January 20, 2009, was one of those days not to miss because some day, someone will ask, "Where were you?" With no tv on our boat and only scratchy NPR reception, we set off on a mission to find a screen, some seats and a crowd of strangers. Although it would be watched in every Caribbean nation, we opted for the US Virgin Islands where officials predicted a day of so much limin' that they went with the flow and declared it a Virgin Islands holiday. Government was definitely closed but all the bars were wide open.




The nearest one to our anchorage was the center of the Coral Bay Universe, home of the island's best burger, Skinny Legs Bar and Grill.







Early on the big day we took seats at the bar before four large screens next to strangers who quickly became friends.




The CNN commentary flowed and everyone around us thickened it with insight and opinion. As the Inauguration stands filled with Senators and dignitaries, so did the seats at Skinny's with sailors, tv-less villa guests, campers and a random collection of tourists.

As if we, too, were freezing in the capital, our crowd clapped when appropriate, cheered politely, sang the National Anthem with Aretha and when the Chief Justice said, "Please stand," everyone shot out of their chairs.














We were there but not there. we were with the Obamas, the Bidens, the world, in our Skinny Legs way. We, the shady people on the sunny beaches.

Lobster in the Caribbean is probably one of the most popular dishes despite the lofty price they fetch. The Lobster Grille at the Bolongo Bay Beach Resort in St. Thomas charges $40 (1 ½ lbs.,) $48 (2 lbs.,) $60 (3 lbs.,) $74 (4 lbs.,) and if it’s bigger than that, their menu says, “We’ll talk.”


Bruce met the lobster.

Four pounds seems like a lot of lobster but they get a heck of a lot bigger than that. The largest on record was 3 feet long and weighed a whopping 26 pounds!
Not only do they come in all sizes, they have many different names; spiny lobster, langouste, rock lobster and crayfish. But despite their differences they all have one thing in common…great taste.

Recently, Bruce returned to the boat to tell me that Foxy Callwood of Jost Van Dyke had kindly offered him a bag of fresh fish. Unfortunately, Bruce had to decline because we no longer eat fish in the islands, having almost been killed by one that was ciguatoxic.



Foxy's grandson, Adrienne, isn't sure of the beast.



Foxy understood but he really wanted to share his days catch so he handed Bruce a box containing a good sized lobster and said, “Now don tell me ya don eat dis.”

Bruce’s’ incorrect reply was, “No, Foxy, we don’t.”

When he relayed the story to me back on the boat I looked at him in disbelief and squawked, “A lobster didn’t try to kill us, ya know!”

An hour later, back on shore, we watched as Foxy took a piece of fishing line in one hand, that big lobster in the other and flipped it around like a cowboy roping cattle. In a matter of a minute that lobster was bound and tied like Houdini in a tank of water.


Foxy ropes it up.

I was perplexed so I asked, “Foxy, why’d you tie it up?”

He held it up to show us and replied, “So he don splash all de wata from de pot.”


Ready for the pot.

That tidy lobster went to dinner at a young lady’s house and we had beans and rice.

When we pulled into Jost Van Dyke’s Great Bay on December 28th, we were the fifth transient boat in the anchorage. Two days later we had 107 new neighbors and late on New Year’s Eve there were far too many to count. Everyone was there on a pilgrimage to attend the world famous blow-out held annually at Foxy’s Tamarind Bar.

Several publications count it among the top dozen places in the world to drink the old year out and dance the new one in. Since we haven’t had the opportunity to experience the other selections and we don’t even know where they are, we can’t compare Foxy’s to much. What we can do is share our experience of joining several thousand revelers for a night on the beach under a star studded sky, bringing to an end a year of change, loss and hope.

The only way to Jost Van Dyke is by boat. Besides those in the tightly packed anchorage, there were speedy ones zipping in, ferry boats loaded to capacity, over booked charter vessels, sport fishing contraptions, ear-splitting cigarette boats and a crazy collection of small craft all low on their lines. All day long and into the night it was standing room only at the docks as each boat poured out their load.

Party fever began early in the day as guests hit the beach, checking out the escalating action.

Local entrepreneurs were busy driving nails into makeshift shacks hastily built to dispense barbequed chicken, fried chicken, jerk chicken and an endless flow of beverages. Heinekin beer banners and flags hung from every available surface; Christmas lights spiraled up palms; a mix of reggae, soca, and calypso filled the air.
Corsair’s was putting on a few final touches using a cement mixer and one of several bands was filling a stage with enough equipment that even Tortola would hear the party.

During the day dress was funky casual but that night fashion ran from barely-there bikinis to long flowing prom gowns. Jewels and sequins adorned clothes, masks and headpieces. Glow in the dark tubing snaked around wrists, necks, ankles and through hair. Many took it all in from behind battery powered 2009 glasses including the host of Jost, Foxy Callwood. LED gizmos spun wildly in the air putting on a light show or spelling out words, all first world toys on a third world island.

Foxy’s normally has one bar but on Olde Years Night they open and heavily staff five. A buffet barbeque dinner happens downstairs and a lucky 130 guests take the evening in from the upstairs for the $300 per person, Upper Crust dinner featuring seven courses and a bag of light and noise producing toys.


Music started in the main bar under the flapping closet of autographed t-shirts with boat-balladeer, Eric Stone. He warmed up the crowd so that by the time the DJ took over with ear-splitting, chest thumping island music, everyone was a tangled mass of hips, legs and arms. Out back in the field a brass band played followed by the Zac Harmon Band that had the auspicious duty of counting down the final seconds. Foxy floated onstage to join them, “Ten, nine, eight….one...Happy New Year!!!”



For some revelers that was a sign to head for one of the soon departing ferryboats but for many, that was just the beginning. Corsairs, finished with serving dinner, placed a wall of speakers on the beach where an impromptu limbo began. Every shack and official business in between played random music but somehow, mixed together, it all sounded right, even as the sun was lighting the sky.



By 11:00 am on January 1st, the beach was clean, the anchorage empty and everything was back to Jost Van Dyke normal, if ever there was such a thing.