Escape to Paradise?

By Paul Franson

A Year in Antigua (at least it seemed that way),
with apologies to Peter Mayle (author of A Year in Provence)

How many workaholics in Silicon Valley have dreamed of chucking it all and sailing off into the sunset?

Almost all, it appears. But few do. Mortgages, kids and fear deter most of them.

Not me. I did buy a boat and take off for the Caribbean, but in retrospect, maybe I should have stayed home.

I encountered a litany of problems: a boat that wasn’t ready, crew abandoning ship, crazy shipmates, a blown engine, and, the final indignity, a sinking (That occured after this story). Nevertheless, I don’t regret the experience — even if I wouldn’t go through it again.

In my case, fate told had me it was time to go.

I was burned out. Former client and 3Com president Bill Krause wasn't the only one to advise me to quit after 10 years, but he was right. Unfortunately, I didn’t take the advice.

After 15 years running a successful public relations agency with mostly great clients like Silicon Graphics and Hewlett-Packard, I could hardly stand to go to work. I hated to talk to clients. It was agony to pick up the phone to call reporters and pitch stories, even long-time friends.

My second marriage had ended after only two years, but fortunately, my former wife was an excellent PR person who had worked with me. She started her own business, taking the clients she had served, allowing me to leave without excessive guilt.

I had to sell my house, and though I took a loss, it still provided a decent payout from earlier houses that had appreciated.

My retired Army colonel father died, an especially poignant event because we had finally started to become close after a lifetime almost as strangers. But he surprised me by leaving a legacy. Though not large, it was enough to let me pursue a lifelong dream.

All these factors convinced me to leave the 9-to 5-working world.

A new life

Last year, I left business, and started freelance writing. It was a natural because of my past life as a writer and editor. It also appeared the ideal business for someone who wants to live aboard to make a bit of a living — though it's not as easy as non-writers may imagine. It seems as if everyone wants to write, especially about travel, sailing and food, three of my great loves. Nevertheless, I knew I could exist for a while even without much income, so I decided to take the big step.

I decided to pursue a life-long dream: To sail for an extended time in the Caribbean. I had sailed for 35 years, owned a number of boats, and thought I was realistic about my ambition.

Starting in May, I began to research possibilities. I formerly had an eminently suitable 38-foot cruising boat, a Pearson 385, for ten years, but had sold it a few years before. It was just as well. It's a long way from California to the Caribbean, my cruising grounds of choice. I was more interested in being there than sailing there, a long and arduous voyage.

Other options included buying a boat in Florida, where the selection is excellent and the complications few, but it's still a long way from Florida to the heart of the Caribbean, almost 1000 miles upwind.

Why not just start where I wanted to be, in the Leeward or Windward islands? There are plenty of boats there, many belonging to people who thought they wanted to sail around the world, but got stalled on a tropic island when the wife or girlfriend — or the skipper — said "Enough!" A cursory search indicated that was true. There were many suitable boats available cheaply.

After talking to acquaintances at sailing publications and doing some research, I found that there were lots of brokers and boats in the Northwest corner of the islands, in the Virgin Islands and Sint Maarten/St. Martin, the peculiar island half Dutch and half French.

There also were plenty in Martinique and Guadeloupe, the French being avid sailors and their government formerly encouraging sailboat production. Not speaking French, however, or enchanted with the style or construction of the popular French boats, I decided not to pursue a boat there.

Surprisingly, that left few markets for boats. I couldn't find any other brokerages all the way down to Trinidad. There were obviously boats for sail — the joke among sailors is that every boat is for sail — but no organized markets.

The obvious choice

The exception was Antigua, notably its English Harbor, a world center for sailing. It is home of famous Nicholson’s Caribbean Yacht Sales and  irrepressible Jol Byerley, famous as a raconteur who also wins almost every race he enters with his crew of lovely topless blondes.

A few faxes and phone calls later, I was convinced that there were suitable boats available, and at reasonable prices — plus plenty of others at astoundingly high prices as well.

That being the middle of the hurricane season, however, I decided that it would be prudent to wait to go looking.

It was fortunate that I did. Hurricanes Luis and Marilyn blew through the area in September. It devastated parts of Antigua, as well as all of St. Martin and St. Thomas, two of the prime locations for yachts. It's estimated that 600 boats were destroyed -- or at least substantially damaged -- in Sint Maarten's Simpson's Lagoon alone, for example.

Needless to say, the hurricanes affected the market, substantially reducing the number of boats available, but also putting a lot of damaged bargains on the market.

The hurricanes also knocked out communications, never excellent in most of the Caribbean at best. One of my prime broker prospects, Nicholson’s Caribbean Yacht Sales, was without consistent phones or fax for two months.

When I finally reached them again a few weeks after the hurricane — by mail — they suggested I wait a bit to visit.

Finding crew

In the meantime, I embarked on a search for a crew member to accompany me since I had no interest in cruising alone.

I should diverge here to talk about crew. Most people who want to go sailing have a partner. Those who don't usually try to find one. Many people like to sail alone, but I don't, both to share duties and have company. Just as important, having another person aboard is simply basic good sense. If anything happens, from falling overboard to being injured, that other person can literally make the difference between life and death.

Having said that, it's not critical to start with another experienced sailor, just someone who wants to learn and is really fit and able. More important is attitude and compatibility. Even a 41-ft. boat can be very small if you're sharing it with someone who grates on your nerves -- and it can happen very quickly in such a space, particularly during the inevitable times of stress: anchoring, going into slips and docks, in shallow waters among coral — or even when the wind is simply blowing hard.

So the other person was very important.

As a divorced man in my 50's, I had been looking for the right woman anyway with little success, so decided to concentrate on simply finding a compatible person. Ads in local sailing newspapers, on the Internet and in Bay Area personal columns turned up many leads, too many to completely follow up. Choosing the most likely, I met a number of prospects, none just right.

The most likely was a divorced woman in her late forties who was ready to leave her paralegal job and the area for an adventure. She also was a walking advertisement for cosmetic surgery and decoration, having tattooed eyeliner, mascara, lip coloring and a most impressive chest; she'd never drown. After a few dates, however, it was clear that our interests and priorities were too divergent. Fortunately, she made life easier for me by realizing that herself. She abruptly called and said she was moving "back east" where a girl friend had asked her to visit.

Her name was Susan, same as my second wife. Remember that. It's significant to this story.

About this time I discovered that a young female friend — not a girlfriend or potential one, but an experienced and adventuresome sailor — was ready for a break.

Annie was 26, an artist and photographer, upbeat and curious about the world. She had been a serious member of the Sea Scouts for 15 years, making a number of trips up and down California, a long and demanding passage. We had also sailed together briefly, and I knew that she not only knew her stuff, but really liked sailing and wanted to do more than her part.

She was also cute and flirtatious, but though I had originally met her at a Trader Joe's with other thoughts in mind, we had dealt with that and I basically regarded her like a daughter -- or at least a niece. She's a very mystical and spiritual person (unlike rational me) who is interested in almost everything except dining out or socializing, which I am, but we compromised.

Annie had just split up with her boyfriend, and had been doing temporary work by choice, so it was a good time for her to take some time off, too. After discussing it, she agreed to join me for three months.

With Annie signed up, I abandoned my search for crew. I figured I’d find someone before she left in three months.

It was time to find a boat.

The search

By mid November, the islands had recovered from the hurricanes enough that it was time for me to visit and look at boats. I considered a long-term charter, but they simply didn’t make sense. Boats like I wanted chartered for $1000 to $2000 per week, prohibitive for months, I thought at the time, though I learned better later. And I didn’t think it made sense to try to find a boat on my own. There were too many islands, too many boats. I decided I had to use a broker.

I contacted yacht brokers in the British Virgin Islands and Antigua again since those on the other islands were hopeless at that time. I received lists of available boats, then requested detailed fact sheets by fax of the most interesting prospects.

Then I arranged to fly to Antigua first, which I thought a less-promising location, then on to the B.V.I., where a friend from long ago had invited me to join him and his wife for Thanksgiving dinner.

I had plenty of frequent flyer miles from many trips and much money spent on my American Airlines AAdvantage Visa card, but discovered that I had to "spend" 60,000 miles for the trip instead of the 30,000 usual. The cheap seats were taken.

American has a virtual monopoly on flights to small Caribbean islands and they all go through San Juan (and for Californians, Miami or Dallas). It's a long trip, but not unpleasant. You either fly overnight or arrive late at night. I arrived late, but had made arrangements with a hotel at English Harbor to let me in.

The V.C. Bird International Airport in Antigua is one of few in the world named after a living politician, in this case the Father of the country, known to his subjects as Papa Bird (His sons now run the almost-totalitarian government).

The airport was originally built during World War II by American forces, which used the then-British island as a base for hunting submarines and protecting the Panama Canal. The airport has since been improved, but baggage still seems to have a lot of trouble getting from the plane the short distance to the terminal.

Finally retrieving my baggage, and clearing the inevitably surly customs and immigration officials, I found a cab for the half-hour trip across the island.

Antigua has the worst roads in the Caribbean, and that's not a trivial claim. They have huge potholes, and no lights or signs, while unlit and unmarked repairs wait around each bend. Even in my exhausted state, I couldn't relax, but soon arrived at Nelson's Dockyard at English Harbor. After waking the porter sleeping on a bench outside my hotel, I was admitted to my room and fell asleep in a romantic bed with canopy. It was wasted on me, I'm afraid.

I had been to English Harbor twice before on large cruising sailing ships, but the Dockyard is always a treat. An 18th century English Naval base, it was abandoned in the late 1800's until "rediscovered" in the 1950's by an English sailor, Commander Nicholson, who subsequently organized restoration and started a charter business that grew into an empire that includes many local businesses.

Now a National Park of Antigua and Barbuda, an independent country with 80,000 citizens, the Dockyard has been turned into a living museum that caters to yachts instead of naval ships.

The complex features many sailing businesses, plus a number of restaurants and bars, and two hotels. I had chosen the less expensive Admiral's Inn, former engineering offices that have been turned into atmospheric rooms at reasonable rates. An alternative is the exquisite Copper and Lumber Store Hotel, a former warehouse with elegant individually decorated rooms.

As I walked out my door the first morning, I was reminded again why I love the Caribbean: the romantic setting, the blue water a few feet away, the warm sun, the clear blue skies, the unique aroma of exotic flowers and plants. Anchored outside my room were dozens of sailboats. Perhaps one would soon become mine!

After a breakfast that included tropical fruit (not local, it turned out; the hurricane wiped out most of the crops), I walked over to the yacht brokerage to begin the search.

The search for the perfect boat

Nicholson’s Caribbean Yacht Sales is located upstairs in a small office in the old paymaster's office in Nelson's Dockyard. The office overlooks huge yachts tied stern to the quay. There, I met Norma Prudhom, an ample and delightful English woman who had sailed over with her long-departed husband many years ago, then stayed on to first help out in the office, then sell yachts. The 60-ish Norma, it turns out, lives with a wild-haired Rasta ferrier named Shadow, one of the first surprises I was to soon discover.

It being a quiet Thanksgiving week, the aforementioned Jol Byerley and his girlfriend/partner Judy McConnachie were out sailing; they're among the few people in the marine business who seem to continue to enjoy their sailing after a lifetime of working around boats. It was some time before I met them. More on them later.

Jol’s wife/ex-wife (?) Jenny, a lovely and charming English woman, runs the bookstore below the brokerage. I bought some local books from her. I later learned that she lives with the leading yacht salvage expert on the island, a man I was unfortunately to get to know professionally.

Norma had arranged for me to see a number of boats, mostly based on my stated interest. We discussed them, and I set some priorities, then we got into Norma's beat-up, four-wheel drive mini-pickup, heading first to look at boats at Crabb's Marina on the other side of the island.

Crabb's is the "wrong" boatyard on Antigua, being isolated on the Northeastern corner of the island on a large bay protected from the pounding Atlantic seas by treacherous reefs and Long Island, site of the exclusive Jumby Bay Resort, noted as the home of Norman Leach, the host of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous." Jumby Bay charges $1000 per couple per night, a bit out of my range.

In all honesty, Crabb’s didn't look promising. Boats were scattered around a large field, and at first, all looked as if they had been badly damaged in the hurricane. As I got closer, I saw that they were actually fine. Crabb's digs holes with a backhoe for the keels of sailboats, an excellent arrangement that kept the boats from toppling in the strong winds. Few boats at Crabb’s were damaged by Luis, while many at fancier English Harbor and Jolly Harbor were.

We looked at a number of boats, from a $18,000 mess that actually would have been okay if it were cleaned up, to a vastly overpriced 60-ft. schooner whose owner had a created a myth in his mind that he could sell the boat and live like a king elsewhere.

Crabb’s boatyard reminded me of the Humane Society. Some of the boats seem to wag their tails, imploring you to adopt them, whereas others seem to have given up, and wait for the executioner’s needle.

Abandoned boats that represented someone’s dream slowly rot in the tropical heat, while others are carefully tended by people who still dream to someday sail off to Tahiti.

I worried for Norma, who panted and sweat in the hot sun and exertion of climbing into the boats, but she was tougher than I though. She just likes to eat.

Soon, we left Crabb’s headed completely across the island to Jolly Harbor. It was a only 20-mile trip, but on Antigua, that’s a journey, over bad roads, taking unmarked turns and dodging dead animals among the potholes.

Jolly Harbor could be in Palm Beach. It’s a completely modern, sterile development with hundreds of unsold condos, a newly dredged marina and a small shopping center catering to the crowds that haven’t arrived. Like so many developments in the Caribbean, it represents a dream that turned into a nightmare. Fortunately, its owner has the resources to follow that dream, for otherwise it would have turned into one of the many abandoned or fading resorts on Antigua.

At Jolly Harbor, we looked at the boat I had originally thought my best prospect. Ridiculously cheap for a 45-ft. ketch, it had started life in the North Sea, and it looked like nothing could ever phase it. A heavy, deep-hulled steel boat, it would never get anywhere quickly, but it also would plow right through the treacherous coral reefs that sink dozens of fiberglass boats each year.

Unfortunately, it didn’t fit my expectations. It was just too primitive: no refrigeration, a tiller for steering instead of a wheel, minimal accommodations, a small engine that shook the boat like a wet dog, no arrangements for a shower, and a layout more suitable for cold Holland than the heat of Antigua. Its owner, a sly Dutchman named Hans, ran the Marina. He had picked it up for a song, and expected to turn it over quickly. I later discovered that no one ever made money at Hans’ expense, so perhaps I made the right decision in passing. We enjoyed a Heineken together, but no sale.

Then back to English Harbor. Norma was patient. We looked at a number of boats, some severely damaged in the hurricane, some just cheap. I had led her to believe that I was looking for a very cheap boat, but she then showed me a nicer one — expect for the hole in the side. Many were at Antigua Slipways, the leading boat yard between St. Martin and Trinidad (excluding the French-speaking islands).

During Luis, most of the boats at the Slipways fell over. They had been up on jacks, and when one fell, the others tumbled like dominoes. That’s why so many owners chose Crabb’s the next season, to place their boats in the inelegant but safe holes.

Though it was shocking to see so many boats with split sides and large holes, the one I was most interested in had a different sort of damage: during the hurricane, it, like many others, had been tightly anchored close to the tenacious by flexible mangrove trees in the most protected part of one of the best harbors in the World.

Unfortunately, a large ferrocement (yet, concrete) schooner had broken loose and smashed into many other boats. Time Lag, in particular had a hole rubbed all the way through an inch of fiberglass-reinforced resin at its deck line. Fortunately, because of the location, the only real damage other than to the top of hull were scratches and a twisted toe rail. The toe rail is the extruded aluminum rail that runs along the edge of the deck, holding the boat together and providing an attachment for some important fittings and lines.

There was also some water damage; rainwater (not sea water) got into the hole, but by the time I got there, it was dried out and not a problem.

It didn’t seem like a big deal, and the boat was a bargain.

Priced at $20,000 less than before the hurricane, and $40,000 less than a similar but older boat, Time Lag seemed like the right choice.

She was a Sigma 41, little known in the States but a hot racer well known and respected in England and on the Continent. Built in Plymouth, England, she was fast, well built and well arranged for cruising as well as racing. The boat had been at least as far as New Zealand, and certainly across the Atlantic.

Not surprisingly, she seemed like the perfect choice, even at twice what I had intended to pay. After all, even after I paid for repairs, it would be well under market price. I felt I could cruise it for a while, then sell it at no loss, perhaps even a profit.

I made an offer and canceled my plans to go on to the Virgin Islands to look farther. After all, I’ve always been one to stop shopping when I find what I wanted, not seek the ultimate. This attitude drives most women crazy.

With that behind me, I relaxed for a few days while some paperwork was completed, never a quick process in the islands, even if they ignored the American Thanksgiving holiday and didn’t take those days off.

I later realized that I had conch curry for Thanksgiving dinner. It wasn’t very good. I like to eat local food, but I soon learned the truth of the old saying, "No one ever went to the English-speaking Caribbean for the food."

While there, I arranged to have the boatyard fix the damage and I gave them a substantial deposit.

I also explored the island a bit more and met more people. Most were pleasant, some very much so. I hung out each evening at the charming Galley Bar, an open-air hangout on the Harbor run by Marina Murphy, a local woman who I got to know well if superficially. She had an exhaustive knowledge of local herbs and plants, and we concocted the idea of a book about the plants and their uses, with drawings by Annie to illustrate them. It seemed a sure winner.

Soon, it was time to leave. After only six days in this foreign land, I had made one of the most expensive personal purchases of my life other than houses. I returned to California, announcing to the boatyard that I would return a month later at Christmas. I was happy but someone intimidated by the month ahead.

Leaving Silicon Valley

My next task was to wrap up affairs at home to prepare for an absence of six months to a few years. I was living in an apartment with only a month left on the lease, and the landlady assured me that there was no problem as long as she didn’t lose money. Intending to simplify my life, I sold some possessions, lent or gave most of my furniture to my daughters, and put others in storage. Since I had moved from a 3400-sq.ft. house into a small apartment, half the work had already been done.

I had little trouble parting with things. They seemed to represent a life I wanted to put behind me, and I was happy to be rid of possessions that recalled painful memories. I also had to buy certain things to take along, and I was probably West Marine’s best customer that month, buying items I knew would be expensive or difficult or impossible to find in Antigua. You can carry almost anything into Antigua for a boat, but if it’s shipped separately, there are major hassles with customers and expensve duties.

I also had some writing assignments to complete. Having the editors change direction after the projects were finished certainly complicated work, but I was learning that free-lance writers don’t have much leverage.

Annie was getting her life in order to take off, too. Since she had committed to join me, however, she had met a new guy, and become engaged. I feared that she would back out. That didn’t turn out to be a problem; I didn’t know at the time that this was the 26-year-old’s fifth engagement. She had arranged three months off from the art classes she taught and looked forward to the experience.

Soon before Christmas, my daughter Wendy arranged a going-away party for me; many loyal friends came, including some that traveled farther than I think I would have. Annie also had a going-away party where I met her fiancée, a nice programmer soon to suffer major heartaches.

We were leaving on December 26th, and Christmas was far from my mind. I was barely able to find gifts for my daughters, sons-in-law and granddaughters. My kind first wife Teddy invited me to join a large and diverse group for Christmas Day, but I left the last dregs of my life in my apartment for my poor daughter Wendy and son-in-law Steve to handle. It was a rotten thing to do, but I was exhausted from the frantic pace.

The trip to Antigua the next day was pretty uneventful, though choosing to leave the day after Christmas wasn't such a good idea in retrospect (not that I had much choice because of limited space available for free flyers on the planes to Antigua).

The trip to Antigua

I stayed at a hotel near San Francisco airport that last night since we had an early flight — and I had already given away my bed. It wasn’t a restful night, with unsettling dreams about lost passports, lost money and lost tickets, a throwback to previous experiences.

Annie’s fiancée Martin arrived early with her to pick me up, then drove us to SFO. We had eight very heavy bags, and I wasn’t sure we could take it all with us. Turns out that there was no problem, though I had to pay some overage. I should add that I provided the tickets and all the living expenses. I accepted that since I was much better off financially than Annie, and I knew that she wouldn’t have been able to accompany otherwise. And I needed a crew member.

We had to spend a night and day in Puerto Rico — free flyers at Christmas time are lucky to get on the plane! — and ended up in a rather sleazy place near the airport.

I had a typical Puerto Rican dinner of beans and rice and chicken and fried plantains but Annie has very conventional and limited tastes, a surprise for such an adventuresome person. She also doesn't eat seafood or tropical fruit, two of the attractions of the Caribbean.

Then we took a walk along the beautiful moonlit beach, and went back to fall exhausted to our rooms. Even my bleak room with its loud air conditioner and smell of stale smoke couldn’t keep me awake. This was the last time we had separate rooms.

The next morning, we took a cab into Old San Juan, a delightful place in spite of the tourists like us. We had a pleasant morning, though a Federal government shutdown had closed the picturesque old fort that was our prime destination.

That afternoon, we boarded the flight to Antigua, landing at 4:00 p.m. with our piles of baggage. I hired a porter, and we unexpectedly breezed through customers. The officer simply asked, "Do you have any gifts for anyone?" ignoring the bags full of expensive computer equipment, marine electronics and other possessions.

We then headed for the boat. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that in spite of a warning fax sent a week before, virtually nothing had been done on the boat.

Ironically, the only thing accomplished — that morning — was to remove many of the cabinets inside the boat to allow the workmen to remove the toe rail. We couldn’t move aboard with the boat torn apart, yet this effort accomplished nothing until the new toe rail was on hand, ready to install. It would be a long time before that happened.

There we were, with eight heavy bags of luggage and no where to put it or stay.

Fortunately, I had learned some patience since leaving business, and discovered that there was a room available at the Admiral’s Inn, a surprise at normally busy Christmas time but a legacy of Luis scaring off the tourists.

We stored part of the bags at the boatyard, then checked in.

Then began the long wait.

A month at the seaside

Living in a small hotel room wasn’t a very appealing prospect, so we soon moved into a pleasant if basic efficiency apartment on a hill overlooking Falmouth Harbor, a much larger bay about half a mile away from English Harbor. It would have been better to get a place with two bedrooms since I was sharing the place with an appealing young woman who was just a friend, but none seemed available. It was also a bit expensive, but I thought it was just for a few days. I soon learned otherwise.

Though it was the end of December, the weather was generally pleasant. Some days were cool, windy and rainy, but certainly mild compared even to California’s rainy December.

The apartment overlooked many large boats in the harbor. Some seemed as big as the QE2.

Colorful flowers and other plants complemented the blue water. We watched the mongoose hunt for lunch on the lawn while tiny bananaquit hummingbirds, the yellow birds Harry Belafonte sang about, dipped into the jelly I put out for them to eat.

It is frustrating to be in suspension, but we took the time to see the area and relax. I rented a small Jeep-like car a few times to see the island. Annie was a very enthusiastic companion, and fun to have around.

We met a lot of people. Because of the male-to-female ratio there among the visitors and sailors (about 10 to 1), Annie was especially popular.

The local busses were also an interesting experience. The cabs and the buses were both minibuses and many weren’t marked. I asked someone how to tell them apart, and the answer was simple, "The ones with a lot of black people in them are busses. The ones with a few white people are cabs." For a trip into St. John’s, the seedy capital and only city on the island, the taxi fare was $20, the bus $1. The buses were a great adventure, barreling along with the doors open, stopping in the middle of the street for the drivers to chat with friends, people getting aboard with laundry and chickens, though I never saw anyone with one of the ubiquitous goats.

Unlike the situation in many countries, however, the local people didn’t generally respond if you tried to be friendly. People on many Caribbean islands are shy and reserved, but on Antigua, most are surly. Slavery ended officially 150 years ago, but they all seem to act as though you as a white person were personally responsible for all their problems. And they have plenty of problems.

The legacy of slavery remains a terrible blot even today. On Antigua, the slaves revolted a number of times, inviting draconian reprisals. Eventually, the slaves and their descendents reaped a sad revenge, arson. There aren’t any historic plantations left as there are on some other islands, though throughout the island, abandoned windmills that once crushed cane serve as silent monuments to that dark period.

Antigua’s planters freed their slaves before the other English islands, but only because they figured they’re be better off paying the workers one shilling a day and not providing room and board. Unfortunately, the people remained terribly exploited, working in insufferable conditions on sugar cane plantations.

The island really reverted to a subsistence economy until the ‘40’s, when U.S. forces built bases on the island during World War II.

In the ‘50’s, a local leader, V.C. Bird, now locally called Papa Bird, led a union of workers to fight for better conditions on the sugar plantations. They won, but it was a hollow victory. Soon sugar beets grown in Europe made sugar cane uneconomical.

Eventually, Bird negotiated independence from England. That former colonial power was undoubtedly pleased to rid itself of a impoverished troublesome reminder of what was once a fabulously wealthy colony.

Antigua remains fabulously beautiful, however. Even junked cars and trash can’t hide the beauty, for nature in the form of hurricanes and rampant tropical growth always reclaims its due.

We enjoyed that beauty a great deal. One day, Annie and I climbed steep Monk’s Hill to see an abandoned English fort visible from the beach, but the path disappeared not far from the top. We didn't relish the thought of climbing through thorn bushes, high grass and the webs of huge local spiders, which are supposedly harmless but look like small snow crabs and are as vicious as corned rats.

When we got down from our fruitless climb, a local man told us the right way to get there, but it would have been a long trip around to the back of the mountain.

It was good to get the exercise anyway. We walked everywhere, probably 3 to 4 miles a day just doing routine shopping, phoning, etc., without any of the hikes like that one or to the beach.

Soon, on one of the trips back from St. John’s, I ran into three delightful young Australian women who were traveling around the world. I invited them over to meet Annie, and we all became friends. One upbeat and outgoing, one intellectual and reserved, one perpetually unhappy, they were a strange trio out to see the world. I was spending time with four young women, but it was like having four daughters around. Eventually, the Ozzies met young men, then found work on sailboats and explored the Caribbean. Then they disappeared as do so many friends in the Tropics, probably  never to be see again.

While they were still there, I again became a tour guide, and took our poor rented car up one of the horrible roads — really a trail, to the top of the hill we had tried to climb on foot. There are few more magnificent sites, yet this prime attraction remains  overgrown and forgotten, typical of many historic sites in the Caribbean.

When you vacation in the Tropics, a week of relaxing and exciting activity is delightful, but keep at it and it can be very boring. There was little I could do on the boat except prod the boat yard, but that had little impact. Instead, the days were spent sightseeing, visiting the beach, occasionally sailing on others’ boats, and eating and partying.

Most afternoons at 5:00, a group gathered at the Galley Bar for a beer or two. Because it was right on English Harbor, it attracted both liveaboards and visitors from charter boats based in Guadeloupe 40 miles south. It was an undulating group, with people arriving, then departing again and again.

At 6, some of those people, plus a larger collection of expatriates who lived on shore, gathered at the nearby the Copper & Lumber Store Hotel for the Tot Club. A famous tradition thereabouts, it was started by former British Navy sailors who gather to toast the Queen with 2 oz. Of heavy Pusser’s Rum each night.

Aside from my belief that the United States had the right idea in 1776, I never could cotton to downing rum like that, especially when most of the members considered it only a prelude to an evening of drinking ahead. I stuck to Carib beer, a light refreshing drink from Trinidad that occasionally became scarce when the Antigua government decided to push the local Wadadli, a hideous concoction, or locally brewed Red Stripe, more popular because of its reputation than its taste.

With little else to do, most people sat around and drank, though once a week a good crowd enjoyed serious Trivial Pursuit, always fighting for the American or English versions, depending on their nationality. After drinking rum and beer all evening, the winning team won a bottle of rum or free drinks. Just what we all needed.

Many local people live hand-to-mouth on Antigua, and that’s true for many cruisers and expats, too. Many saved their money for drinks and ate on board or at home. For others, the selection of restaurants is rather meager: Most are either cheap and mediocre or expensive and mediocre. There were a few exceptions, such as Abacadabra, a restaurant run by brothers from Naples, but most of the "better" restaurants are pretentious rather than good.

That corner of Antigua has a strangely divided collection of cultures. I was a member of the "poor" cruising sailors, the couples and singles who owned and lived aboard their own 35 to 45 ft. sailboats. Some came and went, but others had settled in Antigua for company, comfort, lack of funds to move on or boat problems like me.

The second group was the expatriates and white Antiguans. Some were quite well to do and lived on island part time, while others were born there or had been long-time residents. The established and wealthy group kept mostly to itself, though they met others at the Antigua Yacht Club and for special occasions.

The locals (Antigua short hand for blacks, the whites being called "residents") included some who owned land and businesses. Some of were delightful, including, surprisingly, the immigration and dockyard officials, as well as many local tradesmen. Some black Antiguans have done well, owning businesses, land and residential property. Most, however, just got by working in the tourist and yachting trade. Antigua, like most countries, has very strict rules to restrict foreign workers, a major hassle for any non-citizens.

Many people work illegally, both whites with technical skills and blacks from other, even-poorer places, islands like Dominica and the former British colony of Guyana on the South American continent. Ironically, people from these poor countries have a reputation for industry and hard work, something never applied to most Antigua workers. All of these illegal immigrants slipped around hiding from the immigration and labor departments, and while I was there, a number of locally visible people were deported and even jailed.

As is true here in America, of course, many of the illegal immigrants are the most motivated and industrious. Managers constantly complain about problems with the local employees and their attitude and skills.

The final group in the area is locally called the "yachties," paid crew members from charter and private yachts. "Smaller" boats (under about 75 feet) are mostly sailboats because it isn’t practical for small power boats to cross the ocean to get to Antigua, but many of the larger sail and power boats are incredibly luxurious. They generally have capable professional captains, but many hire crew members for their youth and looks more than their experience.

Some crew members are there for a lark, of course, complicating life for dedicated professionals. Some captains freely admit that part of the job interview for attractive stewardesses is to sleep with them and partying is part of their job.

Many of these young crew members are well paid with little to spend the money on but drink and drugs. Unfortunately, Antigua has been flooded with crack cocaine, partly because some government officials look the other way for a price when the island is used for transshipments of drugs. It’s a local tradition; government officials also reportedly helped the U.S. bypass the international boycott to ship munitions to South Africa. They’ve also facilitated shiping weapons to South American drug dealers.

Cruisers and crew members shouldn’t be confused with "bareboaters" who charter a boat for a week or so. A great adventure for those aboard, they are objects of great amusement to experienced sailors who gather to enjoy their cocktails as the weekly sailors bounce off each other and the shore as they attempt tricky maneuvers like anchoring and backing up in the crowded harbor.

Fortunately, the weather in Antigua is gorgeous, 80 to 90 degrees year round, dropping to the 70's at night. In the sun, it can be hot, but step into the shade, particularly when the trade wind is blow 20 to 30 knots, and it's magnificent.

The water is beautiful, in shades from turquoise to deep blue, with a temperature around 85 degrees. There are palm trees and flowers everywhere. It's a generally very dry island, partly because the English colonists cut down all the trees to grow sugar cane, which then didn't have enough water to grow well enough to compete with other islands. But it's rainy in the summer and the mosquitoes abound. They really bothered Annie, but I guess I'm too tough for them when they could go after her tender skin.

Antigua boasts 365 beaches, one for every day of the year, and many are straight off postcards. The beaches around English Harbor weren’t outstanding. Some are attractive, but they’re in enclosed bays full of boats that discharge sewage directly into the water, there being neither local restriction nor pump-out stations. Other beaches are unsafe because of the pounding waves. Though theoretically illegal, toplessness is common among white tourists, though never on local women. Some beaches are so isolated that you can do what you want, but the rare crime on these beaches discourages most people from using them.

Antigua was hard hit by Luis but most of hotels and restaurants were repaired quickly. Unfortunately for the people, however, visitors were scared off by inflammatory reports resulting in a bad year for the island.

Everything is expensive in the Caribbean, but simple pleasures, no need for heating or a car, and relaxed life style balance things if you don’t want to spend a lot of money.

Oddly enough, Internet connection cost about the same as in California, and basic cellular service was comparable except for the $5/minute for calls to the States, and $1.10 incoming and local. It’s also pretty spotty, though the supplier says it’s about to upgrade, a common theme in the Caribbean where "Man come soon" is the local promise soon learned.

The boat

During this month, Time Lag, soon to be Selkie, has been out of the water propped up with fragile-looking jacks and pipes. The yard finally filled the hole worn in the side during Hurricane Luis, filled scratches, and painted the topsides. It also painted the bottom with paint so toxic it’s not sold in the U.S.;  the underwater creatures here are amazingly veracious. The workers do great work, by the way. They just take a long time to do it. Most of that time is simply spent not getting around to it.

The problem on the boat that remained was a damaged section of toe rail, the 43-foot long aluminum extrusion that among other things, holds the deck to the hull. It was chewed up by the ferro-cement schooner and the yard couldn’t find a replacement.

And though the boat could be launched (if not sailed) without the toe rail, all the cabinets on that side of the hull were out, making it virtually inhabitable.

We also had had a visitor on the boat, either a rat or a mongoose. He had been enjoying food left by the previous owner, and we put out poison and traps to get rid of him. We never found him, but he eventually disappeared, whether from the poison or better accommodations on another boat.

Otherwise, the boat was in pretty good shape, needing only minor repairs.

She’s a Sigma 41, a 41-foot-long English-made racer/cruiser with a good reputation for both racing and cruising. She's well equipped for both comfort and safety. She has bunks for seven, but that would be pretty crowded for more than a few days

While waiting for the repairs to be finished, we launched the inflatable dinghy (deflatable dinghy, some sailors call them for their constant need for repair), and putt-putted around the harbor. It was about a mile between the harbors in the open Caribbean, a rather scary ride except early in the morning when the wind and seas ware generally still.

Finally, a month after we arrived, the yard launched Selkie on January 25, just after my birthday. As I prepared to move aboard from our little apartment, Annie announced that she wasn’t continuing with me. She gave the excuse that we’d waited too long, but in truth, she met the dashing married Venezuelan chef from Merv Griffin’s boat, took up with him, and eventually told her poor fiancée, who didn’t hear from her for weeks. I did, however, since he had my e-mail and cellular numbers, but there was little I could tell him even if I had felt it my place. Eventually, Annie announced her engagement to the chef, though that ended in less than two months.

A new crew?

With Annie out of the picture, I started looking for another crew member. There were many people available in Antigua, but I had many problems trying to find the right one. More on that later.

Anyway, I moved aboard, and started fixing and cleaning. There was nothing major wrong, but it took weeks and there were still things to do. While I was waiting, I figured I may as well refasten the deck, a cosmetic layer of teak plywood planking over the structural fiberglass. It turned out to be a horrible job, and in the process, I burned out a friend’s belt sander. I had to buy another sander at a highly inflated price.

I learned skills I hope I will never use again, usually after doing things the wrong way six times.

Because I hadn’t done this type of work before, I hired an illegal Dominican worker who claimed to be a deck expert. It turned out that he really was expert at cleaning and oiling existing decks and had no idea of how to do the work. Through an error in communication, he thought he was getting $25 U.S. an hour, when the going rate was $25 of the local money, $10 U.S. I actually paid him the higher rate the first few days, then when I discovered the error, he not only was sullen but worked at 40 percent of the rate he was before. He also got mildly threatening, and I finally had to mildly threaten to report him to the Immigration department to get rid of him.

Soon I replaced him with Marie, a sexy young French-Canadian woman I met one night waiting for a ride at the dock. I first thought she might be a possible crew member who could even help me learn French. She was a careful and meticulous worker even though the work we were doing was very tedious — applying masking tape to both sides of 40-ft. long grooves less than 1/8th-inch apart, then filling the grooves with sticky silicone caulking.

Marie wanted to be paid daily, and I wondered where she was spending the money since any reasonably attractive young white woman doesn't buy many drinks or even meals on the island. Then I noticed her getting thinner and thinner, and sniffing a lot. Eventually, the local officials threw her off the island.

Every single electrical and mechanical item on the boat needed attention, even though the boat was in generally good shape.

The refrigerator, for example, needed new Freon and a filter, plus adjustment of the compressor belt (It operated from the engine, like a car air conditioner but has a cold storage plate so it’s supposed to stay cold if you run the engine for 45 minutes twice a day).

But after that was done, the batteries didn’t charge, so another technician had to come and replace the alternator belt and adjust it.

Fixing the pressure water required a new water relief valve -- a real challenge to find on Antigua -- and since it’s a different type that the original, required three bronze adapters between the valve and heater.

The bilges, which had been full of disgusting black water (partly oil someone spilled changing the engine oil) required days of cleaning because of the inaccessibility and mess. This is a continuing challenge on any boat, especially one being lived on in the tropics, and it turns out that there was a minor leak in the water pump that deposited about a gallon of sea water an hour into the bilge. Nothing dangerous, but annoying. Unfortunately, fixing the pump later led to serious problems.

The engine ran but the oil, oil filters and fuel filters need changing. The fuel tank needed cleaning, another nasty job. In fact, almost every job on the boat was.

The toe rail remained the biggest problem. The yard was asked to order one in September by the previous owner’s agent, but didn’t do anything about it until December, or really serious until after I arrived. They finally reported that it was a custom part that was unobtainable. I later found that the rails were available. I should have hired a company in Antigua that specializes in finding parts rather than depending on a boat yard that didn’t have a dedicated procurement operation.

Eventually, the yard found a similar rail, and after weeks of delay, a mysterious Frenchman who lives aboard an old tug containing a full machine shop installed the new rail. It was a rough job. The supplier had cut the rail in half for easy shipping, and it had to be welded end for end, then bent into place. Not surprisingly, it kept popping apart. None of the mounting holes fit, either, of course. The Frenchman kept muttering, "Zis is bad," which in English means expensive.

Ironically, the day the toe rail was finally in place, Rob, a nice South African guy working on his boat nearby said to me, "I don’t know if I should mention this now, but I have a piece of that rail." He eventually gave me an unused 16-ft. length. I would have probably saved $2000 if I had had it earlier, considering both the cost of the rail and the labor.

Other things that needed fixing included the anchor windlass, roller furling, safety life lines, instruments and dinghy. Plus much cleaning and minor work.

Desperately seeking sailor

All this work on the boat took a great deal of time and money, but I had bought the boat so cheaply I thought it worthwhile. During this time, I was watching out for crew as I worked. In addition to word of mouth and Internet ads, I posted notices on convenient bulletin boards in the Dockyard.

The first likely prospect, a Canadian psychologist again named Susan, was close to my age, had completed an extensive English sailing program, and wanted to cruise. Unfortunately, she decided that if we were going to sail, it would turn into a relationship and she couldn’t handle a relationship, being a recent widow. I was pretty motivated to find a crew member, but realized it wouldn’t work. She, like Annie, was very mystical. She also had the annoying habit of challenging me as if I were a patient, perhaps trying to cure problems I inherited from my parents and 55 years of living.

I met a number of people who seemed likely prospects, but all wanted jobs, not free cruising positions. I wasn’t interested in just hiring someone to sail with me. It’s odd — in California, people assume it would cost them money to go sailing. In Antigua, they assume someone should pay them to do it...

Then, one Sunday night, after many rum punches at the weekly party at Shirley Heights, I met a woman named — guess — Susan who seemed perfect. She was a professional crew member but looking for a six-week pleasure cruise before a job. She was also not a kid (45) and seeming fun to be with. I invited her to move aboard, which she did.

In retrospect, the experience was a lesson never to drink more than one rum punch a day in the tropics.

Susan proceeded to take over. She rearranged things, bought exotic and expensive food and started to plan everything. The she decided she should tell me some things. Slowly. Over four nights.

First, her visa had run out, and instead of renewing it as they usually do, the authorities had asked her to leave the island. By tomorrow. Not to belabor the point, the reason she was asked to leave was that the Antiguan government didn’t want to treat her any more. She had been in the local funny farm, where she landed after freaking out in jail, where she ended after being arrested with her crack-dealing Rastafarian boyfriend José ("Arrested 27 times, but never convicted").

José had recently started a fight with a very big very drunk Irish crew member and after getting smeared across the floor, threatened to come back with his cutlass and chop him up.

It turns out that Susan is manic depressive, and thinks that lithium prescribed by her doctor interferes with her body, so won’t take it. After seeing her violent reaction to a few minor incidents, I’m convinced she should take the medicine.

She also volunteered the information (unasked and with no immediate need to know) that she has herpes I and II, and thinks she should have an AIDS test since Jose gets around...

Anyway, I decided that I couldn’t handle worrying about being chopped up or having my throat cut, so I said it wasn’t going to work out. She threatened to hit me with a winch handle, but left, shipping out on a marginal training ship desperately in need of crew (Marie had been an earlier member of its party.) I later saw her once or twice when she slipped past immigration onto the island, but fortunately, she didn’t follow through on her threat or else she didn't have a winch handle handy. Of course, I made sure to keep my distance. And in all honesty, she seemed pretty calm. Maybe she had changed her mind about the legal drugs.

Next, I met Peter, a very Brrritish but sane guy my age. Peter needed a place to stay a few days. Like the man who came to dinner, he stayed a month. He was skilled and helped out in many ways. He also thought there was only one way to do everything — unfortunately not usually the way I wanted to do it. He would follow me around the boat recoiling lines after I had just coiled them. At first, he did some work to pay his board, but after a while, decided I should pay him as well as providing a bunk so stopped contributing.

Peter came along on the first few sails around Antigua. Selkie sailed magnificently, handled well and was clearly fast.

As the time approached that I could start cruising, the lack of crew was clearly frustrating me. Ironically, I met many nice and compatible people around English Harbor, and started to feel at home. I missed female companionship, but English Harbor is not the place for a bald guy in his mid 50’s to meet women — unless he’s very wealthy and lets everyone know it. It’s a paradise for women, however. They may seem fat, ugly and old in Los Angeles, but they’ll probably end up with a 25-year-old hunk in Antigua!

I finally realized that maybe my fate was to live aboard, not cruise around.

At about this time, my computer died. I had dropped it a few months earlier, and though the hinges broke, it worked for two months before I had to pay $866 to fix the computer. At this point, I had been there about four months. I flew to California for a week to see family and friends, then returned to get ready for the famous Antigua Classic Regatta and Antigua Race Week, when at least one friend was visiting.

I left Selkie in Peter’s capable hands while I was gone. When I returned from California, we moved Selkie to a pleasant anchorage off Admiral’s Inn in English Harbor, a short row from shore and the Galley Bar.

It had been a quiet season in Antigua after hurricane Luis, but things were starting to pick up a bit as the season wound down and boats gathered for the weeks of racing and partying. It was a pretty relaxing life, but I was starting to get bored. Soon I was to wish for boredom again.

There had been a slow leak in the boat since I bought it, no problem except that we had to remember to run the pump once in a while to get the water out of the bilge. I had mostly overlooked it, but Peter, being meticulous, spent a lot of time, and finally discovered that the water pump that sucked salt water into the boat to cool the engine was leaking. Boat engines have complex cooling systems, since salt water is very corrosive, so this sea water actually cooled a plate attached to the engine’s radiator since the actual coolant was fresh water and solvent that circulated through the engine.

Now that I knew what the problem was, it started to annoy me, like a scab you can’t help picking. It didn’t look like any big deal to replace the seal. In fact, the pump was almost the only part of the engine that was accessible without a major effort. So I took it off, pulled out the seals, little rubber doughnuts that were in bad shape, and dinghied over to the local marine chandlery. Surprise: No seals of that particular type. In fact, there weren’t any on the island, and, even worse, the pump on the engine didn’t belong on it. Someone had changed pumps sometime in the past, probably on some island where they couldn’t get the right part.

Now I was in a fix. I couldn’t run the engine to move the boat to shore, and without an engine, I couldn’t charge the batteries or run the refrigerator. What looked like a simple job was turning into a major headache.

At that point, I went over to one of the few marine engine specialists on the island, Seagull Services, run by a somewhat inscrutable Dutchman with a huge red beard and orange jumpsuit. Amazingly enough, he had the pump that was supposed to be on the engine, so I went back and replaced it. I soon started the engine and everything worked fine again. Congratulating myself for work well done, I charged the batteries and refrigerator so I could have cold beer, then went about my day.

Unfortunately, the next morning when I started the engine to chill the refrigerator (supposedly only needed twice a day), the engine made a sickening clank and quit. Why go through the painful memory? It turns out that the pump was on a faceplate that was easy to remove, but you were supposed to leave the plate in place and only remove the pump itself, a very difficult operation. Pump alignment was critical in this engine — a stupid design by any measure — and on top of that, I hadn’t been given a special thick spacing gasket when I got the pump (I got it too late). The pump had exploded, shooting pieces that stripped gears, bent the camshaft and done all sorts of other damage. Any competent engineer would have designed a baffle to keep this from happening, but no one every praised English engineering. Nevertheless, it’s hard to lay blame. It was an expensive lesson in diesel mechanics for me; what I learned: hire someone to do it for you.

We had to remove the engine to confirm the worst, and that mean removing all sorts of panels and the companionway ladder, opening up the bowels of the poor boat. It gave me a chance to thoroughly clean and paint the bilge, but I had to buy a reconditioned engine; repairing the old one would have been at least as expensive. It also had to be shipped in from Florida, a major hassle and expense. It would have been a nightmare without the my friend Jac Housewright, a Southerner who runs an offshore investment business, sells yacht insurance and provides various help to sailors. I’ll be eternally grateful for his help then and many other times.

The boat was a mess again, torn up as it had been for three months previously. I had her towed over to the boatyard so I could have electricity and easily work on her, and put her partway back together so I could live aboard. Peter found an assignment and moved off the boat, good since we both were getting on each other’s nerves.

I was beginning to think I shouldn’t have changed the boat’s name, a move that supposedly brings bad luck.

It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be doing much sailing anytime soon. I had long ago given up racing in Race Week. I certainly wasn’t a qualified racer, and though Selkie could easily be handled by two people under normal conditions, she took a trained crew of about nine to race. Given time, I could probably have arranged a crew, for the boat is known to be a good racer, but it took a lot of preparation. It also would have required a substantial additional insurance premium and entry fees. I abandoned any thought of racing my boat, and was too preoccupied to sign on another. Instead, I spent a month and a half waiting for the engine, then getting it installed and working.

Fortunately, a lot of excitement keep me busy in the meantime. In a few weeks, the Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta arrived.

Most sailors know about Antigua Race Week, a delightful ordeal of non-stop partying and take-no-prisoners racing, but for me, Classic Regatta the week before was much more fun. For the Classic, about 60 old boats and modern replicas race in a gentlemanly fashion befitting these floating antiques. Some of the most famous names in sailing compete, if gently since they can’t all stand the strains of modern racing with its high-tech materials and bloodthirsty sailors.

Since I was more concerned about Selkie, I forgot to arrange a position until very late, then ended up on the slowest boat in the fleet, but definitely one of those that had the most fun. It was Lista Light, a pre-war Norwegian fishing boat as rough as Ticonderoga was elegant. Clamps held the rail together, and the mizzen boom had been patched with old boards and wire.

Lista Light’s captain was an attractive, even provocative women in her early 50’s. She had sailed from England in this relic assisted by a crew of inexperienced young people, mostly men in their late teens and early 20’s. It was the reverse of every old guy’s dream!

The first day of racing, the wind was so light that the poor heavy old girl could hardly move. We ended up finishing with only a few minutes to go to the deadline, and all the other racers, even the committee boat, had retired hours before.

The second day, we had more wind, but were still so slow that we ended up missing a mark and sailed straight through the serious boats, barely avoiding being sunk. It was a great, if scary, photographic opportunity, but unfortunately, I stuck my finger through the shutter when I was changing film as the boat lurched, putting me out of the photo business for the rest of my time there.

The third day, I couldn’t race since I had some work to do on my boat that couldn’t wait. Apparently, it was a great day, with enough wind to intimidate many of the big guys to reduce sail while Lista Light found her element. Unfortunately, the crew had to pump her full time —old wooden boats tend to leak when they work hard.

Of course, sailing around a course isn’t all there is to yacht racing. Gentlemen or not on the water, these guys know how to party. Many are old enough to know their limits, which means it can be a great deal of fun.

Rum companies sponsor many of the parties, and there are a lot of rums made in the Caribbean. The best are from the French islands, where they make it from sugar cane juice, not molasses, but the English won’t admit that. Antigua’s local rum, Cavalier, is best mixed with fruit juice or Coke, and the English dismiss light Bacardi from Puerto Rico as only they can, as Spanish rum. They consider Pusser’s from Tortola or Mount Gay from Barbados the best stuff, and people will almost kill to get the distinctive red Mount Gay caps given out at the parties. The companies also give away T-shirts, but of course, everyone wants to wear old hats and shirts from faraway races, not from the current year.

One of the highlights of the Classic Week was an elegant formal award dinner and dance; I actually put on my blazer for the first time for that one. Sunday afternoon, tea on the lawn at the Admiral’s Inn overlooked vigorous rowing and sailing competition in small boats, but the main objective seemed to be to swamp your competitors. In all, I’ve rarely had a better time than that week.

A few days later, Antigua Race Week began. After the previous elegant week, this was Animal House on the water. These racers were serious, with rigs that stretched rules and finances, and hoards of young men bursting with testosterone and beer. One boat was sunk because it wouldn’t give way, a woman was killed because of a gear failure, and the races went on. It was windy, great for the bigger boats, but terror for the small ones feeling the full force of the Caribbean. The parties were rowdier, but if you weren’t on a boat, you definitely felt left out.

The first day, I accompanied my friend Jac on his luxurious power boat as he followed the racers around the island to where they ended and partied. Dickenson Bay’s beach was a mile-long party, jammed with booths selling local food and drink, interspersed with reggae bands surrounded by speakers the size of small hotels. It was a wild scene, but harmless. Everyone was having a good time, though I suspect those who had to rise early the next morning and head out into the Caribbean  might not have enjoyed it then.

After two days of racing, the crowd took off on May 1 for Lay Day, a name fitting in more ways than one.

The partying started early in the morning with silly competitions suitable for fraternity parties, but I can’t deny the day was fun. From the beer drinking competitions to the wet T-shirt contests, which allowed male participants for the first time, we watched from Jac’s stink pot in probably the best location on the island. The T-shirts came off, of course, but that was just a starter. Later were real fuzzy navels drunk from the source and a lot of young and not so young women providing entertainment for grateful young and not so young men.

That day, my only visitor from the States arrived. Mike had planned to come to race, but between my problems and his business, arrived late. He still had a chance to enjoy a few days in the tropics. He’s a serious sailor, however, and was frustrated not to be able to sail. He also missed his girlfriend at home; I’m happy to say they married not too long after he returned.

Mike and I did help some friends deliver a 72-foot ketch, Olivia, to St. Croix and St. John, a 140-mile trip. The last 10 miles, we hove to in a fierce squall since the harbor in Christensted isn’t one to enter when you can’t see!

Mike was about to swim ashore through the fog since he had a flight the next morning, but fortunately, we checked with some boats in the harbor and found it wasn’t fogbound. We sailed in, tied up to a pier, then explored the town. The short visit to St. Croix reinforced my belief that the American Virgin Islands aren’t representative of the rest of the Caribbean. You may as well visit Los Angeles or Miami and save your money rather than going there.

The next morning, we sailed over to St. John, still in the American Virgin Islands, only 40 miles away. It was a beautiful sail in perfect sailing conditions -- windy but not too windy, and perfectly clear. We anchored off what turned out to be a nude beach, then went in and visited the small town. St. John is largely a national park, but the town has little charm.

The next morning, I took the ferry to visit a friend who lives on nearby Tortola in the British Virgin Islands about ten miles away. He maintains a consulting business in the islands, working part time in St. Thomas in the American Virgins, which has good communications. He spends the rest of his time in a beautiful house on the mountain overlooking the West End of Tortola and much of the rest of the American and British Virgin Islands. It’s one of the most thrilling sights I’ve ever seen. The British Virgins are well run and prosperous, with generally friendly people and natural charm except in Roadtown, the capital. They also have excellent stores and services, partly a result of the many charter companies that make their home there.

Returning to Antigua by air, I decided it was time to leave the islands for the season. After Race Week, Antigua’s sailing season stops, and this year, the hangover from Luis made things even quieter than usual. Considering the fast-approaching hurricane season and lack of crew, I decided to return to San Francisco for the Summer. Come Fall, I expected to return, hopefully to sail south. Little could I have anticipated what Poseidon had in store for poor Selkie.