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