Two pair of red-and-green buoys marked the entrance to
Cane Garden Bay, indicating safe passage between the smallish reef off DuBois Point to the north and the long, jutting reef extending out like a hitchhiker’s thumb from Windy Hill and Ballast Bay. I guided us through the short channel into what many regard as the most beautiful anchorage in the Caribbean, the “Jewel of the BVI”. It wasn’t difficult to see how it earned that distinction—a curling inlet where sparkling white sand dissolved into verdant green hills that rolled skyward toward the cobalt blue sky, dotted with cotton clouds that drifted lazily from right to left as if even Mother Nature herself had latched on to the languid island philosophy.
My father stood at the bow with the aluminum boat hook; I brought the Beneteau around the second red buoy and kept to starboard, keeping one eye on the depth gauge and one on the mostly-empty bay before me. I’d driven a few boats in my 26 years, but this was by far the biggest (and I’m guessing the most expensive), and especially after we ran aground yesterday, I was visibly nervous. I’d donned my Cubs hat to keep the sun out of my eyes and realized as I tugged nervously at the brim that I’d sweat through the cap, a combination of nervous energy and the stifling humidity. I promised myself that as soon as we were sufficiently moored I was as good as underwater again.
As I eased the 49-foot craft’s nose up to a spare ball, my father reached out and speared its mooring line, passing the bridle through the line’s eye and securing both ends to our bow cleats. His speed and efficiency were marvels to watch—in marked contrast to the way in which I consistently fumbled with the hook, line, and bridle. Although tying up to a ball was much easier on the helmsman and safer for the ocean floor (as it means fewer anchors scraping across it), I was usually the man manning the bow, and I preferred the no-nonsense approach of simply tossing the anchor overboard and letting gravity (and whomever was steering) do the work.
This time it went off without a hitch, however, and Ken gave me a merited high five as he dropped back into the cockpit. I stifled a yawn as I interlaced my fingers and extended my arms out above my head, letting go of the tension I’d built up since taking the wheel to guide us into the bay.
“We good?” I asked, rolling my head around in a big stretching circle.
“Yeah,” he nodded, looking around at the dozen or so empty mooring balls bobbing in the bay. If the Full Moon Party was all it was cracked up to be, I was certain they’d be full before too long. We’d been wise to leave Jost early; it was barely 2:00 and I surmised in another hour or so Cane Garden would be flush with tourists, cruisers and those simply there for the party.
By the time Ken turned back around, I was already out over the water in mid-dive—part celebratory gesture over my first successful Caribbean mooring, part primitive urge to escape the sweat seeping from every pore in my body. I quickly ditched my hat, sunglasses and soaked-through t-shirt haphazardly on the deck and launched myself out, up and over the aft railing, kicking both feet high above my head and straightening my torso to slice directly into the cerulean bay.
Note: here are a few photos of Cane Garden Bay for reference.
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