Leaving Anguilla, Bruce opted to motor 12 miles along the island’s north coast. The wind and seas were coming straight at us, and as Woodwind fitfully dove bow-first into the waves we had to cling to the rigging, watching for and dodging the reefs fringing the coast. It was definitely the path less traveled and I quietly questioned why we were on it.

Between the eastern most point of Anguilla and tiny Scrub Island lies a half-mile cut charted with 25 feet of clear water. We entered the area slowly, reading the water’s depth through its many colors, hoping our chart was right. Just as we cleared the “eye of the needle,” Bruce hoisted the mainsail, jib, topsail and staysail and happily turned off the engine. The wind was on our port beam and for the first time in months we slacked the sheets.

French St. Martin then Dutch Sint Maarten came and went to starboard; St. Barts, our target, lay straight ahead. Visibility was unbelievably clear. We could see the islands of Saba, Statia, St. Kitts and even little Nevis, 40 miles away. In our world of sailing, it was a lottery winner day and we were holding the right ticket!

Woodwind slid past the outlying rocky islets, Forche, The Groupers, Tablerock and Barrel of Beef, with the heavily jeweled crown, St. Barts, behind them. We talked about what we might find in the fishy little sleeping village of Gustavia, where we met almost three decades ago. Back then, Bruce was there with his 21-foot engineless boat, Comfort, helping build Pluto, a sister ship to Woody. I was crewing on a boat, just passing through. On our last Caribbean cruise with our son, Kess, the place had taken many turns and twists. That’s what special places do. In the past dozen years we’d been absent, the rich and famous had taken up residence there, according to friends and the press. We wondered if any of “our St. Barts” would still be there.

The anchorage spilled out of the harbor. Boats were squished together like cars in a mall parking lot, each claiming an anchor fluke of sand as their own. Bruce dropped the hook in what seemed like a decent spot, but the first shifty blast had us practically touching a French sloop. The second drop was no better. The outer anchorage, rolly but empty, was our last resort. There was nothing behind us out there but very large rocks.

In the morning we headed in early to spend the day with St. Bartian friends, Lou Lou and Jenny Magras, owners of Pluto. Rowing into the harbor we were like kids at Christmas, peeking and pointing at everything, trying to figure it all out. Looking at the town, the most obvious difference was the expanded quay, lined tight with mega motor yachts and super-sized sailing machines. From where we put the dinghy we could see little else.

Our walking tour hadn’t taken us far when we spotted an old store we use to shop in, unchanged. Then another. The Presquille Hotel, where I first stayed, was untouched by development and time. The little yellow St. Barts house, where we met, was also still there, although now it’s green. Several restaurants and more stores were exactly as we left them. The changes weren’t so bad after all, and the sameness was terrific!

At the Port Captain’s office, we were the only people clearing in who weren’t dressed in well-pressed uniforms. The man behind the desk took our Anguillan clearance, handed us a form to fill out and Bruce got busy. Oddly, the fellow never looked at our passports but did insist we pay the port fees with Euros, not dollars. That sent us off to exchange our cash for yet another form of currency, the eighth we’ve dealt with in four months. Neither of us had the energy to figure out the magic mathematical conversion equation, so we just handed people money that day when it was required and hoped they’d hand us correct change.

The three St. Barts ladies who have worked at Lou Lou’s Marine store for what seems like forever were kind enough to phone our friends, announcing our arrival. Jenny took us to a patisserie where we reminisced about everything that had happened in the past 12 years. Coffee and croissants turned into lunch on the hill at their house with Lou Lou. We talked about the adventures of Pluto and Woodwind and laughed about all the bad weather stories.

In the afternoon we wandered to Le Select, home of Cheeseburger in Paradise. It, too, was in a wonderful time warp. The walls inside still held the same odd assortment of photos, artwork, flags and memorabilia. Outside in the treed courtyard, we sat at one of the tiny tables, just as we had the day Bruce and I met. Another face from the past, artist and sailor David Wegman, came to join us. David has a studio above Le Select and lives aboard his Cowhorn schooner, African Queen IV. He shared stories of his global circumnavigation and we filled him in on our recent cruise.

The discussion got around to music. David and his friend, Caymen, were going to play at Eddie’s Restaurant that evening and he asked if Bruce would like to join them with his steelpan. Having only played in public once before, Bruce was at first reluctant, but it quickly disappeared and he rowed to the boat to grab the pan. Everyone rendezvoused around seven at Porte 34, the art gallery housed in a 200-year-old stone building owned by the Magras family. Lou Lou had let us “borrow” the building for a month-long art show years ago, when it had been closed for decades and still held cartons of French brandy smuggled in from Guadeloupe. Bruce named it “The Here Today Gallery,” and when the time came to put it back to sleep, Lou Lou asked him to put a sign on the door that read, Bhank of Bhagdad. Years later, when the building was opened as a real gallery, it was called The Bagdad until that became a political slippery slope.

David, with his bass and a Nevis banjo, Caymen, carrying a guitar, and Bruce with his tenor pan headed to Eddie’s and set up in the garden courtyard beside the dining room. Eddie was raised in the restaurant business. His father, Marius, has owned and operated Le Select for over 50 years and Eddie started Cheeseburger in Paradise there while in his teens. Now he and his staff serve elegantly simple fare.

The musicians ran through an entertaining medley of tunes, with something for everybody. As Caymen said when I asked him what music they played, “There’s David’s music and there’s mine. I like reggae.” It might have been during a Caribbean version of “Jimmy Crack Corn” that the first shorty arrived, an 8-year-old highly skilled drummer who took over Eddie’s African drum. The second budding musician, a 6-year-old, played all the instruments intently, one by one. Both boys were eventually made to “come eat your dinner.” The drummer later did an encore, playing a hot tune under the watchful eye of his three-generation family. One of the dads laid a wad of U.S. bills on the table with a big, “Thanks!” David said it was the first time they’d been paid, and we were all wondering if it was for the entertainment or the child care!

Our second and last day in St. Barts for the season was spent walking down memory lane some more. Jenny and Lou Lou met us that night on the waterside porch of her pottery shop, where we continued our long overdue catch up session. Laying on wooden benches, looking out at the harbor and up at the stars, I felt rich and lucky; content and amazed to find myself again on that magical little island.

After our visit, as we approached Woodwind in the dinghy I reached out to grab the boat and heard a small, odd, “thunk, plop.” The handmade silver and blue larimar bracelet I’d bought in the Santa Barbara market came unclasped in the two seconds my arm was suspended over water. The bracelet was imperfect and rough, but that’s why I chose it … it represented our unplanned stop in the Dominican Republic and what we found there. Bruce swam around the next morning looking for it in the 20-foot water under us, but to no avail. With a sad voice, I told him, “Maybe a barracuda got it.” Luckily, it was one of the few things we’d lost during our long voyage to St. Barts. It was probably time to tithe to ol’ Neptune anyway … I just hope he likes it as much as I did!

Jan & Bruce

Dear Family and Friends,

Woodwind is anchored at 17.04 north, 61.41 east in Nonsuch Bay, Antigua. One-half mile in front of us is a long reef protecting the bay. Beyond it, the Atlantic Ocean stretches unobscured, all the way to Africa. Woodwind's bottom slipped over 9,087 land miles to get here, our most eastern destination.

Our plans include sailing downwind (DOWNWIND!!) to a few more Caribbean islands before hauling our very tired boat and flying (FLYING!) home for the summer. It's been a long, wild ride, for sure.

The brucesmith@ocens.net e-mail address will expire April 16th and we can't access it after that. We'd love to hear from you, though, so please contact us at
janethein1@MSN.com or brucesmithart@gmail.com.

Your news, messages, jokes and good wishes along the way kept us going. Thanks for taking the time to send them. Our special thanks go to Chip Brown and Mike Bernstein at Bahama Breeze for providing us with the equipment that allowed us to communicate with you while at sea and for the blog site, a great place to tell our crazy stories. (More coming, hopefully not so crazy.)

Thanks for your amazing support,
Captain Bruce, Admiral Jan and Lars, the Sailor Bird

During our time in Central America, almost every cruiser we met questioned our rush through that exquisite part of the world to return to the Eastern Caribbean. Some couldn’t understand why we would leave such an affordable place to get to an expensive one.

Coming up with convincing answers was difficult. We know why we love the Leeward and Windward Islands. It’s about the people, their culture, their loud and lively music. We love West Indian accents, and the inhabitants’ character and characters … the color of the sea and sky … the trade winds full of ocean-fresh air. Mostly, it’s a feeling that just can’t find its way into words. What adjective describes the sound of a well played steel pan? How many words are there to describe the colors of this water?

For Bruce, it’s a place of inspiration; it makes him want to paint using a palette of high-energy colors. As our second week back in the E.C. began, he was itching to pull out his brushes and get busy … no small job, considering the quantity of enamel paint quarts he uses. Woodwind was still in its ocean sailing mode, with no place for creative work, so he scoped out Sandy Ground to find a place where he could leave his mark. Elvis’, the place with the best energy, seemed the most likely spot, but since the bar is really a boat, there were no flat surfaces to work with. The best but most unlikely spot was in their newly built bathrooms.

Bruce’s art is no stranger to bathrooms. Before we met he painted realistic-looking bamboo in the bathroom of Bequia’s well known hotel and restaurant, The Frangipani. A decade later on the island of Nevis, he painted the outside of the bathroom buildings for Prinderella’s restaurant. Creating art in bathrooms has some perks. Everybody sees the work eventually, usually more than once. One could say it gives your art a captive audience

Elvis and Brett looked through a pile of photos of some of Bruce’s finished paintings, getting an idea of what they liked. Bruce wanted to create two paintings of Sandy Ground’s local scene, so he set to work sketching two drawings that would combine the best of all the elements.

The first day on the job, he prepped the walls and by evening was able to lay on stripes of blue, the first coat of background color. Waiting for paint to dry is part of the project. Rather than returning to Woodwind several times that day, Bruce opted to hang out with Elvis, Brett and the entertaining cast of characters that happen upon the place. Tourists, intoxicated by Anguilla’s charm (and Elvis’ rum punch, the island’s best) pulled shifts beside the boat-bar.

Day two on the murals brought two more coats of background color, which were done and dry by 5 p.m. Bruce was so pumped up to get busy with the brushes that he decided to work late into the night. The sky to the north of the island was growing black with threatening weather, so I headed back to the boat to seek shelter, make dinner and hunker down. Good thing, too, as huge spears of lightening stabbed the outer anchorage just minutes after I tied off the dinghy and went below. That ominous sky then squeezed out a sea of rain that filled the island’s cisterns, while freaky wind gusts knocked Woodwind on her side. The boats in the anchorage were doing an out-of-control square dance, coming dangerously close to each other. I got the boat ready for a dragging anchor drill, just in case, and hoped it wouldn’t happen.

On shore, the Elvis team was worried I might have been swept out to sea. Not worried enough, though, to come look for me! Bruce assured them I was “plenty tough.” After the deluge finally ended, Bruce set to work in the bathrooms, painting boats, people, goats, trees … you name it. The Sandy Ground scene slowly came to life, and at midnight he was ready to end the session, just in time for the heavy rains to return. Thinking it would stop any minute, as rain squalls in the Caribbean usually do, he decided to wait it out. Everyone else had gone home to sleep, so Bruce stationed himself in the only dry spot available ... the bathroom. He sat himself in a somewhat comfortable place and fell fast asleep. He woke at 2 a.m., relieved the sky was semi-dry, bailed out Funny World, our dinghy, and rowed home, exhausted after a long day.

One time a customs officer grilled Bruce about his occupation. “Wha you do, mon?”

“Art work,” Bruce replied.

“Hard work? Wha dat?”

“No, sir, art work.”

The fellow, getting testy, tried again. “Wha kinda hard work? Wha you do, mon?” He finally understood when Bruce made painting gestures with his hands. After that, we were always tempted to fill the “occupation” space on forms with “hard work.”

After a few more days of “hard work,” the murals were complete. Susie, who lives beside the bar, didn’t want to look at them until they were done, so now she, Brett and Elvis crammed into the ladies’ room, then the men’s, slowly examining Bruce’s work -- titled “Beermuda Triangle” and “Norm A. Lee Drunkbynow” -- and finding tiny nuances of their Sandy Ground existence. They were pleased.

The night of the full moon we made our final shore-side visit to Elvis’. He and Brett were holding a “Full Moon Party.” The bar’s coolers were packed with drinks; a barbeque tent was producing mouth-watering plates of ribs or chicken with rice, beans and salad. A band was playing, music flowing from one-story tall speakers. A group of gorgeous Italian women danced together and with an old West Indian, who literally knocked them off their feet. Watching them gave the timid permission to join in, and they did. The beach, under that stunning moon, moved like the sea beyond. It was simple, sweet and Caribbean crazy. It was, perhaps, why we sailed so hard and fast these past six months. And for certain, it’s why we can’t wait to get back here again.

Jan & Bruce

What luck! Saturday evening after the concert, we were visiting Belto at The Delicate Bar. “Day rasin dee botes tumarrow,” he said.

“Really?” I asked excitedly. The boats he was talking about are hand-crafted open beauties, built of wood in Anguilla. They race class A 28-footers and class B 21-footers numerous times during the season. Racing began decades ago, when the boats carrying men to other islands to cut sugar cane spiced up the long, boring trip with a bit of competition. Back home, fishermen competed against each other to get out to and from the fishing grounds. Now, it’s the national sport of Anguilla. Tens of thousands of dollars are poured into building and maintaining these gorgeous boats and local businesses sponsor them. More money pumps out as serious betting begins before each designated event.

Years ago, on our second visit to the island, we arrived a few days before the Easter weekend. In our wanderings around the island we’d admired a dry-docked 21-foot boat near Blowing Point. The owner and captain, Beau, saw us and came over to answer our questions about how the boats are built and raced. The name of his freshly painted red, white and blue vessel, Press On, was missing, so Bruce volunteered to paint it on the sides of the boat for him. Beau accepted and after getting to know Bruce, invited him to join as crew.

On Easter Monday, one of the biggest race days of the year, the boats began to appear. Some were tailored down to Sandy Ground from all over the island; others were towed there by sea. The beach turned into a party of festive colors, with hulls painted bright blue, yellow, orange, red and green and names blazoned on the sides: Natalie, Warrior, Wasp, UFO, Lady Love, De Tree … and a dozen others, including, of course, Press On.

Each boat needs 8 to 20 crew members, depending on the size. Many of the crews sported team shirts and everyone displayed a unity of spirit. The boats sit in shallow water while crews work frantically to load in ballast of painted boulders, lead or sand bags; the rudder, the mast, the main sail and the jib. As the excitement builds, the friendly yelling crescendos (verbal sparring is part of the sport).

Out of the hundreds of crew on the beach that day, Bruce was the only non-local, but he fit right in with the Press On crew. When the gun fired signaling the start, almost everyone was onboard, except for a few stragglers running down the beach. Each boat keeps one or two people in the water to push off. Jibs are snapped open and the boats fly downwind, looking like giant butterflies with pristine white wings.

On Press On, as in the other boats, there came a time in the race when it was necessary to lose some weight. Beau instructed the crew, “Cut de sand open!” Their bags were heavy plastic sacks filled with sand, stitched closed. The fellows were having a hard time opening the bags when Bruce, who’d been working quietly the whole time, said, “Do you need a knife?”

“You gotta knife, mon?” they asked, incredulously. A quick slice got the job done. Bruce couldn’t believe they didn’t routinely carry knives and they couldn’t believe he had one.

The race ended that day in Crocus Bay on the north side of the island. Drink and barbeque shacks lined the beach, each surrounded by tall, black pulsing speakers playing reggae and dance hall music. Everyone was recounting the event, blow by blow (a few boats had broken down, one sank and one just split in half).

Through our many visits to Anguilla, we’ve lucked out and witnessed half a dozen races. Now here we were on our first visit to the island in seven years watching one again … and on Opening Day, no less! A tent on the beach directly in front of us was set up with a microphone, speakers and three jumbo trophies. A dignitary welcomed everyone, the National Anthem of Anguilla was sung by a young girl, followed by a song written just for race days. Bruce was sailing his Petite Martinique sailing skiff, Funny World, cruising the shore where the action was happening. I stayed aboard Woody to photograph the start.

As Bruce tacked close to one of the boats, his rudder caught its poly-propylene anchor line. He snapped his rudder off, pulled the line out and apologized. “No problem, mon. Everyting good,” replied one of the crew. After beaching Funny World to get a look and photograph the shore-side frenzy, Bruce ran into some visitors from St. Croix we’d met the night before. One was carrying on about how he’d love to have a chance to crew on one of the boats. Bruce left, walking further down the beach where the race boat R.O.B.B. was being rigged and heard the captain say, “Whay de udda fella? We’re one short. Whay de fella?”

Bruce asked, “You need a crew?”

“You wan go?” asked.

Bruce answered, “There’s a fellow down the beach who wants to go.”

“Make it quick,” replied the captain.

Bruce found the guy at Elvis’ Bar, but when he heard his wishes had been granted, he hemmed and hawed, complained about the rail-to-rail motion of the boats and the fact that he might get wet. “I’ll go,” Bruce told him, leaving quickly to stash his things in Funny World, except for his knife, and headed back to R.O.B.B. He told the captain, “The other fellow wants to spend time with his drink but I’ll go.”

Ten minutes passed, giving Bruce a chance to check out the boat. Rugged and real, built with wood frames and glued wooden planks, it had a spattering of modern blocks. Inside were three sandbags of sewn plastic vinyl cloth with webbed handles and zippered closures. Under them sat 500 pounds of lead. A fellow nearby yelled a $100 bet to Beggar, the captain. “No, no, not dis time,” he responded.

Bruce added, “You’d have to give him odds, ’cause I’m onboard.”

Finally Beggar announced, “Come, come, we jump on de boat.” He looked at Bruce and asked, “Dis ya first time?”

“No, I sailed before.”

Beggar pointed and directed him, “So, when we’re out today, you sit here and ova here. Dat’s all you do.” The whole crew then yelled a bunch of stuff to each other and they set off for a quick practice run, downwind and back up. In Anguilla racing, there is no starboard or port tacks; only north tack and south tack. No one has right of way, as in American yacht racing. When one boat tacks, the other nearby boat must tack, too.

Their practice run brought them past Woodwind. One of their crew gave me a friendly wave and I waved back. Busy snapping photos, I didn’t see that it was Bruce!

After the practice run, the boat was in shallow water and the fellows were laying on the rail. Then, for no apparent reason, everyone jumped up, yelling, “Jib! Jib!” One fellow gave a tug on the stern anchor to turn the boat around, then passed the line toward the bow, where another man gave an extra pull to shoot them forward. Beggar yelled, “Check stay,” and someone untied the jib. They flew toward Woodwind, where I was snapping away, still unaware that Bruce was on the boat.

The first boat to round the downwind stake makes the choice of rounding it to starboard or port. Whatever they choose, every other boat must do the same. Being in first place, Beggar faked out the boat behind them at the stake, giving them a few more feet of lead. The main sheet was wrapped tight on a chalk for the first tack to windward. “Here come someting. We got them now. Gentlemen, let’s press on now.”

Seeing that the boats were on the upwind leg, I rowed ashore to get the digital camera from Bruce to photograph the finish. I checked at Elvis’ Bar, Johnno’s and on down the beach. He wasn’t at Belto’s. He was nowhere to be found and everyone I asked hadn’t seen him.

R.O.B.B. was entering the bay. They had been in first place the whole race, but lost ground and the race to Storm on the last tack. They touched the finishing buoy and congratulated each other. “We did good, mon.” “Yeah, mon, good race.”

I was just nearing them and recognized Bruce’s hat. I ran to get the digital camera from Funny World and began clicking as they untied the jib, stripped the rig and emptied the boat of ballast. I asked one of the crew what R.O.B.B. stands for. “Return of Bluebird” he announced. Bluebird was a famous 28-foot boat that had been sized down.

After collecting the second-place prize, Beggar waved to Bruce and gave him his business card and a T-shirt. “Dis me bizness. I’m a boat builder.” They talked about R.O.B.B. and Beggar explained that his father and grandfather were both well known boat builders on Anguilla. Bluebird had been their boat.

Just as we were turning to leave, Beggar shook Bruce’s hand and gave him the biggest compliment. “If ya around on Easter Monday, you sail with us on da 28-footer.” That would have been sweet, but, as usual, it’s time for us to “press on.”

Jan