Seeing all this was interesting, but I wasn’t in the mood to hang around this sort of place for long, so I bought some groceries from a giant supermarket with the best variety I’d seen since Mayguez, and headed back to my kayak. I made my way across the harbor, dodging boat traffic until I reached the east side of Hassel Island, where I found a deserted, rocky beach and made a crash landing through the surge. The island was directly beneath the take-off and landing routes of the airliners coming in and out of the St. Thomas airport, but I didn’t care. I had been awake for more than 30 hours, and I fell asleep in my tent despite the hot sun and the screaming jets overhead. I stayed there for two nights, pondering what I would next while I recovered from my exhaustion. The crossing in the yacht from Culebra had further convinced me of the futility of trying to paddle all the way to South America upwind. But now that I was in the Virgin Islands, I was eager to do some exploring. The U.S. and British Virgin Island stretch some 60 miles east from St. Thomas, and there are dozens of small cays scattered among the main islands where I was sure I could find places to camp, even if it was illegal. At least there would be no long crossings, and most of the time I would be able to stay in the lee of some of the islands and avoid the worst of big seas and high winds.
When I left Hassel Island, I headed east along the south coast of St. Thomas. Aside from a few exclusive resorts and extravagant waterfront mansions, this south side of the island was relatively undeveloped. I saw few people other than a nude woman lying in the sun on a private beach. A few miles farther on, at Long Point, I found a small beach under a wooded hill and landed there to set up camp. On the hill above the beach, cattle were grazing and a seldom-used dirt road led away from the coast, but I spent the night with no human interruptions.
The next day I encountered a new danger in the Virgin Islands that I had not seen elsewhere, in the form of large ferry boats that run frequently back and forth between St. Thomas and St. John, cruising at speeds upwards of 40 knots. These boats came upon me suddenly out of nowhere and I had several near misses with them while I was making the crossing from Long Point to St. John. I’m sure the captains of these craft could not see me as my kayak was often awash in waves, and their radar probably couldn’t detect me either. I took a long, circuitous route out of my way to stay out of what appeared to be the busiest lane of traffic between the two islands.
St. John is supposed to be the “nature island” of the Virgin Islands, with most of its land set aside in the Virgin Islands National Park. After the congestion of Charlotte Amalie, I looked forward to seeing such an island. I also hoped to find George Bouillon there, since that’s where Josephine had heard he was working when I was back in Salinas. I paddled into Cruz Bay, on the island’s western end, searching hopefully for Winning Edge among the many yachts anchored there. The Frenchman’s Hunter 27 wasn’t there though, so I paddled ashore and found my way to the park headquarters, where I hoped to get camping information. The brochure given to me by a ranger said that the only two camping areas on the island were on the north coast, privately operated and charging, at the time, $70 per night for a spot to pitch a tent. Unbelievably, despite these prices, the sites were booked 6 months in advance. I would find my own campsites, hiding in the bush. Fred and Mary had told me that the backcountry here was full of half-wild “bush Rastas” that do the same, in spite of park regulations.
Near the waterfront, I spotted one of these true “roots Rastamen,” with real dreadlocks, not the fashionable kind popular with some urban islanders and mainlanders. Real dreadlocks are massive tangles of hair, never groomed or washed, and smeared with cow dung for added repulsion. This Rastaman was whacking the tops off a pile of green coconuts and selling them to passing tourists. When an obviously affluent white couple approached him, the husband raising a camera to get a picture, the Rastaman spat at them and cursed. The Rastas are anti-materialistic, and these rich tourists had made it difficult for them to practice their simple existence due to the inflated prices outside investors had created here. How could a young black islander ever hope to own a house when outsiders had driven the price of land on St. John up to more than $100,000 an acre?
I would side with the Rastas and “lib in de bush” while I was touring this island. Let the Yuppie tourists have their $70 campsites and $300 hotel rooms. I liked the Rastas, the more I learned about them. Their philosophy advocated a return to nature, and a rejection of the possessions most people spend their lives trying to acquire. I knew where they were coming from. Was that not why I sold everything I had and paddled off in a kayak in the first place? The Rastas also had good music. I could appreciate reggae, especially here in the islands that gave birth to it. My tape collection included several reggae groups, and of course music by the great prophet of Rastafarianism, Bob Marley.
As I prepared to leave Cruz Bay to go in search of a place to camp, I was surprised to see two kayaks cruising through the anchorage. I waved frantically at the occupants, holding up my paddle, and when they saw me, they turned and came to the beach. I had hoped that they were fellow sea kayak travelers, but the young man and his girlfriend were actually new residents of St. John and had just received their new kayaks by freight that day. The boats were not touring kayaks, but rather the open cockpit, sit-on-top design intended for day trips and wave surfing. The man explained to me that he had ordered several of the kayaks and intended to start a rental and day-touring service for tourists. When I told him I was thinking about heading out to Lovango Cay, a couple miles to the north, to find a campsite, he wanted to paddle along with me.
Once we left the lee of St. John, we encountered a stiff headwind and steep chop. I expected this guy to be able to paddle circles around me, considering that he had an unloaded boat and a body builder’s physique that include a set of arms that made him look as though he had already paddled 10,000 miles. But surprisingly, he soon dropped hopelessly behind, complaining that his “arms were burning” from the paddling. Looks can be deceiving, I realized, and figured that all the upwind paddling I’d done over the past few months had done me more good than I’d realized. I couldn’t wait for him, as it was getting near dark, so I waved and left him in my wake, continuing on my way to Lovango Cay.
The rocky coast of Lovango didn’t look promising from the south, but surprisingly, on the north end, under a densely forested hillside, there was a broad, sandy beach. Someone had built a small table onto the trunk of a giant tree that shaded the beach, and a fire pit nearby indicated that the beach was occasionally used for camping. Just across a narrow channel of deep water were the rocky cliffs of Congo Cay, and on the west end of the beach beyond where I was camping, the sand ended at the foot of a vertical wall of black rock. On both islands there were numerous small palms of a species I had not seen before, but no coconut palms were in sight. A couple of powerboats anchored briefly for some fishing in the channel between the islands, but no one told me to leave or disturbed me. I got a good night’s rest and woke up new confidence that I would be able to discreetly camp throughout the Virgin Islands.
I crossed back to St. John the next morning, planning to circle it from the north and go on to Coral Bay, on the east side, where Fred and Mary normally stay when they’re in the Virgin Islands, and where I hoped to find George. Along the way, I planned to stop off on the beach at Trunk Bay, reputed to be “one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world,” and take some pictures. As I neared this famous beach around 9:00 a.m. in the morning, I noticed a line of buoys roped together, blocking my entrance to shore, each lettered with the warning: “No Boats.” The beach beyond was beautiful all right – a long gentle crescent of white sand, shaded by a grove of lush coconut palms that gave way to even greener hills rising inland to the interior of the national park. I wanted to get a closer look, despite the signs, so I paddled over the ropes and headed for the beach. There was already a crowd, even at this hour, and many of the beachgoers looked and waved as I paralleled the shore from 200 yards out, taking pictures wi
th my non-functioning camera. Then I noticed a female lifeguard running to the water’s edge, waving wildly at me with both arms, motioning for me to go away, to get back out to sea, as if my presence in the swimming area was a threat to the life of every tourist there. I continued as I had been going, slowly dipping my paddle and watching the woman’s antics with amusement. As the beach curved out ahead, I was drawing closer to the shore on my easterly course, and I could now hear some of the woman’s shouts. I was amazed at the urgency and anger in her voice, as if she really thought I was going to run over the snorkelers, none of whom were anywhere near as far from shore as I was.
This was really funny, I thought, and I continued on, even more slowly, just to spite her. It was then that I noticed a male lifeguard throw a surfboard into the water and start swimming it in my direction on an intersecting course as if he were on a mission to save the world. I could have easily outdistanced him, but I eased along, waiting to hear what he had to say. He drew within 20 yards and screamed: “Get the hell out of the swimming area – NOW!”
This was where he crossed the line. After all I had been through, fighting the very ocean itself for the past few weeks just to get here, I was in no mood to be ordered to do anything, by anyone. Who was this young punk to think he could intimidate me? Just because I arrived by kayak and was not a tourist staying in a $300 a night resort, did that mean that I had no right to see this world-famous beach, which was part of a U.S. National Park, and therefore as much mine as his? His audacity put me in a fighting mood, but I outwardly maintained my cool and calmly replied:
“I’m just checking out the beach, man. Taking some pictures.” I kept paddling slowly, as I had been doing. He made a move closer and yelled again.
“I’m telling you to get that boat out of the swimming area, now!”
At that point I lost it, and retaliated with a piece of my mind about how silly it was to think my kayak was any threat to swimmers, especially on a calm, clear morning like this when the bay was like a lake. I told him I was going to continue on my course, holding both ends of the paddle clear of the water like a weapon so he could see that he would get whacked in the head if he came any closer. I was trembling with anger, and evidently the tone of my voice had an effect. He knew that he was at a great disadvantage if he tried to attack while lying flat on his surfboard. He wisely kept his distance, but made threats about all the trouble I was going to be in, saying he hoped I got arrested.
“I would go back to the beach, if I were you, buddy. This kayak is a cruising vessel on the high seas. Your coming out here like you’re going to attack me could be construed as an act of piracy, and I have the right to defend my vessel.” As I said this, I pointed to the bang-stick that was stowed under bungee cords on my foredeck.
At this he turned and started back to the beach, furious because he knew there was nothing he could do. “You can’t have that in a national park. You’re going to jail!”
I laughed out loud and continued my leisurely cruise along the beach as if nothing ever happened. People like him just couldn’t understand that I didn’t care about their stupid little petty rules. I couldn’t understand how this guy could be so serious about enforcing such rules. What difference did it make if I passed by his beach in a kayak making all of 2 or 3 knots? I had been apart from society for so long now that all its frivolous little constraints and restrictions seemed ridiculous to me. I was living in a different world – a world subject foremost to the laws of Nature. All that mattered was survival: avoiding storms, sharks, and rogue waves, and finding a place to sleep at night, and keeping an adequate supply of food and water. My life had been reduced to the basics just as I’d intended when I left. I had no intentions of hurting anyone or interfering with their chosen way of living, but I didn’t want anyone to interfere with mine either.
Near the end of the beach at Trunk Bay, I pointed my bow back out to sea and crossed back over the ropes, rounding a rocky point and continuing on my way to the east. Just in case the lifeguard did send out some ranger in powerboat, I stayed far enough offshore to be hard to spot from land.
I paddled past Cinnamon Bay and its exclusive campgrounds, then went through an aptly named pass called The Narrows, with St. John on my right and Great Thatch Island, one of the British Virgin Islands, just a couple hundred yards off to my left. I would wait and clear customs into the B.V.I. later, after I had visited Coral Bay. Great Thatch was uninhabited, with no port of entry, so I could have crossed over unnoticed, but I continued on around St. John, ducking into the many coves on the northeast side, searching for some hidden beach where I might set up camp.
I found what seemed to be the perfect place: a beach at the back of a cove that was inaccessible to most boats because of outlying reefs. But when I landed I noticed a smoldering fire back in the mangrove thicket. Roasting on the fire were several large hermit crabs, and I assumed this must be the camp of some “bush Rastas,” since a person had to be serious about living off the land and sea to eat hermit crabs. I wanted to talk to some of these people, as I was certain that I could learn a lot from them, but though I called out, the surrounding forest answered with only silence. I was unable to follow the bare footprints that were everywhere, as they disappeared where they left the sand and entered the rocky terrain beyond the beach. They were watching me, of that I was sure. I could feel eyes upon me, and it made me a little nervous. They probably thought I was a park ranger trying to roust them out. Mary had told me that the rangers periodically comb the park trying to track down these squatters, but the vegetation of the island is dense, and the mountains though not high, are quite rugged. The Rastas usually elude their pursuers.
I had a lot of respect for anyone who could live in the bush under these conditions. Fresh water would be difficult to find, available only as pockets of rainwater trapped in rock basins. There was no abundance of edible plants that I could see, and the reefs had been mostly fished out as far as I could tell from my snorkeling.
Not wanting to disturb these people, and having respect for their privacy and secrecy, I shoved off and paddled on until I found a smaller and even more hidden beach in another cove. There was no trail leading into the mountains from behind the beach, so overland access to the cove would have been difficult. I felt secure there, after pitching my tent in the shadows and camouflaging it and the kayak with brush to hide them from the eyes of any rangers who might pass by in boats. I was in no great hurry to get to Coral Bay or anywhere else at this point, so I decided I would stay in this cove at least a couple of days.
The second day there, I forced my way up the mountain behind my camp, pushing through the tangles of brush and briars until I reached the road at the top of the island’s spine. From there, I could see Coral Bay far below, on the other side of the narrow peninsula the road straddled. The scattered yachts in the anchorage were too far below for me to identify any of them. From my vantage point, I could see the route into the bay that would require me to paddle a few miles around the end of the peninsula from my camp. It would, at any rate, be much easier than walking there through the dense island scrub forest. I returned to my camp and spent most of the afternoon snorkeling. No one noticed me during my 2 ½ day stay there, though I saw hundreds of boats of all descriptions out in the Sir Francis Drake Channel that separates St. John from Tortola, the largest island of the B.V.I.
The trip to Coral Bay the next day took most of the morning, since I stopped in several interesting coves along the way. Winning Edge was not in the anchorage, but there was one small vessel I recognized, a 20-foot Flicka sailboat named Stay Up, that belonged to a couple from Norfolk, Virginia. I had met them the year before in Georgetown. They were not on board though, so I paddled to the beach, looking for a place to land among all the debris and junked cars that lined the shore. The Coral Bay area had a trashy appearance that didn’t at all look to be the result of a hurricane, and this surprised me, since Fred and Mary had raved about Coral Bay. I went up to the small bar called Red
beard’s and was surprised to see several people lined up there, already doing some serious drinking even though it was only 11:00 a.m. in the morning. I inquired about Fred and Mary, and learned that Mary just happened to be in the next room, having flown to St. John to visit friends for a few days.
She was, of course, surprised to see me there, and called Fred right away to let him know I was still alive and well. Later that day, I rode with her and some friends across the island to Cruz Bay, in the back of another Nissan pickup she and Fred kept in Coral Bay for use when they were on St. John. Just as she had done in Puerto Rico, she pushed the little truck to the limit of its suspension system on the twisting mountain roads, and it was all I could do to stay in the back of the truck with a terrified young hitchhiker we picked up along the way. Despite the reckless speed, though, the views from the ridge-top road were breathtaking, and we somehow arrived on the other side of the island intact.
Mary’s friends needed to go to a hardware store to shop for some PVC pipe for the house they were building, and I wandered around town, stopping to buy groceries at outrageous prices, since there was no real store in Coral Bay. On the way back, Mary’s friend Terry insisted on stopping at the island dump, which was located on the mountainside above Cruz Bay. He was looking for parts for some device he was making for his new house. Watching him reminded me of the eccentric main character in Paul Theroux’s novel: The Mosquito Coast, which I had recently read during my long stay on Culebra. Like the fictitious inventor in the story, Terry ranted and raved in disgust about all the “perfectly good stuff” people had thrown in the dump. He became angry as he sorted through piles of twisted washing machines and refrigerators, cursing the fools that had thrown them away for their senseless waste. There was a herd of feral hogs rooting through the heaps of fly-covered garbage in the dump, and Terry stalked close to them with hungry intent, yelling back to his wife that the little piglets would make fine eating and promising her that he would return to shoot one.
On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean Page 26
