The second and third races of the season for the Class A, 28-footers were scheduled for Easter Sunday and Monday. Beggar was counting on Bruce as crew for rigging and racing and we were looking forward to seeing his boat under sail.

The day before Easter we anxiously awaited the arrival of the new
and improved Blue Bird, but she didn’t appear until 11:30 ... on Sunday. She was proudly towed to Sandy Ground for her grand re-launching. Tropical flowers were taped to the bow and topsides, accenting the shiny new paint and graphics. With crew lounging in the truck bed, some in the boat, Beggar backed her down the driveway toward the sea. And then the waiting began …

The fellows limed around, drinking beers, drifting up and down the beach. Some slept on the bar, others rested under trees. A truck backed in with the lead ballast bars and men got busy offloading them onto the beach. The Boatmen’s Lunch arrived and the crew spent another hour eating and liming some more. In between it all were spirited discussions, arguments and betting, all about the boats.

Beggar was waiting for the minister to come bless the boat, and when she appeared at 3 p.m., his crew quickly gathered around Blue Bird, placing their hands on her with bowed heads. The minister spoke about the glory of the fine vessel, her able builder and the men who would take her to sea. She blessed them all and asked God to bring them back safe. The minister tossed a
glass of sanctioned water onto the bow, her “Amen” was echoed by the crew, followed by whistles and shouts. Beggar hopped into the truck, fired it up, shoved it into reverse and when he slammed on the brakes, Blue Bird slipped in, alive and afloat once again.

The jobs began with hauling and loading ballast, carrying and stepping the mast, toting and attaching boom and rudder and sails, all of which filled more hours. Throughout the day the 16 crewmembers came and went. At 5:30 everything was ready, but several of the crew were missing. Beggar, like a cat herder, ran down the beach to collect them. A crowd had gathered to watch the setting sun and as it was about to disappear, Blue Bird’s guys climbed aboard and she was finally released from the mooring, sailing toward the orange orb in the sky. The Easter Sunday race never materialized because of the winds again, which had been abnormally strong for most of the day.

Banners around the island had been flapping for a month heralding the second biggest race of the year; “EASTER MONDAY BOAT RACE 2008, In Honor of Mr. Egbert Connor.” That morning we headed in at 10 a.m., certain the action would start early, but found the beach empty, save for the sleeping dogs. Beggar and the boys rolled in around noon and the liming commenced. Winds in excess of 20 knots and a mean ground sea were attempting to scuttle yet another race. Phone calls were made (to whom, I wondered, as there is no race committee), hours passed, guys came and went.

Sometime during all this Blue Bird was rigged to sail and at 5 p.m. the crew began to board. If they weren’t going to race,
at least they could practice. They returned in the dark, unlit, tacking carefully through the crowded anchorage. As Bruce was helping pull sails from the boat, Beggar told him, “De race next Sunday. You come wid us. You me pardner.” With so much hype and work put into an event that had yet to happen, we decided to stay, despite our need to push on.

Time in the Caribbean has issues. If something doesn’t happen when it’s scheduled, it’s “no problem, it come soon, comin’ tomorrah.” So on the following Sunday we were skeptically hopeful that the race would finally come to pass. The all-night Moonsplash event was the evening before and it seemed unlikely anyone would be showing up bright and early. Around 11 a.m., Beggar’s crew filtered in and slowly got to work getting their girl ready. The wind was still up, but two other boats were being rigged so it looked like Blue Bird would finally have her chance to shine.

Anguilla race boats work off a different set of rules. There is no “starboard” right-away decree; the winner must physically touch the finish pin. Sometimes a gun marks the start, sometimes not. I had been making my way up and down the beach taking photos of the pre-race action when Blue Bird headed to the far end of the bay. Light and Peace shot off joining them. I could see De Tree was already there and realized I’d better get a move on. I turned my stroll into a fast walk, a trot and finally a run when I knew I might miss the shot I’d been waiting for all month.

And sure enough, they started the race silently, without fanfare, without me. With 57-foot masts bearing 40-foot booms on 28-foot boats, the sails, spread wide, looked like the wings of three gigantic butterflies, headed west. That was the last I saw of them until they returned four hours later, wet and exhausted. Blue Bird came in a disappointing second. De Tree was the victor that day.

Those four hours were supposed to be the main event. But they weren’t. They were merely the end to a story, a wonderful set of memories of boat builders, sailors and people who love life. Lucky us to have been along for the ride.

Jan

The late Egbert Connor was one of Anguilla’s most legendary boat builders. He had an innate sense for how a boat should be formed and shaped, so it would slice effortlessly through the seas. In addition to understanding the elements of design, he also wielded an adz, auger, hatchet, saw and all the tools needed to build a boat from fancy to finish. His skills today would be considered artful, but in his day they were merely a means to survive.

So often these kinds of treasured talents die out, smothered in our modern, mass-produced world. But not in Anguilla. Boat building on that tiny island thrives, and among its most talented artisans
is a handsome and thoughtful young man named Devon “Beggar” Daniels. Some might say Beggar comes by it naturally, since he’s Egbert Conner’s grandson. Perhaps that’s why he began building model boats at age 11 … not the kind that sit on shelves, their bits held together with gobs of smelly glue. His models were strong and large enough to race against others in the island’s salt ponds.

When we visited Beggar recently at his boatyard, several of his 40-inch models sat in the yard, nearly obscured by creeping vines. Through the green veil we could see the bow of Creep Up and Angel propped off the ground on their 4.5-foot keels. Beggar explained how he built them and how they led him to build his first large boat at the age of 19. Lady Elvira, a 22-foot fishing boat, was the first … but there was a beautifully designed fleet constructed after her, including a 40-foot long-liner.

Happenstance is how Bruce met Beggar last year during a local boat race. The Sandy Ground beach was alive with crew hauling ballast, masts, rudders, sails and gear from trucks to the boats tethered in shallow water. Bruce heard Beggar announce that one of his crew was missing, so he asked if he could join them. He did, and a friendship was born from their shared love of boat building and sailing. After the race that day on the 21-foot R.O.B.B. (Return of Blue Bird), Beggar recognized Bruce as a good hand and invited him to race again. Although 10 months passed before our next meeting, the invitation was still alive … and not just for one race, but for all we could make.

The first competition of the 2008 season was to take place in late February, so we dashed there from St. Barts two days before the race, anticipating a day of rigging and practice beforehand. By race day, though, we hadn’t heard anything and watched the beach for the action to begin, but gave up by 4 that afternoon. We later learned the race was cancelled because of a combination of strong winds and a feud with the boats from Island Harbor.

Not long after that uneventful day, Beggar came by to invite us to his boat-building shop to see the remaking of Blue Bird, his 28-foot race boat. “Come today,” he said. “Today she cut. Tomorrow she back together.” Anguillan race boats, all built of
wood, are rebuilt almost as often as they’re sailed. Beggar, in an effort to gain more speed, had removed every frame and cut every plank seam. Blue Bird sat on her keel looking like a bony turkey carcass after a Thanksgiving feast. To explain the transformation, he pulled out the line drawings and I could see where, frame by frame, the boat had undergone a metamorphosis.

The next day we returned and were astonished to find Blue Bird’s planks glued up and the last frames being set in. With several helpers in and out, they had worked half the night like doctors in the E.R. Their patient, with a new coat of paint, would be good to go.

Jan

West Indian culture is a sweet mix of languages, food, architecture and music. Oh, how those people love their music … and we do, too. Everywhere it fills the air, booming from houses and shops, spilling out of cars and buses. Reggae from the king, Bob Marley, is more popular than ever, but the make-you-wanna-dance tunes might just as likely be calypso, soca or part of the new generation genres of ska, dancehall, zouk and rock steady. Whichever style, whatever the song, it will make your toes tap, your hips whine, your face beam.

Jamaica is the capital of Caribbean music, so it’s no surprise to find the majority of super stars are from there. Yet each island in the region boasts its own legends and rising stars. Some climb the ranks through local calypso competitions; others get their start headlining at hotels and nightspots. Tiny Anguilla has Sprocka, The Mighty Springer and the talented pan player, Dumpa. But the fellow who put Anguilla on the musical map is one of their own favorite sons, Bankie Banx.

Bankie’s journey to stardom began as a child in church. And when that small boy who loved to sing grew tall, he put together a band and hit the road. Through the 80s they performed in Europe, the States and throughout the Caribbean. A set of circumstances brought them back to Anguilla, where, like the title of their song, they were “Stuck in Paradise.”


Years ago, while anchored off the Sandy Ground beach, we would hear Bankie’s voice, backed by whomever was available, playing at one of the local bars. His distinguishably deep, almost raspy voice sang the stories he’d written of his journey-filled life. In 1990 he launched Moonsplash, an annual show held on the full moon of March. Back then, the venue was tiny, uninhabited Sandy Island. The scene would start late in the day as local boats ran back and forth at high speed, ferrying drinks, food and giant speakers. Passengers didn’t bother boarding until 10 or 11 p.m. No use getting there early for a late-night show that rarely got started until the roosters began to crow.

A few years later, Bankie moved the ever growing extravaganza to The Dune Preserve, a large piece of property on Rendezvous Bay. On the beach, he, Bullet (a local boat builder) and many other Anguillans began constructing a series of structures that defied the laws of architecture and building codes. Much of it was put together using old wooden race
boats. Unfortunately, they didn’t get far before hurricanes huffed and puffed and blew it all away. No problem, mon. They started again and what we find there today is an artistic, eclectic, tree house sort of place that makes everyone who visits grin ear to ear. One old race boat is the bar. Another, flipped upside down, is the crown at the entrance gate. Boats, masts and booms are everywhere, with nooks and crannies in between, pieced together from driftwood and scraps.

This winter, The Dune added a restaurant to their bar, serving lunches six days a week and featuring music three nights. Sunday afternoons, jazz musicians play and you just never know who from the crowd might join them. We were there on one of those dreamy
days, reconnecting with Bankie after a decade away. During the “how ya been” conversation, someone came up with the idea to have Bruce paint a mural on one of the permanent structures before this year’s Moonsplash. The site was chosen, the wood prepped and they both agreed the mural should be an amped-up rendition of the view before them. Bruce got to work the next day and spent a week creating a sky and sea scene, with a set of boats racing past The Dune, shells, turtles, swimming guests, Bankie’s guitar and a handful of other Anguillan treasures. At the same time, a crew led by Bullet added onto the place, bit by chunk.

On Thursday, the first of the four days of Moonsplash, we were at
The Dune and surprised to see men pouring cement at the entrance. All around us saws and hammers flashed in the hot sun. I looked at Bruce and commented, “Callin’ it close, aren’t they?” Around the bar at 3 p.m., guests were waiting for the noon performance to begin. People new to the island looked at their watches, wondering if Anguilla was on Mountain Time. It had to be noon somewhere, right?

Friday, it was a similar scene, until just hours before the first major performance Bullet drove the final nail and announced, “Mon, dat it. I’m finish. Let’s get a drink!”

That night, Tarrus Riley sang the song that’s been sweeping the Caribbean, “She’s Royal.” We didn’t make it to the concert, but we could imagine the ladies melting into a love-struck puddle. His performance lasted until 2 a.m. and that’s when the problem began …

A few months ago, the Anguillan police started cracking down on late-night noise. They went from bar to bar to restaurant, declaring that amplified music must stop by 1 a.m. That didn’t set well with the locals, because late-night music, as loud as you can make it, is a tradition on the island and no one wanted it to change … except, apparently, the person who complained. Shutting off the music in bars was one thing, but asking Tarrus Riley to end his performance early, in front of an audience of several thousand … well, that was asking for trouble.

Saturday at Moonsplash is “Legends Night,” and this year’s featured group was one of my favorites, Steel Pulse. Bruce, who would be boat racing the next morning, opted for sleep. I snagged a ride with some friends from Ohio -- Moonsplash veterans who know just about everyone and their cousins on the island. We pulled up to the gate around 10:30 p.m., but found only three cars ahead of us and a handful of people inside. We started wondering if it had been cancelled, then quickly realized we were way too early. That’s when we placed bets on how late the show, with four groups set to play, would roll.

At 11:30 p.m., Anguilla’s own Kinaya took the stage and got the growing crowd infested with dance fever. They were followed by Masud Sadiki, a high-spirited collection of musicians from St. Kitts. Bankie Banx and many of his original group, The Roots and Herbs, came next. In between each performance, a DJ played a collection of hot tunes, while the sound system on stage was rearranged. As he allowed one song to segue to the next, he boomed into the mike, “Moooonspaaaash!” and everyone would look anxiously to the empty stage.

Finally, around 2:45 a.m., the lead singer from Steel Pulse, David
Hinds, led the group on stage and the crowd went ballistic. With wild dreadlocks flying, he started the show and the band’s enthusiastic dancing, jumping and stomping had everyone in the audience doing the same.

At 4:15 a.m. they were beginning their encore song, when the sound diminished to a whisper. I looked around, thinking I’d gone deaf. I saw Bankie standing at the sound board and heard him say into a microphone, “Respect! Have some respect! This is Moonsplash. Let us finish this song.” The police had somehow defused the amplification in an effort to stop the show, which at that point was like a freight train rolling out of control downhill. Bullet, who had been minding his own business dancing near the sound bank, was hauled into the fray by Bankie. Several policemen and Bankie were exchanging heated words, but the only ones we heard came from the mike. “Her Majesty’s police force, have some respect!”

The stunned crowd watched as Steel Pulse left the stage, replaced by Bankie, followed by a member of the Royal Anguillan Police. Bankie, still in command of the mike, began a litany with, “Arrest me tomorrow. Don’t arrest me tonight. Please, this is Moonsplash. Arrest me tomorrow. Not tonight!”

When he reached the center of the stage, his sister and emcee, Dr. Linda Banks, joined in with arms flying and a verbal assault on the officer. “Moonsplash pays your salary! Let us finish. This is the biggest event on the island!” Several thousand witnesses stood ready to watch someone get belted, but instead, the police officer left the stage, Bankie and Linda stepped aside and Steel Pulse returned for the final song. The chaos was a hard act to follow, but they once again fired up that crazy crowd to a full boil.

When they left the stage at 4:30 a.m., their highly amplified music was replaced again by the DJ, and his was even louder. For some reason, as the crowd dispersed, it blared on, keeping the neighbors at the CuisinArt Hotel awake long past 5 a.m. Maybe the police gave up or maybe they just knew … tradition trumps all.

It wasn’t the end of the story. Days later the head of the police issued several statements. It was the talk of the town and will have no end, because if there’s one thing West Indians love, almost as much as their music, it’s debate and discussion. And just like their music, they like it loud and late.

Jan

Life on a boat in the Caribbean is interesting, to say the least. There are issues with weather, of course … good and bad. Anchors holding and dragging. A neighborhood that changes all day and night. Little stays the same, allowing plenty of opportunity for the unexpected.

Old friends sail back into our life now and then, surprising us like post cards in the mail. Just last month we dropped anchor next to a small wooden boat and on board was the old Dutchman, one of Bruce’s most memorable Caribbean connections. Since we last met, he has sailed around the world alone before losing the boat on a reef in the Bahamas. That story alone kept us busy for a day.

Often we meet new sailors to share a chunk of time with. Most memorable this winter were Fred and Connie, a retired couple fresh from Boston who were dodging a string of bum luck and wondering what they‘d gotten themselves into. We met when Bruce was summoned to help free their anchor from a sunken water tank. During sundowners that night, he diagnosed the problem that had been filling their bilge with oil, amazed they hadn’t blown the engine. Over several weeks we shared more anchorages and more of their troubles, but each meeting we found them fitter, tanner; their shoulders more relaxed; smiles broader. They were winding down to island time and it was a joy to watch.

Getting ourselves to shore in the dinghy is usually a long, boring row, yet even that can be spiked with surprise and alarm. We’ve been dive-bombed by pelicans, splashed by leaping fish and rays (that’s a cousin to a shaak, mate!) and amazed by surfacing turtles we could reach out and touch. Giant barracudas like to follow our small boat, which always brings on the “nuh nuh … nuh nuh,” soundtrack from “Jaws.”

The unexpected finds us just as often on land. Like last week, when I rowed ashore and saw a group of youngsters with garbage bags running at high speed toward me. I stepped aside and watched them jubilantly fill the bags with beach debris, the first mission of their class field trip. That accomplished, they charged into the
sea for a playful swim before gathering at Elvis’ Beach Bar for a celebratory lunch of burgers and fruit punch. Their teacher was returning to the States and wanted to thank “the best group of kids ever.” No one had a camera, so I collected photos to record their special day together.

After lunch, a local fisherman hauled a hand-made trap as part of a science lesson. The catch was counted, recorded and released and the kids skipped down the beach, back to school. Days later, my story and photos of the occasion ran in the Anguillan paper, some local good news, for sure.

Another unforeseen event I stumbled into recently was a full and fancy wedding. While minding my own business, waiting in a hotel lobby in St. Marten, I noticed a bridal party coming and going from
a room off the open-air bar. Suddenly the ear-thumping reggae that filled the air stopped, replaced by a soft jazzy tune. Tiny flower girls wove through the lobby, past the bar, down steps leading to a canopy on the beach. Bridesmaids and groomsmen followed, passing a throng of uninvited gawking guests. As a proud Dad escorted the bride to the altar, the drinkers at the bar rose to their feet, smiling approval as if they were giving the woman away. Bikini-clad sunbathers on chairs beside the canopy stood to the sides, cameras clicking away.

It was like a tropical version of the interactive audience play, “Tina and Tony’s Wedding,” and we were in it! As they reached the altar, I slipped out the back way, wondering what I might encounter next. When it was a close call with a funeral a few days later in St. Barts, I decided I’d better watch my step!

One of the more predictable tasks of Caribbean cruising is clearing in and out with customs and immigration. It is a necessary ordeal that involves mounds of official forms, carbon paper and serious, no-nonsense uniformed workers. Somewhere in the last year I was promoted to “captain,” thus placing the clearance job in my lap. Though the drill is rarely the same, I know my part and follow it well … stand quietly in line; wait patiently; give a kind greeting and follow all verbal answers with “sir” or “ma’am.” “Please” and “thank you” help, too.

But one day last month, five noisy Americans were in line ahead of me as the Anguillan officials opened their door for business. The rowdy people were part of a group of over 100 from a Manhattan sailing club, having way too much fun on 12 charter boats. Like a teacher’s pet in school, I tried to ignore their raucous behavior, fearful I’d be blamed. The guy in front of me turned and asked, “How long you think this’ll take, five minutes?” I shrugged, thinking, “in your dreams!” I figured an hour, at least.

The immigration lady was busily stamping papers, but customs had yet to show up. Outside, the other 95-plus New Yorkers were loudly gathering for a group photo. The five waiting inside paced, anxious to join them. Miraculously, the customs officer flew through the door and got right to work. She cut through their clearance forms and mine in a record-breaking five minutes and shot back out the door. I’d never seen anything like it! By the time I stepped onto the beach, she was poised in front of the scantily dressed crowd, camera in hand. She was taking the job they’d given her as official photographer seriously, when the crowd began to
chant her name, “ANITA, ANITA, ANITA!”

Someone directed her, “Get in the picture! Come on. Get in the picture with us!” Despite her protests and the fact that she was holding onto a male co-worker, several guys ran forward, scooped her up and carried her toward the crowd. They placed her in the middle on someone’s knee for the final photo op of the morning.

“Go figure,” I mumbled to no one. “I get in trouble for not pushing hard enough on the triplicate forms and these guys get away with shanghai-ing the customs officer.”

Bruce stumbles into the thick of it now and then, too. In early March he took his steel pan drum ashore to play “Happy Birthday” for a 90-year-old friend. On the way back to the dinghy he passed a band playing at a local bar. The non-acoustic group, led by the
Mighty Springer, was playing jump-up music with a washtub base, banjo, conga drum and a metal grater played with a stick. Bruce wrangled his way in to join them for one song with his shiny tenor pan. Days later, Springer saw him and said, “Hey mon, we like ya style! You can play wid us any time. We aksin you!” Bruce didn’t hit the road with them, but he joins them when he can and now he’s known around the island as, “da fella wid de pan.”

As I type this, the wind is blowing far too hard, the boat is rolling side to side from seas that are uncharacteristically wild and a pile of laundry is calling my name. I can’t imagine that another unexpected, interesting event is about to happen, but I certainly hope so. I’d do anything to get out of doing the laundry.

Jan

Wise people take back their vacation; daredevils take back their life. A few … the courageous and sometimes foolhardy … head to paradise to plant the seeds of long slumbering dreams, attempting the difficult task of running a business in the third world.

Anguilla, like all the islands of the Caribbean, has met its share of enthusiastic risk-takers during its 50 odd years of tourist development. Each year a few more arrive and, like migrating birds, just as many leave.

One of the most successful couples on Anguilla, and for sure the most famous, are Bob and Melinda Blanchard. In 1995 they left behind their stateside life, moved to this British West Indian island and opened Blanchard’s Restaurant. Two successful cookbooks (“Cook What You Love” and “At Blanchard’s Table”), along with a featured spot on NBC’s “Today” show that coincided with the destination wedding event, helped ignite their island fame and fortune, and it hasn’t stopped growing since.

Together the Blanchards also authored “A Trip to the Beach,” described by U.S. Weekly as, “a charming tale of a Caribbean culinary adventure.” And last year they launched a second restaurant, Zurra, at the Baccarat Hotel, and soon will release two entrepreneurial books on how to live the life you love. It would seem they have that subject mastered well.

The Blanchards’ unbridled success might lead you to think paradise is a piece of cake … but nothing could be further from the truth. Nuuh-thing! Last year on the island we met a middle-aged couple from New York who left behind their stateside life (sound familiar?), snagged a lease on a beachside restaurant and unleashed their plans and dreams. Big ones. We weren’t surprised to find them missing less than a year later, and to hear the story of how the police had escorted them to the airport, where they were flown one-way, no returns, no do-overs, to Puerto Rico. Behind them trailed a cloud of debt, broken promises and bad will. You can bet there won’t be a book about that.




Anguilla does have some new kids on the rock, though, who are turning heads and making headlines with their restaurant, Veya, Cuisine of the Sun. Located at the top of Sandy Ground hill, far from the water’s edge, it’s nestled among lush tropical trees that shadow a garden of fragrant blooms. Guests ascend to the second story via candle lit steps to a canopied veranda. Inside the lounge, decorated with a simple yet discerning décor, a table holds a guest book full of over-the-top glowing remarks. “From start to finish it was perfect!” “Michelin stars in Anguilla!”

We met Carrie Bogar, half of Veya’s dynamic duo, at the beach one
Sunday. Two of her three young children, with salt-caked blonde hair and sandy bodies, ran between the sea and their Mom. In between the kids’ visits I collected bits of the Bogars’ blossoming success story. In less than a year, Carrie and her husband, Jerry, have created one of the island’s most popular fine dining establishments and it’s received rave reviews from the New York Times and Caribbean Travel and Life. That’s quite a feat on an island where pretty much every top restaurant has a drop-dead waterfront view.
Photo: Carrie Bogar, second from left; Jerry Bogar, far right.

Days later, Carrie and Jerry sat with me at Veya to share their story, starting at the beginning of an odd string of events that led to the beautiful setting we were sitting in. During the ninth year of owning and managing a restaurant in Pennsylvania, they were yearning for something different. Not simply looking for a career shift or a change of scenery, they were after a new life in a new land. Annual January get-aways from Pennsylvania’s cold to several islands in the Caribbean prompted them to Google “Caribbean restaurants, for sale.” Up popped one on Anguilla. Just as they were about to book flights to check it out, a once-in-a-lifetime proposal that was just too good to pass up landed in their laps. Carrie explained, “We were offered a blank check to design, open and run a restaurant, spa and town center. We couldn’t pass it up, so we worked on the project for a year while continuing to manage our own business, along with checking out Anguilla, just in case.”

Still yearning for “something more, something different,” they flew again to Anguilla, sealed the deal with a handshake and returned home to sell everything and move to the Eastern Caribbean. That process took much longer than they imagined, but with the stateside house sold they were finally ready to buy one in Anguilla. Unfortunately, during the three years that had ensued values on the island had tripled. Undeterred, they found a rental to live in and set to work renovating the Veya property and grounds, creating a new kitchen, installing furnishings and developing the menu and plan that would secure them a business license.

Carrie, trained at the Culinary Institute of America, created a menu of global tastes. “I’m drawn toward equatorial cuisine,” she explained, “Asian, Moroccan, South American.” Their menu reads like a mouth-watering world map. First course selections include Moroccan spiced shrimp cigars with roasted tomatoes and spicy apricot sauce; Vietnamese style crispy calamari with nuoc cham; traditional fish soup with coconut, ginger and red pepper rouille. Just a few of the dozen second course offerings are grilled local lobster with passion fruit mustard sauce, gingered sweet potato with garlic toasted spinach; grilled crayfish, ginger beurre blanc, chayote flan and local pumpkin; tamarind glazed roast chicken with christophene gratin and tropical fruit chutney.

Carrie had hoped to change the menu frequently, but it has remained the same because many guests return for specific meals. She doesn’t want to disappoint, so they offer daily specials that usually include one of her favorites … anything with fresh fish. Also at the top of her list is the carpaccio of conch with Asian cucumber-chayote slaw, Indonesian rice salad and chili aioli. Carrie also loves to serve her Five Course Tasting Menu, comprised of her current favorites.

Jerry, educated at Pennsylvania’s College of Fine Arts, leads the business end of Veya. He’s the logistics guy, working through the myriad of oddball island issues that spring up like moles. Together they manage a staff of 12, serving upwards of 60 guests each evening. Carrie leaves her kitchen in an attempt to chat with each table. She typically visits during the first seating, announcing the specials. “Our social life has become hanging out with the last tables,” she said. “Those people come back several times a year because of it.” During those late evening visits they have met some amazing people, including some world-class movers and shakers. She added, “There is a sophistication of tourism here. An audience that’s world-savvy and food-savvy.”

Thinking there must be some downside to transplanting a family of five so far from malls and soccer fields, I probed a little further. They assured me that, although they are actually busier in Anguilla, they are definitely happier and have less stress. Their three children are thriving in school. Recreational opportunities include golf clinics at the Temenos Club, private swim instruction, lessons at the tennis academy and sailing school. The restaurant is closed Sundays, so the family can hang out at the beach. “Living here isn’t for everyone,” Carrie told me. But for the Bogar family, it’s veya … a Carib word meaning “a ray of sunlight.”

Jan

My perspective on St. Barts spans 30 years, a brief paragraph in the island’s history book but long enough to notice plenty of change. What was once a base for pirates and smugglers … and centuries later, traders and cruising sailors … is now considered the Riviera of the Caribbean. The rich and famous, their families and friends come and go throughout the high season, trailing behind an entourage of bodyguards and worker bees. To accommodate them, chic hotels, restaurants and shops dot the island in abundance. Tiny roads that once held mini-mokes and VW Things are now choked with Mini Coopers, Smart Cars, SUVs and oversized trucks.

Most visitors arrive by small plane, the only size that can fit on
one of the Caribbean’s trickiest runways. Incoming aircraft must first clear the crest of a gusty hill that holds at its peak a busy road. Next they must descend FAST to a downhill-sloping tarmac to grab every inch of it before it abruptly becomes the sea. Flying to St. Barts is a white-knuckle rush for the passengers. I can only imagine what the pilots think.

Arrival by sea is through the Port of Gustavia, a picturesque town that holds at its center a protective harbor. In not-so-long-ago days, boats sailed in and out and anchored at will. Down island
trading vessels lay beside charter cruising boats and local fishing craft. Laidback residents spoke French, Swedish, English and Creole. Most were from St. Barts (Bartians) or its big-sister island, Guadaloupe. It really was a sleepy little fishing village.

Today’s port is concrete and glass, stainless steel and sensational. It’s an orchestrated parking lot for some of the
world’s most ostentatious yachts, directed by a uniformed team from the port captain’s office. Mega-yachts tie stern to the quay that lines the harbor. Pedestrians walk the planked promenade to catch a glimpse of the gilded opulence, but mostly what they see is a relentless demonstration of scrub and polish by large, busy shipboard crews. Little St. Barts is still fishy, but it hasn’t slept in years.

On every visit we head off to find the charm that made the island the exclusive destination it is today. The first place we visit is
Le Select, a small brick bar in the center of Gustavia. Beside it sits the Cheeseburger in Paradise shack and a tree-lined courtyard that fills and empties all day long. Everyone finds a friend there because it’s the center of the St. Barts universe. Proprietor Marius Stakelborough, who built the place over 50 years ago, told us, “The people wanted a bar, a place they could gather. That’s what I made. That’s what it still is. I want it to be the same, even after I’m gone.”

Judging by the interior, I’d say he’s holding true to his word. Inside is a Marius museum of aged post cards, flags, posters and photographs. My favorite is an image of Marius and his pal, Jimmy Buffet, arm in arm, taken on the golden anniversary of the island’s favorite bar.

To slip back even further in time I head out early one morning for the village of Corossol, settled three generations ago by people from Charente in southeastern France. It’s a hilly walk through traffic-jammed roads, before reaching the countryside and the final lane that descends to the fishing village, happily stuck in time. I pass ladies hanging laundry and sweeping porches. A gentleman painting meticulous detail on his house calls to me, “Bonjour. Ca va?”

“Bien,” I answer with a wave. It’s good. All good.

At the beach, traditional open boats lay everywhere, filled with traps and nets. Simple houses perch next to the one-lane road, a few display hats and baskets for sale, braided from palm fronds. A worn sign at the end of the road reads, “Inter Oceans Museum, Coguillages du Monde, Entier.” It’s the shell museum, my destination for the day and one of St. Barts’ best-kept secrets.


I stroll inside, looking for Ingénue Magras, creator and curator. His collection, considered one of the best in the world, sprawls throughout tiny rooms in mismatched buildings. Several clear, segmented containers hold samples of sand collected from hundreds of beaches. In each stands a paper drink umbrella and a handwritten note telling the origin in French and English. Large
glass display cases hold multiple examples of every kind of shell imaginable. Other showcases contain artistically glued shells transformed into turtles, fish, birds … you name it. Big ship models holding fishtank pirates crown the cases. It’s the genius and life’s work of its 87-year-old owner.

Our St. Barts time travel continued through our week-long stay, while Bruce displayed his paintings at Gustavia’s Porte 34. The
gallery is in a thick stone building, erected several centuries ago, that was once used to store smuggled rum and brandy. Sometime in the mid 1900s it was boarded up and forgotten, until 1993 when Bruce was invited by the owner to use the space to show his art. We swept away the cobwebs and a mountain of dust, shoved back the disintegrating cases of aged alcohol and opened The Here Today Gallery. At the end of an entertaining, successful month it was time for us to be “gone tomorrow.” We re-sealed the wooden doors and shutters and placed a sign on the door at the request of the owner: “Future Home of the Bhank of Bhagdad.” A few years ago, when the building was renovated into the serious gallery it is today, everyone called it, “The Bagdad.” Some still do.

During our week at Porte 34 we met many people who, like us, have been coming to St. Barts for 20 to 30 years. They all commented on the changes they’ve seen. Some complained. Too many people, too many cars. Everything is expensive. But still they return each year to this magical little island that somehow remains the same.

Jan

I am always up for a story, so I said “YES!” before Sue finished the question, “Would you like to go out on one of the boats?” Sue, a cruising sailor from South Africa, runs the shore-side of the 12-Metre Challenge, an adventure sailing business in Phillipsburg, St. Marten. The yachts, five authentic 12’s, were designed and built for the last 12-Metre America’s Cup held in Australia in 1987. Each day, one of Dennis Conners’ two Stars and Stripes races around the bay against True North, True North IV or Canada II. The majority of the crew consist of globe-trotting travelers looking for a thrill. Most of them have never sailed; some have never before set foot on a boat.

“So how can this work?” my skeptical mind asked. I’ve sailed enough to know it can be dangerous on a good day. Big boats, like the 12’s, require heavy-duty gear that can be difficult to handle and downright threatening. But the next morning, curiosity won over caution and I found myself at the 12-Metre Headquarters armed (with cameras) and ready to go. At the entryway, two guest books lay open, filled with one positive, excited, blown-away comment after another. Above them hung a framed, faded American flag. Written on it, “Good Sailing! Dennis Conner, Starts and Stripes, 1995 America’s Cup.”

Sue directed me to wait out front for the launch that would carry guests to the cruise ship pier where we would be welcomed and briefed. I passed the time chatting with a retired couple from Cleveland, trying to determine their motivation for purchasing the tickets in their hands. Just like the other 18 people we soon joined, they wanted to go for a sail on one of the legends.

Bradley Jenkins, an exuberant American, began by counting his charges before announcing, “Very few people in the world have ever done what you are about to do.” He explained the regatta then asked for volunteers to captain the two teams. Not waiting for reluctant hands to rise, he pointed to an attractive young woman saying, “You will be great! What’s your name?” Next, he shanghaied another pretty face from the crowd.

The first captain picked her friend as crew. Bradley discovered captain number two was on her honeymoon and challenged her, “This is your opportunity to establish strength in your new marriage. Will you pick one of these fine sailors,” his hand fanned the group, “or your husband?” The wise woman went for her man and we cheered.

The two teams were asked to choose their yacht, True North or Stars and Stripes. The groups huddled, each voting for the winner, Stars and Stripes. “My God! That never happens!” Bradley facetiously exclaimed while pulling a coin from his pocket.

As 21 of us boarded the launch for a ride to the 12’s, the sky turned a mean shade of gray. The wind, already in an uncharacteristically cranky mood, whipped into williwaws that caused water to jump from the sea. Conditions worsened as we got under way. Bradley quickly passed around a waiver for everyone to sign before the threatening sky opened up and drenched us. I checked all the faces for signs of fear but those people were having fun! Especially the lady who pulled out a credit card piece of plastic that opened into a full size raincoat.

Bradley explained the many crew positions available. We could choose the level of involvement we wanted. “Active or non-native?” he asked with a smile.

“Active!” shouted a young Russian woman.

“Great! You will trim the genoa by working the primary grinders. Let’s hear it for our Primary Grinder!” In team fashion, we all let out whoops and hollers. “We need one more!” and a hand shot up eliciting another cheer. This went on through the positions of mainsheet trimmer, backstay grinder, back stay trimmer and primary grinders, before getting to the soft jobs. One woman was designated Cooler Queen, another was handed a stopwatch to use as timekeeper. The mother of the Russian girl and I were left. Since she had no English and looked happy just to be along for the ride, she was designated Iceberg Spotter and I was assigned Chief Paparazzi.

The tender approached True North, mainsail still up, galloping along slowly. The crew we were replacing moved to the bow, making room for us. They were hugging and kissing each other and the three official crew who manage and sail the boats. Their 12-Metre shirts clung to their bodies, hair pasted to their heads, yet they appeared to be totally satisfied customers. A voice inside me wondered, “How on earth can this be fun?”

Once the two boats were tied together, Bradley looked aft to the new True North crew and called, “Let’s hear it for our Primary Grinders!” The two rose and carefully climbed from boat to boat. He ran through each position, one by one, until the Iceberg Spotter and I were left. We joined the rest of our crew and a cooler of iced drinks followed us on. The wet crew from the bow took our spots in the tender and sped off to Stars and Stripes.

Our skipper, Matt, seated us in assigned spots then introduced first mate, Robb and second mate, Tommy. All three young men from
Britain were fit, fast and very funny. Stationed near their new recruits they got to work explaining and demonstrating the task that lay ahead, all the while showing us what not to do or touch. The Iceberg Spotter, who had pulled out a camera, was busy snapping shots of her husband and darling daughter. I sat quietly taking it all in.

Matt revved us up asking, “Who wants to win this race?”

“We do!” we yelled.

“Who will win this race?” he shouted.

“True North! True North!” we chanted. Although few of us knew each other, we were quickly turning into a team.

The genoa was released to power us up and the grinding began. We tacked and jibbed around Great Bay for a good 20 minutes, hauling lines and cranking gear, getting used to the motion and the task ahead. The Brits praised us, egged us on and before I knew it, everyone was doing their job … well!


Matt stood on the foredeck holding a blue board with letters and squiggly white lines. “I’m going to explain the course we will sail.” It looked like a plate of spaghetti to me, but others nodded comprehendingly and off we shot toward the start line.

Robb maneuvered the boat close to Stars and Stripes for some humorous verbal sparring. The committee boat hoisted the five-minute flag. The two 35-ton, 70-foot giants jockeyed for the best position. Our timekeeper, not knowing she should be counting backwards, called, “4:45, 4:50, 4:55,” The red flag shot up and we leapt over the line ahead of them.

The boys from Britain directed crew to grind and trim, tightening the rig for the upwind leg to the mark. Waves broke over the bow sending slop and spray onto our already wet crew. The young Russian woman worked the arm-powered gears of the genoa winches with so much enthusiasm, it rubbed off on the rest of us. A high-speed chase boat caught up to us from behind, a whistle in the driver’s mouth, a camera in one hand. Matt shouted, “When you hear the whistle, turn and smile but do not wave. O.K?” Four attempts later, the fellow got the shot he was after and sped off.

Stars and Stripes beat us to the first mark. Matt explained our second-place status and the strategy we’d use to beat them to the downwind mark. He brought True North close to Stars and Stripes, forcing them off course. It was at that point that I decided to finally pull out the new Flip camera Bahama Breeze sent us so we could add video to the blog. The camera had stayed in the zip-bag, waiting for that short, dry moment. I scooted myself into a clear space, pulled it from the bag and WHAM! The mainsheet hit my arm and the camera shot into the air. It hit the deck twice before leaping into the sea like a frog. Tommy yelled, “What was that?”

In disbelief, I said, “My … new camera!”

It was one of the few things, apparently, that was ever lost from that boat and luckily it wasn’t my arm. From that point on I held my still camera with a death grip and snapped away trying to keep up with the Iceberg Spotter.

As we approached the downwind mark, Mark asked our team captain/tactician which tack we should take after rounding it, port or starboard. She shrugged her shoulders, “Port?”

Tommy shook his head and said, “Not port.”

“Starboard?” she asked.

“Starboard it is! Excellent choice!” yelled Mark.

On the upwind leg to the finish line, the real crew worked their newbies up for a win. They started yelling polite abuse to the other boat and we followed. Stars and Stripes did a clumsy double tack at the end but somehow won. We hip-hip-hoorayed them, pulled out cold drinks and enjoyed the ending to our “three-hour tour.”

Like the crew before us, we headed to the bow to make room for the next team. The tender collected us and steamed back to the 12-Metre Yacht Club where rum punch awaited us in their store full of 12-Metre emblazoned ties, sweats, hats, jackets, vests, shirts, shirts, shirts and the smiling but not waving photos of each team.

I stopped by to thank Sue. “Too bad it was so rough today,” she apologized. “Did you have a good time?”

“I did,” I replied, before letting loose with a string of positive, excited, blown-away comments.

The “America’s Cup” 12-Metre Challenge Program has been voted the number-one shore excursion in the whole Caribbean for 10 consecutive years by Princess Cruise Lines. It offers special programs for Management Team Building, Client Relationship Building and Corporate Incentive groups. For reservations and communications, e-mail Groups@12metre.com, or go to their Web site sat www.12metre.com.

Jan

Every island in the Caribbean has its own cultural flavor and quirky norms, a personality all its own. Sint Maarten/St. Martin, split down the middle, has two. The Dutch side on the south portion of the island is a bit audacious, with high-rise hotels, free wheeling casinos and dozens of American-style restaurants and sports bars. The French part of the island, filling the north, is more demure. Its gentle hills roll out country charm. The border between the two counties is an invisible line, guarded only by goats and trees; the two ends marked with signs heralding, “Bienvenue a St. Martin.”

The main town of Marigot throbs with activity. Parisian-style shops sell wild and crazy clothes, jewelry, shoes and skimpy swimwear. Really skimpy. Scattered between them, patisseries and cafes cloud the streets with delectable smells.
My favorite part of Marigot is down by the waterfront, where a large open market of tiny alleyways thread between busy stalls. From them flow dancing pareos and dresses, hand-crafted jewelry, carvings and bright metal sculptures. Tropically painted bottles of spiced rum nestle beside handmade island dolls, all wearing the madras colors of the French West Indies.

Two days a week an extra layer of vendors appear, selling fruits and vegetables. Their presence unleashes a crayon box of earthy hues into an already colorful market. Curry gold, nutmeg brown,
papaya yellow and mango orange lay on top of one another in carefully built piles. Fresh off the boat from Guadaloupe and Dominica, shoppers find sugar apples, soursops, bluggo, tamarinds, breadfruit and, as always, an endless collection of roots and tubers known locally as “ground provisions.” Everything is sold “by de heap or de pound.” Several ladies specialize in island-
grown spices and sell them by scoops from plaid bags or tied up in quaint gift packs. Since most of the food on the island arrives in cold storage via large planes or ships, finding vine-ripened produce was a thrill and I happily packed my bags full.

Across from the market a large wooden structure houses a dozen or more small restaurants that wrap around it in a circular fashion. Outside each of them a handmade sign announces the day’s offerings, some combination of chicken, fish, ribs, goat, lobster or shrimp cooked to your preference of grilled, stewed or curried. Side dishes include salads, plantains, beans, rice and, of course, just in case you want them, ground provisions. These tiny eateries overlap one another, each discernable only by the color of their chairs or table cloths. Competition between them is serious yet friendly, and if the hostesses don’t lure you in the aromas and live music will. It’s a perfect place to have a cold drink and watch the commotion of the quay.

Down the street, the island’s most famous artist presents his collection of work in a historic house. Roland Richardson, the “father of Caribbean impressionism,” is best known for his images of the bright, blooming, flamboyant trees. His calming work and the house itself give visitors a glimpse of simple island life.

Beaches on the French side are spectacular, and because they lay on the windward side of the island offer spots for windsurfing, para-sailing, boogie-boarding and wave jumping jet skiing. Orient Bay, the best and biggest, started years ago with one business that gave the place the name, “nude beach.” That official clothing-optional section lies at the east end and is now dwarfed by a mile of wooden beach businesses selling and renting everything you could possibly want or need for a day in the sun.

Our all-time favorite place in French St. Martin is the Lolos in Grand Case, the local equivalent to fast food. Decades ago we stumbled on this group of wooden shacks perched above the beach, selling ribs and chicken grilled in crudely fashioned barbeques made from 50-gallon drums. Seating was on wooden crates and boxy stools. Cold drinks came out of old fashioned dented metal coolers. They were the inspiration for many of Bruce’s paintings.

Sadly, two whopper hurricanes swept those buildings into the sea. The government stepped in, built a cement foundation, added facilities for running water and bathrooms and now leases out spaces so the Lolos live on. We found them this winter in their transformed state, when we were touring the island with our son, Kess. The busiest two were Talk of the Town and Sky’s the Limit. Before we had a chance to declare our “final answer” we were scooped up by an animated West Indian woman, seated at one of the blue picnic tables, handed menus and offered drinks. She answered our questions with a warm bantering, each ending with her full laughter that ran like backup to the loud reggae music.

The food smells wafted over from the outdoor barbeque and a row of stainless steel chafing dishes, causing us to change our order repeatedly until we were after the largest plate called Ribs Food. “Ribs” she explained, “is diff-rent. Ribs is ribs. You wants to have de food dat go wit it? Dat Ribs Food. Dat de best. It got it all.” It was big and it was good. So good, in fact, that 24 hours later we found ourselves in her care again, filling ourselves with laughter and authentic Caribbean cuisine. The Lolos are one of the few places in St. Marten where the Euro and the dollar are considered equal, making it an even better deal.

Through the winter on Tuesday nights, the town of Grand Case closes its one little road for Harmony Nights. The place fills up with artists, musicians, drummers, dancers and street vendors who are joined by tourists, locals, ex-pats and anyone looking for a good time. Now who, I wonder, on the island with the split personality doesn’t fit that list?

Check it out at www.grandcase.com.

Jan

There’s one fisherman in Road Bay who gets a later start than all the others, but to my eye works a harder job. His boat, a mere 12 feet in length, has no fancy gear, no safety equipment; not even an engine. It’s powered by oars that each stay in place with two sticks called thole pins. Pulling on them almost every morning, Ivar Carty leaves his tiny home, the last one at the end of a long beach, and heads to sea.

Ivar the Diver, as some call him, amazed us many years ago when, at the age of 60, he would row out to the middle of the bay and free-dive for conch in 60 feet of water. Dive after dive, his boat would slowly settle into the water with the weight of the giant mollusks. We would watch as he made his way back to shore, one long pull after another to offload the catch.

That was the first part of the job. Next he would perform the arduous task of removing the meat from the shell by pounding a perfectly placed hole near the top. The extracted tough meat was sold to a restaurant and the shell was added to a mountain of them that grew sky-high beside the house. On his porch a small hand-painted sign announced, “Shells for Sale,” and under it we would find the most beautiful collection of polished helmets, turbans and conch.

When we sailed to Anguilla last year, we checked out Ivar’s house with binoculars. The pile of conch shells, weathered and shrunk, slumped beside the abandoned looking house patched with bits of plywood and boards. We vigilantly watched for several days until one morning, a shirtless man in faded shorts pulled a tiny boat into the sea and rowed to work. 74 years old and going strong, Ivar continues to work the sea.

I paid him a visit recently, hoping he might remember us, our boats or the little boy I took there to buy shells. It turned out that he had been watching us, because like him, our small boats are powered by oars; an oddity in a world of motorized skiffs. As he was rowing up to his beach, I was doing the same nearby and I hurried to haul my boat ashore so I could give him a hand. He set wooden rollers under his heavy boat and together we pushed and pulled it up. After I introduced myself he complimented me. “I ben watchin you. You row dat bote as good as any man.”

He slowly collected the parrot fish from the bilge of his boat and put them in a bucket. I followed him up a thorny path to his house where he covered the fish with fresh water, placed them on the stoop and began to scale his catch. Lately he’d been hauling traps because of the winter weather, but, he said, “When de weddar settles, I dive for de conch.”

I asked, “You dive in the bay? In 60 feet of water?”

“Yez, dat no problem. Jus need de weddar to settle.”

Just then a car drove up and we were joined by Freddy Hughes, who came to deliver a tiny packet of fish hooks. As we chatted I
learned that each of them began life on the sea at the early age of 14 and worked on the Anguillian built schooners that ran cargo throughout the islands of the Caribbean. Freddy explained, “I could learn as much at sea as in school.” I’ll bet he did, since he worked on schooners and motor vessels for 53 years. Now, at the age of 81, he is content to fish for fun, for a simple evening meal. The skills these two men gained at sea began, of course, with knowledge passed down, father to son, and they have continued to do the same.

After Freddy left I asked Ivar about the terrible hurricanes of the late 1990s that hit Anguilla straight on. His arms swept the air toward the house as he recounted the horror of the storm. “The sea come all da way up. Waves were lashin’ right tru de door. It didn’t break, but de waves come in.” Those waves swept the mountain of conch shells back to the sea and left his house broken and battered. It remained standing because, like most Anguillian houses, it’s built of cement blocks.

The parrot fish, small and spliny, didn’t look like they had much meat and I wondered aloud how he would cook them. “Firs, you gots to get the oil hot. Very hot. Dat important. When de oil hot, you put da fish in. It cook fast when da oil hot.” In case that wasn’t enough culinary information, he went on to explain how to corn or salt fish. He held up a fish and with the edge of his hand, pretended to cut the fish repeatedly. “Cut de fish. Cut it down to de bone, open it up so you can put de salt in.”

I thanked him for his time and before leaving, asked one last question. “Ivar, what do you think about all the changes on Anguilla.” I was referring to the onslaught of high-end hotels and the rising cost of everything.

“It no problem. I don see no change.” From his little spot, on
the end of the long beach, there hadn’t, thankfully, been much. I left hoping he could hand that down, too, father to son.

Jan

Anyone pondering the menu choices in one of Anguilla’s many restaurants should look no further than the seafood offerings. Fresh on that island means just that. Some lucky diners actually watch as their meal is carried up the beach from the sea and laid on the barbeque to cook.

This 16-mile long, eel shaped island lies south of the Anguilla Bank, a large shallow area where the Atlantic Ocean converges with the Caribbean Sea. The Bank is like a garden that Anguillians have been tending and harvesting for centuries, passing on skills and knowledge, father to son. Small fishing boats rest around the island, near Island Harbour, Blowing Point and Road Bay. Most are built on Anguilla by talented designers and shipwrights; their skills, too, passed from father to son.

Mornings in Road Bay, our anchorage, begin long before the sun illuminates the sky, when roosters blast their first call and lights appear on shore inside homes of the fisherman. Their voices echo over the water as they congregate on the beach, discussing weather and what have you, loading gear and crew. At 5:30 sharp, we hear the whine of their engines and feel the slapping wake as they race past us to the Bank for a sunrise-start to their work day.


Bruce was invited to join Devon (Beggar) Daniels and his brother, Ben for a trap-hauling excursion. Beggar, one of the island’s best boat builders, and Ben, who works construction, fish for sport on the weekends because it’s in their blood; the skill was passed to them, father to son. Their strip-planked wooden boat, 20 feet in length, designed and built by Beggar, is powered by twin 60-horse engines and sports an electric self-tailing winch for hauling the heavy traps. On a Saturday morning they came alongside our boat to collect Bruce. “Mornin’, mornin,” they greeted. Bruce stepped aboard their boat, Kirtisha, painted the blue and orange of a vibrant sunrise. “We be bak in a few hours,” they said as they sped off to the Bank.

After sailing through fish-trap laden water for years, I’ve always wondered how fishermen know which ones are theirs and where they are. A small float is quickly swallowed by a big sea. Beggar and Ben have a GPS, but didn’t carry it with them that day. Instead, Ben sat on a wooden box in the middle of the boat, his back to Beggar, who stood behind him at the wheel. Few words were exchanged. Ben would occasionally hold out an arm. Beggar would point the boat in that direction and soon the first of their buoys appeared.

Ben used a boat hook to grab the float, pulling it into the boat and wrapping the line around the winch. Beggar ran the gear that hauled the heavy, steel-framed trap up to the boat, where it was hoisted on board. Ben emptied the contents and cleaned the attached zinc that prevents the trap from turning to a pile of rust. They removed not only the “keepers,” the fish they were after, but also every tiny crab or animal in the trap until it was perfectly clean. The narrow opening was inspected to make sure it hadn’t been bent, allowing fish to escape. If the trap bait, goat hide, was missing, they replaced it. The order of events was then reversed and they sped off to find and retrieve the next one and the next, until 24 traps had been hauled.


True to their word, a few hours later they returned and came alongside Woodwind. They tied the boat up and came aboard, giving me a chance to visit and look at the catch. A big bucket sat in Kirtisha, full of an odd assortment of fish and one lobster. Piled on top of each other were grunts, squirrel fish, rock fish. On top sat three box fish known in Anguilla as shell fish. It didn’t seem like much, considering the time and cost for fuel, but, as they explained, fishing is like that. “Some days good, mon,” said Beggar. “Some days not. Depens on de weddar and de moon. Sometimes we get lots of lobstas, sometimes plenty fish. Depens. Today good enough. We got plenty to eat.” We all shook hands and they left with their fresh fish, taking it home where it would be prepared for a meal that would gather their entire family together.

Jan

For 10 days we’d been anchored in Road Bay, the semi-sheltered harbor attached to the village of Sandy Ground, Anguilla. There’s a “whole lotta nothing” happening there, and to the locals that’s just fine. The beach holds seven businesses that dispense food, drink and enticing island music. The only road holds two more, along with three tiny places that pass as stores selling the most basic of provisions; tinned food, cold drinks and the occasional onion. A large cement pier attached to the customs house is very busy these days, hosting ships carrying the ingredients for making big fancy hotels. Anguilla has become the destination for the rich and famous of the world, though only a few of them ever find their way to Sandy Ground.

From the air, the beach and road look like a striped ribbon, dividing the sea from the giant salt pond that fills the valley of Sandy Ground. This sometimes heavy smelling, shallow pond, filled with brackish water, is home to egrets, ducks, yellow legs and a host of other wildlife. It also holds a vital piece of Anguilla’s history and the early economic tie that bound it to the world.

It was on one of my walks up the hill past the pond that I stumbled on the Sandy Ground story I’d been looking for. I thought I’d find it in one of the restaurants or bars, but it was right beside me, larger than life, laying on the surface of the 130-acre salt pond.


Through the years I’ve gleaned bits and pieces of the salt story, but too few to weave the true picture. I would need some help filling in the gaps and I knew just who to ask. Belto Carty, 90 years young this March, has lived beside the pond nearly his entire life. I found him in his sign-less, white Delicate Bar, shelling pigeon peas with his daughter. The open door faces the pond and through it a cast of characters flows in and out throughout the day, along with the trade winds that sweep the pond, collecting its earthy scent.

I greeted him, “Good afternoon, Belto. How are you?”

“Afta-noon madam. Fine, fine,” he said. Seeing that he was busy with the peas, I volunteered to get myself a cold drink from the cooler and put my money in his cardboard box “cash register.” “Dis me daughter. She live Sen Thomas,” he said. Mariette and I shook hands and spent some minutes getting acquainted before I got to the point.

“Belto, I want to know the story of harvesting the salt. Can you help me?”

“Dat a long time ago. I don remember so much,” he said.

The man is sharp as a tack. He couldn’t fool me … so I got him started by asking about the pump house, a group of wooden buildings down the road that still hold the machinery that ground the collected salt for exportation. The original pump house has been tastefully restored and artfully converted into The Pumphouse, one of the island’s most popular restaurants and dance spots. It’s owned and operated by Anguillian Laurie Gumbs and his beautiful German wife, Gabi.


“Well,” Belto began, “de pump house was where dey grin da salt. Dey put it in de bags an put dem on de ships.”

“What kind of ships were they and where did they take the salt?” I asked.

“Dey schooners. De ones was bilt right ere. Dey sail to Trinidad, Sen Lucia, Sen Kitts, Barbados. All de islands.” Belto had sailed those engineless vessels laden with salt outbound from Anguilla, returning with produce, lumber, whatever the island needed.

“I thought the pump house was for pumping the water out of the pond,” I said.

“Dat too. Dey had de pumps dere an dey pump de water out so de people could collect de salt.” Mariette joined Belto to explain that the sea water came into the pond through a canal at one end. Once enough sea was inside, they closed the canal and allowed the water to evaporate and turn to brine. Eventually the excess water was pumped back to the sea.

Mariette demonstrated how people scooped the salt up with their hands, placing it in baskets. It was transferred to large wooden trays called flats and when heaped full, skidded ashore. At the edge of the pond it was transferred to boxes the salt workers carried on their heads to a spot where it was piled to dry. The pile would grow so large that ladders were used to add on more. Belto continued, “Dey trow it out, heap it up in de sun until it get big, big. Dey take it from de heap when it got white, when it wash out from de rain. De rain make it white.”

The salt was then carried to the part of the pump house holding the grinders. Mariette added, “One lady goin in wit de boxes, one comin out. Work from morning to night. Work all year when we have salt.”

They both grew silent, focusing on the growing pile of shelled peas between them. I thanked them for their help and began my exit, when Mariette insisted, “You go see Mr. Emile. He know all about de salt. He run de bizness. You know him?”

I shook my head sideways.


“You know de white house wid all de flowers? Dat his house. You aks him.” Mr. Emile’s house, perhaps the most frequently photographed on the island, sits at the edge of the pond, a fence around it holding in a garden of bursting bougainvillea. The small West Indian styled structure is frosted with fretwork like a lacy wedding cake.

The next morning I found the gate open and stepped into the yard, calling, “Hello, hello?” A small barking dog shot out from under a truck sending me back to the street. On the upstairs porch a man appeared, his presence relaxing the dog. Straining to see him through the jungle of flowers, I introduced myself and my mission. Emile Gumbs invited me to come up the back stairs where he joined me with a warm handshake.

“Call me Emile,” he said. “Come in, please.” The moment I cleared the doorway I knew I’d entered the home of an extraordinary man. Walls were lined with shelves holding books; between them hung dozens of framed photographs and memorabilia. My eye caught the largest, a photo of Sir Emile Gumbs posed with Queen Elizabeth during her last visit to Anguilla. “Please, have a seat,” he said as we entered the small living area.


The house that had charmed me for years from the outside was even more enchanting inside. Arched doorways were crowned with double layers of gingerbread, and filigree ran around the room and up the seams connecting the roof. “This is the most beautiful West Indian house I’ve ever seen,” I said.

“My Grandfather had it built in 1909, the same year he had the Warspite built. He was a bosun sailing trading vessels out of Bristol.”

“Warspite?” I asked. “That’s Anguilla’s most famous schooner.”

From a file folder of papers next to him he produced several large photos of Warspite. One was taken at the solitary island of Sombrero, where the schooner routinely delivered and retrieved the lighthouse keepers. Like his grandfather and father, Emile owned and sailed Warspite until a hurricane set her on the beach to die in Sandy Ground. Next he handed me a photo of a dozen people formally posed. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?” The man before me, much younger than his 80 years, stood behind a seated Ronald Reagan. The image was captured in the States during one of the many years Sir Emile was Anguilla’s Chief Minister.

In another file folder he retrieved several photos of a working salt pond. One showed 30 people working in a straight line near the three-foot dam, filling flats with salt. Those flats, 15 feet long and wide, were heaped with crystals. The last photo showed three mountains of salt, each 50 feet high. Sir Emile ran the salt operation and at its peak, in 1967, they harvested a record of 71,000 barrels, each weighing 300 pounds. Their sole customer then was Trinidad, where the salt was used in the oil refinery. When they lost that contract, the business dried up.

For over an hour I asked and he answered. I could have stayed all day, but not wanting to wear out my welcome, I thanked him several times and left. On the way back to my dinghy I realized my story about the salt of the sea had become a story about two very amazing men, both the salt of the earth.

Pumphouse-Anguilla.com has great photos and more history about the salt industry and the very popular nightspot.

Jan

The few days we had in St. Marten before our son’s arrival gave me time to scout out places and activities that would make his two-week break from college memorable. All of our previous visits to the island had been purpose driven: provisioning, marketing Bruce’s art, purchasing boat gear or waiting out foul weather. Never before had we viewed the island with tourist eyes, and doing so was a mind-opening experience. My mental list of not-to-miss experiences grew to include touching base on the best of the 37 stunning beaches and eating at our favorite barbeque spot, but at the top was a visit to the Sunset Beach Bar. The description of it in the glossy Destination St. Marten magazine begins with, “Superlatives are inadequate to describe the the islands unique must-see, must-do bar for vacationers looking for the hottest place to party.” Well, I thought, that ought to do it.


The bar clings to a coral outcropping, sandwiched between a sugar-sand beach and one end of the runway for the Princess Juliana International Airport. A tight two-lane road divides the two worlds, lined with high curbs, chainlink fencing and some head-scratching warning signs. Anyone who visits for the first time has to wonder which government office sanctioned the permits that allow a tourist hot-spot to crouch just feet from the end of a busy airport.

The day Kess was to arrive, we excitedly picked up a rental car and set out to fill the hours until his plane landed. Since the Sunset Bar is practically IN the airport and my curiosity was a-glow, it was our first stop. A heavy squall had just dropped a sky full of water, leaving the thin road awash and sending customers to seek shelter. We parked and ambled toward the bar, stopping every few feet to check out the overly decorated, loudly embellished, eclectic structure. Green Heinekin umbrellas perched over wooden tables that spilled away from a tin-roofed, open bar. Signs and T-shirts, license plates and paraphernalia hung everywhere.

A few small planes appeared from the clouds, shooting toward the runway, buzzing like mosquitoes as they landed. Speakers beside the bar blared -- not music, but voices transmitted from the control tower and cockpits as the crafts were guided in. We grabbed cold drinks from the bar and ambled further down the short piece of beach. The warning signs posted all along the road and fence show a hieroglyphic-looking person who appears to be water-skiing behind the plane. In big letters they warn: Jet blast of departing and arriving aircraft can cause severe physical harm resulting in extreme bodily harm/or death. Death?!

Just then, people started running toward us from the bookend bars on the beach. Startled, we looked up to see a BIG plane in the sky growing ever larger and headed right at us. We stood our ground holding our breath as a 747 jetliner passed over us less than 75 feet from our heads. As the plane cleared the fence and tires met the tarmac, everyone on the beach was hit by a thick gust of hot fueled wind. All around us people were jumping up and down, waving and yelling as if they personally had helped set the plane on the ground. The warning signs finally made some sense but considering that no one was even blown away, they seemed to be a bit of overkill.


At 4:10, a full-size jet bearing our son came in for a dramatic, crowd-pleasing landing. As everyone hopped around applauding, we ran to the car for a one-mile drive to the terminal. Once there and inside, we took turns parading around with a “chauffeur sign” that read, “Kess Smith, Yacht Woodwind.” After an hour of waiting we started to wonder if everyone was off the plane. When the second hour passed, we figured they had. Kess, who had been detained by immigration because he didn’t know where our boat was anchored, finally appeared from the obscured security area. His luggage was still on vacation in New York but he was with us, ready to have some fun.

The next day we toured the island in a counter-clockwise route. By late afternoon, in the heat of the day, we were back to the airport and the Sunset Beach Bar. Elated vacationers, escapees from snow and ice, soaked up the sun. The crowd stretched from the Sunset side of the beach to the grand Maho Resort, some filling the race boat beach bar called “Miss St. Marten.” Like eager dance partners, each plane appeared as a speck in the sky, pulling people to their feet and causing them to run, jump and gyrate.

A giant blue Corsairfly.com plane rumbled away from the terminal and began to inch its way toward us. The crowd thickened in the middle of the beach and along the road, the bravest touching the fence. The plane halted, apparently waiting permission to continue, giving the fence-sitters time to build camaraderie and courage. Among them, to my dismay, were Bruce and Kess. Smartly, or so I thought, I stepped away from the road, down onto the beach.


The plane rumbled along until it sat, rear end to the crowd, ready for take-off, its four exhaust nozzles screaming at the people. The deafening noise came first, then the furnace of high-speed heat as BIG BLUE began to move away. The people on the fence, their clothes flying behind them, clung to links for dear life. Just as I poised my camera to record their foolishness, the force hit me and with it came the top layer of sand from the beach before me. I attempted to flee the needle piercing pain but was shot down the beach toward the crashing surf. Just as I was about to get very wet, the desert like maelstrom disintegrated. Gone. I looked up to see the fence warriors high-fiving each other with giant grins, new members of a secret fraternity. Dazed, I checked to see if the camera was in my hand before hunting for the sandals that were no longer on my feet.

The Sunset Beach Bar had more to offer: crab races on the beach; surfside BBQ; three giant screens; live reggae and steel drum music … every day! But we had luggage to claim, a bridge to beat and sand to shake. As we drove away I looked at the warning signs and counted my lucky stars. I counted them again when I saw a different sign beside the bar that read, WARNING…IF YOU COME SEE THE SUNSET, YOU MAY NOT SEE THE SUN RISE.

Jan