Charlotte Amalie Walking Tour
AFTER a week working and snorkeling in Christmas Cove, we desperately needed to replenish our supply of fresh food, so Friday we headed over to Charlotte Amalie, the capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie (which, according to the interwebs and my guidebook is pronounced a-MAHL-yeh, though I have yet to hear a local pronounce it at all) is the largest town we’ve been to thus far. It feels oddly American, with K-mart and Foot Locker and McDonalds and Wendys . . . an odd sensation.
We spent the two days here tracking down letters at the post office, provisioning and getting internet access, but finally made it over to the old town yesterday afternoon for a walk around. As we approached the waterfront, the unmistakable sounds of a marching band were floating across the water, and we speculated that there was some sort of football game somewhere. To our delight, we got off the dinghy smack in the middle of a parade, on it’s way to a motorcycle rally. The parade was great. The walking tour was delightful. The raucous music and motorcycles revving until 5:30 AM — not so much.
Clearly, a local high school marching band, here in front of Fort Christian, the oldest structure on the island. The entire parade consisted of two high school bands, a bunch of motorcycles and a handful of classic cars.
I asked the police officer and a random passer-by watching the parade what it was for; neither had any idea. The passer-by joked, "In the Virgin Islands, we don't need a reason for a parade!" It was actually for a motorcycle rally in a parking lot, which seems an odd occasion for a parade, but there you go.
Note that the license plate is "G-Money." Hysterical.
The band works it!
Fort Christian. Our guidebook said there was a museum in here, but it looked totally abandoned.
There was a revival going full steam in the gazebo in Emancipation Park, with fabulous music and an incomprehensible preacher. I love the sign advertising the State of the Union watch party.
The market square was being renovated, but still had a big banner wishing "The Market Lady" a happy hundredth birthday.
World of Bags? Who named this store?
The famous 99 steps up Blackbeard's Hill. There are actually 102. Of course Philip counted.
Philip, on top of Blackbeard's Hill, pointing to our boat . . . which is, of course, invisible at that distance.
Blackbeard's Tower
I wish this were my home in the tropics!
We couldn't figure out what on earth this statue was commemorating. They are holding bill hooks and torches. Any ideas?
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Artful Dodger
FINALLY! After, er, a while, we have a dodger. Well, we have the top of a dodger. HB spent a Very Long Time working on the dodger (canvas spray hood over the companionway) while we were moored in Christmas Cove. It’s a bit more difficult than a normal dodger because the solar panels are mounted on top of it, so it can’t be pulled tight. This means the fit had to be perfect, which it nearly is. It’s great to be able to have the hatch open in the rain and not get wet.
Still to come are the transparent front and side panels–this is what is known as a California dodger: the windscreens are removable. It’s easier to build and more flexible. Of course, it makes you wonder why the roof part isn’t just made of hard plastic rather than canvas. We haven’t really missed having no dodger, but it will probably be nice to have more shelter from the trades in the cockpit.
In the process of removing the solar panels for said dodger, we discovered why we haven’t been getting much solar power lately. The wires are buggered, the plastic coating having cracked in the sun letting water in. Fortunately we have spares in stock because they don’t make these any more. Somewhat surprisingly, we still don’t get as much power from the sun as I expected because, although we are in the tropics, the sun is still quite low this close to midwinter.
Christmas Cove
January 16, 2012
THE problem with spending time at a place called Christmas Cove is that you end up singing that damn Christmas Island song all the freaking time. Even Becca’s singing it, and she hadn’t the slightest clue what it was before Christmas Cove.
The Cove is great, though. It’s on Great James Island, a small, deserted island just off the eastern side of St. Thomas. The cove is bisected by a reef and small cay, and there are a handful of free moorings on either side of the reef – allegedly, they’re free because the national park service administers them but doesn’t collect fees, as the island isn’t technically in the park. You’re allowed to stay for up to 10 days on the moorings. The moorings are inevitably full during the day, but several usually free up by mid-morning when folks move on, or in late afternoon when the day-trippers return home. There’s also room to anchor both beside and behind the moorings. The island protects the cove from most of the ocean swell and breaks the wind a bit, but the ferry wakes can be a bit rolly during the day; it’s not the calmest harbor, but sure beats Caneel Bay, where we rocked and rolled incessantly in the north swell and ferry wakes.
The snorkelling here is fantastic. The water is incredibly clear, as there’s no development on the island, and there’s a shelf running parallel to the shore under which schools of hide. We’ve seen several eagle rays, impressive large black rays with white spots. While they are magnificent under water, their wings gracefully flapping as they glide along under you, the most dramatic sighting was from the boat, when we saw one of them launch itself out of the water, wings curved up, and flop back with a great splash. We have spotted several large sea turtles from the boat as well, though none under water. There’s a school of little spotted fish under the boat that have that odd pyramidal shape, with their mouth at the top of the pyramid, like puffer fish. They gave Becca the willies until we reassured her by pulling out the marine fish guide and identifying them as smooth trunkfish. Oh, and by informing her that puffer fish are only poisonous to eat. Philip and Becca also spied cuttlefish and a small moray eel.
We came here to get work done, though it’s progressed sporadically at best. Philip seems to have gotten the watermaker to work, but for some reason, it’s not filling the tank; we’re still diagnosing. Becca has been working on finishing the liquor shelf she built in the bilge by expoying the plywood. I’ve put in a great deal of time on the dodger top: after several afternoons of sewing in a hot boat, I expect to finish it today. Finally! (By the time I post this, I should have snazzy pictures of the finished product.)
The best part of Christmas Cove, though, has been spending time with Hannah and Paddy, who treated us to not one but two delicious dinners on their boat, insisting on hosting as a thank-you for my dramatic rescue of Paddy on our first day here. Who would have thought that we could have made such dear friends through the blog?
Salty Language
IT may be that we’ve spent too long around boats.
The other day, I was–for reasons that we don’t need to get into–describing what a PIT manoeuvre is to HB and Becca thus:
“The chase car drives alongside the other car with its forward end amidships, then turns towards the car, pushing its stern around.”
They found this highly amusing, for some reason.
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A Dramatic Rescue
WHEN we arrived in Christmas Cove in the desert isle of Great James the other day, we were delighted to see Hannah and Paddy’s boat on a mooring. As there wasn’t another mooring free, we dropped a hook behind them and enjoyed some early afternoon libations while they took Morgan, their poobrador, to shore for a walk.
Before long, one of the day trippers left, and the race was on for the mooring. A nearby boat, anchored like us, seemed to be about to take their anchor up and head for the coveted prize, and a second boat was rapidly approaching the anchorage. We sprung into action: I jumped in the dinghy and raced over to the mooring to hold it while Becca and Philip upped anchor.
Yet when I arrived at the prize, a troubling sound came from shore, clearly cries of distress. Paddy and Hannah were standing in waist deep water, struggling with the dinghy, and something was clearly very wrong.
Mooring be damned! I zoomed over to the beach as fast as I could, which isn’t really that fast in our dink, and somewhat roughly dragged it onto the beach. Paddy had caught his index finger between the release latch on the engine and the engine body,and it was swelling fast. He was clearly in a lot of pain, and the angle was such that he couldn’t lift the engine and pull on the latch at the same time. We struggled for a while as his finger continued to swell; there was a point at which I thought we might end up calling the coast guard for a rescue.
Finally, I managed to get my should under the engine and lever it up enough while pulling the lever that Paddy was able to pry his poor finger out. As sighs of relief were being heaved all around,I noticed that the waves were just starting to take my dink, so, promising to meet up for drinks in a bit, I hopped in and got her running before she floated out to sea.
Later that night, Paddy said, “That’s the first time I have ever been rescued by someone in a bikini. It to is too bad I was too distracted by a crushed finger to notice.” Hannah replied, with her customary dry wit,”That’s OK, honey. You have certainly noticed before.”
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