In tiny Jost Van Dyke I purchased an overpriced package of American cheese, eagerly brought it back to the boat only to find that mold had beat me to it. Days later we sailed to nearby Trellis Bay, Tortola, where that same package of cheese was nearly double the price. Though we were cheese-less, I wisely passed it by. It wasn’t as if pizza was on the menu, but our crackers could have used some company. Cheese is, as you can imagine, a handy food on a boat.

But let me digress…

Before our departure from Jost Van Dyke, we were held hostage on Woodwind for two days due to BAD weather that eventually formed into Tropical Storm Olga. Our only entertainment was watching two remoras gobble up the “duck food” we tossed overboard. After Olga left us on a destructive course for the Dominican Republic, a high-pressure system filled our skies with a week of exhaustingly strong wind. It wouldn’t have been a problem if we’d been able to just ride it out at anchor, but we had a plane to meet on December 19th in St. Marten, some 80 miles upwind, due east of the BVI. Our son, Kess, was “comin’ to town.”

From Trellis Bay we battled our way east to Virgin Gorda, a three-hour wet ride that gained us a mere six miles. We wished and hoped with all our might that Mother Nature would cut us a break. On December 14th we took on fuel, water and some comfort foods that might soften the trauma of the beating we were about to begin. Apples, oranges, bread, cookies, chips … but no cheese. The next day, with everything frapped down for sea, we hoisted the anchor and gingerly made our way out of Pillsbury Sound into the Caribbean Sea. The wind was a blustery 25 knots, whipping the seas into an 11-foot frenzy.

The body of water between the Virgin Islands and St. Marten is called Anegada Passage. Within it lies the ship-killing White Horse Reef, Anegada Reef and a lot of traffic passing east and west, some using proper lights, others not. Sailing across it requires extra diligence, a strong stomach and an incentive at the other end. We’ve crossed that notorious stretch of water dozens of times and not once has it treated us well. The last passage west to east last March had “perfect” written all over it until we caught and ate a poisonous ciguatoxic fish that nearly killed us.


Anyone who’s done the Anegada Passage knows its notorious nickname: the “Oh-My-Godda Passage.” But as we lifted the anchor in Virgin Gorda and prepared for the worst, I began to call it the “Oh-My-Gouda Passage.” The incentive at the other end would be seeing our son, but also the fact that we would pull into Dutch St. Marten, row ashore to the store and find rounds, wheels, bits and pieces of new and old Dutch gouda cheese. None of it would be overpriced, none moldy. Just perfectly pleasant, tasty cheese!

And sure enough, after a 30-hour sail that bad dreams are made of, we rewarded our nobly insane efforts with a hunk of the old and a hunk of the new … gouda, that is.

St. Marten is half Dutch, half French. Legend has it the division was created when a Dutchman and a Frenchman decided to walk from a common point around the island in opposite directions. That point would be one border, and where they met would be the other. The Dutchman stopped along the way to enjoy a few drinks and the Frenchman caught up to him all too soon. Thus, the coast of Dutch St. Martin is much longer than French side.

On the Dutch side, you can buy gouda in wax-encased pieces, big and small. Some are almost round and the size of fat softballs. The larger ones are the shape of giant curling pucks, wrapped gleefully in yellow or red cellophane.

In 1995, when we readied Woodwind for the long journey to Washington State, among the medley of canned, boxed and packaged stores we put aboard were two large gouda rounds from St. Marten, nicely dressed in red. We imagined how tasty they’d be off the coast of Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and points north. Somewhere in the 54 days it took us to make our way from Costa Rica to Washington, we pulled out one of those larger-than-life cheese wheels only to find that … you guessed it, mold had beaten us to it! We didn’t toss them away, though, in case we had a breakdown that sent us helplessly to China. Instead, we wrapped them back up and tucked them away.

Months later, after our return to Gig Harbor, Washington, and after ol’ Woodwind had a long dockside rest, we started emptying the boat. We’d disposed of those gouda rounds upon our return, but somehow they’d left their mark in all too many of the boat’s nooks and crannies. It was a cheesy mess that taught us one thing … always buy the old cheese, not the young.

Three decades ago when Bruce wrecked his 26-foot Seabird Yawl, Rocinante, just outside English Harbor, Antigua, a crowd of sainted friends came to his rescue and helped salvage every possible item from the coral-pierced hull. The next morning, on the lawn of the proper English Harbor laid his tiny world of possessions, among them a two-kilo round of gouda cheese in damp yellow cellophane.

One might wonder what’s Caribbean about Dutch cheese, and the answer can be found on the six Caribbean islands with ties to Holland: Aruba, Bonaire, Curacao, Saba, Statia and St. Marten. Each is full of Holland-produced products that include every kind of food imaginable, Delft Blue China and, of course, Heineken Beer. In St. Marten, the streets bear Dutch names and walking down them visitors are sure to hear the Dutch language spoken by the proud people who run and manage this efficient, entertaining, buzzing half of the island.

Jan