Pre-trip rip.
We are always a little intrigued by this sparkly offer in the San Juan airport. Buy two watches get FOUR free??!! Someday….
Our trip begins with a drive from Bath, Maine to Revere, Massachusetts, just north of Boston and close to Logan Airport. We catch a glimpse of bucolic Casco Bay as we pass Portland, then cross the Piscataquis River into New Hampshire, and proceed to cross through the gates of hell and onto Route One in Peabody, MA. Driving along this stretch of death-ribbon highway dotted with dreaded round-a-bouts, is a terrifying experience. In total darkness, we witnessed a car with no headlights on, being driven at breakneck speeds by a guy who, phone in his face, appeared to be trying to find a date on Tinder. It wasn’t until I was halfway through my second margarita that my heart rate returned to normal.
And how does one keep a straight face while complaining about uncomfortable airline seats? These marvels of modern technology zip us to a dizzying array of points around the globe while we sip ginger ale and eat cookies. We are the masters of the universe. And hey, Delta, my back hurts from your C-shaped medieval torture chair.
I judge the length of layovers in San Juan Airport by the number of empanadas I can eat while there. Sadly, this was only a one empanada stay, and before we knew it, my partner Heather and I touched down in Tortola, British Virgin Islands, our final destination. We’ll be running two week-long SwimVacation trips here aboard a 52-foot catamaran sailboat.
Albert and Iris were waiting for us when we landed, hugs and cabs ready. They brought us to our digs for the night, Hummingbird House, where Richie, Lisa and Danny were waiting by the pool. A soft, lovely landing.
Our crew this week will be my aforementioned partner Heather, swim guide Simon, skipper Richie and Chef Lisa, and deckhand Danny. We all gathered at our temporary digs in Road Town and, after a swim in the pool and a few sodas, made our way to the harbour ( I use a “U” in harbour to make it sound more exotic, and to impress the British members of our crew). Our destination is the Chicken Van, really a collection of food trucks and rum shacks that are the heart and soul of this town. Smoke wafts off the massive grills and up through the swaying palms, coals glowing bright orange as workers chop jerked pork and chicken into pieces easily eaten by hand. Another truck serves corn on the cob, potato salad, and spiced breadfruit mash. As a live band plays island rhythms, children scoot between the picnic tables and old folks sip Carib beers. It’s hot, it’s loud, and it’s one of my favorite places in the whole world to spend a Friday night.
Saturday morning is announced by the roosters that serve as the unofficial National Bird here, and we hit the town to collect provisions for our yacht. We split up, with Heather and I on the hunt for beer, wine, liquor and internet. Richie, Lisa, and Danny went for everything else: food, paper goods, cleaning supplies, non-alcaholic drinks. The provisions fill our rented jeep to the roof, and we unload in the hot sun. I picked up a heavy box thinking I could use a snack and a break, and right at that moment, I heard music. Was I hallucinating, suffering from heat stroke? No, it was an ice cream truck! I lead a truly charmed existence.
As Albert drove us around all day, of course we had to get him an ice cream.
Our yacht, a Lagoon 52 catamaran, is built in France, so they have European power receptacles, so we travel the world with 220 plug power strips, extension cords, kitchen appliance and coffee maker. Whoops, this yacht has American electrical bits. I hit the hardware store for replacements. Sometimes it seems like SwimVacation is mostly about buying coffeemakers. To my count, we have purchased at least 7 in the last 6 years.
The crew worked hard all evening, stashing food, drink, and gear all over the yacht, using all the little compartments hidden under the floor and in cabin walls. I had a couple of pizzas delivered. We agreed that a cocktail was in order, but alas we had no ice yet, so I traded a bottle of wine for a bag of ice from our friendly neighboring yacht. Marinas all over the world have a certain rhythm on Saturday nights. Crews load up their boats, break down cardboard boxes, fret over things they forgot at the grocery store. There’s both a nervous anticipation of the week ahead and a relaxed vibe, music varies from yacht to yacht, depending on the origin of the crews. You can count on Marley and Buffet, regardless. Wine glasses clink, laughter drifts across the harbor. This little marina, on this little island, at the edge of a great big ocean, goes to sleep.
Hopper
Post Script: Heather sold the coffee maker I bought yesterday to the charter company! Demand, meet supply in the form of Heather. She even made an extra buck on it!
A little video of two trucks from which we get delicious island food here on Tortola. Sound on!