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It was the time of my life. I was 24, part of a crew
delivering a 73-foot race boat named Ballyhoo from England to the Caribbean. She was spectacular: sleek, fast and loaded with gourmet provisions and an incredible on-deck stereo system.
Whenever I could, I’d take the helm and send everyone below, preferring the thrill of being alone on deck. With the Trade Winds at my back, I’d trim the sheet, accelerate from crest to crest, surf the face and rocket under full sails from sunny afternoons into tranquil, star-studded evenings as Steely Dan sound tracked our phosphorescent trail across the Atlantic. I was young enough to believe it was all about the journey — until one morning when we spotted an odd greenish reflection on the underbelly of a cloudbank. Then came a hint of drifting plant life in the water. Then a land bird circled and we caught the faint, sweet fragrance of blossoms. Finally, just like in whaling days, came the shout from the foredeck: Virgins! Virgins Ahead!
It’s been years since that glorious crossing. Married now with two school-age boys, I live on an island in the Pacific Northwest, where we wake to the roar of sea lions and the cranky yodel of roosters as day breaks over the snow-capped Cascades. It’s a good life, if a bit gray and mournful for five months of the year. So when a magazine calls offering Virgins again, I’m not going to lie and say my heart doesn’t skip a beat.
The offer this time involved a 55-foot custom catamaran called The Shellette, with a fully stocked galley, an amiable South African skipper I knew from previous trips, an impressive arsenal of windsurf and snorkel gear, one hull for the boys and one for Beth and me. All we’d have to do was bring our bathing suits. . . and my memories.
Every Man an Island
There are some advantages that come with age. Although the British Virgin Islands are reasonably accessible from East Coast business
for commercial travelers, usually involving a transfer in Miami, St. Thomas or Puerto Rico, the Islands are a really easy hop if you have your own plane. With anything from a King Air to
a G54, it’s just a 1,500-mile straight shot southeast from New York out to the tip of the chain arching up from Venezuela, where the Atlantic rushes through the Anegada Passage.
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