I come from a long line of Irish thieves and poets who never let the truth stand in the way of a good story. The problem with dishonesty is that, eventually, the truth will surface.
In 2009 a friend of ours suggested we visit the British Virgin Islands and spend a couple weeks island-hopping on a catamaran. With her face all lit up, Victoria looked at me and said, “Oh, Paul, we must do this! Can you sail one of those big catamarans?
Here’s where the lies and deceit come in. Although I had spent most of my life aboard sailboats, I didn’t know how to sail a catamaran. These floating condos with their twin engines and massive 25-foot beams intimidated me. I was clueless! But how could I tell her I can’t handle this?”
I could see her envisioning the experience. Sitting at the helm station while sipping a tropical beverage as the glow of the sunset reflected off the peaceful island anchorage. So I did what most guys do when the woman they’re with is out of their league… I lied. “No problem,” I said, “Piece of cake!”
I was the definition of a credit card captain. I somehow convinced myself and the charter company that I was a qualified skipper. The charter company’s manager, a large British man and a dead ringer for Austin Powers, worked through our paperwork. In less than 1 hour, Victoria and I were handed the keys to” Helios,” a 44-foot Fountaine-Pajot catamaran.
Although we know how to sail, we felt like new parents when handed their baby at the hospital’s steps. I stood at the helm, intimidated by the boat’s width. Like driving a square barge, I couldn’t see the port bow from the starboard aft helm station. I could barely read a weather report or plot a course. I was a rookie.
The kind people at the charter company smiled and waved as we drove their million-plus dollar yacht out of the marina, literally throwing caution to the wind for the next 14 days.
Like tourists with a paper map and guidebook wandering around Time Square, we headed to Norman Island for our first night in this Caribbean paradise. As soon as we left the protection of Road Town Harbour, a fresh 20 kt breeze hit us on our beam. Insisting on raising the mainsail, I brought our cat into the wind and started winching up the main halyard. The sail and battens immediately caught on the lazy jack lines and snagged, preventing the sail from sliding up the mast. Victoria and I worked well together, screaming and cursing at each other over the best approach to resolve the mainsail issue. After a thirty-minute struggle, the mainsail was finally up. However, I didn’t release the reef lines, so the sail lacked that beautiful French curve. Instead, it looked like a mis-buttoned dress shirt.
Not familiar with the chart plotter and lacking all sense of direction, we promptly headed to the wrong island. What should have been a 45-minute jaunt to Norman Island turned into a three-hour search for “The Indians,” a small gathering of tiny rock islands that signal the entrance to Norman Island’s Pirates Bight. To Victoria’s credit, she figured it out. Grabbing the paper map, she looked around and calculated our position. Finally, we spotted our destination around the east side of Salt Island.
To the onlooker, watching us try to secure our boat to a mooring ball was like watching two goats work a vending machine. Laying on the catamaran’s trampoline, Victoria, with a boathook in hand, looked like a spearfishing warrior ready to stab her prey. We had practiced a series of complex hand signals that would theoretically allow us to communicate. I was at the helm trying to remember the “dual engine shopping cart steering method” I watched thirty times on YouTube. The mooring field at Norman Island was dotted with monohulls and catamarans as we came in “hot.” It was just before Captain’s hour, and all eyes were on us as “The New Guy” came rolling into town.
My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing as I guided our water condo through the anchorage. The delicate job of threading the bow line through the mooring ball’s eye was even more challenging since I was driving the 44-foot cat like a 12-year-old in his dad’s old Chevy pickup. Our well-rehearsed hand gestures were now just flailing arms and middle fingers.
Victoria tried to guide me right and left to align the boat to the ball. My first attempt was a total fail, as I sped the cat right over the ball, and all Victoria could do was watch the mooring pass between the two hulls. Deciding to slow down on my next pass, I barely moved forward. Without momentum, the 15-knot breeze pushed our bow to port and dangerously close to another catamaran with a lovely family enjoying their rum punches on the aft deck. Recalling the YouTube instructional video, I throttled the starboard engine to reverse and the port engine forward. We veered away from the family, who now had set their drinks down and, with fenders in hand, watched us as I made a sharp 90-degree turn to the right. This time, I missed the mooring ball altogether and had to make a third try.
Neptune must have felt sorry for me as, by the grace of God, I brought Helios right to the morning ball, and Victoria snagged the line. I scrambled to the trampoline, and as she held the line in the boat hook, I grabbed the loose ends and wrapped them around the bow cleats. With the boat secured, we both fell back onto the trampoline and looked at each other. Victoria smiled and said, you’ve never done this before, have you?
I admitted stretching the truth, and together Victoria and I struggled, quite literally, to learn the ropes. That was 15 years ago, and we’ve been back to the BVI eight times. It’s a truly magical place that deserves care, conservation and respect.
If you’re interested in sailing the British Virgin Islands, reach out to us. We’re a wealth of information. From sail plans to provisioning, we’ve made a lot of mistakes and can give first hand guidance. We are big fans of a small family-run charter company, Conch Charters.
If two weeks in the British Virgin Islands is too much of a commitment, come sail with SV Riviera on San Diego’s Bay. We’ll sail down to Coronado’s Glorietta bay, fire up the grill, and make your favorite tropical libation! No, it’s not Caribbean, but it’s still paradise.
Fair winds and following seas!
Paul & Victoria
