Scooping the pools
Hillary Richard charts her own course on a sailing adventure in the British Virgin Islands.
IT was like something out of an action movie. Silently and with a sense of urgency I didn’t yet understand, I jumped off a dinghy and swam through cold waves up to the beach, squeezed through narrow openings between granite boulders, waded across shallow pools, ducked into caves and gingerly descended a series of makeshift ladders, many of whose driftwood steps had been lost to the surrounding sea a long time ago.
There, as the early morning sun streamed through openings in the cave, I listened to the rarest sound on the island of Virgin Gorda: silence. My two friends and I, along with our captainturnedtourguide, had achieved the impossible. We had ‘‘the Baths’’ all to ourselves.
The Baths are the geological wonder of the British Virgin Islands. Towering granite boulders join together to form a cavelike network, allowing sunbeams to illuminate the crystalclear swimming pools below in an ethereal, time-suspending way.
The serenity didn’t last long, as strangers’ voices off in the distance started to echo through the chambers.
‘‘We have to go — now,’’ urged Martin Street, our captain. ‘‘They’re coming.’’
Centuries ago, the British Virgin Islands were a pirate haven. British and Spanish ships full of supplies and treasures followed the trade winds that blew over from Europe. The islands’ sheltered bays served as hiding spots, making them ideal for ambushing unsuspecting ships and squirrelling away treasure.
These days, simply looking at a map of the area sparks memories of childhood games, rhymes and folklore. All the legendary antiheroes came through these islands — and many of them are named after pirates who died here. Blackbeard, Captain Norman and Captain Kidd regularly attacked cargo ships travelling through Sir Francis Drake Channel in the 18th century. Blackbeard famously abandoned 15 of his men on a small island near Deadman’s Bay, stranding each with only a bottle of rum for sustenance.
It wasn’t pirates Captain Street was afraid to confront along the Baths, but rather another wave of invading outsiders: tour groups. As these tourists advanced, we made our way back to the deck of the catamaran my friends and I had rented from the yacht charter company The Moorings.
From our vessel anchored off the beach, I watched giant tour groups spill on to the sand, killing time while they waited patiently to squeeze in one by one as other tours simultaneously tried to exit. I sat at the boat’s outdoor dining table, drinking coffee and drying off as the smell of caramelised French toast wafted from the kitchen. It was one of many moments over a long weekend when I felt especially lucky to be exploring the Caribbean from my secluded perch.
We sailed around the islands, setting our own schedule, eating and drinking well, and getting away from the crowds. We’d discovered one of the Caribbean’s bestkept secrets: You can charter an allinclusive, fivestar, privately crewed boat for roughly the same cost per person as a midrange cruise (where additional tours, special dining fees and drink packages can easily add up).
Since The Moorings’ sailing itineraries are customisable, prices vary. Trips can be tailored based on budget (you can play with dates and options on www.moorings.com). The average cost for a sixperson crewed yacht in the British Virgin Islands last northern summer was $US2300 ($NZ3360) a person, including all meals, drinks and activities, but excluding tips. In December, a similar trip for four people (plus two crew) starts at $US2900 a person.
Besides the obvious draw of luxury and relaxation, the real advantage to chartering a highend catamaran was the access it allowed to the islands’ hidden gems. All the elements necessary for unforgettable vacation memories seemed to be built right in — adventure, pleasant surprises, lack of crowds, good food and drinks, fun, flexibility — with minimal effort, thanks to our knowledgeable crew. (We visited before the islands took a beating last fall from hurricanes Irma and Maria, but tourism officials estimate 70% of the territory’s accommodations are back in business.)
While the screensaverworthy scenery and beautiful weather are enough of a draw, the islands offered a chance to get in touch with our adventurous sides, which felt like an appropriate nod to the islands’ pirate past.
While moored at the restaurant and bar Pirates Bight, I took a dinghy to Norman Island, said to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. A short hike in sandals brought me to the top of a hill, with 360degree views of azure waters and isolated reefs.
Back near the catamaran, my friend and I jumped off the boat with snorkel masks in hand, on a mission to find out what treasures those reefs held. We were the only people in a sea full of creatures. We spent the afternoon floating aimlessly, surrounded by angelfish, rainbow parrotfish, damselfish and tangs.
Later that night, after an impressive dinner by our chef, Katie Garrison, we opted for a different type of adventure and boarded the infamous Willy T, a schoonerturnedbar in the middle of the bay. This local dive bar at sea is notorious for egging on its patrons’ drunken antics, a favourite being diving off the top deck — with or without clothes.
Every day was a surprise of sorts, since the captain could go along with our whims and allow us to live in the moment. If I asked what kind of sea creatures were in the water, the answer was inevitably: ‘‘Jump in and find out!’’ When I wanted to explore an island, I was dropped off at one end and picked up at the other. Each day could be packed full of activities or be a study in relaxation — or a mix of both.
One morning, after breakfast in Soldier Bay, we sailed out to moor near a small archipelago of towering pinnacles called the Indians, where I dived into a world full of colourful, inquisitive fish that swarmed around me. I spent the afternoon at Deadman’s Bay, a stretch of perfect white sand on Peter Island, relaxing with a book on shore.
My last adventure was getting to the airport, typically my least favourite part of any trip. At Marina Cay (basically the nautical equivalent of an airport parking lot), sculptures, bonfire pits and artwork popped up through the sand and into the surf. After arriving at a dock on a luggagepacked dinghy, I walked along the beach past the remnants of the recent Full Moon Party, a raucous beach bash celebrating this periodic lunar event.
Luggage in tow, I strolled the short distance towards the terminal, making sure to take it all in one last time — the barefooted beach bums at the bar, the island dogs, the yachts and sailboats — before arriving at the departures area with salt on my skin, sand on my feet and memories of a great few days spent at sea.