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CAKE BY THE OCEAN: A 50th Birthday Bash in Paradise


I have found out there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them” – Mark Twain

It was a cold, gray day in December 2014. Matt and I were drowning our Seasonal Affective Disorder in a pitcher of top shelf margaritas at our favorite Mexican dive. Somehow, the conversation turned to Matt’s 50th birthday. I mean, if you’re already depressed, you may as well dredge up every miserable topic you can think of, right?

Despite the fact that it was still a year and a half away, it was already weighing heavily on his mind.

“Why don’t we plan something fun for your birthday, like when we took all my friends to the Bahamas for my 40th? You should look forward to your birthday, not dread it,” I said, through a mouthful of tortilla chips.

We started visualizing what such a trip could look like….where we would go…..who we would invite….and the more tequila we drank, the more amazing the idea seemed.

Why should he sit at home and bury his head in misery? Instead, we thought about going big and planning the trip of a lifetime.

By the bottom of the pitcher, we had solved all of the world’s problems, had figured out a cure for cancer, and had planned a birthday trip for Matt’s 50th. We had decided to rent a villa on Jost Van Dyke and invite our friends.

With 4 bedrooms, we could invite 3 other couples, but who? How to decide? We loved all of our friends and there were 12 of them.

“Let’s just invite them all and see who can come,” Matt said through the tequila haze.

It was a perfect plan.

What better way to turn 50 than do it with all of your favorite people in paradise?


We invited 12 people.

12 people said “yes.”

This was an unanticipated turn of events.

Of course they all said yes. They have heard us rave about Jost Van Dyke for years.

Jost Van Dyke is simply one of the best places on earth. Not only does it have one of the most famous beach bars in the Caribbean, the Soggy Dollar Bar, a veritable rite of passage for any beach bum, it has TWO of the most famous beach bars in the Caribbean with Foxy’s just a stumble away. Jost Van Dyke is an island of pure magic; a bubble of happiness and perfection, an oasis of sunshine and rainbows fueled by painkillers and rum punch. It is Caribbean utopia.

So that was it, then. We were going. All 14 of us.

We were going to need a bigger house.


Forget all those trust-building exercises where you have to assemble a puzzle together, or fall into one another’s arms with your eyes closed. I cannot imagine a more arduous test of any personal relationships than travelling together to a remote island as a group of 14.

Don’t get me wrong, I have vacationed with all of these people and loved it.


I just wasn’t sure how the dynamics of the ENTIRE UNIVERSE OF PEOPLE I KNOW being in one place at one time would work.

Some of our friends had never even met each other.

Still unsure whether this was lunacy or genius, we booked another house.

God help us.

God help Jost Van Dyke.

It was officially on.



Never mind that the mean age for this group was just over 50, the “House Rules” for this trip read something like a frat party:

• Wake up smiling every day.
• Remember that drinking rum before 10:00 a.m. makes you a pirate, not an alcoholic.
• Calories do not count on vacation. Anyone who attempts to exercise will be tied up and left as shark food.
• No talking about politics or the election. The first person to bring up Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton gets voted off the island.
• Stay hydrated.
• The least drunk people each day are in charge of looking out for the drunkest people each day.
• You can’t be the drunkest person each day. In the interest of fairness, please take turns. Except Matt. He can be the drunkest person every day.
• This is your vacation. If you need some “me time,” take it. Of course the rest of us will talk about you while you’re gone. We’re not Puritans.
• No passing out in the common rooms of the houses. No one wants to wake up and tiptoe around your drooling, lifeless body.
• If you don’t want to see it on Facebook, don’t do it.
• Yes to drinking games, spontaneous dance-offs, group singing, laughter, snacks, and naps.
• No to arguing, fighting, whining, crying, working, dieting, exercising, or excessive sobriety.
• Relax.
• Have fun.

A list of rules may seem unnecessary for a group of mature adults. This was not, however, a group of MATURE adults.

This was exemplified before our flight even took off as one male member of our party showed up on to the American Airlines gate dressed like a pregnant woman while screaming that Matt was the baby daddy.



Yep. This was going to be a week to remember.

Despite the fact that we had all gotten up at 3:00 a.m. to make our early flights, the mood on the plane was downright joyful.





We landed on St. Thomas at 11:30 and I sent everyone over to grab their free thimble full of rum while I sent Matt out to find a taxi large enough for 14 people.


He found one all right!

With luggage and bodies crammed into every nook and cranny, we set off for Red Hook.


4 carsick passengers, 7 impatient horn blows, and 23 hairpin turns later, we were dropped off at Duffy’s Love Shack where we hoped to grab a quick bite before catching the 2:30 ferry.

It was going on 1:00, so this seemed possible.

Yes, I wasn't really thinking about "island time."








Despite the fact that there was exactly ONE very slow bartender and ONE even slower waitress, we somehow managed to eat, drink, and get merry in time to catch the ferry.

By the time we arrived on Jost Van Dyke and cleared customs, it was 3:30.

We had been up for 12 hours. We were hot. We were dirty. We were exhausted.

I had rented Escape Villa and Pink House Bougainvillea because I had a large group of people, a very special occasion, and I needed top notch service.

Despite the fact that I paid a hefty sum to rent these 2 houses for a week, I did not get top notch service.

The materials sent to me by the managers for the houses clearly stated that the caretakers would gladly help me provision the houses, accepting delivery of groceries and putting them away. This was one of the reasons I rented these properties.

From the Pink House information packet: Call our General Managers (Franky and Lydia) so they know what your order's delivery schedule is estimated to be. Please confirm with them a pick-up from the dock at Great Harbor and delivery to the villas.

From the Escape Villa information packet: The property managers will arrange to have your groceries picked up at the ferry dock and delivered to Escape Villa and waiting for you upon arrival. You will just have to email the Property Managers with the information and confirm it with them.

However, my repeated emails (which started 4 weeks before our trip), went ignored. When I finally pressed for assistance after 10 days of emailing, the response I received was rather curt:


Two sentences that told me to do it myself. And no explanation about why or alternatives offered.

I envisioned 14 travel weary adults, ready for nothing more than a hot shower and a good meal, arriving to 50 boxes of groceries that needed to be loaded, transported, unloaded, and unpacked.

I appealed to the managers of the houses, sending this mournful plea (I am not too proud to grovel and would have done just about anything at this point): “It will be somewhat difficult to arrive with 14 people and luggage to also pick up boxes of groceries from the dock and transport them to the house on a taxi. If there is any way that this service can be provided, I would appreciate it, otherwise, I suppose we will simply try to do it on our own as best we can.”

I offered to pay extra for the provisioning assistance.

I received one response that said, “Please coordinate this with Lydia.” I received no other response.


Not what you expect for $12,000.

So that is how we arrived: a sweaty, bedraggled group of 14 after 12 hours of travel that were forced to split up so that the women could get all of the luggage to the house alone and start getting it unpacked while the men sat in the sun at the ferry dock and to wait an additional 45 minutes for the ferry with our groceries to arrive, load the groceries onto a taxi, unload them at the house, and then all of us spend 30 minutes putting them away.


At the moment when I was dragging our two fifty pound suitcases up the very steep driveway to the house by myself, I would have paid any amount of money for help. Unfortunately, I wasn’t even offered the opportunity.

To add insult to injury, the caretaker wasn’t even at the house when we arrived. When she finally showed up about 45 minutes later, she spent a scant 5 minutes showing us the house and left. We never heard from her or saw her again during our trip.

Even after I communicated my displeasure with the owner of the houses after our trip – not one word of apology. His response was “We have established relationships with vendors who provide our guest top service. In this case, while you’ve personally had a good experience with Bobby’s, we’ve had dozens that have not and therefore we do not use them anymore. We advised you this was the case and simply stated that you would need to coordinate with them on your own if you didn’t want to use our preferred vendor.”

Seriously???? It’s important to note that NO ONE advised me at any time prior to my arrival (not during the 4 weeks of emails that I continued to send in hopes of some assistance) that they would not help if we used Bobby’s rather than their grocery store of choice. The only communication I received in those 4 weeks were the two sentences that told me to do it myself with no explanation about why.

And frankly, I don’t think it should be their choice to force a guest to use a more expensive grocery store when that guest has a well-established history of good service with another vendor. Just. Incredible.

So….instead of arriving to this:


We arrived to this:


Escape Villa and Pink House?

As a well-travelled individual who has rented many homes on many island in all price ranges……My advice is…


Stay at White Bay Villas and put the other $10,000 in your pocket. Not only will you be treated well, you’ll have a lot of money left over for painkillers (or for sending your kids to college).

Hours later, we finally had everything put away and everyone got a much needed shower (and a much needed drink!).

The party had gotten derailed. Instead of arriving to paradise, my group had arrived to a carboard box filled hell complete with sweat, tears, and Ritz Crackers that needed to be put away.

As the official Funmeister of Matt’s 50th Birthday, I had to get things back on track. I knew there was only one thing that could make everything right with the world again: SHOTS.



Okay, make that two things:



I knew I had been successful when the waitress at Foxy’s came out for the third time to tell us that the pole was necessary to hold the building up and was not, despite our best efforts, put there for dancing.

The party was ON.



The forecast had called for mostly cloudy with an 80% chance of rain and storms for every day of our trip. I know better than to pay attention to a Caribbean forecast, but, like the rest of you, I can’t help myself.

We all know we do it.

It’s like looking behind the shower curtain when you walk into the bathroom even though you know there isn’t anyone in there. It’s pointless, but you are helpless to stop yourself.

When I woke up that first morning, I thought about that forecast.

After the arrival fiasco the day before, I prayed that we didn’t wake up to gray skies. That was a blow I didn’t think even the Funmeister could pull the group back from.


We woke up to a gloriously perfect White Bay Day.

I was as happy as a pig in the sunshine.












As the official master of ceremonies, I was in charge of the itinerary. (Was this even a question????). I had decided our first day had to be a White Bay Day. We had no plans more aspiring than seeing how long it took to get lounge chair marks on our butts.

The first order of business, however, was collecting 16 free painkillers at the Soggy Dollar Bar.

How do you get 16 FREE painkillers at the Soggy Dollar Bar, you ask? You have extremely awesome friends that purchased them months before on their own trip to Jost Van Dyke.

It also helps if your super nice friends can’t count and accidentally buy you 2 extra so that the Birthday Boy and his master of ceremonies, the Funmeister, can two fist it before it’s even time for lunch.




On the “party end” of White Bay, my favorite base of operations is Gertrude’s. Not only does she have full size reclining chairs, she has “pour your own” rum punch.

My version of Gertrude’s rum punch has enough rum in it to kill a small horse.

Or Gary Busey.

The day was spent drinking copious amounts of rum and alternating between getting pruney in the gin clear water and getting marginally sunburned on a lounge chair in between sporadic bouts of bad dancing.














Lunch found us at Seddy’s One Love downing lobster quesadillas, wings, and the island’s best bushwackers.




That was followed by more dancing and generously giving away all of my chips to two little boys who asked me if they could have them.

With those faces, I would have given them my kidney if they had asked.


Foxy’s Taboo was supposed to be having a Regatta party that afternoon, so we pried ourselves off our chairs and headed that way.

We found….nothing.

No live music. No dancing. No people. No party.

Although we did find some exceptional cocktails.



Everyone was a little too salty, a little too tired, and a little too lubricated for another party anyway, so we headed back to the house for much needed showers and naps.

Besides, Ivan’s told us they were having an 80s party that night. We needed to rest up.

The plan was to put on some obnoxious 80s-wear and head to Ivan’s where we would do the robot, listen to some Billy Idol, and grab some eats.
As I sent everyone inside to “gear up,” we sent a scout over to see what was going on at Ivan’s. It was only feet from Escape Villa, but we couldn’t hear any music. That seems suspicious.

Apparently, Ivan’s had gotten the same memo Foxy’s Taboo had gotten and the party was not meant to be.

What does a Funmeister do when she has promised a night of 80s fun to 13 adults and has forced them to put on costumes only to find out there is no party?

She makes shots and starts her own party. (Shots are the vacation equivalent of duct tape - they fix EVERYTHING)


What no one knew was that one of our 50 lb suitcases had contained a secret:


The Rockville was 800 watts of musical awesomeness. Who needs a party at Ivan’s when you have the Rockville, an iPod full of 80s tunes, and 14 adults in costumes? Not to mention strobe lights and a fully stocked bar.

It was EPIC.

The party was so good we had strangers wandering up from the beach to join us. We could have charged admission.





It was around 9:00 p.m. when I noticed Matt staring blearily into space while shoveling handfuls of chips into his mouth that I realized I hadn’t thought about dinner when we made the shift in plans. I had 14 adults who had been drinking all day and had no dinner.

I made a quick call to Vinnie at Corsair’s.

“Is it too late to order some pizzas for delivery?” I said in a state of panic. “I have 14 people who need some grease and dough in their bellies STAT!”

Vinnie delivered a stack of pizzas to our door in 30 minutes.

I am pretty sure he should be called Saint Vincent.






One of Matt’s birthday week requests was to charter a catamaran to take us out a couple of days.

Captain Colin of Jost Van Dyke Scuba had just what we needed: a 42’ catamaran with 1000 square feet of deck space and free rum punch.


Everyone was still felt like Vicki Prince was screaming “Let’s go Crazy!” in their ears, so we started the day slowly, with some much needed boat lounging.











Cpt. Colin took us to the Indians for an incredible snorkel.

This was followed by a nice spread of snacks on the boat.

And rum punch.




That’s pretty much where the civilized portion of the day concluded.

Next stop? Where else do you go once the rum punch starts to flow? The Willy T, of course! (every Funmeister knows that)

This broken down pirate ship just off the beach at Norman Island was definitely the place to let this group get their fun on.










We started off with lunch.

Lunch turned in to drinks.

Drinks turned into…well….I have been instructed not to overshare. I’ll just let you use your imagination.

Let’s just say it made 80’s night look like your grandma’s tea party.









The boat ride back to Jost was uneventful, although we did have one person throwing up off the back of the boat, three passed out in the salon, and one puking into a zip-loc bag.

Fun times!


The Funmeister passed waters around and we managed to get everyone back to Jost Van Dyke intact. Getting them off the boat and onto the dingy and then from the dingy to the dock was an entirely different matter.

No one fell in the water, so we will call it a success.

I sent everyone in for naps and showers, letting them know dinner was at Sidney’s Peace & Love that night.

Sidney’s was a perfect end to the day. The lobsters were HUGE and we made short work of them. All that was left was the carnage.





I have heard it said that a birthday is nature’s way of telling you to eat more cake.

A FIFTIETH birthday is apparently nature’s way of telling you to drink more rum.

Because that’s what we did.

All day long.

It was Matt’s birthday and we were going to party like it was his birthday.

It was another picture-perfect White Bay Day.















We took up our usual spots at Gertrude’s and soaked it in.

It was a perfect day filled with sunshine and friends, beach ducks, interesting strangers, Seddy’s magic tricks, lobster rolls and spicy wings, and enough rum to pickle a small army.












I wanted Matt’s birthday dinner to be special. The restaurants on Jost are great for a beachy lunch or drinks, but none of them seemed right for a nice birthday dinner. The Sandcastle no longer did dinners on the beach, and the thought of being crammed in their dark cement hole of a restaurant just didn’t feel right for this occasion.

I had gone out on a limb and contacted Liz Henderson of Hendo’s Hideout. Hendo’s was just being built when we had last been on Jost and I remembered it being a beautiful building with a stunning view. The restaurant and bar had just opened 2 months earlier, serving drinks and lunch only.

It was a risky move. We had never even seen the completed restaurant. We had NO IDEA what their food or drinks were like. They didn’t even serve dinner.

But I had a gut feeling and I went with it.

When Liz agreed to do a private dinner party for Matt’s birthday, I was so excited. And nervous. But mostly excited.

Everyone put on their beach best. You’d have never know this group had been moderately intoxicated for 4 days.







At least until the guys put on a pre-dinner concert, but maybe that was because of the birthday shots.


We walked down the beach to Hendo’s, wondering what to expect.

Liz had decorated a beach front table beautifully. We were greeted by delicate starfish and small votives filled with sand.





She immediately took drink orders and we noticed right off that these weren’t your average “White Bay” drinks. It was less rum punch and bushwacker and more passionfruit margarita and champagne cocktail. The drinks tasted as good as they looked.





Champagne buckets arrived, filled with bubbly and ice.



The dinner was getting off to a great start.

Liz had provided a menu in advance and we had sent in our orders the day before, so within minutes of our arrival, we had delicious cocktails and mouth-watering food.

The food. OMG. THE FOOD!






The food was nothing short of amazing. We had lobster with butter lime sauce, BBQ ribs (because every group has the one person that won’t eat seafood!), grilled mahi-mahi with peppers, and a creole snapper that was to DIE FOR.

The champagne flowed. The food was phenomenal. The candles sparkled. The air was filled with the laughter of our friends.

It was perfect.

Liz had knocked it out of the ballpark.

Run, don’t walk, to Hendo’s Hideout the next time you are on Jost Van Dyke. You will thank me.

Our group agreed it was everyone’s favorite meal of the entire trip.

Then it was time to head back to the villa for cake.....by the ocean (I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself).

Matt had specifically requested a chocolate peanut butter cake, so I had made it myself. After drinking rum all day.

Cake mixes should come with "island directions." Kind of like "high altitude directions," but more geared toward simple things that you forget in a slightly altered state like, "First, open the box. Next, cut open the plastic pouch. Then, pour cake mix into a bowl, crack the eggs before putting them in the bowl, do not put the shells in the bowl." That would have been helpful.

I really think it turned out quite nice, complete with “nutter butter sand” and chocolate seashells (and enough candles to start a forest fire).



Then it was time to break out the Rockville and dance the calories away.

Happy Birthday, Matt!

You may be 50, but to me, that just means you are 5 perfect 10’s. (Can I hear a collective “awwwww….,” please?)



The party hadn’t stopped since we had arrived. Our fun switches had been in the “ON” position for 4 days. I think one of our friends summed it up perfectly when she looked at me the night before and said, “I just realized I have been drinking for 13 hours.”

We needed a break.

We were exhausted.

As luck would have it, this was the one overcast day we had on the entire trip. It was a blessing.

We had booked a second catamaran day with Cpt. Colin.


For a minute, he wasn’t sure if we were the same group he had dropped off 2 days before. We were quiet and subdued.

It was time for a down day.

We decided to put up the sails and sail to Cane Garden Bay on Tortola. This would take a couple of hours and give everyone plenty of time to relax.


When we arrived at Cane Garden Bay, we decided to head to the Callwood Distillery. Matt and I had spent an entire WEEK in a house across the street from the distillery the previous November and had never made it inside.

No one really knows how long the distillery has been in operation, but the Callwood family has been operating it for 200 years after taking it over from the Arundel family.








As the sign demanded, we bellied up to the bar, put down our $1 and sampled 4 shots of their rum, all aged to various degrees.

The 90 proof Arundel cane rum called the “horny rum” was clearly the group favorite.

I’m not sure what that says about our group.



After making some rum purchases, we headed to Myett’s for lunch. We ordered a rainbow variety of frozen drinks, wings, burgers, and sticky-sweet chicken thighs.











Did I mention that we were exhausted?


On the way back to Jost Van Dyke, we passed by Sandy Spit and made a B-Line for Little Jost Van Dyke.






The B-Line Beach Bar, that is.


This little bar sits by itself on a little curve of sand and serves up a delicious drink called the passion confusion. There were even chunks of frozen pineapple floating in there.





We found a birthday message to Matt that had been left by our friends in December.


And we left a message of our own.




Then it was back to the villas for our requisite afternoon siesta.

We headed to Corsairs that night for dinner. While Vinnie’s pizzas are top notch and had really saved our bacon a couple of nights before, the rest of the menu is exceptional and begged to be sampled.









Matt and I had creamy lobster mac n’ cheese and the spicy cioppino with a fresh salad. It was out of this world.

I’m not sure how we had the energy to stop for a drink at Foxy’s before heading home, but we did.


Then it was time to head back and get some sleep, lest we end up looking like this guy:



So far, we had spent our beach days on what I call the “party end” of White Bay. This is where you will find the Soggy Dollar Bar, an inordinate number of people in straw cowboy hats, and a sea of boats pulled up to the shore. It’s crowded. It’s loud. It’s fun.

But sometimes, you want the quiet end of White Bay. That’s when you park it at Ivan’s Stress Free Bar.





We lined up 14 chairs, mixed up some rum punch, and proceeded to take over the place.

It appeared the “off day” had worked it’s magic and everyone had their groove back.












That was a good thing, because we had a lot of rum to drink in two days.




I guess Ivan’s wasn’t the quite end of the beach anymore.

When the hungries hit, we headed back to Hendo’s for lunch. Dinner had been so great, lunch had to be pretty good.











It was good.

The afternoon was spent doing a whole lot of nothing.


That evening, we all got cleaned up and decided to head to Ivan’s for the Thursday night buffet, because we certainly needed more all-you-can-eat on this trip!

Ivan’s didn’t disappoint and the ladies serves us up some mean chicken and ribs.





We ate enough to send us all into a food coma for the night.

Or was that the rum?

It was getting hard to tell.






One of our friends had come up with this phrase on a previous trip and it had stuck. Because it was true.

We were good at this.

We had sustained the party for a week with very few down times. Even Vicki the Funmeister was impressed with this group’s stamina.

It was our last day, so we wanted to make it a good one. We decided to stay on “our beach” for the day. We lined up the chairs, blew up the floats, dragged out the paddle boards, anchored the floating mattresses, and turned up the Rockville.

The day was non-stop fun.








We went through every phase of beach drinking that day.

There was the “this is the most fun I have ever had in my life,” phase:


That was followed by the “I love you, man,” phase:


Next up was the “we are amazing dancers,” phase:



Things started to wind down with the “I've fallen....and I can't get up,” phase:


And finally, the, “let’s just take a nap,” phase:


With one dinner left, we let Matt pick where he wanted his last meal on the island.

Of course he picked Sidney’s Peace & Love for another monster lobster. He is painfully addicted to their potato salad.








Before we knew it, we were hanging up our own shirt at Foxy's and taking our last sleep on the birthday island.




It’s the point that comes in every trip: time to go home.


I couldn’t believe how the week had gone. It had been amazing. Near perfect.

All 14 of us had gotten along so well that it was almost frightening (rum helps with that, I think). There had been no fights, no arguments, and no hurt feelings. We practically held hands and sang “Kumbayah” every day like a commune full of hippies in an old farmhouse in Woodstock filled with cats.

The weather had been great. Everything had gone well. We never ran out of potato chips. And no one got hurt (except for one unfortunate incident involving a member of our party and a large shrub.....).

I couldn’t believe how great the week had gone. I couldn’t believe how fortunate we were to be able to spend a week in paradise. I couldn’t believe how blessed we were to call these people our friends.

Ehr ma gawd, that’s some sappy crappy, isn’t it? I blame all the rum I guzzled over the trip for that word vomit. My liver is still trying to recover.

(But I meant every word of it)

So, here’s to Matt! Here’s to his 50th! Here’s to great friends!

If this is what we did for his 50th, I better start the planning for mine NOW.


Posted by vicki_h 11:05 Archived in British Virgin Islands Tagged island caribbean tortola jost_van_dyke bvi british_virgin_islands Comments (5)

Puppies, Rainbows, and Chickenheads....Tortola has it ALL.

“What do you mean there isn’t a 5:00 ferry today?”

It was taking every ounce of self-control I had not to leap across the desk and begin choking the smug, unhelpful woman behind the Smith Ferry desk at the Charlotte Amalie ferry dock.

“We have no 5:00 ferry today,” she repeated without even looking up. I think she was afraid if she looked me in the eye, I could turn her into stone with one stare. If I thought it was possible, I would have tried.

“But your website shows a 5:00 ferry today. I even called to confirm.”

Our late afternoon flight had only given us one ferry option that we could make on time: the 5:00 Smith Ferry from Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas to West End, Tortola. If we didn’t get on this ferry, we weren’t getting to Tortola until tomorrow.

“You have a ticket?” she asked, smugly. I could see by her smirk that she knew good and well I didn’t have an advance ticket. It’s too risky to buy a ticket in advance. You never really know what time your flight will arrive and what ferry options you will realistically have. You could very well buy a ticket for the 5:00 on Smith and end up arriving in time to get on the 4:15 Fast Ferry.

I was just about ready to admit defeat when a voice spoke from behind me.

“I have a ticket for the 5:00 ferry.”

I turned and saw my savior: a petite young woman holding a suitcase and a ticket. I immediately hitched my wagon to her star. Her ticket gave her superpowers I did not possess. I moved in beside her and let her speak to the uncompromising mountain of a woman behind the counter.

“I have a ticket and you’re telling me there is no ferry????” I quickly learned that she was an attorney from Texas and she had purchased a ticket for the 5:00 ferry on their website. It was in her hand. She was small but mighty. I started to feel something akin to hope.

Within moments, she had free cab fare for all of us to the Red Hook ferry dock and had the woman at the Smith Ferry desk agreeing to call and hold the 5:30 Native Son ferry to Tortola until we arrived, no matter what time that was.

We then made the roller coaster ride from Charlotte Amalie across the mountains to Red Hook, St. Thomas. In 5:00 p.m. traffic it was a good 45 minutes. We'd have never made it without her.

I sighed as we were finally seated on the ferry to Tortola at almost 6:00 p.m. God bless Ms. Attorney From Texas, wherever she is.



We arrived at West End, Tortola in the dark. To me, that’s the biggest drawback to visiting the Caribbean in the winter months: the short days. This meant we would be making the drive to Indigo House in the dark. We had never driven on Tortola before, but I knew enough about it to know that finding our way, alone, in the dark, wasn’t ideal.

No worries. We were just happy to be there.

We quickly went through customs, got our Jeep, and were on our way to Cane Garden Bay.

The drive was INSANE.

Tortola’s roads go in 2 directions: Up and Down. We found ourselves on the way up. Up. UP. UP. The road between Carrot Bay and Cane Garden Bay seemed to be nothing but a series of gravity defying switch backs.

At least until we hit a sharp 180 degree turn and started to go down.

I held my breath and closed my eyes and prayed for a blessed end.

It came in the form of a GIGANTIC speedbump that Matt didn’t see because it had no paint on it whatsoever, had no sign announcing its impending arrival, and came at us in the dark.

With my spine now lodged between my ears, we realized we had arrived in Cane Garden Bay.

Indigo House was a private villa that was part of Myett’s, a well-known restaurant and inn. However, unlike Myett’s, which is located on the end of the bay populated with a variety of bars, restaurants, and guest houses, Indigo house was on the more secluded end and was delightfully private and shrouded in tropical foliage.

It was hard to see much of the house in the dark, so we simply dumped our bags, checked to see that our groceries had been delivered and put away (Thank You, Bobby’s Marketplace and Myett’s!!), and quickly changed into something more presentable so we could head to dinner to let the stress of travel day dissipate.


Unfortunately, this required a drive back to Carrot Bay. Up, down, up, down, up, down…..by the time we reached the Sugar Mill Restaurant, I had vertigo. It was nothing a strong cocktail wouldn’t solve. Despite our late arrival, they had agreed to hold our reservation and we were still able to enjoy a romantic first night’s dinner.




The Sugar Mill’s history is almost as old as that of the island itself. Built within the rum house of an old Sugar Mill Estate, where sugar cane was once boiled to make rum, the restaurant welcomed us with rough stone walls and glowing candlelight. We learned that the walls of this beautiful restaurant contained cobblestones that the estate’s ship crews swiped from 17th-century Liverpool streets to use as ballast in their boats for the voyage to the New World to pick up sugar and rum.

Tropical cocktails were followed by the starter of the evening, jerk chicken spring rolls. They were crispy on the outside and oozing with spicy goodness on the inside. For dinner, we both had the Lobster Thermidor: tender lobster meat tossed with egg yolks and a splash of brandy and placed back in the shell to be topped with a fine crust of cheese.



As I listened to the night creatures on the hillsides surrounding us, I found myself growing drowsy under the twinkling lights of the Sugar Mill.

It had been a long, hard day, but we were here.

It was time to see Tortola.


Day One: BBQ and Budgy Smugglers

My first order of business was to explore my surroundings. Arriving in the dark is not my preference, so I was eager to see Cane Garden Bay and get a good look at the Indigo House.

Indigo House was everything I hoped it would be.








Most villas on Tortola are situated high on the hillside, with sweeping views of the bays and islands below. I had opted for Indigo House when I saw that it sat literally feet from the edge of the water. I wanted to wake up and see the waves lapping the shore below my feet as I sipped my coffee in the morning.

Indigo House offered just that. Located on the quiet end of Cane Garden Bay, it was situated mere feet from the water’s edge. Surrounded by palm trees and tropical plants, I felt like I was in a tropical garden. The main floor of the house had a large open floor plan with a well equipped kitchen and large living/dining room with floor to ceiling doors that opened on every side, letting in the breeze and the sound of the waves. Delightful patios, courtyards, and decks filled with tropical plants surrounded the house on every side.









There was a bedroom and bath downstairs, but we opted to use the upstairs bedroom and bathroom because it was larger and had sweeping views of the bay below. I loved that we had the choice of open windows or a/c. I also loved the heavy shutters that kept the room insanely dark at night if we chose to close them.




There was only one part of Indigo House I didn’t love.



This narrow, winding staircase, while being a great space saver, was an absolute horror after a few beach cocktails. Not only was it similar to swinging round and round on a giant merry-go-round after a couple of drinks, but if you needed to get to the bathroom quickly, you literally put your life in danger.

It was nothing short of a miracle that I made it through the entire week without wetting my pants or falling down the stairs.

Cane Garden Bay was as wonderful a beach as one is likely to find. It was a perfect crescent of white sand fringed with leaning palms and surrounded by towering, lush, green mountains. On the far end, it had a smattering of great beach bars and restaurants that we could easily walk to and stumble back home without even having to get in the Jeep. It was perfect.



Well, except for the fact that the Tortola taxis dump 80% of the cruise ship passengers here.

I knew this in advance and made the decision to stay on Cane Garden Bay anyway because 1) I loved Indigo House, 2) Cane Garden Bay was beautiful and 3) Matt and I rarely stay at our villa past 10:00 a.m., so we had plenty of time each day to get the heck out of dodge before the cruise shippers showed up and ruined everything.

It was unfortunate that most of the cruise ship passengers ended up on Cane Garden Bay, lured in by an endless supply of cheap , plastic beach loungers and countless signs offering $2 daiquiris. In the morning and evening, when no one was there, it was an incredibly beautiful beach.

We had decided in advance that we would hang around Indigo House and relax until the first taxis showed up. That’s when we’d go check out the other beaches and explore the island. Most of the cruise ship passengers were there from about 10:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. This worked pretty well for us.

Except that first day.

We should have stuck to the plan. We had a plan. Why didn’t we stick to the plan????

We were tired. Travel day had us up at 3:30 a.m. and had us in airports or on planes, taxis, or ferries from 5:00 a.m. until 6:00 p.m. We thought, maybe just this one day, we could endure the crowd and stay on Cane Garden Bay for the day. Get some rest.

It started off well.

We had the beach to ourselves….and what a beautiful beach it was.



We pulled our beach chairs into the sun, grabbed some books and music, mixed up some bloody marys, and started seeing how quickly we could turn our pasty-white November skin into a golden tan.




This went pretty well until around 11:00 p.m. By this time, the chairs on the far end of the beach were filled with people. We could see them milling around like ants from our remote position on the other end.

“Don’t worry,” I told Matt. “No one will come down this far. There are no bars down here and there are no chairs.”

It was about that time that the first couple showed up, content to spread their towels in the sand and eat crackers out of a backpack to avoid the crowds at the other end. Then a few more showed up. Before we knew it, hoardes of excessively white, speedo-clad beach goers lined up in front of our house like it was a tourist attraction. The countless speedos clued us in that this group was most likely European. Some of them were so bold, I was surprised they didn’t ask to use my beach chairs or ask me to go inside and make them a drink.


We decided to walk down to Myett’s and grab some lunch. After lunch, we planned to head out to Brewer’s Bay.

As we approached Myett’s, the crowds got thick. We had to navigate our way through rows and rows of beach lounges to even get to the steps. Makeshift bars were set up all along the beach, each one promising a better drink for a lower price. Rum punch for $3? Seriously…how good could THAT be?

I started to worry that Myett’s would be overrun, but was surprised to find the actual restaurant almost empty. Apparently, the cruise shippers were too cheap to actually eat inside the restaurant.

Yay for us!



I LOVE Myett’s. Not only is the view amazing (even if it was mostly of giant white bellies in speedos that day), and not only does it have the most amazing tropical-tree-house vibe, they have the BEST BBQ sauce in the world. BEST.

Paired with anything made with their house spiced rum….it’s near perfection. Speedos be damned.




We started off with a combo plate of conch fritters and cracked conch. This might have been the most perfect Caribbean appetizer ever designed for me and Matt. He loves cracked conch (I hate it) and I love conch fritters (he hates them). Served with their own calypso sauce and paired with a rum punch and a shot of house spiced rum, I was as happy as a fat European in a speedo shop.




We followed that with the wings, which are fried extra crispy and slathered in the house BBQ sauce and the sweet and spicy boneless chicken thighs on salad greens. The chicken thighs were frenched and marinated in Saba Island sauce, cooked crisp and served with a lemon vinaigrette, toasted nuts, and scallions.




We were staring into our spiced rum, trying to decide whether to make the drive to Brewer’s Bay when we saw two things that sent us running back to Indigo House in horror:



The rest of the afternoon was spent reading inside while listening to the rain on the metal roof and hiding from any more speedos.

We were so tired, and the rain sounded so amazing, and the rum had been so plentiful and strong that we fell asleep. We woke up in the dark and decided a walk to Myett’s for dinner sounded far better than a drive up and down the hills of horror.

For dinner, Myett’s had a 2 lb lobster special. Oh my. The lobster was so tender it literally melted in my mouth and came with a selection of steamed and buttered vegetables artfully displayed on top of the lobster. It also came with a side of Myett’s hand cut fries, which were out of this world. It was even better than the BBQ.


Our first day might not have been very exciting, but it was unbelievably relaxing and went a long way toward recharging our batteries so that we could dive into the rest of the trip with gusto.

Day Two: Nature Boy, Chicken Heads, and Why Columbus Run Like Hell

I always wake up before Matt on vacation. This is my “quiet time.” At Indigo House, I came to love the first hour of the morning, where I would make my coffee and sit out on the deck, watching the fisherman cast their nets and listening to the waves roll in.









What the? My peaceful reverie was interrupted by the falling of extremely hard little green fruits, about the size of my fist, every 20 minutes or so.
It wasn’t the sound that was disturbing. It was the force with which they hit the deck from so high above.



I got nervous and went inside.

I could just see one of those little suckers slamming down onto my head and knocking me out cold. It would be hours before Matt woke up and found me. I could be dead by then. My eyes would be pecked out by the chickens.

That’s when I got an idea.

I needed a helmet.





Now I could sit outside without the fear of "death by fruit."


We were rested up and ready to see more of the island. Our first destination of the day was Long Bay Beach and the Nature Boy Beach Bar. We headed down the switchbacks toward Carrot Bay.


We made an unexpected stop along the way. When we saw the Original Shell Museum of Carrot Bay, we just had to stop.


There was art.



There was history.


There was shopping and fine dining.



This place apparently had it all.

We hadn’t done a lot of driving yet, but already knew getting around Tortola was challenging. The island wa only 12 miles long and 3 miles wide, but it was extremely mountainous. Many of the roads simply went straight up and down and had multiple 180 degree switchbacks thrown in just to keep things interesting. This made for beautiful sightseeing and horrifying driving. We wanted to look at the spectacular views, but we were afraid to take our eyes off the road, lest we round a rogue curve and get smashed by a water truck on the wrong side of the road.

We shot up one vertical hill, crested the top, then immediately tilted down 50 degrees. It was madness.





We also realized that road signs were hit or miss. The lack of good signage easily turned simple beach excursions into exercises in frustration (it took us 3 days to finally find Smuggler’s Cove).

We managed to find Long Bay without hitting an errant chicken or plunging off the side of a sharp turn, but finding Nature Boy Beach Bar was another matter.

The bay was very long, with a bump of green on the very end. How were we supposed to know exactly where this place was on this long, dirt road? Where should we park?

And there it was.


Sort of.

At least we knew where to park, but once we walked out onto the enormous expanse of beach, we saw nothing that resembled a bar.



“And remind me why we need to find this place?” Matt sighed, tired of lugging my crap up and down the beach.

“He has CHAIRS,” I explained.

I wanted a chair.

We finally gave up and picked a spot under a palm tree.





“Wait, let’s go over there,” Matt said. “There’s more shade.”

And just as we rounded the curve, there it was: one of the most interesting beach bars I have seen to date. And I have seen some interesting beach bars.







The bar was assembled from an extraordinary number of giant palm leaves that had been woven into huge panels and painted. These created tunnels and arches going up the hillside that lead to several structures with some chairs, tables and benches. It was extensive and bizarre.

No one seemed to be home.

We grabbed a couple of chairs and made ourselves comfortable. Since Nature Boy didn’t seem to be anywhere to be found, we just set up our own bar.





After a couple of hours, a guy showed up with a cooler and some jugs of water. We watched with interest as he straightened up the place, put ice in several coolers, filled some Igloo containers with water, and began setting up his bar with 3 cans of tropical juice and several bottles of Paradise Rum.

Nature Boy had arrived.

We immediately headed over to pay for our chairs and order a drink. We learned that his name was Winston, he only had a few teeth, and no matter what we ordered, he poured us juice with Paradise Rum.

But for $4, who cared?

He proceeded to mix us up the two strongest $4 rum punches in the entire B.V.I. while he talked non-stop. Because of the missing teeth, it was hard to catch everything he was saying, but I am pretty sure I heard “platters of cocaine,” “mushrooms,” and “Spanish girls are the best.” Matt just kept nodding and smiling, looking for a good opportunity to make a break for it. We were finally released when two new victims showed up to order a drink.





I’m 99.99% sure they got fruit juice with Paradise Rum.

We took the golden opportunity and took a walk down the beach with our rum punch. Long Bay was beautiful. We never wanted to leave.














At least until we got hungry.

We made the mistake of “taking a shortcut” (what a stupid thing to do when you are on an island you’ve never visited before, you know the roads are horrific, and you have a really bad map), but somehow we finally made our way out of a maze of small dirt roads to find ourselves near Soper’s Hole.


Soper’s Hole got my vote for the prettiest village on Tortola. Not really a town but more of a sailing port, Soper’s Hole was filled with colorful shops and restaurants.
















My goal was to try Scaramouche, but they weren’t yet open for lunch for the season. I made us a dinner reservation for another night and headed in search of other options.


We ended up at Pusser’s for wings and painkillers. (And maybe a giant pile of kettle chips with blue cheese and a huge bowl of lobster macaroni and cheese).






On our way back to Cane Garden Bay, we made a stop at the famous Bomba Shack to see what all the fuss was about. The Bomba Shack is, in fact, a shack. It appeared to be made up of handmade plywood signs held together with driftwood and corrugated tin, then tastefully decorated with dirty bras and panties. There were handpainted signs everywhere, most of them sharing information that would not be appropriate for mixed audiences.














Best known for its Full Moon Parties and mushroom tea, the Bomba Shack was something to see. Somehow, it’s been standing since 1971, when Bomba Smith Callwood took some salvaged driftwood, a case of beer, and a bottle of rum and set out to create what has become one of the world’s most famous beach bars.

It wasn’t a full moon, so it was mostly filled with surfers looking for a break from the waves. Matt claims I am attracted to all things considered “low rent,” so it was no surprise that I was mesmerized. I loved the colorful crappiness of it.








We had a Bomba Rum and left before anyone could suggest that I leave my underwear on the wall.

We enjoyed a beautiful sunset on Cane Garden Bay before heading to Bananakeet for dinner.





We knew Bananakeet had a spectacular sunset view, but weren’t disappointed about missing it until we found out that they passed around free “sunset shots.”

Vowing to make the sunset on another night, we dove into the menu with gusto.


Matt started with the “fritter of the day,” which was a saltfish fritter and I opted for the creamy delicious curried vegetable soup. We both ended up with seafood pasta for dinner. Matt’s was a spicy scallop and mine was a citrus shrimp.





We were getting used to the harrowing drive back to Indigo House in the dark, but we could never seem to remember that speed bump.



Day Three: Heading Off Island - Jost For Fun

We woke to a beautiful rainbow and a puppy on our porch.




The tone of the day was officially set to AWESOME.

We had decided to spend the day off island and decided to take the ferry over to Jost Van Dyke. We had reached the point where the hairpin turns no longer caused us to white knuckle the steering wheel (or in my case, grab the “Oh Shit” Handle that comes on the passenger side of every Jeep), so we were able to enjoy some of the stellar hilltop views that the drive from Cane Garden Bay to West End offered.








The ferry ride was short and sweet, and before we knew it, our toes were buried in the luxurious sand outside the Soggy Dollar Bar.








As we always do, we ended up at Getrudes for Olga’s “pour your own rum punch.” I opted for the $6 size, not quite ready for $10 worth of rum, but she still gave us the chairs for free. I LOVE Gertrude’s.








We did nothing all morning.

Nothing with bloody marys, bushwackers, and rum punches, but still….nothing.

There is no better place than White Bay to do nothing.






Lunch found us at Seddy's One Love. Sure, maybe I’m in a rut, but I always end up there because I think they have the best lunch and the most colorful atmosphere.





I also had to see if they had dragged out the Christmas tree again and if yes, did it look any better than last year?

Yes they had and no it did not.



Seddy’s One Love served us delicious lobster and the best lobster quesadillas. We ate ourselves silly before heading back down the beach.






We made a stop at the Soggy Dollar for afternoon painkillers and were sad to find out that Mic had finally retired. We consoled ourselves with copious amounts of rum. We also bought some drinks for friends that would be coming down in December. Merry Christmas, Robert and Stacey!!! Have a painkiller on us!



After a bit, we decided to walk the treacherous goat path (it’s really not treacherous, I just always seem to do it without shoes on….) to see the changes at Ivan’s Stress Free Bar.





I have to admit, I was disappointed. Ivan’s used to be one of my favorite places. It was unique and eclectic, made of seashells and love and looking like it could fall down any minute:




The "new and improved Ivan's" was nice, but it seems to have lost its heart. It just looked like any other beach bar.



We returned to our chairs and entered the “giggly” phase of the afternoon. This always happens on White Bay. This is the point where the number of beach drinks overtakes the amount of food we’ve eaten and we can do nothing but lie on a chair and laugh.

We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the antics of the party-goers up and down the beach.







We had vowed to make it to the Bananakeet Sunset, so we did a quick spit bath and change of clothes in Gertrude’s bathroom before heading to the ferry.



The ferry left at 5:00 p.m. The ferry ride was 25 minutes. Sunset was at 5:30 p.m. We had to drive that dreadful road from Carrot Bay to get to Bananakeet.

Matt was determined to make it.

We were definitely going to die.

Even though my eyes were closed, I could hear the tires squealing and could smell the rubber as we took each turn. There was smoke.

“I don’t really care about the sunset,” I whispered.

“We’re making the sunset,” he responded.

I grabbed the “Oh Shit!” bar and held on for dear life.

Can you believe we made it? On time and intact?





We even made it in time for the sunset shot.

By then, I needed that shot.






When the sunset was over, we agreed on dinner at Myett’s again. Matt desperately wanted another 2 lb. lobster and I was in dire need of more BBQ sauce.

Myett’s didn’t disappoint.





The only thing that would have been better would have been a rainbow and a puppy.

Day Four: Around and Around We Go

It was another beautiful morning on Cane Garden Bay.





It was our last full day, so we decided to circumnavigate the island. Given the road conditions, we realized the plan was bold, but we felt up to it. We wanted to see all of Tortola.


We headed toward Smuggler’s Cove first. We had tried to find it on other days, but it was buried in a maze of tiny dirt roads with no signs and we hadn’t had any luck so far.

Every day of our drive, we had passed this mural on Zion Hill which honored the governors of the BVI. I understood that this was a touching tribute, but the painting of the Honorable Wilfred W. Smith made me pause. I am hopeful that is not an accurate rendering.


The views along the way were stellar.



We soon found ourselves in Road Town. I had been hoping to eat at the Dove, what appeared to be one of the best restaurants on the island, but was reduced to a sniveling pile of tears on the first day of our trip:


There appeared to be nothing else worthwhile in Road Town. It was simply a confusing maze of heavily trafficked streets littered with cruise ship day passengers swarming around with plastic tote bags. I decided that unless you need to purchase an engagement ring without paying tax, catch a ferry or meet the Chief Minister, it’s best to avoid Road Town.

We drove straight through.

My Plan B for lunch was Brandywine Estates, just past Road Town. Before long, we found ourselves at Brandywine Bay Beach, and stopped to take a walk because of the inordinate number of shells that were washed up on the beach.





We then made our way up the hillside to Brandywine Estates to have lunch in their elegant open-air restaurant, with panoramic views on two sides of the restaurant.







There was a large party on the rear deck, so we requested to sit alone in the garden overlooking Brandywine Bay. There couldn't have been a more perfect spot.





We both felt like we were in Greece again, with the blue tile table scattered with fresh bread and olive oil and a couple of cocktails, staring out at a vast blue sea, a cat contentedly lounging at our feet.

A lunch of caprese salad with fresh mozzarella and basil drizzled in balsamic vinegar, a curried seafood pasta, and moules frites paired with a crisp white wine only intensified the similarity. It was simply a perfect meal.






Because we wanted to drive all the way to the end, we drove all the way to Lambert Bay Beach on the far end of the island, not sure what we would find.

We found a spectacular beach with absolutely no one on it.














There were even a couple of reasonably usable chairs and a palapa that we could use.

We spent a couple of hours soaking in the sun before steeling our nerves to drive the Ridge Road all the way back to Cane Garden Bay.









Ridge Road ran along the central spine of Tortola and offered spectacular views.






Our final stop was to take the road down to Brewer's Bay, since we had gotten rained out on that first day.



We were back in Cane Garden Bay in time for sunset cocktails, snacks, and an emergency rooster rescue.

We found this poor rooster so tied up with string behind our villa that he couldn't move. We didn't know how long he'd been that way, but was completely still, obviously having exhausted himself. Both of his feet were completely bound tightly with a long piece of string that the wind had blown into a tree.

We had no scissors, so Matt held him and slowly cut all of the string away. That poor, exhausted rooster never even struggled. When Matt had him freed, he gently set him on the sand. He sat for a few minutes, recovering from the shock of his ordeal, and then made his way back to his hen who was squawking in the shrubbery nearby.

We celebrated with snacks and drinks!












Our dinner reservation that night was at Scaramouche in Soper's Hole. Not really knowing what to expect, it turned out to be a little slice of heaven. The owners were Italian, the music was Brazilian and the vibe was all Caribbean.



Watching the chefs prepare the plates was like watching an artist paint a canvas. The time and attention they took with each small aesthetic detail of each meal was inspiring.


They started us off with a little amuse bouche and cocktails.


Next came a tangy snapper and passion fruit ceviche carefully arranged on a slab of fresh watermelon and topped with lovely vegetable ribbons.


For his entree, Matt had a spinach tagliatelle with seared scallops and I had the chili tagliatelle with grilled jumbo shrimp, blistered tomatoes, basil coulis, and sundries tomato pesto.



We finished the meal with a peanut butter semifreddo with caramelized bananas with a sugar crust and chocorum sauce.


They even made the bill special with dark chocolate dipped ginger candies and a lovely shell.


They even had a lovely coffee shop downstairs.



It was time for one final sleep.

Day Five: Don't Cry Because It's Over. Cry Because You Have To Go To The St. Thomas Airport Soon.

It helps to wake up on departure day to a dark, rainy sky.

We didn't.


At least it wasn't a rainbow and a puppy.

We had a late flight, so we took advantage of the morning sun to soak up some final rays before packing it in.















Before I knew what was happening, I was sitting at the ferry dock waiting for my ride to St. Thomas.





We had time for one final meal, so we made the short walk from the Charlotte Amalie ferry dock to the Pie Whole in Frenchtown. Pie Whole might be the best thing about St. Thomas.

We fortified ourselves with wine and pizza before making the dreaded trip to the airport.







Don't cry because it's over. Smile because you made it through another rum fueled vacation with all your teeth intact.

What's next???? A pre-Christmas weekend at Barnsley Resort! Can I get a "Ho, Ho, Ho?"

Posted by vicki_h 09:58 Archived in British Virgin Islands Tagged tortola virgin_islands bvi british_virgin_islands Comments (0)

Jost Another Week in Paradise

Sun and Fun on Jost Van Dyke


If I told you Jost Van Dyke is Dutch for “incredibly tiny island,” you might believe me, given that this little island in the British Virgins is small enough to walk around in a day and is home to just a few hundred residents.

Actually, no one really knows where this island’s name comes from, although it is rumored to be named for a Dutch pirate who pillaged and plundered his way through the BVI.  This island is as obscure as its namesake, and it’s that obscurity that continues to draw me back.

This place isn’t off the beaten path.

There is no path.


Despite the fact that it was April, we were entering into what felt like the 19th month of what I will forever call “the winter that would never end” in East Tennessee. The heat was still on, I couldn’t unpack my open toed shoes, and I still had my winter fat.

What? Winter fat? Every woman knows what winter fat is. Winter fat is that extra weight you gain during winter because you are so bundled up in 27 layers of clothing that no one can tell you’ve packed on a little since fall and because there are far too many holiday eating opportunities. Like Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And New Year’s. And Benito Juarez’s birthday.

Hey, if it’s on my calendar, it deserves a cupcake.

As I sat in my office at work one day, my illegal portable heater buried under my desk so that the Public Building Authority wouldn’t find it and confiscate it, damning me to the level of teeth chattering cold that can only exist in a government office building, I received a call from a friend providing me an opportunity to spend a week on Jost Van Dyke.

At the Pink House.

I think I heard angels singing.


The Pink House.

You have to understand, while I dearly love the island of Jost Van Dyke, it's primarily regarded as a day trip destination. The few accommodations there are to choose from leave something to be desired. My previous options included a room with no view that was barely a step up from a Motel 6 for about $350 a night and an economy cabin that bore a striking resemblance to my dad’s plywood garden shed for $65 a night.

I thought back to my other 2 overnight trips to Jost.


On the first trip we slept in a cabin with a door that didn’t quite shut – allowing the mosquitoes ample access to my body while I slept covered in sweat due to the lack of air conditioning or a working ceiling fan. The walls were so thin that I could hear the goats eating the tree outside and I began to suspect that the walls were actually made out of discarded cereal boxes. We had to avoid drinking anything after 7:00 p.m. to prevent waking up in the middle of the night and having to make a mad dash with a flashlight in the dark, avoiding lizards, crabs, and all manner of nocturnal hazards, to the shared freestanding bathroom that was about 200 feet away and was out of toilet paper more often than not.

On the second trip, we splurged on a hotel room that cost us almost $400 a night for a very basic room, but one that had walls made out of actual construction materials. We found ourselves staying out as late as possible because, while air conditioned, the room had cement walls and no view from the small windows. It was a lot like being in my grandmother’s basement, except that she had video games and a big screen T.V. and a bar with a peanut machine.

A peanut machine would have gone a long way toward making up for the lack of view.

But….the Pink House.


I had seen it on every trip. A shining jewel of a thing at the end of White Bay.  A beautiful private villa right on the beach on an island where private villas are practically unheard of.


Multiple bedrooms with en suite baths. Air conditioning. Ceiling fans that really work. An actual kitchen. Doors that shut all the way. An ice machine. Satellite T.V. Wi-fi. It’s own beach.


I wiped the drool off my chin and booked 2 flights.

We were going to the Pink House, y'all.

===Saturday: Planes, trains boats, and automobiles.===

I won’t lie.

Jost Van Dyke is not easy to get to from Tennessee.

But the best and most worthwhile things in life take a little work, don’t they? Like my graduate school roommate’s dad used to tell us when we were grumbling about our dissertations, “If it was easy, they’d just throw one in your car window as you drove by.”

First there is the whole indignity of the airport experience. Once you’ve been sufficiently violated by TSA, you get to jockey for position with 200 other people in hopes that you are one of the lucky few that get to attempt to cram your obviously overpacked carry on into the plane before some flight attendant grabs it from you and informs you that you have to check your bag because there is no space left, leaving you to wonder if your bag will make it there before it’s time for you to return home.

After 2 flights and about 8 hours of your life that you’ll never get back, you land on St. Thomas. You then have to make a choice: taxi to Charlotte Amalie and get a ferry to West End, Tortola and then attempt to make another ferry from West End to Jost Van Dyke, or taxi to Red Hook and take one ferry from Red Hook, with a brief stop on St. John, then straight on to Jost.

Unfortunately, our early flight got us there about 20 minutes too late to catch the early ferry and about 3 hours too early for the next one. After studying the ferry schedules of 4 different ferry companies that leave from 2 separate places, I had the mind bending logistics worked out to determine the quickest way for us to arrive on Jost Van Dyke. I also had a medium sized headache. We would take the 45 minute taxi ride from the airport to Red Hook and wait a couple of hours for the ferry from Red Hook to Jost Van Dyke.

Besides, with a couple of hours to kill on St. Thomas, we’d no doubt be several rum punches into our afternoon by the time the ferry came, so getting on one boat and staying on it sounded like a safe plan anyway. That way there was no chance we’d end up on Anegada by the end of the day wondering how we got there.

I remember as a kid, there was a ride at Six Flags that I loved called Mo Mo the Monster. It was one of those giant beasts of a thing that had “arms” with little buckets on the ends, the entire ride resembling a giant spider. The arms would go up and down and my brothers and I would spin around violently in our buckets until we were crying for mercy, staggering off and vomiting like the family cat that time it ate an entire stick of butter that it secreted off the kitchen table.

Well, if you get in the right taxi, the ride to Red Hook is a lot like that.

And if it happens to be the last day of carnival, which it was, and there is a giant parade, which there was, it’s even better because it lasts longer.

After 45 minutes (which translated into car sickness time is about twelve years) of steep hills, ridiculous curves, passing on the wrong side of the road, and swerving to miss errant chickens, we finally arrived at the Red Hook ferry.

We had a couple of hours to kill and it was lunch time, so we had the taxi driver drop us off across the street at Duffy’s Love Shack.


Duffy’s is an awesome place, despite the fact that it sits in the parking lot of a strip mall. It’s so “over the top” kitschy tropical that it’s cool. The seats are covered in leopard print vinyl and everything is made out of bamboo.


The drinks are served in ridiculous tiki glasses and every time you get one, the waitresses cover you in plastic leis, necklaces, and stickers.


Needless to say, by the time I left, I had so many stickers that I resembled the back bumper of a 53 year old Volkswagen Beetle. 

When it was our time, we walked over to the ferry dock and located the Inter Island ferry to Jost. I watched as hundreds of people crammed onto the ferry to St. John and looked at the 4 people waiting for the Jost Van Dyke ferry and smiled.


It was 4:00 when we arrived on Jost. I had reserved a rental car, and despite having been through the rental car process numerous times on Jost Van Dyke, I was still certain no one was ever going to show up, even though they always did.

Why? Because when you rent a car on Jost, you call the office and say, “I’d like to rent a car please. I’ll arrive on such and such a date and I think I’ll be on the such and such ferry.”

They say, “Ok.”

That’s it.

Rental process over.

For the anal retentive type, this is difficult. I need a confirmation number. I need an email or computer generated piece of paper that PROVES I have a car. And I have nothing but….. “Ok.” How could I possibly expect someone to show up weeks or months after making that phone call at exactly the time my ferry arrives?

But someone always does.

Paradise Car Rental pulled in just as we arrived. Just like they always do. Like magic.

Jost Van Dyke magic.

Even though I had never been there, I knew exactly how to get to the Pink House. On an island that basically has one road and no town, it’s not really that hard to figure out where things are.


I have to admit, when I pulled onto that drive that said, “Private Drive – Pink House Villas,” I felt special. I felt like a V.I.P.

A Very Important Pink house guest.


The house was everything I hoped and more.

Perched on the hillside overlooking the entirety of White Bay, the view was something you can only dream of.


The decks, the grounds, the gorgeous landscaping….it was a feast for the eyes.





There are actually 2 Pink Houses - the original Pink House, Bougainvillea, and a newly constructed house, Oleander. We were in the original.

The house has a very cool set up – all the rooms have outdoor entrances. This is great for privacy if you have several couples. Each of the 3 bedrooms was large and airy, beautifully furnished, with cool a/c and views to White Bay.





I was like a kid in a candy store, running from room to room trying to decide which one I liked best. That’s when I walked into the Peach Room.

Suddenly, I was like one of those seagulls on Finding Nemo, jumping up and down, “Mine. MINE. MINE. Mine.”



I headed to the breezy living area, which housed the large den and the kitchen, to see if my grocery provisions had made it.



That’s another fun thing about coming to Jost. Groceries. While we eat out mostly, I do like to have breakfast, drinks, and snacks on hand, but the grocery options on Jost are severely limited so you have to plan ahead.

Imagine a cross between a gas station quick mart and a small-town 5 and dime from 1978 filled with an odd assortment of random food and beverage items with a few weird housewares thrown in for good measure. Give it a Dollar General ambiance but imagine that everything costs way more than a dollar. Now imagine that it is sandwiched into a space the size of your bathroom and imagine yourself walking into it an proceeding to shop in a manner that is a combination of that TV show, "Supermarket Sweep" from the 90's and a scavenger hunt. Finally, visualize yourself walking up to the register, hot and sweaty, with a toilet brush, some dusty beverage cozies, an 8 track tape, a dented can of peas, 4 boxes of Twinkies, a root beer, and a frozen Hungry Man dinner.

You now understand grocery shopping on a small island.

The best bet is to contact Bobby's Marketplace on Tortola. They have an extensive online selection allowing you to order and pay online. Typically, you tell them which West End ferry you'll be on and when you arrive for the ferry, your box is waiting for you. However, since we were on the Inter Island ferry and wouldn't be stopping in West End, Tortola, Bobby's actually put my groceries on the morning ferry and the caretakers of the Pink House picked them up, took them to the house, and put them away.

I had a kitchen full of food and all I had to do was unpack my suitcase and start enjoying my vacation.

It was that Jost Van Dyke magic again.


Within minutes, Matt and I had changed out of travel clothes and had a rum punch made with Callwood Spiced Rum in our hands and were walking down the beach watching the sun set.




Our Pink House adventure was ready to begin.

===Sunday: How To See Pirates, Jewels, and Dinosaurs in a Single Day.===

As we always do, we established a routine for the trip early on. It started off with coffee on the deck and breakfast with a view.




Because Matt tried to kill me on our last trip to Jost by forcing encouraging me to run up what I called "the hill of death" every day, I declared this a non-exercise vacation. That meant the next part of our daily routine was to choose which spot to call ours for the day.


White Bay is a magnificent beach, and it's so large you can pick a different section of it to spend your day on and feel like you are in an entirely different place every day. Each section has its own vibe.


There's the private end where the Pink House sits. No bars, no noise, just pristine quiet and a nice assortment of chairs that are shared by the Pink Houses and White Bay Villas, the houses that sit high up on the hillside above.



I will admit, every time I saw someone from White Bay Villas come walking down that excruciatingly long, steep path to the beach, sweating from the exertion by the time they arrived, I felt delighted to be right where I was. We barely had to step off our deck before our feet were buried in that soft sand.

Moving down the beach, you come to Ivan's next. Ivan's section of beach is scattered with mismatched chairs in various stages of decomposition, usually with an assortment of empty bottles, deflated rafts, and abandoned shoes tossed in. It's a little rough around the edges, but it has character. It also has Ivan's Stress Free Bar.


The middle section is natural and usually empty. Lined with shady seagrape trees and a few palms, this area has no bars, no chairs, but no people either. It's a great place to grab some privacy.



Likewise, after you climb the stairs and cross the goat path to the "other side," you find a long, pristine stretch of empty beach.



Walk far enough and you'll come to the center of all that is White Bay, the Soggy Dollar Bar.




Soggy's has plenty of chairs and hammocks that they let you use as long as you are patronizing their bar and grill. They also have one of the most famous bars in the Caribbean and one of the best bartenders in the known universe.


That would be Mic, of course.

If Soggy's is a little too lively for you, you can continue down the beach to Gertrude's. You can rent a chair from her for $5 or you can buy a rum punch for $6 and get the chair for free. Kind of a no-brainer if you ask me.


Past Gertrude's is an assortment of beach bars, each with their own unique personality: Jewel's snack shack, Coco Loco, and Seddy's One Love.




At the far end of White Bay it's feast or famine. By that, I mean it's either totally deserted or so covered with bodies that you do best to avoid it at all costs.

I believe the pavilion on that end is frequented by a giant party boat that shows up out of nowhere and dumps a plethora of life vested bodies, with their fanny packs and water shoes, onto the beach for about an hour or two. We only saw it in use once during our week on Jost. On a good day, it's a deserted slice of heaven.



For our first day, we chose to call Gertrude's section of beach home for the day. There are always fewer people in front of Gertrude's and we were looking for a little quiet before all the Sunday boats arrived.


Rather than spend $5 for a chair, we went inside to see Gertrude about some rum punch.

Gertrude's bar has a unique style. When you order your drink, she asks if you want the $6 or the $10 size. Well, duh. The $10 of course. Then she puts the bottles you need to make your drink on the counter and you proceed to make your own. The rum punch is my favorite: a bottle of dark spiced rum, a bottle of mango rum, and a jug of her secret rum punch mix. Mine is about 9 parts rum and 1 part punch. She even grates a little fresh nutmeg on the top when you're finished.

I love Gertrude.


We settled in to soak in the beauty of White Bay.



Gertrude's rum punch can only be appropriately followed by one thing: a bloody mary from the Soggy Dollar. It is, quite literally, the best bloody mary ever made.


When we started getting lounge chair butt, we headed to Jewel's Snack Shack for her amazing burger and special rum punch.




This is where we met Reginald who entertained us with his dinosaur while we waited.


Sure, that looks like a blade of grass to me too, but I assure you, it was a dinosaur. Reginald said so. After Gertrude's rum punch, a Soggy Dollar bloody mary, and Ms. Jewel's rum punch, I would have believed it was a purple unicorn with sparkly wings if Reginald had said so.

For those that have read my other adventures, does anyone remember the Pink Painkiller that my friend Kala and I accidentally concocted on our BVI sailing adventure by mixing leftover painkiller with some fruit punch and extra rum?


Well, I don't know about you, but I think the Rum Punch With a Touch of Class looks suspiciously like our Pink Painkiller. I think royalties are due. Maybe a free chair for life?

Just saying.


There aren't many things better than a grilled burger on the beach. Jewel's hamburger is thick and unbelievably juicy.


I can tell she puts something in the meat, too. It reminds me of the burgers my mom would make when I was a kid that she'd put a packet of french onion soup mix into. Except that my mom usually put it on slices of white bread that would get so soggy by the time you were halfway through the burger, you'd just have to peel them off and leave them on the plate.

The late afternoon was spent trying to keep the random beach dog off my chair, doing my best pirate imitation, and trying to figure out why this guy had on a headdress.








Once the beach part of the daily routine was over, the nap part came in. The nap part is necessary so that you can sleep off the rum and sun and wake up fresh and ready to go eat some lobster.


And go eat lobster we did.

We headed to Little Harbor for our favorite lobster dinner at Sydney's Peace & Love.


What I love about Sydney's: the pour your own bar, the waterfront setting, the fresh lobster, and the delicious side dishes. What I don't love: how Strawberry always talks me into buying a bunch of t-shirts in her shop that I don't need and will never wear while I wait for my food. I resolved that this time I would not buy another shirt, particularly since I already have about 6 at home.

After pouring our own drinks at the do-it-yourself bar and writing our drinks down by our name in the little spiral notebook, I succumbed to Strawberry's foolproof sales pitch and ended up with a tank top, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sarong.

I don't even wear sarongs.

She gets me every time!

The lobster was clean and fresh. The cole slaw was sweet and tangy, just like my Granny makes. The potato salad, corn on the cob, and peas n' rice all competed for favorite side dish as I washed it all down with my version of the perfect painkiller.



Wow, what a day.

===Monday: How To Get Stress Free.===




With such an amazing curve of private beach just below the house, we decided to take advantage of it and spend the morning on "our beach."




Yes, I know. It wasn't "my beach," just like the Pink House wasn't "my house," and Mic wasn't "my bartender." But that's what we do on vacation, isn't it? Isn't that the whole point - to be transported? To be some place and some thing you aren't in your every day life?

Of course it is.

That's why I found myself, despite all good intentions to the contrary, fighting the urge to scowl at the couples that would wander too far from Ivan's and dare to pause too long on "my beach," wondering if it would be going too far to chase them back to Ivan's while waving a pool noodle menacingly at them.


We mixed up Vicki's rum punch and hit the beach. My rum punch does not have touch of class like Jewel's, but what it lacks in class, it makes up for in "you can be buzzed by 10:00 a.m." goodness.




You know you've had too much rum punch when you find yourself trying to balance a coconut on your head before lunch.



Because it was practically next door, we wandered over to Ivan's Stress Free Bar to see how the Stress Free Punch compared.


Ivan's is one of the most unique places on White Bay. Like everything on Jost, Ivan's is a meandering structure that seems more tossed together than built, more carefree than established, and more eclectic than fancy. There's nothing formal about Ivan's open-air structure, with a sand floor and walls covered with seashells. While the Soggy Dollar gets the notoriety and most of the White Bay visitors, Ivan's is frequented by those in the know, making you feel like you are in on a wonderful secret.





There's something about this place that makes adults feel like big kids. Maybe it's the sandy floor. Maybe it's the assortment of colorful chairs where you can spend a lazy afternoon sipping rum punch on a beautiful beach. Maybe it's the offbeat vibe.

Or maybe it's the tire swing.


Tip of the day: don't get on a tire swing in a white bikini. (You'll thank me for that)

It was hungry o'clock, so we made our way to the far end of White Bay. I'd love to be able to say the east end, west end, north…whatever…but, really, I have no idea which direction it is. I still haven't mastered the art of figuring out left from right without making that little "L" with my thumb and finger. I'm not a human compass, people.

Of all White Bay establishments, Seddy's One Love still gets my vote for best lunch. The food is seriously good and the view is unmatched.






They make a pretty good painkiller too.



Matt had the special of the day, grilled wahoo with the most amazing mystery sauce I have ever tasted. I am sure it wasn't really "mystery sauce," but at this point I was several punches into my day so I can't be expected to remember details like that. I only remember where I had lunch because I have a picture of it.


I had the lobster salad sandwich, which was jam packed with tender lobster, crunchy-crisp veggies, and creamy dressing with a touch of curry.


The only thing left to do was take a nap.


Sunset came and painted the sky in gold as we discussed dinner options.



Although we'd been to Little Harbor the night before for lobster, we settled on Harris' Place in Little Harbor because it was lobster night. I still have night sweats when I think of the great lobster famine that occurred while I was on Anguilla, so I decided to get more lobster while the getting was good.

But first, I insisted we visit the Beach Lounge.





I had seen this place as we passed through Great Harbor earlier in the trip. It might have been the most half-assed excuse for a bar that I have ever seen, if you don't count the time we tried to go to Dune Preserve to find that they only two bottles of liquor and cranberry juice that day and proceeded to make me what will forever go down in history as the worst drink known to man.

Matt had that look on his face that he gets when I ask him to do things that he really doesn't want to do on vacations and that are probably ill-advised by any guidebook and that usually result in us missing a boat, getting food poisoning, ending up stranded in an alley in the middle of Rome, or finding ourselves in the uncomfortable position of being the only patrons of the night in a really scary restaurant. It's the same look my dog gives me when I tell it to go to the laundry room. It doesn't really want to...but it's weighing it's desire not to go to the laundry room against having to deal with me if it doesn't.

But to his credit, he always goes along, because more often than not, these things end up in some of our greatest discoveries and most cherished vacation finds.


It was a bit of deja vu when we strolled up to the makeshift bar and asked what mixed drinks he could make and he responded, "I don't know. I only have a few bottles and I'm not sure what's in them."


While those Jagerbombs certainly were tempting...ahem.....I was really looking for something less, oh, "18-year-old-with-a-fake-ID-trying-to-get-smashed" drink. I immediately spotted a bottle of Cruzan Coconut Rum and said, "That. With Sprite."

And what the Beach Lounge lacked in fine furnishings (or an actual floor, walls, or indoor lighting of any kind), it more than made up for with the view.


Then it was on to Harris' Place for what I call the Lobster Death Match. It was me vs. the largest lobster in the known universe. When I told Cynthia I wanted the biggest lobster she had, I had no idea that she had a prehistoric beast lurking in the cage.




Halfway in, I called for a time out. I sat, trembling in my corner of the ring, hands shaking, forehead beaded with sweat, breath coming in rapid bursts.
Matt slapped me on the back and I went back in.

Forty-five minutes and one extremely bloated stomach later, I knew I had been bested.

I waved my white napkin, grimy with lobster parts, and surrendered. There was still lobster on my plate and I couldn't eat it.

I'm pretty sure that leaving uneaten lobster on your plate is nearly as bad as breaking a commandment or backing over a box of kittens with your car.

===Tuesday: How To Lose an Anchor in Four Hours or Less===


It was boat day. I had reserved a day trip with Jost Van Dyke scuba with the intention of going to Sandy Cay & Sandy Spit and then heading over to Norman Island for the afternoon.

We arrived early and had about 30 minutes to kill so we walked down "Main Street." Main Street on Jost is basically a sandy lane lined with every manner of structure. Some actual, some implied. The harbor is scattered with tables, hammocks, stools...any place a person can take a load off. And maybe grab one of those Jagerbombs.








Sandy Cay is pretty close to Jost, so it seemed like a great first stop. Despite the beautiful day, the sea was angry, my friends. The short boat ride over to Sandy Cay was 15 minutes of jaw rattling, tailbone busting, sea spray enduring hell.


Try to imagine you are on a mechanical bull in nothing but your underwear and instead of being padded, the seat is made out of fiberglass and while you ride, someone is dumping a bucket of salt water over your head. Now stay on for fifteen minutes.

It was worth the ride when I saw Sandy Cay like a jewel sitting in the azure water. Sandy Cay is just a dollop of sand dropped into the ocean, a scrumptious little cake floating in the sea frosted with a few waving palm trees.




We swam in and located the interior paths, taking our time to walk through the dense foliage and gawking with wonder at the sea views that surrounded the tiny speck of an island.

If Sandy Cay is a dollop, then Sandy Spit is a sprinkle. Sandy Spit was a repeat, except that it was a fraction of the size, allowing us to walk all the way around it in about 3 minutes flat.



When we managed to arrive at Sandy Cay without losing any teeth or requiring a spinal adjustment, we imagined what the long boat ride to Norman Island would be like and made the quick, and wise, decision to abort the mission and head to Tortola instead.

After Sandy Cay and Sandy Spit, we made a quick run over to Smuggler's Cove on Tortola. This kept us in moderately protected waters and didn't require a long boat ride.




Once I saw Smuggler's Cove, I couldn't have been happier we made a detour.

I have been to Norman Island. I have snorkeled the Indians. I have dug my toes in the sand at Pirate's Bight. I have sucked down a ski shot at the Willy T.

Smuggler's Cove was not only something new…it was perfection.





This gorgeous crescent of perfect beach was littered with leaning palm trees and had almost no one on it. We swam over and spent some delicious time on the beach.








On the way back to the boat, Matt pointed out a rare sight: a good sized octopus swimming in the open. We watched it for a long time until it finally found a hidey-hole and disappeared.

It was remarkable.

Coming to this beach was the best decision ever.

Until we lost the anchor.

So, um, yeah. The captain was trying to pull up the anchor and the rope broke.

It was not awesome.

Since he was the only boat operator, he would have typically left the anchor and come back for it later, but Matt knows how to operate a boat, and it would be nearly impossible to find that anchor after leaving and coming back. So Matt powered the boat while the captain dove repeatedly, looking for the anchor.

I sat with a bag of chips and watched the whole thing like I was watching a movie. Well, it wasn't like I could do anything to help.

After a half hour of diving, drifting, rotating the boat, and chip munching - the anchor was found!

We decided to make our last stop of the day Cane Garden Bay for a late lunch. The captain recommended Myett's for lunch, so we headed that way.




Myett's was great, like a giant, tropical treehouse on the beach. The food was good and was served with an incredible view.







When the boat brought us back to Great Harbor, we checked out Corsair's and decided to return later for dinner.



Before dinner, we strolled "our beach" (I was beginning to like the sound of that) with some pre-dinner cocktails and watched the sunset over White Bay.




I had heard good things about the pizza at Corsair's, but I am really picky about my pizza. Good pizza on an island usually means that it doesn't taste like one of those frozen pizzas that you can buy 3 for $10 at Kroger. It doesn't usually mean "good" good.




Corsair's was good good.

===Wednesday: How to Waste An(other) Entire Day Doing Absolutely Nothing===


You know how, after a few days of laying in the sun, eating too much, taking too many naps, and drinking an abundance of rum, you just get plain lazy?

You start to wonder how you ever lived a life where you got up at 6 a.m. and worked all day just to come home and clean house, make dinner, go to the gym, buy groceries, and do some laundry when just walking from the bed to the dresser to get a tank top seems like such a great effort you seriously wonder if you could just wear your nightshirt all day without anyone at the beach noticing.

It was Day Four and the lazy haze had started to settle onto us.



We decided to grab a couple of Mic's bloody marys (because early morning alcohol certainly helps with lethargy) and do nothing more ambitious than try to find a lounge chair before we collapsed in the sand.



It was a good day for people watching. White Bay is home to some of the best people watching ever. It's like people watching at the airport if everyone at the airport was half naked and drunk.

The morning hours on White Bay are quiet. You mostly have the beach to yourselves, shared only with the few other souls lucky enough to be staying on the island.


Around 9:00, a few people show up that came over from a neighboring island on the ferry for the day. You know them by their giant backpacks and Keens and by the way they look around nervously at the chairs before plopping down in the sand, unaware that the chairs are not off limits.

The next group in are usually the sailing people - the ones that spent the previous night in the harbor on a sailboat. They pull their dinghies up on short and provide tons of entertainment as they try to fight the waves and climb out of the inflatable without falling in the water, a feat which is easier said than done.


The last group to arrive are the most fun to watch: the party boats. The charters start showing up from Tortola, St. John, and St. Thomas loaded with people. They stagger off in their Kenny Chesney cowboy hats, clutching their ziploc bags that contain a camera, a chapstick, and some dollar bills and hoping that they will 1) see a celebrity, 2) get on the webcam at the Soggy Dollar bar, 3) not be the one that ends up face down in the sand before the boat has to leave, and 4) spend the next hour like they are in a country music video.





We saw everything from the great grandmother who waded off the boat fully dressed in a caftan and pants clutching her oversized leather handbag over her head to the bikini clad woman wearing a beauty pageant sash who was 70 if she was a day. There were several guys, so blindingly white that I feared I would go blind if I looked straight at them, and every one of them somehow managed to have a perfectly lobster red back, like sunscreen was only necessary on the parts they could see. There was the old dude in the too small swim trunks, holding his ample belly in so forcefully that I was pretty sure he was going to rip an abdominal muscle and groups of bikini clad girls with Coronas sitting in beach chairs at the water's edge until they were so pickled, their boyfriends/husbands/friends had to carry them back to the boat.

There was even one girl doing a perfect handstand on a paddle board out in the water.


I could do that if I wanted to.

Okay, no I can't. I can barely walk across the room without tripping over my own feet.


Yes, White Bay can be a party, but even on a crowded day, it's a laid back kind of party. The kind of party where someone's boat is always pumping out tunes just loud enough for everyone to hear but not so loud it's annoying, and where people sit in chairs at the water's edge laughing with their friends. It's the kind of party where you can smell ribs on the grill and a sea of Soggy Dollar cups waves in the air above pool floats where people splash about in the water.






Eventually, we had to pry ourselves up and go in search of sustenance. A liquid diet can only carry you so long.

Having never eaten at Coco Loco's, we decided we'd give it a shot.





Yes, apparently, at this point in the day, Matt was double cupping it. What is double cupping? When you get another drink before finishing the first one and you just dump them together and put the empty cup on the bottom.

Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Do you know what you get when one of you orders the BBQ baby back ribs and the other orders the catch of the day sandwich?



Lunch perfection.


We then spent the afternoon doing nothing more strenuous than this:


For dinner, we thought we'd make the drive out to Diamond Cay and eat at Taboo. It takes about 15 minutes to drive out there from White Bay, which, on an island where you can get to everything in a minute or less, is the equivalent of traveling to a different country, so we stopped at Foxy's in Great Harbor for a drink to break up the exceptionally long, arduous trip out to Taboo.

Foxy's was cranking. The music was playing and people were dancing.

I wish I knew how to dance. Like an actual dance that is recognized by other people and is, in reality, awesome and not just awesome in my head. In my head, I look like this when I dance:


In reality, I look like this:


And it's a toss up if Matt dances as badly as me or worse.

It was getting dark and we still had that cross-country drive to make that would require a white knuckle trip of at least 10 minutes trying to avoid making roadkill of a mongoose or running into a goat, so we headed on, leaving the dancing to the people that didn't look like they were having a grand mal seizure.

Taboo is probably the nicest restaurant on Jost. Not only do they serve your food on actual plates made of something other than paper, styrofoam or plastic, they have some selections that don't include fried food, the staples of most fast food restaurants, or sides the include double carbohydrates.

They have an appetizer that I love: a savory cheesecake made with herbs and garlic and topped with marina sauce. My only problem with it is that they need to serve it with some warm bread so that I don't have to pick up the plate and lick it to get to the last of that marinara sauce.


For our entrees, Matt had the grilled fish and I opted for a coconut shrimp linguine. I'm not sure what possessed me to order shrimp on an island where shrimp are not a fresh food, but to Taboo's credit, the shrimp were plump and firm and didn't remind me of something that had been in the bottom of the freezer since 1994.


===Thursday: How to Get to the Bubbly Pool===

I read a couple of months ago that a man had died at the Bubbly Pool when he was hit by a rough wave and was carried out to sea.

This made me nervous.

You have to understand, I am the kind of person that rides my bike with the breaks on, even if I'm not going downhill. When I snorkel, I am constantly looking for sharks as the JAWS theme plays in my head. I will never bungee jump. Dangerous things make me nervous.

So when Matt suggested we go to the Bubbly Pool, I felt my stomach clench a little in nervous anticipation, but the Bubbly Pool is a Jost Van Dyke institution and the last time we had tried to go, there were so many people in it that I felt like I was in a frat house hot tub during pledge week. We had to give it another shot.

The Bubbly Pool is at the end of the road. Literally.


The only way to get there is to drive your small, slightly abused SUV up and down crazy steep hills next to vertical cliffs on badly paved roads that are narrower than Giselle Bundchen's hips while avoiding obstacles like goat herds, small children, and boulders that have fallen from the cliffs above the road. Go as far as the road will go (east? west? south?) and when it stops, park and walk to the Bubbly Pool.



We were early and we had the place to ourselves.


Under the right circumstances, the Bubbly Pool is pretty fantastic. Anything in nature can be dangerous. Just be smart. Use common sense. Don't go in drunk. Don't try to climb up on the slippery rocks where the waves come in. Don't get in when the swells are up. Don't swim too close to the opening.

The natural swimming pool is calm and clear until a wave washes in, and then it is instantly transformed into a fizzy delight.






Before heading back to White Bay, we stopped and oohed and aaahed at the colors of the water from every view point.




The weather had been perfect every day so far, but by the time we got back to the Pink House, the floodgates of heaven literally opened up onto White Bay. The rain was so heavy that you couldn't even see the boats in the harbor.


We made lunch at the house and enjoyed the rain for an hour or two, knowing it was filling the cisterns and providing some much needed water.

The rain left as abruptly as it had come, and by early afternoon, the sun was smiling on White Bay again. We were able to enjoy a few hours of beach time.






It was Thursday and Ivan's was hosting its beach BBQ. We've never been and I was eager to check it out.

We walked down to Ivan's early and grabbed a couple of Stress Free punches to sip while we watched the sunset.







I was tempted to lick the outlet, but since they have a policy against it, I chose not to.


As the sun set in glorious form, the smells of grilled meat drifted out of the kitchen. Tables were set up all higgled piggledy on the beach and everyone just found a seat and made it theirs. Thankfully, we didn't choose the seat that was apparently covered in fire ants. Another couple wasn't so lucky and within seconds, they were running to the water, twitching and flailing, their hands swatting at every part of their body they could reach.

Actually, they looked a lot like I do when I am dancing.

The food was laid out on a long table and was served buffet style. Unlike Foxy's buffet, it's literally all-you-can-eat, not all-you-can-eat-in-one-trip.




There were grilled ribs and all manner of islandy side dishes. The food was plentiful and delicious, the atmosphere relaxed, and the conversation friendly.

We dined under the stars on the beach, everyone enjoying themselves late into the night.


===Friday: How To Go Out With a Bang (or a Whimper, Depending on How You Look At It)===


It was our last day, so we decided to spend it with sun, sand, and the Soggy Dollar in true Jost Van Dyke style.

And we did just that.

It was a day of beach burgers and painkillers, music and fun, chairs by the water and hammocks in the shade. It was a perfect day.












By the end of the day, I was a bit pickled, opting to do nothing more than lay in a chair I had dragged to the water's edge.


I don't think Matt realized how much rum I'd had, nor did I, when he mixed us up some rum punches at the house before dinner and I proceeded to drink mine.

I really felt okay.

I did.

We headed toward Abe's by the Sea, the 3rd lobster restaurant on Little Harbor and the only one we had never eaten at.

When we arrived, we were the only customers, but that was okay. That's not uncommon. We asked if they were cooking and they said, "yes," so we ordered 2 lobster dinners and had a seat at the table on the dock, overlooking the water.

That's when I went from 60 to zero in 2 seconds flat.

One minute, I was fine. The next, I was this:


(I still can't believe Matt took my picture....)

"What's wrong with you?" Matt asked.

"I….I….I don't feel so good all of a sudden," I said. I had hit the rum wall. I peered between my fingers and gave Matt a look that said, "If you don't put that camera down and get me out of here in less than a minute, you'll spend the rest of your life sleeping on a futon."

He read me loud and clear.

That's how we paid $100 for a lobster dinner that was still in the kitchen being prepared. He handed the money to the waitress, said, "I'm sorry," and we bolted.

Remember when I described the ride across Jost Van Dyke? The twists, the turns, the narrow roads, the hills, the cliffs, the bumps? Now imagine doing that after spinning for about 45 minutes on Mo Mo the Monster. My insides were upside down and I am pretty sure my face was grey by the time we got back to the Pink House.

Even in paradise, too much of a good thing is…..well……too much of a good thing.

===Saturday: All's Well That Ends Well===


I was elated when I woke up.

Elated because I wasn't dead.

The night before, I am pretty sure I prayed to be dead. Or at least to slip peacefully into a coma.

I actually felt reasonably okay. My mouth tasted like I had been sucking on a toilet brush and I was moving a little slow, but I was okay.

Matt made me some eggs and toast and by the time I'd eaten breakfast, I was reasonably recovered.

We were taking a water taxi back to St. Thomas at the gracious invitation of the family staying in Pink House Oleander, whose flight home was at the same time as ours. The boat was leaving at 1:00, which left us plenty of time to do some final sightseeing and grab some lunch before heading out.

We followed the road from White Bay as far as we felt comfortable, even after it turned to a dirt road, littered with loose rock and so steep that I was worried I would get a nosebleed. Eventually, it became too rough for even our comfort and we turned to take the side road back into Great Harbor. But, WOW, did we get to see some incredible views before we had to turn back.





We strolled through Great Harbor, and it took all of my will power to resist that final chance at one of those Jagerbombs. I bet King Cockroach has had a Jagerbomb.








We stopped at Foxy's for our final meal and the man himself was holding court.





Foxy asked me where I was from and when I told him Tennessee, he proceeded to tell me a politically incorrect joke about picking cotton in Memphis and left me unsure whether I was supposed to laugh or act offended, but that's Foxy for you. The first time I met Foxy, he asked me if I knew how to tell that his dog, Taboo, was an Island dog.

If you ever meet Foxy, ask him to tell you that joke. Then you, too, can share in my discomfort.

You gotta' love Foxy.

I had waited all week for a roti and it was time. Foxy's is my favorite, stuffed with tender chicken a potatoes and served with a sweet chutney on the side.




Before we knew it, it was time for one last beer (or a Diet Coke if you had a headache the size of Texas…) and then all that was left was a wave good-bye.


Our week in paradise had come to an end.

I hope yours is just beginning.


Posted by vicki_h 17:31 Archived in British Virgin Islands Tagged beach island tropical st._john virgin_islands jost_van_dyke british_virgin_islands b.v.i. Comments (9)

Five Nights on the Barefoot Island

Jost Van Dyke, BVI

There are thousands of tiny islands in the Caribbean, so don’t feel bad if you have never heard of Jost Van Dyke. Not many people have. It is only a few square miles, after all, and easily gets lost in the swirling blue waters of the British Virgin Islands.


Pronounced “Yost,” it wasn’t long ago that this tiny little island didn’t even have electricity or paved roads. It’s off the radar for most travelers, and for those few who are “in the know,” it’s merely a day trip from a larger island. Very few call Jost a destination of its own, and it was for that very reason that Matt and I decided this vacation would be spent entirely on its white sand beaches.


Having been to Jost Van Dyke many times ourselves on day trips, we knew how small it was. We knew how remote it was. We knew that you can almost count the number of restaurants on one hand and that “Main Street” consists of a strip of sand that stretches alongside a sweeping bay and is mostly made up of bars in varying stages of disrepair, old boats, and a very fat beach dog named Taboo.

We also knew that it was one of the most beautiful places we had ever been. We’d even spent a night here and we knew that getting to spend 5 nights here would be a unique opportunity. We would either become extremely relaxed or the remoteness of it would cause one of us would go all “Jack Nicholson in the Shining” on the other. Either way, we were up for the adventure.


Day One:

2 airplanes. 1 taxi. and 2 boats. This is how you get to Jost Van Dyke from East TN. The day was long and the logistics were tight, but a flight to North Carolina, a flight to St. Thomas, a taxi to downtown Charlotte Amalie, a ferry to Tortola where we cleared customs, and a final ferry to Jost Van Dyke got us on the island at 6:30 p.m.


I had ordered a box of snacks and beverages from Bobby’s Marketplace on Tortola that was to be delivered to our ferry, but didn’t really expect it to be all that smooth. Nothing is ever that smooth when traveling to a Caribbean island, is it? We know to be relaxed because everything moves at a slower pace and a unique rhythm, right? I just knew that box wouldn’t be there. I expected it to show up 3 days after we left to return home.

But there it was. Waiting for me on the Jost ferry…a little cardboard box full of happiness with my name on it.

We had also called in advance to reserve a rental car. Having “reserved” rental cars on Jost many times, I knew not to expect much. The conversation goes something like this:

“Hello, I’d like to reserve a car for May 5 – 10 please.”


“Vicki H.”

“Where ya stayin’?”


“What time you arrive on de ferry?”

“Um….I think we’ll be on the 6:30.”

“Okay. I be waitin’ for ya.”

That’s it. You don’t select a car type. Why? Because they only have one moderately abused Jeep in the lot. You get it. There really isn’t an option. You don’t get a reservation number. Why? Because they just wrote your reservation down on a post-it note. Post-it notes don’t generate reservation numbers. They don’t ask for a credit card to hold your reservation. Why? Because there is no room to put that long ass number on a post-it note.

So, I wasn’t surprised when we walked off the ferry and no one was there. I stood nervously, biting my nails, trying to decide what to do. You see, we were on the last ferry. There was one taxi waiting to take all the ferry passengers where we each needed to go. With no more ferries coming, that taxi wasn’t coming back.


It’s a long walk from the ferry dock with luggage.

Matt had given up and was just starting to load our luggage into the taxi when I noticed it was only 6:25. We were early! I told him we’d wait. He thought I was crazy, but I had faith. I mean, so far the day had been flawless. Our flight was early. Our taxi left immediately. Our ferry connections were smooth as silk. My box was even there on the last ferry…my name scribbled on the top in black Sharpie. The car would be here. I just knew it.

Precisely at 6:30, our rental car arrived. And yes, it was a moderately abused Jeep. But it was on time. And it was ours.


We drove to the Sandcastle on White Bay. The Sandcastle consists of 6 rooms hidden in the tropical gardens beside the famous Soggy Dollar Bar on White Bay, the most blindingly beautiful beach in the universe.


The rooms are modest, but are large, clean and comfortable. Only 2 rooms have a/c, and I prefer those to the larger, oceanfront cottages. When I need to see the ocean, I can walk the 10 steps to it, but without a/c, I can’t get cool no matter what I do. The rooms come with an assortment of books, beach towels, and a fridge to keep some drinks and snacks in.


If you think the car rental process was laid back, wait until you hear about check-in at the Sandcastle:

We arrived. We walked over to the bar. Someone pointed over her shoulder toward our room. “Number 5,” she said. We walked over, found Number 5, and went inside. There was no paperwork. No credit card. We weren’t even given a key. I’m pretty sure our door didn’t even lock.

How can you not love the place?


We were tired and hungry. It was Saturday night and that meant Foxy was having his BBQ buffet back in Great Harbor. After operation quick change, followed by a complete bath in OFF, we headed over to Foxy’s in our moderately abused Jeep.


We were early and the place was still pretty empty. Even though there were 196 signs posted all over Foxy’s that said, YOU MUST HAVE A RESERVATION FOR THE BUFFET, Matt and I plopped our happy butts right down in some seats, oblivious. Within seconds a very large and very stern waitress arrived.

“You have a reservation????” she demanded.

“No,” we said sheepishly, certain that we were about to be expelled and humiliated in front of all the yachties, not to mention being denied a platter full of Foxy’s barbequed goodness. Our day of success had left us overconfident and we were about to get our comeuppance.

“No matter,” she said. “We’re full, but you stay here. I work it out.”

And she did. God bless her.


I love Foxy’s BBQ for many reasons. First, the atmosphere at Foxy’s is hard to beat. A wooden structure pinned together with old t-shirts and baseball caps, it is open to the ocean just a few steps away. There is always music, tons of people from the boats in the harbor, and cocktails flowing like water. Second, the food is good. The BBQ buffet is only on Friday and Saturday nights and consists of green salad, fruit, pasta salad, bread, veges, peas n rice, corn, BBQ ribs, chicken, and fish. Third, as the very large, very stern waitress said, “You can have all you want ONE TIME.” With it being an all-you-can-eat-one-trip affair, there is a tremendous amount of entertainment value in watching 60 very intoxicated people try to stack and load their plates in the most efficient manner possible…attempting to get as much as they can in that one trip. It’s a delicate balance…get too little and ..oh no! …you’re still hungry but you can’t go back….get too much and….on no! …your plate just toppled like a game of drunken Jenga.


My plate looked like a redneck Thanksgiving: a double-decker plate with nothing but meat and carbohydrates. Everything on it was brown and the only thing missing was Aunt Susan’s broccoli casserole.

But it was oh-so-good.


After a couple of hours of watching some adults behaving badly on the dance floor and feeding scraps to the dog under the table, we headed back to the Sandcastle.

It was the night of the supermoon, the largest full moon of the year, and as we rounded the top of the hill and looked back over Great Harbor, the moon wished up a happy vacation.

Thank you, moon.


Day Two:


Jost Van Dyke is only about 4 miles by 2 miles with a population that hovers around 300. It looks like several green mountains set into the water and it’s hard to find a stretch of flat land anywhere. White Bay is Jost’s crown jewel and is the main beach on the island, scattered with casual beach bars and hammocks. There isn’t really a “town,” but Great Harbor is a long sandy street with a few restaurants, bars, and a convenience market wrapped around a bay. Farther down the road, Little Harbor houses a few more restaurants that specialize in fresh caught lobster and pretty much nothing else.

That’s it.

There really isn’t anything else.

This is why we woke up on our first full day wondering what the hell we were thinking and wondering just how long it was going to take us to get bored. Our room didn’t even have a T.V., for goodness sakes. What were 4 full days going to be like?

I’ll tell you what they were like.

By the end of the first day we stopped wearing shoes…even when we went out to dinner. By the end of the second day, we had decided the only reason good enough to move off of our beach chair before 6:00 p.m. was for alcohol or something fried, and even then we had to think about it really, really hard. By the end of the third day we had realized that a Bloody Mary made the perfect breakfast. By the end of the fourth day, we had totally relaxed, fully recharged, and completely reconnected.

It was perfection.

On that first morning, I strolled out onto White Bay Beach, which was completely devoid of people. For those of you who have only visited White Bay on a day trip, I can’t explain to you the serenity and beauty that is White Bay before any boats have arrived.

I envisioned a leisurely morning: a little breakfast, a little lounging, a little floating, a little cocktail….lather, rinse, and repeat.



Matt had a different plan.

“Let’s go for a run first,” he said.

I looked at him as he sat there lacing up his running shoes, all gung ho and excited, but I still wasn’t motivated. I thought about all the fried things and calorie laden frozen concoctions that would fill my day, but I still wasn’t motivated.

Then I glanced down at the little bikini on the bed that I planned to cram my 40-something year old butt into and I got motivated.

Like I said, Jost is pretty much a series of mountains sitting in the water. One of these mountains goes from the entrance of the Sandcastle toward Great Harbor. Yes, it’s only about a mile up, but I swear, it has to be a 39% grade. It’s so steep that when you walk up it, your nose touches the pavement.

And we were going to run up it.

Of course we were.

You know those crazy people you see out running on vacation? My husband is those people.

Now that I am over 40, apparently so am I.

I should mention here that my husband is fit. Very fit. I, on the other hand, PRETEND to be very fit. There is a big difference. When you are reasonably thin and own a pair of sneakers, people just assume you are fit. This pretense had served me pretty well up to this point.


I was about 50 steps into my run up the Mountain of Death when my left lung ruptured and started to come out of my nose. I am certain that this is what happened, because I could no longer breathe and it felt like a small bomb had exploded in my chest. A searing pain hit me in the right eye and I was pretty sure that some part of my brain had just died from the lack of oxygen. I would probably be blind within minutes. I sucked wind and slowed to a jogging pace that my 88 year old grandmother could have matched, with her oxygen tank in tow, while Mr. Universe practically danced up the hill. As I contemplated the possibility of simply making a sharp 90 degree turn and leaping over the guardrail to plunge my body toward the sea rocks below, Matt turned to see just how far behind him I was.

I gritted my teeth and smiled and waved in a manner that I hoped looked casual and athletic, thinking that from that distance he couldn’t possibly see that even my ears were sweating, but that I was pretty sure looked more like someone having a grand mal seizure, since it is very hard to wave casually when your heart has just ripped itself from your chest cavity and is trying to lodge itself in your throat.

Somehow, I made it up the hill and back without vomiting, passing out, or simply lying down in the middle of the street and praying that a moderately abused Jeep would come by and simply run me over.

After surviving the run, I decided that the only logical thing to do was to now consume at least twice as many calories at breakfast as I had just burned. That’s why I went straight to the dining room and had this:


Mmm….a plate full of cheese and carbs with a view of the ocean. Almost made those sweaty miles worth it.

Well, actually, no it didn’t. But it was very good.


We established a routine on that first day that we would follow for the four full days we were on the island: run up the Mountain of Death (um…yes…I did it again on every morning of the trip…madness, no?), snag a cup of coffee and watch the waves roll in, have a little breakfast, find 2 chairs with tables and a nearby hammock and spread out with towels and books and music, grab a Bloody Mary somewhere around 10:00, swim a little, hit up the Soggy Dollar Bar for painkillers, have some lunch, and spend the afternoon in alternating between cocktails, lounging in the water with a pool noodle, and laying on a beach chair until it was time to head in for a nap before dinner.


It was heaven.

We wandered over to Jewel’s Snack Shack for lunch, having heard that Ms. Jewel makes a mean hamburger. Admittedly, the place was about the size of a garden shed…Actually, I’m not sure it wasn’t a garden shed. A few battered stools sat out front and the bar wasn’t much to look at.


Why is it that you’ll gladly eat at a place on vacation that you’d literally run screaming from at home?

We ponied up to the bar and placed our order. Ms. Jewel quickly told us that there were no fries because her fryer was broken. And then she told us there were no bacon cheese burgers because she didn’t have any bacon.

What she did have was one fine hamburger and the world’s best rum punch. I especially liked the 3…yes, exactly 3…Pringle’s that she put on the plate as a sort of peace offering for the lack of fries. Like a Pringle garnish, I wasn’t sure whether to eat them or if they were just for looks.



This was our view for much of the afternoon, because after a few of Ms. Jewel's rum punches, you are not qualified to do much more than sit stupidly in the water.


For dinner, we wanted lobster, and for us the first stop for lobster is always Sydney’s Peace and Love in Little Harbor.

My favorite part is the self-serve bar. I love being my own bartender.


According to Matt, I could not actually be a bartender because I put so much alcohol in the drinks that the bar would go broke because 1) it would have to spend too much on alcohol, 2) no one could buy more than one drink because the first one would leave them in a coma, and 3) someone would inevitably end up wrapped around a palm tree and sue the bar because my drinks are too strong.

Whatever. I think I am a bartender extraordinaire.


As we sat just at the edge of the open air restaurant, facing the breezy waters of Little Harbor before us, a quick but fierce rain blew in. I like these shots of Matt. I like to call them Before the Rain:


and After the Rain:


If he’d just let me keep making the drinks, he wouldn’t have even NOTICED the rain.

Sydney’s serves up a great lobster dinner. So fresh, your lobster was probably swimming under a rock a few hours earlier, the lobster is HUGE and comes with potato salad, corn on the cob, peas n’ rice, cole slaw, and your choice of soup with garlic toast.




Don’t let the elementary school cafeteria dishes scare you. It’s phenomenal.


Even though Sydney is no longer with us, his lobster legacy lives on.


Day Three:

Wake up. Run up the Mountain of Death. Shower. Coffee.

That is how every morning started. The coffee was definitely my favorite part because the view was outstanding. And because it didn’t involve hills. Or running. Or thoughts of suicide.


We spent the morning sunning, reading, lounging, drinking, swimming….I’d like to say something exciting happened, like a band of pirates showed up and shot a cannonball into the Soggy Dollar bar or that Morgan Freeman breezed in on his boat and invited us all aboard for a giant party, but the most exciting thing to happen was watching a drunk guy from a day boat get lost and wander back and forth on the beach for about 20 minutes trying desperately to figure out where he was. I’m not sure he even knew who he was.



We decided to hit Seddy’s One Love for lunch. It’s my favorite place for lunch on White Bay. To me, it’s a perfect combination of the most colorful location and the best food.


One Love is like the nautical version of Hoarders, with buoys and traps, surfboards and life rings, nets and anchors taped, tied, wrapped, and hung on every imaginable surface.




The menu is always fantastic. Maybe I only think that because they always have lobster “something.” Like this lobster sandwich:


They also make the best bushwacker, which is one of Matt’s favorite drinks.


The view is pretty hard to beat too.


Oh, sorry, I meant this view.


The afternoon was spent becoming waterlogged with a pool noodle and trying to see if I could balance a Soggy Dollar cup on my head. I couldn’t.


We decided to take a drive to “the end of the road” to break our afternoon lethargy. For perspective, here is a road map of Jost.

White Bay is at one end.

Driving to the other end takes you past Great Harbor, where you can often find Foxy “doing his thing.”




It then takes you past Little Harbor where the lobster is great and the views are even better.


After Little Harbor, you find yourself with amazing views out to Sandy Spit, Little Jost Van Dyke, and Diamond Cay.


Finally, you end up at Foxy’s Taboo and the path to the Bubbly Pool. We decided to save Foxy’s Taboo and the Bubbly Pool for another day.


You know you are relaxed when you are simply too tired to get out of the car.

We cleaned up for dinner. The plan was to head to Little Harbor again, but instead of eating at Sydney’s, we’d walk next door to Harris’ Place, where we’d heard a rumor that Monday night means all you can eat lobster.



Apparently, Monday night was “eat more than we have” lobster night and Harris’ Place had no more lobster. So….it was back to Sydney’s for a do over.

It was tough having to eat Sydney’s delicate, delicious, buttery lobster a second night in a row…. But somehow I managed to choke it down.


Day Four:

You know exactly what I did that morning, now don’t you? Of course you do. Why torture us both with the agony of it? Let’s move on to things that don’t involve sweat, sneakers, or pavement.

How about breakfast with a view?



It was on our 3rd full day that I worked up the courage to drag out the paddle board. Like I said, I am not very athletic and things like that scare me. But I really, really, really wanted to try it, so I did what I always do. I made Matt do it first.




He paddled to the other end of White Bay while I walked the shore and watched. The views were outstanding as I crossed the beach.




Matt kept paddling and I kept walking until we ended up at Ivan’s.



Ivan’s is a colorful, tumbledown, scruffy collection of buildings covered in every manner of flotsam and jetsam. Every available space is covered with sea shells, bits of glass, tiles, driftwood, coral, rocks, and anything else that anyone has managed to find washed up on the shores of White Bay that didn’t run away before they could glue it to a board.




The place was deserted so early in the morning, so it made a perfect place for me to debut my paddleboarding skills without any witnesses to the ridiculous spectacle that would be me trying to get on a paddleboard and stay on a paddleboard.


The paddleboard was a little bigger than a surfboard. The idea was that I would just climb on it and paddle myself around the bay. Easy as pie. Right?

Actually it was. Easy. As. Pie.

I loved it.


Now, in addition to being bartender extraordinaire, I was a paddleboard phenomenon.


Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I never fell off the sucker once. For me, that’s worthy of a medal.

I settled for a Bloody Mary.



We spent a lazy morning with the paddleboard, the hook and ring game, Mic’s Bloody Marys, and the sublime beauty that is White Bay.



We lunched at the Soggy Dollar with painkillers, fish n’ chips, and their outstanding roti.





We then spent an afternoon looking at this:


That’s what you see when you have one painkiller too many and can do nothing more than lay in a heat and rum fueled coma on a beach chair counting the puffy white clouds as they roll by. Ah….bliss.

Too lazy to even get in the moderately abused Jeep to go to dinner, we signed up for dinner at the Sandcastle. To sign up, you simply head to the bar before 5 pm and find the dinner book. You write your name down beside a time and you look through the menu and put down all the items you want.
At your dinner time, you show up and they bring your food to you.


We arrived at a table with this wonderful dinner view….


Dinner was a romantic candlelit affair with our toes in the sand and the waves just outside our reach.

There were conch fritters, snapper, and my favorite, painkiller ice cream.




Then the light faded from another picture perfect day.


Day Five:


Our last full day…our last run up the Mountain of Death. No, it never got any easier.

We spent the morning drinking in the beauty of White Bay and making sure Mic, the Caribbean’s most awesome bartender, kept us supplied with liquid sunshine.


We decided to head to the Bubbly Pool and thought the nearby Foxy’s Taboo might be a good choice for lunch, so we headed out.


We made our way through Great Harbor….






Then Little Harbor…..





Over the hill…..


And finally to the end of the road.


Foxy’s Taboo is named after Foxy’s dog and is Jost Van Dyke’s swankiest hangout. Granted, when the other establishments boast giant pairs of dusty underwear signed in Sharpie hanging from the rafters and have bars held together with duct tape, spit, and seashells, it doesn’t take much to be the swankiest. It sits alone on a scrap of beach facing a small harbor where there were at least a dozen sailboats moored, twinkling and swaying in the blue water. The menu was a little more sophisticated than most of the ones we’d seen on the island, with choices like garlic eggplant cheesecake and Mediterranean salsa.





The food was delicious, and while I love a good beach burger or piece of giant fried something, it was a nice change of pace.

The views weren’t half bad either.


So, it was finally time to see the Bubbly Pool that all the fuss is about. We walked the goat path through the scrub until we came to a little pool of water the size of a small swimming pool that had about 97 people in it.


We politely sat on a rock and waited. I don’t do crowds. We waited while 8 more people showed up and trudged into the tiny pool with giant cans of beer. We waited while 3 more people showed up and squeezed into the tiny pool in water shoes. We waited while 12 more people showed up and crammed themselves into the few tiny spaces left in the water, most of them hanging half in/half out of the water on the rocks, some satisfied to just have a toe sticking in.

It was like the human version of that motivational exercise they always do at lame conferences where they try to see just how much crap they can cram into a jar with rocks or marbles, then tiny pebbles, then sand, then water. You know the one. It was like that but with sweaty bodies, fanny packs, and giant cans of beer.

We waited. I felt like I was in a queue at Disney World, except that it was much hotter and there was no ride waiting for me at the end of the line. Just a tiny pool of water that now probably had a high concentration of beer and pee in it.

There was finally a blessed break in the endless stream of bodies and we jumped in, had our 3 minutes of bliss in the foamy, bubbly, tingly water, and jumped back out before a new wave of troops marched boldly in.




The bubbly pool is very cool, if you can have it in relative privacy. Unfortunately, it has gone the way of most things that are awesome and is now the 8th wonder of the world, drawing freakish crowds that destroy the very nature of what makes it so special.

My advice: Go very early to miss the crowds, or either skip it altogether and simply douse yourself into a bucket filled with Coca-Cola (it will feel very similar) or just go the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” route and take a giant beer with you and plunge right in, if you can find a space to squeeze into.

After that debacle, I needed an adult beverage, so we assumed our positions once again on White Bay and hit Gertrude’s for some liquid entertainment.


Gertrude’s is unique. You walk inside and order a drink. She’ll often ask if you want a $7 cup or a $10 cup. She’ll then hand you a cup and an assortment of liquor bottles, presumably the bottles needed to make whatever you just ordered. Then you make it. Yourself.



YES! Vicki was bartender extraordinaire once again. I’m telling you. This is my destiny.

After a couple of those rum punches, Matt and I had a contest to see who had the cooler initials to make out of a hand signal.



I declared myself the winner.

We decided on Corsair’s for dinner for 2 reasons. 1) They had a supercool vintage Jeep which meant it must be undeniably fabulous and 2) They had a sign outside saying that they had a MONSTER LOBSTER.




Okay, it was really just for reason #2.


We had a choice of a lobster up to 8 lbs. That sounded like a prehistoric beast and I feared trying to eat something that was larger than my dog, so we went for a modest 3.8 lb. lobster.

I loved the look on Matt’s face when the lobster arrived. It was so big they had to put it on one of those giant wooden sushi boats.


You’ll be pleased to know that we made short work of that lobster. Matt’s look of trepidation was for naught.

Matt & Vicki: 1
Lobster: 0


Day Six:

It was time for my final cup of coffee with a view to die for.


It came and went so fast. We were off on the 9:15 ferry to catch a 10:15 ferry to catch a cab to catch a plane to go home.

With one final stop at Pie Whole on St. Thomas, for an Italian Margarita and the best pizza in the universe, it was all over but the flying.



Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat. It was one of the most relaxing vacations of my life.


Would I stay at the Sandcastle again? Yes, you can’t beat the location if you want to stay on Jost. Sure, there are a few other places to stay, but the Sandcastle is tops.

Would I stay that long again?

Heck no.

I’d stay longer.


Posted by vicki_h 18:13 Archived in British Virgin Islands Tagged jost_van_dyke bvi british_virgin_islands Comments (5)

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