rom the Baths we made the short motor over to Colliston Point, picked up a mooring, and dinghied ashore to the docks at Spanish Town’s Virgin Gorda Yacht Services, where the damage was also clearly extensive. We were off to a restaurant called Coco Maya, an Asian-fusion place on the beach that had been universally recommended by just about everyone.
Coco Maya was as good as advertised. Aaron, the Kiwi owner, said the structure, with the exception of some snapped wire rigging that kept the place upright, was practically unscathed. “We were incredibly lucky,” he said, touching one of the wooden bar stools.
As it was Parker and Karen’s 30th anniversary, Sasha and I repaired to the bar so the lovebirds could have their own private table. Looking out at the palm trees, the open-air layout and the gleaming beach, Sasha said, “This reminds me of Hawaii.” It was certainly out of this world. And so were the zigzagging stars overhead from the Geminids meteor shower we took in afterward, back on trusty Hull 311. It was a pretty perfect end to a terrific day.
With time running out on our trip, the next morning found us reaching back down Sir Francis Drake Channel in a gentle southeasterly, bound for the Bight on Norman Island. Once there, we were confronted with one last glimpse of