Top Photo: Bruce chatting with a writer from All At Sea magazine at the Designworks art opening.
Bottom Photo: Judith King in the Yellow House Studio.
St. Croix just might be the Cinderella sister of the three U.S. Virgin Islands. Lying 35 miles south of neighbors St. John and St. Thomas, it’s bigger than both of them put together. All three islands are an odd mix of America bred with the West Indies, but St. Croix alone boasts a generations-old Crucian influence, and signs all over the island tell you, “Crucian spoken here.” That language is melodious English with a calypso accent and a distinct twist of island pride.

History doesn’t hide on this island. The remains of sugar mills, plantation houses and boiler chimneys stand everywhere as testimony to the tumultuous years of sugar trade and slavery. The charming mid-island town of Christiansted is a living museum, with its gold-hued Fort Christiansvaern, now a National Historic Site; Alexander Hamilton’s house; Apothecary Hall; and a collection of stunning, centuries old churches. The entire town is linked together with a pastel rainbow of walkways, paved with Danish bricks brought over as ballast in the ships that ran rum and molasses back to their mother country. Walking on the old cobbles is like stepping on the pages of a long forgotten book. For sure, they each tell a rich story.

Frederiksted, the second largest town, sleeps on the western shore. Wooden buildings laced with fretwork and stone remnants of a rich past line up before a first-world cruise ship pier that has hosted only one visitor in the past two years. (St. Thomas receives three to five each day.) The nearly deserted streets give off the eerie feeling of a ghost town, despite the fact the nearest village is called Wheel of Fortune.

In the half hour it took us to drive between the two towns we passed vast open spaces of land, marveling at the lack of development. After visiting St. Marten, St. Barts and Tortola, coming to St. Croix was a slide back in time. Reading the map and trying to follow it was a trip, too, with places like Jealousy, Hope, Little Profit, Adventure, Solitude, Rust Up Twist and Slob. Part of the island’s past obviously included a plethora of poets!

The island’s financial backbone is a world-class oil refinery on the south side, the biggest in the Western hemisphere. Tourism dollars come from visitors to the 300-year-old Cruzan Rum Factory, the historic Whim Plantation, a few elegant hotels and a handful of fine restaurants.

We made the 35-mile sail to St. Croix from Virgin Gorda to help kick off the first of Christiansted’s eight monthly art walks. Bruce was the featured artist for Designworks, an extraordinary two-story gallery filled with West Indian-style furniture and furnishings, maps, prints and original works of art by Don Dahlke, Caroline Duprey, Trudi Gilliam and others. The store is owned by talented designer Richard Harris and occupies the portion of Apothecary Hall that was once a home for the pharmacist, his wife and their 13 children.

The 1827 building is a series of odd rooms built with stone and heavy beams. Richard’s flair for color and style has created an intriguing and inviting St. Croix shopping experience, bringing together the past and present. His work was featured in two recent issues of Architectural Digest as part of new masterpiece homes, one in St. John the other in St. Croix.

Our first day ashore we walked into Christiansted from our anchorage in Gallows Bay. Past the fort, the covered walkways led us up and down a series of steps until we found Designworks. We met with Richard, worked out the details of the opening night event, then, on his advice, went on to explore the town. Less than a quarter-block away, Bruce went up to a window of the Yellow House Gallery and peered in. “I thought I saw someone who looks like Judith King go in here,” he explained to me.

Just then, the door swung back away from his face and a tall, beaming woman greeted us. “Well, hello! Come on in.” It was indeed our longtime friend, Judith King, and as we entered the tiny spice-colored room, the walls filled with inviting, light-hearted paintings, we could see it was her gallery.

Our last time together, some 13 years ago, was in Antigua for an art show shared by Judith and Bruce. Last we’d heard she was living in North Carolina, but that stateside attempt, she explained, didn’t last long. The lure of St. Croix had quickly pulled her back to her home of 40 years, where she masterfully captures the architectural charm of the island in her paintings … that is, when she’s not painting Mocko Jumbies or making beautiful jewelry. Her palette includes the colors left behind by the Danes, earthy hues of reds and oranges, calming splashes of turquoise and lime green.

Exploring the island and visiting with Judith kept us busy until Thursday arrived. The art walk began at five and ran for four entertaining hours. The covered walkways filled with a mix of tropically clad tourists, Crucians and ex-pats all out for the opening cultural event of the season. They flowed from one of 11 galleries to the next, sipping wine, champagne or, for Bruce’s show, Cruzan rum. The art walk is a “must do” event for anyone visiting St. Croix, but beware: walking on the irregularly paved sidewalks is a trick even when sober and in full sunlight! A cocktail in hand and dim evening light makes strolling the streets downright dangerous, especially for those who brave the crazy crooked stairs of the Watch Your Step Gallery.

Not wanting to miss out, I followed the map, taking in the works of jewelers, painters, sculptors and glass artists before joining Bruce on the top floor of the Designworks gallery. There, we chatted and laughed with a milling crowd, gleaning bits and pieces of island lore and lunacy. Everyone had a St. Croix story to tell. As on all West Indian islands, the people here consider the government inefficient if not corrupt, there are always planned mega-million dollar developments just around the corner, and getting anything done in a timely fashion is near impossible.

In that respect, life on the biggest Virgin is as normal as it gets in the Eastern Caribbean. Wise visitors, though, will look beyond opinion and into the past to find that St. Croix holds a hidden charm all her own. For the moment, she’s the virgin in the pumpkin coach and we can’t wait to get back there.

For information about the Art Thursday events, go to www.artthursday.com. To learn more about Judith King’s artistry, go to www.judithkingart.com.

Jan

Photo: Some of The Baths' granite giants.

How has a bunch of big boulders called The Baths become the biggest tourist destination in the British Virgin Islands? From our anchorage off the Virgin Gorda Yacht Harbour we watched a non-stop parade of vessels going to and from The Baths, and on shore it was the same with taxis and tour buses. Everyone wants to get there. We’d checked it out ourselves years ago, but time had worn away enough of the memory that I knew I needed to go again.

At 8 a.m. I rowed ashore, thinking I’d gotten a jump on the heat. I gingerly sidestepped the buzzing traffic in “The Valley,” the only town on the island. At the end of the main road I turned left, up the hill, escaping the traffic but running smack into the heat. Even if the signs hadn’t confirmed I was on the right path, the appearance of the huge rock formations would have said, “Baths -- this way.” The road meandered up hill, past a bakery-slash-eatery featuring salt fish and fungi, a school packed with uniformed teens and across the street, De Peepin Bar. (I wondered what the kids thought about that place.)

Pulling the collar of my long-sleeved shirt around my neck and tucking my hat a notch lower on my head, I trudged on and up to find the Rainbow Pre and Primary School. The young ones were inside seated in neat rows. Their playground held a funky metal swingset, beside it a cluster of huge rounded rocks. I imagined the fun they have climbing on them, something that would be considered far too dangerous in the states.

The road became one crusty, paved lane flanked by giant cactuses guarding some houses behind them. A block from the crest of the hill I could see the Mad Dog restaurant, the National Parks office and a plain yellow flag flying high, shouting to me, “Surrender!” I did just that, standing in the shade of the park’s ticket booth waiting to buy my entrance, while a local fellow chatted at length with the coy young girl inside. The view from the waiting room was a spectacular panorama of the sea and islands beyond, but no impressive rocks as yet.

Before descending to sea level and The Baths themselves, visitors are cautioned to “watch your step.” The sandy, root-choked path twists around and over increasingly larger stones, until arriving at the bottom where the beach fans toward the sea with colossal stones looming over it all. “Now I remember,” I said to myself.

Like Dorothy on the yellowbrick path, I had to choose which way to go. Signs pointed left and right and paths led off in all directions. One official posting pointing to Devil's Bay warned visitors to be prepared to “climb, crawl and swim.” Ducking low, I got myself through the first hole, testing the depth of the water in the clear pool beyond it. I hesitated, not wanting to douse my camera or myself, when two Americans appeared from a tunnel beyond. Clearly there are many ways to climb through The Baths, so I asked, “If I go that way, is it deep?”

Pointing to a higher path, they volunteered to lead me. Up and over we went, rock climbing skyward and sliding back down on our bottoms. Periodically we came to weather-worn wooden handrails, ladders and platforms angled with the rocks, giving the illusion of a funhouse without mirrors. More people joined us along the way until our line finally popped out at a scenic overlook, where all 12 of us climbed onto a rocky platform. Cameras snapped and were passed back and forth, everyone wanting to record the pilgrimage.

A few people slipped into the water to swim back to their anchored boats, others wandered off to see more. I turned back alone, studying the scene closer, wondering what cataclysmic event had tumbled the earth in such a way, piling these granite giants atop one another at the edge of the sea. The groupings are organized and helter skelter at the same time, reminding me of hastily washed dishes piled too high in a drainer. Like seeing animals in the clouds, my imagination saw these one- and two-story behemoths as cups on saucers, bowls on tables, cars and castles.

Satisfied with the answer that “Everyone comes to The Baths to be wowed,” I climbed up the path before heading down hill toward town, past the cacti and the kids out eating lunch. De Peepin Bar was closed, which set me to wondering. I might just have to find the answer to that one next.

Jan

Photo: Mark Henry, bartender and cook of The Bath and Turtle, with the Chelsea clock.

Working on Woodwind in the Virgin Gorda boatyard was a sweaty, buggy business, tolerated only by the progress Bruce made on the boat and a mid-day break in one of the local establishments, The Bath and Turtle. Situated in the middle of the Yacht Harbor compound, it seemed a likely place to begin this daily ritual.

On his first visit, Bruce took a seat at the dark, British style bar, ordered a cold drink from the friendly West Indian bartender and sat back to check out the place. The drab green walls are filled with an eclectic collection of memorabilia that have clearly been there for years, perhaps decades: a USMC flag, odd bits of artwork, photos and a few commercial signs.

Bruce’s eyes slowly worked their way around the room until they landed on a small piece of wood nailed three-quarters up the wall. On it was a hand-painted mullet fish and under that, his own name. He had painted that fish on driftwood collected at nearby Beef Island 32 years ago. His mind was slipping through all that time when he spotted another stray item on the wall … a ship’s clock. Mark, the bartender, came around and Bruce asked, “When’s the last time that clock was wound?”

“I bin ere five years, so at leese dat long. It got no key,” said Mark.
“I’ve got a similar clock on my boat,” Bruce replied. “I’ll get the key if you’d like.” “Yes, mon. Dat would be good.”

Bruce returned 20 minutes later with a small brass. “This is a ship’s clock,” he explained. “It rings one bell for each half-hour until it gets to eight, then it starts over.” Climbing on a stool to reach it, he placed the key in the hole and wound the time. Next, he wound the chimes, swinging the hands into place. But no bells. “Mark, something’s wrong. Can we take it off the wall?”

“Sure mon, here,” and he handed Bruce a screwdriver. Off the wall and on the bar, Bruce could see the problem. This heavy clock had never been wound. Never once been started. He ran back to the boat again to fetch a miniature screwdriver, and after returning opened the back, pulled out the protective silencing device and the clock chimed in his hands. Bong-bong. Bong-bong.

The next afternoon Bruce returned with his laptop. “Mark, look. Here’s your key. I’m going to order it.”

“Yeah, mon, good. But how ya goenta git it ere?”
“I’ll send it to my house in the states. My wife’s coming down next week and she’ll bring it with her.”

It was nearly dark when I and the key landed, or we would have immediately sailed to Virgin Gorda. So early next morning we set off to deliver a $29 key that would keep a $1,000 clock ticking.

Mark saw us coming and shot out from behind the bar to give Bruce a hearty handshake. “Hey mon, glad ya back. You must be de madam,” he said as he kissed my cheek. As he put two beers on the counter, Bruce produced the key. Mark handed him the clock, then pounded a nail into the wooden bar where the key would hang.

Bruce wound the time and chimes, set the hands and the clock chimed twice. With a grin on his face, Bruce said to Mark, “Two bells. Five o‘clock.!”

A short while later, Rose, the owner of The Bath and Turtle, came in and was introduced to us. “He de man brought de key fah de clock,” Mark told her.

“Oh, good. That clock’s never run,” she said. “It never had a key.”

Rose and her husband, football legend Mike Giacinto, were married on nearby Marina Cay in 1988, taking up The Bath and Turtle lease from the Rockefeller family the same year. Among the belongings they brought to Virgin Gorda was a box containing the keyless Chelsea clock.

When Mike passed away in 1992, Rose decided to continue their dream with The Bath and Turtle. A striking woman, always dressed in black, she runs the place hands-on and is currently overseeing the construction of an outdoor marina-side bar to be completed in time for the Caribbean 1500, a cruising rally originating from the east coast of the U.S. When the ocean sailors arrive here the third week of November for the Phat Virgin Rendezvous, catered to by Rose and her crew, they most certainly will have the time of their lives. Bong-bong.

Jan

Photo: The ship Breath passes by her "little sister," Woodwind.

The small plane banked toward Mount Sage, the top of Tortola’s world. Our captain steered through the sloppy remains of Tropical Storm Noel, bumped us toward Beef Island, announcing our arrival to the British Virgin Islands. As the plane approached the airstrip, I could see the yachts in Trellis Bay. Woodwind bobbed among them, looking spectacularly bright after her two week rejuvenation project in the boatyard.

Bruce met me outside the security gates and we carried my bags one block to the beach and our dinghy, to go “back to the ship.” Flying to the Caribbean from Washington State is a strung-out day of patience and anticipation, and not particularly pleasant. But compared to the way we clawed our way here last year, flying is a piece of cake.

A day or so later we were off and running, downwind to the USVI. White-canvassed charter boats crisscrossed our path, destined for their new day’s anchorage. We eased the mainsail to clear Privateer Point on the east end of St. John for the last stretch to Coral Bay. Just then, a familiar sail configuration appeared ahead of us: red foresails, white gaffed main and mizzen. “It’s Breath!” Bruce shouted. “Excellent!”

Breath is a 42-foot big-sister ship of Woodwind. Her owners, Peter and Dorothy Muilenburg, are part of our sea-going family. And there she was, suddenly sailing back into our world. They strategically laid several tacks upwind to pass close by and we all waved, shouted and photographed away our eight years of separation. After they passed, we reminisced about the times we’d sailed beside and on Breath, but best of all, the many late nights we languished in that cockpit with Peter, the teller of tales.

Breath was built on the beach in Round Bay in the early 80s by the Muilenburgs and launched by hundreds of friends and a bulldozer, all to carry this amazing couple and their two young sons on ocean-going adventures. Twice to the Med and Africa, several trips to the U.S. East Coast, back and forth with the seasons to South America. They sailed her to Haiti on missions of humanity, to Cuba for curiosity and nearly lost her once when they sailed onto a Bahamian reef. Fortunately, though, Breath lives on and so do the stories collected along the way.

Anyone lucky enough to find him- or herself in Peter’s audience might feel a twitch or two of doubt when hearing some of those stories. For instance, what were the chances the Muilenburgs would be reunited with their personality-plagued Schipperke, Santos, after he fell overboard five miles off the Venezuelan coast? And when Breath was wrestled out of their control by the fierce current of Africa’s Gambia River, colliding with electric wires that shot dancing flames to the deck and down below, how was it they eventually found the friend, the son and the dog that were sent into the sea?

Those stories and dozens more, as true as the teller himself, were recorded and appeared in Sail Magazine, Islands, Reader’s Digest and a handfull of other publications. The cream of that crop now reside together in Peter’s book, "Adrift on a Sea of Blue Light." Reading it was a wonderful interruption of life, as once I dove in I couldn’t climb out. The end of one adventure pulled me into the next, and what didn’t cause me to marvel, to wonder, to laugh … made me cry. It’s a book I’ll read again very soon.

St. John visitors can join Breath and her crew as part of a day-sail, a sunset cruise or any special event, including a shipboard wedding. To learn more about Breath’s history or to arrange a charter go to sailbreath.com.

Jan