic: “Think about how much money this will save us since I’ll use so much less sunscreen when I wear
it!”
Anthropomorphism: There's a tree in the Virgin Islands that the natives call the "Tourist Tree" ... because its bark
is red and peeling.
British Virgin Islands
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