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