A buddy of ours, Ed Hamilton, is the “Minister of Rum” … a self-appointed position he bestowed on himself years ago that has kept him busy researching and writing two informative books on the subject. These days he’s occupied importing white spirits and cane syrup from Martinique and flying around the states teaching the fine art of making Petite Punch. The first bit of wisdom he offers is, “NEVER have more than two.”

We were sailing the same waters several years ago, when Ed was consumed with traveling to every Caribbean distillery, legal and otherwise, piling up complimentary sample bottles in the bilge of his boat. He lamented one evening that it was a dangerous occupation and his next subject would be something milder, like orchids. That tongue-in-cheek comment always amused me, until recently when I found myself in a similar rum-laden boat.

Since I’m almost a one-person editorial staff with this blog, it’s up to me to conjure up ideas, hunt them down, ask a few questions, follow a few leads and roll out a story. To research and report (just the facts, ma'am) the many diverse beach bars on Jost Van Dyke, my first dilemma was deciding where to begin. With over a dozen sandy establishments -- a staggering amount on a lightly populated island of four square miles -- I had choices.

I began with Corsairs, two bars to the left of the police dock in Great Harbor, simply because I feared the piracy that oozed from their black-and-white sign stuck in the sand: “Pirates Welcome. All Others Beware!” The front of Corsairs is a montage of skullduggery mixed with a wee bit of military influence, reflected off the 1951 Dodge Power Wagon M37 parked out front. I wandered in slowly toward the bar, taking in the craziest collection of signs, aged Errol Flynn photos, motorcycle license plates, flags and everything pirate: skulls, treasure chests, hats, swords. Even a three-foot Santa sported a jaunty pirate hat, cutlass and necklace of doubloons.

Coloradan Vinnie Terranova, who has owned the place for five years with his wife, Debbie, greeted me with a warm smile as I swung onto one of the barstools and explained my quest. I couldn’t stop gaping at everything before me and asked, “How would you describe this décor?” He grinned and replied, “Well, sort of biker museum; we’ve got something for everyone.” He went on to explain that people visit, return home, then send back a treasure or two. “We’ve got a great collection of mugs from all over.” I hadn’t even noticed the mugs.

The place began in 1987 as Club Paradise and pink remnants of that earlier personality still poke through. The restaurant beside the bar serves breakfast, lunch and dinner, boasting the best pizza in the BVI.

Every bar in the Caribbean seems to have a signature drink they’ve invented or lifted. Corsair’s is Wench Juice, with secret ingredients I wasn’t privy to. Vinny said, “Our specialty is Absinthe, served correctly. It’s illegal in the states. Want to try some?”

“No thanks, sounds dangerous,” I replied. “How late do you stay open?”

“Till the last customer falls out,” he said.

“I figure after a few shots of Absinthe, it wouldn’t take long, huh?” Vinny nodded with a smile.

I “fell out” after one Carib beer and a warm hour of chatting with the island’s most pleasant pirate. One down, 11 to go!

Early the next day I set out on a hilly walk for White Bay. As I neared sea level, rocks in a driveway off the road spelled out STRESS FREE LANE, confirming the approach to Ivan’s Stress Free Bar. A cluster of eclectic wooden structures make up a compound that includes the bar, a walk-up kitchen/restaurant, the bandstand, gift shop and a few tiny cabins. Campsites, equipped or bare, filled in the open spots on the sugary white sand.

Once in the middle of the place, I was nearly paralyzed by the visual display all around me. Every inch of the place was plastered with shells. Some were imbedded in concrete, others artfully arranged on worn wood. Names, dates and messages recorded a litany of bliss left by de-stressed visitors and happy campers. Swirly designs of shells crawled up the walls, along the ceiling … everywhere.

I eyed the tiny, dark wooden bar through an open window, reading clues others had left behind. A local lady behind the bar invited me in and poured me a glass of juice while chatting with three bikini-clad guests standing by the bar. At 10 a.m. they were ordering frozen drinks. “Pina Coladas?” one asked, in a German accent. The bartendress replied, “I not so good wit da blenda.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Just rum and juice. Lots of rum!” sang out a tall blonde woman. She looked at me, continuing, “This is the best spot in the whole world. Right here. I hope it doesn’t get discovered. It’s soooo blissssful!”

Another woman, her drink half gone, added, “I’ve been coming here for four years. I love it. No stress!!” I was starting to wonder if they were the leaders of the Take Back Your Vacation movement!

The bartendress put the remains of the frozen concoction in front of me. “Wha you tink?” she asked. I sipped on it. “Very nice,” I said as I began asking questions until she ran out of answers. She retreated to a back room to fetch Stress Free Ivan, himself. He sat on a tall stool across from me and his resin-topped bar, holding shells and coins. With little prompting, he began to tell me the whole story, start to finish, of how the place came to be.

Ivan Chinnery began in the tourist industry with a tiny shell shop in Great Bay. Hurricane Hugo moved his business off the beach, making it harder for tourists to find. “So, I ask my cousin who had dis propatee if I could build a shack to attract visitors. She tell me, ‘I love yer pro-posal. I trust you.’ So, in 1992 I open da campgroun and bar. Da buildin was jus wood and nails, so I had a dream and in my dream I saw shells.” Ivan reached behind an old cooler to touch a board of shells. “Dis was da first shells here!”

Ivan says his secret to helping guests de-stress is, “BIGGER DRINKS!” The house specialty is a Banana Whacker, made with several juices, rum and freshly grated nutmeg. “A lot of famous people come here,” he said, pointing at a wall of photos. “Keith Richards, Walter Cronkite, Bon Jovi and Taj. Ya know, Taj from Taj Mahal. You know Kenny Chesney? He come here and make a video for his CD, ‘No Shirts, No Shoes, No Problems.’” He pointed to a photo of the two of them, arms on shoulders.

“Was it crazy? Lots of people?” I asked.

“No, no problem. Dey jus come. Everyone had a good time,” he said, swinging his hands palms up. How could you not, I wondered, in a bar that has an honor system. People can serve themselves and put their money in a can. If they need help, it’s around somewhere.

As I reached out to shake Ivan’s hand and thank him, he said, “I love to hear people say, ‘Ivan, I love this place.’ That’s my satisfaction.” I smiled and said, “I love it too,” before taking my leave and heading down the beach, stress free.

After clearing a rock outcropping, I came upon one colorful bar after another until I reached the end of the beach. Seddy’s One Love Bar would be my next quest, because the place was plastered with hundreds of buoys, flotsam and jetsam. I knew it had a story.

Seddy Callwood, eldest son of Foxy Callwood who owns the famous Foxy’s Tamarind Bar here, was out fishing and hauling lobster pots for the restaurant (that’s where the buoys came from). “Fresh catch” is no lie here! His wife, Raquel, was more than happy to answer my questions while she greeted customers and blended drinks. Theirs, she explained, is a daytime bar, first opened in 1999. “We go down before the sun,” she said. “Ours is a family place. You know, One Love. For everyone.”

Their kitchen serves lunch, specializing in fresh, light, healthy food; nothing fried. Their signature drink, the Bushwhacker, was perfected with six kinds of alcohol and Coco Lopez. She sat one before me, ignoring my protests. “It’s like dessert!” she said. “You have to try it.” The two guests next to me, already on their second, agreed.

I sipped it slowly, listening to the story of life on the beach for this transplanted New Jersey girl, their two small children and their ever growing beach bar business. By the time I left, the sun was baking a beach full of blessed-out tourists and every bar was packed tight. This assignment I’d given myself was turning out to be more difficult than I thought. My research would have to continue in another bar on another day … stay tuned!

Jan

Photo: The Nature's Basket Grocery Store.

On our third day at Jost Van Dyke I rowed ashore with a grocery list, intent on replenishing our fresh stores. I walked the length of town, past the tiny stone church, following signs to Rudy’s Rendezvous Grocery, nestled behind Rudy’s Bar, but at two in the afternoon it was closed. The next day at 11 it was still closed, so I went in search of plan B and found it near a back street just beyond the police station, where signs pointed to Nature’s Basket. As I approached, I saw three local women on the porch, one braiding another’s hair and the third shelling pigeon peas in her lap. I greeted, “Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Afta-noon, madam. How you?” one asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied. “How about you?’

“Blessed, my dear. Blessed today.”

The pigeon pea sheller followed me in, taking her proprietor’s spot behind the counter.

“I’m looking for fruits and vegetables,” I told her, and she pointed me toward a wall of wooden bins holding … one onion. Nothing more. “Do you have anything else?” I asked.

“Yes. I gots some planten.” She led me down a dark aisle, past a display of typical items found on third-world shelves, all in cans. At the end sat a stalk of plantain. “Wha you want?” she asked.

“Well, I’d like some to eat today and tomorrow and some green ones for later.”

“OK,” she said, pulling out a cutlass and whacking off a large clump of the sweet vegetable. Then she went on, “I cook some today. I grill dem on me George Formin Greel and dey vaira sweet. Mmmm…”

As I paid her, checking out her “Mr. Credit is Dead” sign, I had to wonder why, in her world of so little, she would have a George Foreman Grill. But I knew not to ask.

Jan

Photo 1: Main Street in Great Harbor, Jost Van Dyke
Photo 2: Foxy Callwood, just in from hauling lobster traps. The man loves to fish!
Photo 3: On Culture Day, a young girl gets lessons on plaiting palm fronds.
Photo 4: The principal of the Jost Van Dyke School serves up a Caribbean lunch on Culture Day.

Jost Van Dyke, the fourth largest of the British Virgin Islands, has not been chewed up and spit out by destructive development. There are no gigantic hotels, no fussy restaurants … just a handful of guest houses, some good places to eat and a string of crazy beach bars. Electricity didn’t arrive here until 1992 and public water, in the form of reverse osmosis, finally showed up in 2003. If you want to visit, you’ll need to do as the 200-plus residents do and come by boat. There isn’t even an airstrip.

Your visit will most likely start in Great Harbor, the “port of entry” where the passenger/cargo ferries arrive from and depart to Tortola and St. John on a regular daily schedule. Guests from private and charter yachts dinghy to the beach or main pier, situated in front of the customs and police station, the only place in town requiring shoes, shirts and pants. Definitely pants. The rest of the island accepts the most casual attire I’ve seen this side of a nude beach. Maybe that’s because Main Street is a one-lane track on a white sand beach, flanked with small boats tied to palms on the water’s edge, with open-fronted beach bars behind.

From the police dock situated in the center of a half-moon bay, visitors face only one decision: left or right? Most choose the latter and head on a direct course for Foxy’s Tamarind Bar, possibly the Caribbean’s most famous establishment. Located at one end of the beach, this open-air, wooden structure is a graffiti-filled monument of all who came and went. The ceiling is alive with worn, autographed T-shirts, flags, license plates, photos, business cards and a few mismatched bits of bikinis.

When you talk to Foxy, his wife of 35 years, Tessa, and some of their staff, they’ll tell you they’ve seen it all. And in the short time I watched the jubilant customers knocking back signature painkilling cocktails, I saw enough to understand just what they mean. The exhilaration of eating and drinking in beach attire causes everyone to record the event with photo after photo. Foxy will happily pose with anyone, always wearing a mischievous grin. And if he’s not around, customers snuggle up to the life-size wooden version of him nicknamed Epoxy Foxy, and snap away.

The main event at Foxy’s, besides the man himself, is the New Year’s Eve extravaganza. The staff increases 20-fold to serve several thousand who come by sea to eat, drink and merrily escort in a new year. A lucky few snag reservations for the “upstairs party,” a sit-down meal and open bar on a terrace overlooking the field where Max Cabello Jr. and Cool Sessions Brass will perform this year. That field has been the venue for the Beach Boys, the Mighty Sparrow, Lucky Dube, Third World, Toots and the Maytals and a score of other well loved musicians.

Next to the bar is The Fox Hole, Tessa’s boutique of several rooms packed tight with hats, jewelry, shoes, bags … you name it. One wall artfully displays dozens of Foxy T-shirt designs, and in the back you can find the latest in swimwear, just in case you lost yours.

Two years ago, with much work from Foxy and Tessa Callwood, the non-profit Jost Van Dyke Preservation Society was formed. Managed by its new director, American Susan Zaluski, it is working hard to preserve the land, life in the sea and local heritage that has all but dried up. It’s the only island around without a community carnival or jump up.

Susan invited me one Friday to join her at the school for the one remaining event helping hand the past to the future. It was Culture Day, and I jumped at the chance to go. Twenty-three students, ranging in age from five to 14, had exchanged their uniforms of white button-down shirts, dark pants or plaid skirts for traditional clothing or play clothes. They spent the morning cooking over open coal fires, making brooms from local plants, learning to plait palm fronds or making boats with coconut husks. The lunch they helped prepare consisted of saltfish and fungi, goat water, oxtail soup, ackee, green banana, cassava bread and plenty of starchy roots. Luckily, they served mauby and sorrel, both made from local trees, to help wash it all down.

The well-behaved students soaked up the West Indian tastes and traditions, and hopefully they, too, will one day pass them on.

Jan

Top photo: A shot from Woodwind during the Thanksgiving Regatta in Coral Bay.
Bottom Photo: The yachts Liberty (foreground) and Breath.

Since we were in Coral Bay while their 26th Annual Thanksgiving Regatta was happening, we decided to participate and let Woodwind stretch her legs with a dozen of her gaff-rigged kind. The weather for Friday’s race was Caribbean casual, with 10 to 15 knots of breeze and very calm seas. We were first over the starting line and stayed there until the last leg, when we were passed by two Cowhorn Schooners, part of a fleet built in Coral Bay.

Saturday the conditions spiced up, with more wind and steeper seas. Racing in the traditional class, we set out with a sailing buddy on board, hoping to outsmart the fleet. But that plan soon went south. The downward spiral seemed to begin when our electronic bullhorn started making ambulance noises down below for no apparent reason. Moments later, I accidentally sat my camera in a bucket of sea water. And in answer to our “WHAT NEXT?” question, we found ourselves freight-training on a direct-hit course with another boat.

We knew they had the right-of-way long before they screamed, “STARBOARD!” A massive miscommunication ensued on Woodwind, followed by a slow-motion nightmare, each frame lasting for stretched-out seconds. Their three crewmembers hit the deck, and we watched, unable to do little more than push hard on the tiller and hope. Miraculously, we didn’t T-bone them with our 13-foot flying jib boom … it swept past the middle of their boat, then the aft quarter and just as we thought we would actually pass unharmed, Woodwind’s “nose pole” caught their metal sunshade gallows, ripping it from the deck and sending it flying into the sea. We’d also hooked their mainsheet, ripping it loose as blocks holding it in place exploded.

Once past, we looked back, relieved to see their crew safe from harm, moving furiously to deal with the falling sail. Our attention turned forward, searching our bow for a pile of flying splinters, but they weren’t there. Our battleship, Woodwind, had made it through unscathed.

Our mistake was the daily newsflash, until the carbon-fiber mast on a modern 70-footer exploded on deck, falling into the sea sails and all. Fortunately, no one was injured, but the “what ifs” were flying, especially since the boat, Sonny, and crew had just completed an ocean passage two days before. No doubt it was a shocking mess as it was … but what if it had happened at sea?

That evening, the Coral Bay Yacht Club passed out prizes to a raucous crowd. Everyone was a winner. The best announcement was that the proceeds from last year’s regatta had purchased new desks and chairs for every student in the neighborhood’s Guy Benjamin Elementary School, as well as much needed computer equipment. This year’s profits would add more. As the evening wore to an end, the sunny people in that shady place had plenty to be thankful for … especially us!

Jan

Photo: The view of Coral Bay and beyond from our Thanksgiving table.

"A sunny place for shady people." That’s what we saw on a bumper sticker while visiting Coral Bay, in St. John, and when I told our friend, Sandy Mohler, owner and operator of Coral Bay Marine, that I was going to write a story about the place, she smiled and said, “Be sure to change the names to protect the innocent.”

The official St. John guidebook describes this off-the-beaten-path place as having a laid-back vibe that appeals to all kinds of people -- truth seekers looking for something, mystery men hiding from something, artsy types, honest musicians, hippies, retired couples too cool for Florida, way-cool trust fund babies and misfits from every walk of life. That pretty much sums it up … except for the fact that it’s a remarkably close-knit community that thrives on lending a helping hand.

Coral Bay is a protected anchorage on the south side of St. John, at the edge of the U.S. Virgin Islands National Park. On our most recent visit, we went there to pick up mail and before we knew it a week had flown by, filled with events and adventures.

The first night we attended a milestone birthday held under the moonlight in Blind Betty’s Garden. Betty, neither blind nor real, is the character on the label of a delicious pumpkin-flavored hot sauce, and most of its ingredients were growing around us. The birthday girl, Denise Barbier, and her husband, Truman, came to Coral Bay as cruising sailors and, like so many before them, were lured by the land and moved ashore. They own V.I. Fly Away Charters and can take you and up to five friends anywhere you want to go in the Virgin Islands aboard one of their motor catamarans. “We don’t mix and match people. Just one party at a time,” Truman explained. “You can snorkel, eat, party … whatever you want. The boats cruise at 26 knots, so we can cover a lot of ground in one day.”

On our second night we joined famed sailor, artist and musician David Wegman on his double-ended boat, African Queen II for a night of great food and story telling. David and the Queen went around the world together before the days of GPS. The influence of decades of travel appears in his paintings and sculptures. He has a studio in St. Barts above Le Select, one in Coral Bay, one in Key West, as well as a place in Maine. His many T-shirt designs are found throughout the Caribbean.

Lucky for us, we were visiting a U.S. Virgin Island during the Thanksgiving holiday. No canned turkey for us this year! Ours was a feast with 30 other past and present cruisers high atop a hill overlooking Coral Bay, with a view of the east end of St. John and the neighboring islands of the BVI. Our hours-long meal started early in the day, giving us time to swing by the late afternoon Thankspigging at the notorious establishment, Skinny Legs. It’s a long-standing tradition of roasting pigs, turkeys, hams and, this year, alligator, all for the homeless. The entire community is invited to bring a dish and join in. It’s an event to be thankful for, as long as you don’t meander into the horseshoe pit.

Jan

Just past St. Croix’s Fort Christiansted, toward what the fishermen call Lobster Row, sits a brightly painted reincarnated service station. It’s an odd combination of the El Cohiba Restaurant and Cantina and the Y-Bee Dirty car wash. Everything you need rolled into one.

On our way there recently, just as it came into view a blast of strongly scented air assaulted us, reminiscent of the bold picante sauce served in Panamanian eateries. “Whew! What is that?” Bruce asked, sniffing the air, trying to make sense of the biting aroma closing in on us.

“It feels like a fire, but I don’t see smoke,” I choked back.

Thirsty from a day-long island expedition, we climbed onto wooden stools at El Cohiba and ordered cold drinks. A young Dominican woman served and entertained us as she held her own bantering with the West Indian customers. An American fellow appeared, ordered a Coke “to walk with” and retreated across the street to a disco-looking pink and white building.

Finally, catching a break in the conversation that didn’t include us, Bruce asked the young lady, “What’s that smell?”

“Dat Miss Anna’s,” she replied.

“Miss Anna’s?” I asked. “As in Miss Anna’s Hot Sauce?’

“Yes. Dat mon jus ere? He from Miss Anna’s,” she explained.

Miss Anna’s Hot Sauce first came onto our radar screen in Anguilla last spring when we met two Americans from St. Croix who were partners in the business. We’d only heard glimpses of the story and I wanted to know it all. So camera in hand, I headed across the street to the pink place.

Inside I introduced myself, met Clint Simon, Production Manager, and Tony Gatti, General Manager, and explained my curiosity. They obligingly answered my many questions before taking me into the kitchen, where the heat was on. Clint, dressed in a chef’s jacket, turned to me with a serious face and cautioned, “Be careful. You can’t stay in here long.”

I thought he was worried I’d get their secret recipe, until the impact of a boiling cauldron of habanera peppers in vinegar hit me full-on. Tears leapt from my eyes and my breathing suspended. “Whoa!” I choked, as they led me toward the stove. Carefully, I peered into the beginnings of 30 cases of Miss Anna’s fiery condiment … and the story behind it that goes back a century in time.


Miss Anna’s great-grandfather, a St. Lucian fisherman, developed the recipe to liven up his daily meal of fish and breadfruit. He made enough of it to share, barter or sell and for 60 years his sauce had a small but loyal following on the island of the Pitons. Forty years ago his son moved to St. Croix, bringing with him his family and the well-kept secret recipe for his father’s sauce.

The son’s granddaughter, Anna Denis, became the fourth generation to carry on the spicy combination of ingredients. Following in her great-grandfather’s footsteps, Anna made the hot sauce over an open fire, and demand for it grew. In fact, it became the most popular hot sauce on St. Croix and is always on the shelves of local shops. With hard work, Miss Anna had built the family recipe into a substantial business.

Unfortunately, though, as Anna approached retirement age no one in her family was interested in keeping the business going, so she set out to find the perfect buyer. Some time passed. She prayed about it. And then along came four American men who saw the potential and imagined the possibilities. They passed her inspection by spending a substantial amount of time learning every nuance of the sauce through several production cycles. Anna was not about to relinquish control of the product simply because money changed hands.

Now 71 years old, Miss Anna still visits the new owners every two weeks. She tastes and tests the product and is never shy about speaking her mind. Blessed with a green thumb, her mid-island home boasts a variety of fruit trees and an enormous garden, and she grows everything organically. Many of the ingredients in Miss Anna’s Hot Sauce still come from Miss Anna’s backyard! “Every time I go by to see her she gives me something,” Tony says, “and tells me about the medicinal properties of the herbs and plants she has. I always learn something new.”

To increase sales and export the sauce beyond the Virgin Islands, Miss Anna’s new team has taken on the Herculean task of dealing with stateside protocol. The Virgin Islands aren’t part of NAFTA nor the American tax code, which allows its products to be duty free in the states … but they must meet stringent FDA standards. The extra hoops they have to jump through have raised costs in a market already saturated with flashy hot sauce brands. “What we have that sets us apart, though, is a 100-year-old recipe that’s been validated,” Tony explained. “It’s made in the Virgin Islands, in the heart of the Caribbean, with the freshest Caribbean products. It might cost a little more, but it’s an authentic product that has traveled far.”

It’s also award-winning. Miss Anna’s Hot Sauce received a 2008 Scovie Award, with a first-place finish in the Authentic Caribbean category. “A scovie is a measuring unit of heat, sort of like the Richter scale for fiery foods,” said Tony. “The contest, held each year in Albuquerque, New Mexico, is the Academy Awards of Heat. With over 800 competitors, earning the award confirmed the authenticity we’ve worked so hard to maintain.”

Inside each bottle of Miss Anna’s Hot Sauce, labeled with an artistic depiction of the old St. Lucien fisherman’s house, is an all-natural product. The traditional mix is hot pepper curry sauce, but for non-curry lovers they developed a new mix of peppers and garlic. Their lime-green Rainforest Season is a marinade that pairs well with anything you can think of. Tony suggested I even try it on pizza. Caribbean Shake, their latest brainchild, is a dry rub that mimics the original pepper sauce. Currently in the testing phase is a milder sauce.

Talking with Tony, I clearly sensed the commitment to Miss Anna’s family legacy. “We’re working hard to create a quiet storm,” he said. “We’ve inherited and created a special product and we’re dedicated to honoring Miss Anna’s work and the love she put into it. If we mess up or lower our standards, we’ll hear about it immediately from everyone right here in St. Croix.”

Jan