The westernmost harbor on Jost Van Dyke, White Bay is a shallow half-mile inlet guarded by a series of natural reefs running across its mouth. There are three entrances through the reef, although it’s highly recommended that incoming boats run between the two largest reefs; for guidance, red and green buoys mark the suggested entrance route. The list of do’s and don’ts also includes not anchoring in the channel (as to block it) or anchoring in the coral that comprises the reefs. Suffice to say the landing at White Bay was going to be the most difficult of our journey, and with that in mind I turned the wheel over to my father and stepped forward to man the anchor as we approached the reefs.
The bay was relatively empty, meaning we wouldn’t need to worry about dodging other boats as we set the anchor, a 25-pound hunk of pointed metal designed to dig itself into the ocean floor. The trick here was obviously to not only avoid the precious coral, but also to make sure that I let out enough line (so the anchor stays put) but not too much, which would let us drift with the wind and possibly swing us into another boat or the reef. As Ken headed the boat into the wind, he shouted up to me and I dropped the anchor into the shallow water (White Bay was 10 feet deep at its maximum; the depth gauge in the cockpit read that our location was about seven) and let first the anchor chain, then the tough knotted rope slide through my hands. The ideal figure is for every foot of depth, one should let out seven feet of anchor line; thankfully, the Sunsail folks had marked our rode at intervals of 25 feet with small orange tags. After one of the tags passed by, I stopped the line and tugged on the anchor and Ken reversed the engine to drag slightly on the anchor so it would set properly on the sandy bottom. I then let one more tag slide through my hands before I pulled a few feet of rope back in and tied the line off on the starboard cleat.
I stayed at the forecastle for a few more minutes, watching the anchor as the wind nudged us gently aside. It held, and as I maneuvered back to the cockpit, my dad was already preparing lunch. We grilled hamburgers and bratwurst and paired them with a garlic potato salad I’d bought from the Harbour Market at Soper’s. It was a blissfully low-key meal, and it did wonders to bolster my mood. Ken washed down his lunch with a Carib, but I stuck with bottled water, not quite ready to climb back on that horse just yet.
We spent the next hour tidying up the cockpit and cabin, then cleaning ourselves in traditional Algir family fashion: we took the bottle of shampoo and bar of soap from my dad’s mesh toiletry kit, dove into the water, and had a good old-fashioned Caribbean bath. As antiquated as it seemed, it was a huge improvement over wedging oneself into one of the cramped heads on the boat, angling the body and the shower nozzle for maximum coverage amidst minimum comfort. Sure, when we emerged from the ocean we still were dripping with salty water (the fresh water shower on the swimming platform was still out of commission), but considering the alternative, I didn’t complain. As my mother used to constantly remark, “For boys, wet means clean.”
After drying off (which didn’t take long in the 95-degree afternoon heat) we changed into fresh clothes and climbed into the dinghy for a trip ashore. White Bay takes its name from the mile-long strip of pristine white sand that runs the length of the harbor. Ashore, a pair of quaint-yet-enchanting establishments border the beautiful beach. At the western end of the inlet sits White Bay Sandcastle, a tiny resort with a dazzling menu (we made reservations for breakfast the following morning); attached to the Sandcastle is the Soggy Dollar Bar, named for the sopping wet payment that many people use after mooring their boats outside the treacherous reef and swimming ashore; at the eastern end is Ivan’s Stress Free Bar and Campground, which country singer Kenny Chesney immortalized in the video for his song “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem.” Given that Jost has been nicknamed “the barefoot island” due to its laid-back atmosphere, at least two-thirds of the song’s title seemed appropriate. (However, it occurred to me that bearing the reputation of being the most laid-back of a series of extraordinarily laid-back islands sounds like holding a diving contest and declaring one person the “most wet.” On Cooper I thought that no place on earth could possibly get more relaxed, yet here we were.)
Note: here are a few photos of White Bay for reference.
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