Fully cognizant of my nautical ineptitude -- my harrowing misadventures as a novice boat owner having been dutifully documented on this web site in October 2007 -- why wouldn't my dear friend and companion JSG presume I might harbor serious misgivings about a week-long sailing cruise?
"But his face lit up like a Christmas tree," she said to a friend, flourishing the incongruous simile, perhaps with an ulterior motive, since not long afterward she came on bended knee to borrow mine, an artificial one, of course, and my sole concession to the season, whose usefulness to me frankly expires after a fleeting audition at an annual holiday gathering.
After the festivities, I reconsign it to year-long hibernation in my basement utility room, still fully dressed. What's the point in detaching all those balls and trinkets in order to rehang them twelve months later, although a complete makeover may have been imminent, as half the lot seems to have melted away or been shattered during repeated transport up and down stairs and through two narrow doorways?
At any rate, all my deliberate preservationist efforts succumbed to the ineluctable forces of nature; JSG stripped my treasure of all its simple finery, and reapplied her own, which, I cannot deny, put mine to shame, but which, alas, I must leave behind when I bring the bare bush home.
Remembering my earlier travelogues, some loyal readers may be excused for ascribing my elation to relief rather than enthusiasm. Was JSG actually proposing an excursion sans cycles? Of course, she had no inkling that, despite my tainted history, I had intermittently contemplated a Caribbean adventure similar to the one she was describing -- simply for no other reason than "why not?" -- provided a competent captain and creative cook were part of the package. For not only are other people's boats -- and Christmas trees -- the best kind, they are even more desirable when the owners are aboard and in command.
Having followed her lead twice before, I am confident that JSG's meticulous internet research will guarantee a superb -- and reasonably-priced -- experience. Since this is to be an all-inclusive family affair -- with me joining JSG and her three children, George 22, Gus 20, and Annie 14, all wise beyond their years -- it's only fitting that I invite my own triumvirate (plus two spouses and one significant other) to the party. While I'm disappointed when they politely decline, citing their own holiday commitments (Matthew and his wife Patricia will be only a stiff breeze away visiting her parents in the Dominican Republic), simple economics dictates that I will get over it fast.
Comes our long-awaited day, and my pride swells at having crammed a week's worth of supplies into my trusty duffel bag, until I spy my companions' four lightweight carry-ons. "You'll probably only need a pair of shorts, a bathing suit, and two tee shirts," says JSG, too kind to chastise me for not reading the preliminaries. George, who's stopping in Charlotte on the way home to attend a Debutante Ball, apparently has his formal wear rolled up into a tiny ball.
Our itinerary has us laying over one night in San Juan, conveniently at the airport hotel, assuming we can find it. A depressing lack of signage and the skepticism of those whom we approach as to the existence of such a facility leave us wandering through multiple terminals and a parking garage before we finally locate a check-in counter not far from our starting point.
Weary, frustrated, and frazzled at this late hour, I have little sympathy for an elderly woman who, exhibiting a brazen sense of entitlement, bolts to the front of the waiting line. "It's a cultural thing," whispers JSG, pointing to the wheelchair the intruder rode in on, which merely confirms my impression that she is more rested and energized than we are.
Four short hours later we are up at 5:00 AM for a 6:30 half-hour hop over to St. Thomas, at least according to the email JSG receives from our carrier, American Eagle. It's just another airline miscommunication. The gates don't open until 7:00, and our scheduled departure time is not until 7:45, which gives us a few minutes to wolf down a Puerto Rican bagel and a Brazilian espresso.
Waiting for us on the ground is Steve, who will be chauffeuring us to our charter rendezvous. Congenial, loquacious, and opinionated, he entertains us with thirty-minutes of caustic commentary on public matters we thought we had left behind: infernal traffic congestion, a product of single passengers in every car, one for each of the island's sixty thousand residents; the idiocy of the local authorities, who have closed off lanes of traffic during rush hour to make road repairs; and endemic corruption at the highest levels of government, exemplified by the recent trial of a senator accused of taking a one million dollar bribe.
After a slippery transfer by water taxi -- accomplished without incident, bags and all -- we are introduced to our crew and our catamaran.
If "everything is relative," including spatial dimensions, nowhere is this more true than on a boat. Compared to our upper middle class abodes, or even a typical hotel room, our accommodations are minimalist, or claustrophobic, to quote a friend. Compared to the universe of waterborne possibilities, at fifty-eight feet long and thirty feet abeam, I suspect the following might be considered luxurious: a queen bed for JSG and me in the master stateroom, although our hostess has to contort herself like a gymnast, she says, to make it up, since it's accessible only from the foot; plenty of cleverly designed cabinet and storage space (for any traveler foolish enough to lug along excess clothing); bathrooms in every cabin complete with a detachable sink faucet which, when mounted on the bulkhead, converts to a shower head, but will, incidentally, swamp the boat with standing water unless one pushes a button below the sink to engage the pump; generator powered air conditioning for cool sleeping comfort; twin trampolines on the foredeck for sunning and exercise; televisions for private dvd viewing; and two common areas, the indoor salon, and the outdoor, though shaded, cockpit.
Adjusting to the constricted quarters is not a problem. More troublesome for one whose inherent clumsiness has metastasized with creeping old age are the narrow stairways, slick uneven surfaces, and protruding hatches which constitute a moving obstacle course as the vessel rocks and rolls.
After stowing away our gear, we settle in at the cockpit for a sumptuous brunch -- salmon eggs benedict -- our first cocktails -- Bloody Marys ("On no, more heavy drinkers," I'm sure our crew is thinking) -- and our seamanship indoctrination.
Four incontrovertible commandments are delivered with holy solemnity: thou shalt shed thy shoes; thou shalt stay dry at all times; thou shalt pick up thy stuff; and thou shalt flush with care.
No sneakers, docksiders, loafers, or flip-flops are allowed on one's feet, so why did I bring along a pair of each? Towel off before passing through the salon, as someone might slip, although the more likely reason is to keep the deck and furnishings spotless. Any and all extraneous objects -- eyeglasses, books, bottles, goggles, shirts, and hats -- will be immediately seized by an invisible hand and deposited for safekeeping in a tabletop basket in the salon.
And finally nothing but human waste and toilet paper -- no food, gum, floss, sanitary napkin, hair, or birth control device -- goes in the commode, lest it damage the macerater, the little machine that grinds up the you-know-what. So intimidated am I by our captain's tale of the irate wife who threw her fifty thousand dollar ring where it wasn't supposed to go and his rubberized scuba dive to retrieve it that I choose to double wrap my toilet paper and dispose of it in the trash can rather than risk a nasty equipment failure.
Our second class is in geography. Our captain produces a map, and charts a course which takes us east from St. Thomas along the north shore of St. John, both U. S. possessions, and then into the British Virgin Islands, veers northeast through the Francis Drake Channel past Norman Island, skirting Tortola on the south, to Virgin Gorda, and then comes back the other side of Tortola to Jost Van Dyke. It's sailing heaven, where the sky is cerulean blue, the water sheltered and smooth, the wind steady and cooperative, and the Yankee dollar welcome.
Christopher Columbus discovered this paradise on his second voyage to the New World in 1493. He anchored off Salt River Bay in St. Croix for fresh water, and then was driven by unfavorable winds to Virgin Gorda. So numerous and close together were the islands that he named them in honor of St. Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins of fourth century Cologne who took their own lives rather than sacrifice their purity to the marauding Huns. If Virgin Gorda (the Fat Virgin) reminded him of a reclining woman with a protruding belly, all her neighbors when seen from a distance echo the shape, which suggests to me that a few of these young women may have breached their vows.
Motoring around St. Thomas, our captain directs our attention to Caneel Bay, the resort developed by Laurance Rockefeller, who purchased much of the island and donated it to the U. S. government for a national park; to the abandoned fort at Coral Bay, where the Dutch were perspicacious enough to aim their cannon inward rather than seaward, in case it became necessary to fire upon unruly slaves, which it did in 1733, but to no avail, as the rebels occupied it anyway; and to a forsaken nearby island, whose main attraction is a long-defunct brothel, a way station for amorous pirates en route to Charlotte Amalie.
A brief detour to Tortola to pass through immigration sparks our captain's outrage at the Brits' bureaucratic incompetence. Last year, due to theft or negligence, they ran short of forms, and one per family was sufficient, which is all we have filled out; now it's one per person, an aggravating change of rules that requires a second trip to the mainland by dinghy. To add insult to injury, the imbeciles have chosen the busiest week of the year to take up their boat ramp for repairs.
Recently they had the audacity to broach the imposition of a fee on all vessels trespassing into their territorial waters, until some astute U. S. officials diplomatically reminded them of all the tourist dollars being deposited on shore -- eighty per cent of their tiny country's revenues.
Many years ago I took my first and last lesson in sailing, after which I concluded that it was an activity which demanded more energy than I was willing to expend and more dexterity than I was capable of mustering. But by the third day, when we suspend power, I begin to appreciate the magical lure of this ancient, universal, and utilitarian avocation.
Before the advent of the steam or internal combustion engine, once one walked or rode his horse to the water's edge, his only recourse, other than the inefficient paddle or the unwieldy oar, was to hoist a sheet, capture a breeze, and tame it for his own ends. Sailing in its purest form is man versus nature -- the fickle winds, the shifting currents, the treacherous shoals, the glowering clouds, and the intricate combination of lines, spars, and cloth he manipulates to master those elements.
We are tacking against a brisk headwind today, so the mainsail is only at three-quarters height. Our captain stands ramrod-straight at the helm, feathering the wheel, focusing on a destination point off in the distance. He eyes the wind vane atop the mast, correcting to a forty-five degree angle. A streak of darker water up ahead signals faster current (or is it stronger wind, I forget). He smells a storm a hundred miles out to sea. He measures the pressure against his cheek, yanks the rudder, and, as the boat stalls and comes about, rushes across the stern and grabs the opposite wheel.
In the eerie silence, the dual hulls rock and creak, but glide effortlessly forward, sometimes easing past a fellow traveler, sometimes being overtaken, because, as our captain says, "When two sailboats catch sight of each other, the race commences."
A New York City expatriate, he exults in the one-hundred-eighty degree panoramic vistas, unsullied by human hands, whether in open water or punctuated by the blue-gray shapes of the slumbering virgins bearing names both exotic and mundane -- the Islands Peter, Salt, Cooper, Ginger, Eustacia, Necker, Beef, and Scrub, and the Dogs, West, George, Great, and Seal. We snuggle into deserted bays, or cays, where the turquoise depths are crystal clear, the shallows teeming with a kaleidoscopic array of vibrant sea life, and the beaches broad, white, and pristine.
In busier harbors, no less mesmerizing is the dazzling assortment of man-made creatures -- schooners, sloops, ketches, catamarans, yachts, fifty foot, sixty foot, one hundred foot, including the creme de la creme, a three-masted two hundred million dollar floating castle built for a Saudi prince, and the piece de resistance, a fully restored turn-of-the century racing j-boat, its signature spar towering high above its miniature mates.
Aside from stargazing, what exactly does a spoiled passenger do aboard a sailboat for six days?
For one thing, he catches up on his reading. Except in my case, since I'm never behind, it's merely a matter of forging ahead. At the last minute, panic-stricken that I might run out of pages, I toss a fourth paperback into my bag, a gesture of supreme optimism, as it turns out, and more excess baggage, since, even with all those long, leisurely hours to occupy myself, I only consume two of them, barely keeping pace with my cohort of voracious bibliophiles.
Because at any time of day or night, sitting, standing, or lounging, surreptitiously competing for the most desirable location, like contestants in a muted game of musical chairs, one or more of them is engrossed in a volume much more respectable than any of my mindless thrillers (the titles of which I am too embarrassed to disclose): JSG in Wild, Cheryl Strayed's memoir of her life-changing journey of survival hiking the Pacific Coast Trail; George in The Power of One, Bryce Courtenay's coming-of-age South African odyssey; Annie in Mockingjay, the final installment in Suzanne Collins violent, mega-selling Hunger Games trilogy; and finally Gus, who squelches all rumors of illiteracy by plowing through All the Little Live Things, Wallace Stegner's poignant tale of peaceful retirement gone awry (from which he plucks the archaic phrase agenbite of inwit to test my W&L education, setting me up for abysmal failure) before moving on to the Hemingway war classic For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Vocabulary expertise, quick thinking, and a little luck are the prerequisites for success at the fast-moving family game Bananagrams, which has nothing to do with my favorite -- and JSG's most despised -- fruit, other than the inventor having named its two primary commands "split" -- turn over your fifteen lettered tiles and begin making words -- and "peel" -- take another tile. The player who uses all his tiles first, including those he collects at each "peel" from the community pot, wins (provided his words pass the scrutiny of his opponents, and some don't). Initially, JSG claims a string of victories, until she graciously shares her strategy -- work the difficult letters first -- which opens the door for simpletons like me.
For more vigorous diversion, our boat is well-provisioned with color-coded snorkeling gear, rafts and noodles, a paddleboard, and a glass-bottomed kayak. Peer pressure compels me to suit up for snorkeling at least once, but after a brief dip in which I inhale more water than oxygen, I settle for the dead man's float in my homegrown goggles, which enables me to see more than enough.
The others, of course, marvel at the underwater scenery, swim to the shore and back, explore the fertile caves of Norman Island, and look like they're having too much fun paddleboarding or doing backflips off the foredeck. As for the kayak, after helping the captain manhandle it on and off the boat, I applaud his decision to leave it loosely tethered one night and pray for some Caribbean Santa Claus to abscond with it for Christmas.
Sailboat confinement -- no matter how relaxing -- plays havoc with one's exercise routine, which for me is a daily workout. So stir-crazy am I after two days that I surrender to the last resort -- a lengthy swim, consisting of thirty-six laps around the boat (so I can grab hold in case I start to drown), and a tortuous undertaking, as I am constantly turning, being buffeted by the waves, and dodging the mooring line with every circuit.
Taking pity on my hapless flailing, our captain motors his three fitness addicts -- JSG, Gus, and me -- ashore for some good old-fashioned running. Within half a mile we quickly discover that roads on these islands are few and far between; some are little more than dirt and gravel paths; and all of them go up and down steep -- very steep -- inclines.
Having run for thirty-five years in all kinds of venues and under unusual conditions around the world, I can honestly say that these are the most brutal hills I have ever encountered. In some places, I can walk up faster than I can jog, and the descents are so treacherous that I must traverse the slope from side to side to keep from sliding or falling. Nevertheless, it's dry land, which beats the alternative, and does yield one gorgeous view of the Caribbean once I reach the summit on Virgin Gorda.
Nor does our captain want us to miss the area's most notable attractions, and return home without digital proof, lest our friends doubt our testimonials:
*The William Thornton (who, by the way, was the architect of the U. S. Capitol), a floating restaurant, bar, and hot spot for the uninhibited inebriated permanently anchored in the Bight of Norman Island, where we arrive a little too early to witness its reputed depravity in the flesh, but, if the continuous slide show of bared female breasts (and sometimes more) flickering in high definition on prominently mounted television screens is any indication, the proper rendering of its abbreviated sobriquet "the Willie T." should be "Willie's T's";
*Saba Rock, a tiny island resort guarding the Virgin Gorda Channel, where we sample the local specialty rum concoction, three dollar Happy Hour painkillers, sign in for free wifi so we can delete a week's worth of emails, toss bread crumbs to the tarpon nesting below the dock, purchase a genuine hand-polished conch shell from our captain's authorized seafaring peddler, and inquire of a talkative toucan, up close and personal, though safely behind bars, if she ever clamps that big beak on a parrotfish;
*The Bitter End nautical village, a harpoon's throw away, its quaint waterfront lined with restaurant, pub, marina, yacht club, provisioning shop, and, most gratifying to me, a paved flat thoroughfare ideal for an early morning jaunt, although at barely a quarter-mile in length its straightaway hardly compensates for its depressing monotony, too much of a good thing for this masochist, who, at JSG's direction, trudges through an alley and up (where else?) a driveway toward a neighborhood of vacation cottages;
*Foxy's Taboo at Diamond Cay on Jost Van Dyke, which has mushroomed from the primitive trading post and take-out cafe it was thirty years ago when JSG sniffed its wares to a sprawling emporium and upscale eatery decorated with a photo-op Christmas palm tree, a sculptured calypso guitar player so lifelike I reach out to shake his hand, and a profusion of hanging license plates and university memorabilia, including, much to our amazement, a Virginia Tech jersey emblazoned with the insignia, among others, of some Lynchburg faithful;
*The Bubbly Pool, a natural salt water swimming hole carved in the sand by waves crashing through a narrow rocky inlet, which looks so inviting after our testy hike from Foxy's through the thick undergrowth, until our captain rattles us with the woeful tale of the young woman who strayed too close to the entrance, slipped, hit her head, and perished in the undertow.
Meals are major events on any cruise, but the dining here is even more exquisite than advertised, especially when one considers the resources at hand -- a two-burner gas stove top and shrunken oven jammed into a galley the size of a closet. Yet precisely on schedule every day our gourmet chef Susan serves up another savory creation, seasoned, sauced, and simmered to perfection -- shrimp scampi over linguini, Caribbean jerked ribs marinated in rum and garlic, beef tenderloin with butternut squash, broiled salmon with saffron rice, cheeseburgers in paradise grilled on deck, blueberry pancakes, homemade flatbread pizza, chocolate tort cake, hot fudge sundaes, key lime pie, and hand-rolled sushi, which each of us takes a turn at, even me.
The portions are too plentiful, even for a full table of six, and we are only five, but the leftovers are swiftly disposed of by this waste-abhorring human macerater, who will curse his gluttony one week later when he trips the scales.
By the penultimate day, stuffed, stretched, and satiated, dreaming of peanut butter and jelly, I am aroused from a siesta by a worthy substitute -- a plate of toasted tuna fish sandwiches, the best I have ever tasted.
Is our crew disappointed that those initial cocktails were just teasers? A bottomless cooler of beverages -- including our delightful Dominican discovery, Presidente beer -- beckons from the cockpit, while in the salon wine, whiskey, and liqueur bottles of infinite variety beg to be unsealed. Upon request, Susan will manufacture the fru-fru drink of choice -- margarita, pina colada, rum punch, more painkiller. A dash of vodka, explains our captain on salmon night, suppresses the fish taste.
Which is just one tidbit of useful or useless information, one sentence in an incredible and inspired life story, that I manage to salvage from the endless stream of verbiage that gushes from his scratchy throat (damaged years ago from his constant shouting on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange) like a flood from a fractured fire hydrant. Because Jack Boye is a rare bird.
He's tall, wiry, grizzled, weather-beaten, and remarkably spry for his sixty-nine years, darting like a panther fore and aft, port to starboard, which could have been the origin of the label Susan (his wife) stamped on the boat, Pride, when they purchased it seven years ago, but wasn't; rather she was animating the sleek twin hulls that define it as a catamaran. His own nickname, Mr. Clean, derives not only from his balding resemblance to the ubiquitous trademark but also from his compulsive application of the detergent on any soiled material the instant it catches his eye.
"What do you think of the Paterno scandal?" I ask Jack, having read that he attended Penn State on a football scholarship." Joe Paterno was a hero," he says. "He did his duty; he reported the abusive behavior to his superior, and he should not be held responsible if the university president failed to act. When I was speared in practice during my second year and could no longer play, Joe called me into his office and told me to enjoy my education, which the school would pay for. Twenty years later, when he saw me on Wall Street, the first thing he said was, 'How's the neck, Jack?' "
But Jack hungered for the combat that football could no longer provide. "I always knew I wanted to live on the edge. I needed to find out if I was a coward or not," he says. He dropped out of college, enlisted in Officer Training School, earned a commission as a second lieutenant and later as a captain, learned how to jump out of helicopters, and landed in the firestorm that was Vietnam. "He punched his own ticket," says Susan, but he survived.
Having exorcised his demons but merely whetted his appetite for risk, Jack sought fulfillment in a more civil but no less ruthless arena, Wall Street, three times. Kingsley-Boye was a family discount brokerage and market maker on the cusp of opportunity when his older brother ("He never got past his Dartmouth MBA degree.") forced a sellout to Charles Schwab. Next, Jack founded Legend Securities, which pioneered the use of digital phone service to execute instantaneous trades (until outlawed), then sold it to round-the-word aeronaut Steve Fossett when he wanted to sail more. His third company, Neutral Point Technologies, was an internet innovator, conducting blind online auctions which enabled money managers to generate liquidity and balance their portfolios; it lost its database and failed when the main server blew up.
Ever the entrepreneur, Jack's working on a fourth venture, the details of which he is not at liberty to divulge.
Jack's been sailing since he was ten years old. As if three transatlantic solo races weren't enough, in 1990 he entered the BOC Single-Handed Round the World Challenge in the fifty foot class. He spent four months preparing his boat, the Project City Kids -- named after a charity he established to teach low income youth how to sail -- while the twenty other entrants, mostly professionals, spent two years.
On the race's second leg -- Capetown, South Africa, to Sydney, Australia -- his spreaders detached, and he lost a headstay and all forward halyards. He sailed hundreds of miles off course into calm waters so he could scale the mast and make repairs.
On the third leg -- Sydney to Punta del Este, Uruguay -- in a sixty-knot storm, his gooseneck fitting broke, and he was hit on the head by the boom. He radioed race headquarters every four hours until he was sure he could safely continue.
Icebergs were a constant threat, "the most incredible sight I've ever experienced in my racing career," reported one contestant. "While majestic to behold, at the same time they were awesomely frightening."
Jack has an area off the coast of Brazil named for him, Boye Bank, where his Project City Kids was becalmed for forty-eight hours.
At sea for one hundred fifty-eight days, Jack finished fourteenth overall and fifth in his class. In a taped interview, he said that the voyage made him realize how sweet and precious life is, that he now intended to take things less seriously and have more fun, and that, if he had to compare the two, the Southern Ocean was more dangerous than Vietnam.
As one might expect, Jack is a critic who doesn't suffer fools gladly, an iconoclast who doesn't take himself too seriously, an individualist whose politics tilt sharply to starboard, and a cynic whose jaundiced view of human nature doesn't prevent him from exuding warmth and charm. Who can doubt him when he says, "I dreamed this as a child," including living in an isolated house in Maine, his and Susan's summer haven, where the virginal forest mirrors the Caribbean in its primeval serenity?
"Look whose picture is on a three dollar bill," he cries, pulling one from his pocket. "It's Barack Obama, a product of affirmative action, a substandard 'C' student who won't release his grades, a misguided socialist who would be losing a contemporary debate with a disillusioned Karl Marx, trying to convince him that his much maligned theories are still credible.
"This is a good place to be," he says, scanning the horizon. "In four years there will be blood in the streets, when an outraged public can no longer tolerate scurrilous politicians who lie, lie, lie, legislate their own salary and benefits, and bribe voters with their own money."
He lambastes John Kerry, a bogus war hero, he says, who registered his yacht in Rhode Island so he could save $180,000 in Massachusetts taxes, until his constituents pointed out he was cheating the state he represented.
He and Susan bought their own boat in 2006, planning to run charters for two years and then cash out for a hefty profit. But the market collapsed, and, unable to recoup their $700,000 investment, they're still here, plying the waters of the Caribbean, often with some strange characters aboard:
Like the booze-cruising chronic alcoholics, who became incensed when a storm-induced power outage left them without ice and ordered Jack ashore in the middle of the night to find some;
And the mobster family, whose patriarch admitted that many of his friends had been "whacked," and then took his fourteen-year-old granddaughter up to the foredeck and told her that her boy friend hadn't been allowed to come along because he was not a member of her "family," all one thousand of them, and therefore not an eligible husband;
And the pompous, insufferable businessman who insisted on calling his office in Dubai at $100 a minute, talked for an hour, and never paid the bill;
And the Roumanian troupers traveling on Italian passports, whose subterfuge was foiled when, offered red or white, they retorted that they didn't drink wine, only vodka.
At our farewell dinner, as Susan ramps up the volume and launches into a scintillating rendition of the "Gangnan," validating her notoriety as an accomplished tabletop dancer, I can't help but reflect that, as much as I've come to love him, there's something mysterious about Jack Boye. How many fortunes have come and gone ? Why doesn't he ditch the Pride, swallow the loss, and sail gracefully into retirement? What's a sixty-nine-year-old former Wall Street wizard doing cleaning up after a furniture salesman from the Virginia foothills?
Maybe those are questions better left unasked -- because the answers are irrelevant. Whatever are the circumstances that have brought him to this place and time, I'm grateful. He took this Virgin Sailor -- and his adopted family -- on the voyage of a lifetime.
