Caribbean Travel Magazine

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Photo by: Zach Stovall

During Sailing Week, one of the world's most popular regattas, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Antigua's bars and restaurants are awash with the party-hearty yeomen of the international yachting set. But with historic ambience, fine resorts and myriad beaches, there's much more to the island than sundowners and topsiders.

"I really like this game," said a lad of about 13 who'd pressed to the front of a rowdy crowd of spectators converging around a couple of tents on Pigeon Beach.

"Carry-On Camp-ing" was the name of the entertainment, and it went like this: Couples raced to see which team could dash into the little tents, switch clothes with one another, emerge to show they'd changed, return to the tent and switch back the fastest.

As the male member of one team was shirtless, on the first switch so was his teammate -- and quite pleased to display her ample endowments she was, too, arms thrown overhead victoriously even though the race was only half run at that point. The gesture was met with general whooping and hollering in the gallery, and the pithy comment from our pubescent observer.

Depending on your point of view, Carry-On Camping was either the high or low point of the Lay Day antics (tug-of-war, sack racing, drinking games and so on) that came at the middle of Antigua Sailing Week, the regatta held every spring that claims to be "the world's largest race as measured by yacht tonnage." This year, a total of 183 boats from 27 countries entered. Lay Day was originally meant as a midweek break in the action, a day of rest, but it's evolved over the last 38 years of Sailing Weeks into a party day where locals get loose with crews from around the world.

The yachting scene is nothing if not cosmopolitan, and it is plainly right at home here in Antigua, with its rich nautical traditions, usually favorable winds and weather, and international cast of hoteliers and restaurateurs eager to host the festivities. Of course, these same conditions make the island attractive year-round -- and to landlubbers, as well. But while Antigua could hardly be called a secret getaway, neither is it anywhere near overrun. Most places I went were lively but not overheated, even during Sailing Week (Lay Day shenanigans aside). I kept finding myself in places suffused with that air of satisfaction that lingers over a cool party; people were grooving, pleased to be in the know about something good.

Ensconced at his home a quarter-mile uphill from Pigeon Beach -- quite literally above the fray -- stood Desmond Nicholson, a local historian who was one of the founders of Sailing Week and a member of Antigua's first family of yachting. Though now officially retired, if you want the long view of Antigua, he's your man. I explained to him the ribald nature of the goings-on down at the beach and suggested, "I bet you never thought it would come to this."

"It's all part of the fun!" the 79-year-old Nicholson said sunnily.

Surveying Falmouth Harbour -- chockers with sparkling big-dollar sailing craft of all descriptions -- from the bird's-eye vantage of Nicholson's terrace, it was hard to envision the scene in 1949 when his family landed here after sailing across the Atlantic on the Mollihawk, a 70-foot schooner built in 1903.

"When we arrived there was not a single yacht," he recalled, then guided me to his desk where he navigated the museum-quality photographic archive he keeps on his computer.

"There I am as a young blade on the Mollihawk," Nicholson said, calling up a set of pictures from a cruise that put in to ports of call down the Windward chain -- Guadeloupe, Dominica, St. Lucia and the Grenadines. He says with pride that they were the first charter outfit in the Eastern Caribbean. The shots looked like stills from an old movie about a maritime adventure full of exotic, pre-modern locales and romance to spare; it comes as no surprise to learn that Desmond met his American wife Lisa when her parents chartered a Nicholson cruise.

Nelson's Dockyard, established as a naval yard in 1725 and headquarters of the British Fleet through Nelson's day and the Napoleonic Wars, was abandoned and dilapidated when the Mollihawk first pulled in. As Nicholson Yacht Charters grew and spawned other family enterprises -- a ship's chandlery, the Admiral's Inn, an annual boat show -- the dockyard was gradually restored, with architectural fidelity, to its historic place at the hub of the boating scene. During Sailing Week every slip was occupied, crews in matching shirts were busily performing maintenance and provisioning tasks, and the pubs and restaurants turned a handy trade.

Nicholson's own collection of artifacts became the foundation for the handsome museum there, and he was also instrumental in the development of the national museum in the capital, St. John's. "It's important to see what we've been through," he said, alluding not only to Antigua's 18th- and early 19th-century military and commercial heydays, but to their grim underpinning of slavery. Nelson's Dockyard was built by "the King's Negroes" under unspeakable conditions; the Admiral himself referred to English Harbour as "an infernal hole."

It would have been easy for Nicholson to adopt the Grand Old Man stance, sweep his hands across the 270-degree panorama that is the spectacular view from his terrace and take family credit for all he surveyed -- the fleet of expensive boats, the vital place that English Harbour and its environs have become -- but that's not his style. Rather, he said the Nicholsons simply came along at the right post-war moment: "We didn't restore the Dockyard, we just made it come alive. If we hadn't done it, someone else would've." And while fond recollections of events catalogued in his photographs obviously exert a strong emotional pull, he seemed to have eluded the nostalgia trap. "I like to see the progress and the betterment of the people," he said, pointing to the community of homes and businesses around Falmouth Harbour. "The only thing I mind is the loud music at night -- the boom-booms go right through your body -- but it's important to entertain the yachtsmen."

Argh, Matey! It's important to entertain the yachtsmen!

That would certainly be the battle cry heard 'round English Harbour these days.

"Last night there were 30 people dancing in the kitchen with the girls and jumping in the water at 2 a.m. -- for the third night in a row!" said Catherine Ricard, a striking Frenchwoman of a certain age who for the past 21 years has been operating Catherine's Café. It's a no-frills dockside bistro where the wine list gets more attention than the menu. While Catherine and "the girls" fortified themselves with supper before the evening rush, a French boat crew who were all on a kissy-kissy basis with Catherine fortified themselves with serve-yourself rounds of ti' punch, the French West Indian cocktail made with rhum agricole, raw sugar and lime. This night's festivities were in their preliminary fueling stages.

Antigua (pronounced Anteega, by the way) can have few boosters more vehement than Catherine, and her appreciation starts with the people. "They have a sense of fairness, honesty, gentleness -- there's no racism like you sometimes find in the French West Indies -- and it's safe," she said. "They just don't know how to cook!"

Catherine sets her seasonal clock by the international boating events held here, beginning with the Antigua Charter Yacht Show in early December, when "the harbour is covered with the most beautiful yachts in the world." The Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta ("the créme de la créme") is held right before Sailing Week, and after all that, she's off to France for a rendezvous with her "lover."

It goes without saying that the kind of people who can afford to go around the world sailing big blingy boats make an attractive clientele for someone like Catherine. "It's not a cheap or common destination, there's not really any mass tourism," she said. "I would say Antigua is elegant."

It's also a bit Euro-groovy, a stop on the Ibiza-Antibbes-Mallorca circuit, according to Adam Fitzmaurice, a manager of Abracadabra. Located near the entrance to Nelson's Dockyard, the evening hours there are dedicated to very well-executed, serious Italian cuisine -- the mouthwatering menu recitations are positively operatic -- and the late nights to serious raging, with deejays from London and New York, not to mention the odd Argentine juggling performance artist. "I kicked 50 people out at 6:30 this morning," said Fitzmaurice.

It made me happy to know that people were partying their brains out every night, but I guess I take a more voyeuristic approach these days. I like being around the action more than neck-deep in it -- and the same goes for sailing. Riding on boats is fantastic, but this is one Navy brat who can't tell port from starboard. So the next morning's sail aboard the 50-foot ketch Sentio was perfect -- a pure pleasure cruise with a blarney-filled raconteur of a captain named John Frazer from New Jersey, who took us right into the heart of the day's race.

With their boldly designed spinnakers puffed by healthy 15-knot winds, the 80- to 100-foot racing craft were a sight to behold as they skirted along the reef off the hilly south coast. Sailing downwind, they all looked sleek and powerful. Even for a neophyte, however, it was easy to distinguish the amateurs from the pros when it came time to round the marker where Frazer positioned us; the casual sailors were the ones flailing around, desperately trying to haul their deflated, soaking sails out of the water.

"We should have some action now," said Frazer eagerly. "There's four boats aiming for this little marker. They should be very close together." And right on cue, two of the boats collided with a sickening crunch of costly fiberglass.

"Totally FUBAR!" Frazer brayed. "You don't see that every day!"

Frazer picks up his guests at Curtain Bluff and Carlisle Bay, two of Antigua's finest resort hotels, which just happen to be rivalrous neighbors. "They're exact opposites," he explained to his guests, all of whom were staying at Curtain Bluff. Curtain Bluff is all-inclusive, Carlisle Bay is a la carte; Curtain Bluff is breeze-cooled and the rooms TV-free, Carlisle Bay is air-conditioned and equipped with in-room entertainment centers; Curtain Bluff is tropical-traditional, Carlisle Bay minimal-mod. "Take your pick," said Frazer.

He might also have mentioned that the owners of the two hotels could hardly be more unalike: Howard Hulford, the American who founded Curtain Bluff in 1961, is a rotund, bald, gravel-voiced octogenarian with a white moustache clamped over a big cigar -- a benign Mister Big. Gordon Campbell Gray, the Scotsman who opened Carlisle Bay in 2004, is a dashing, silver-haired middle-aged designer with vaguely aristo airs who is rapidly building a hip hotel empire based on the success of his state-of-the-art London flagship, One Aldwych. Both men enjoy the same staggering view of Montserrat's silhouette across the true-blue sea, but they see the world through wildly different lenses.

With spacious rooms and suites and comfortable furnishings (especially the oversized beds and baths), Curtain Bluff is the kind of resort anyone's parents would love -- and that's the point. "It's a family business," said Hulford, seated behind a massive desk crammed with memorabilia and aviation literature. He takes great pride in what he says is an unprecedented return rate of 70 percent, including guests who've been coming for 40 years, whose grown children now bring the grandkids. This staying power is attributed to keeping good staff (an average of 23 years, he says) and a policy of constantly inviting suggestions for improvements. There's also a fine, gentle beach and lots to do at no extra charge -- serious tennis, deep-sea fishing, and snorkeling and diving on the reef. The $2 million wine cellar is stacked with 30,000 bottles of 500 labels. If Curtain Bluff feels exactly like a Connecticut beach club gone tropical (tennis whites are de rigueur and there's a putting green next to the dining patio), well, that's just how Hulford likes it. "I lucked out," he said. "It's been a great life." He's on top of his own little piece of the world, looking back.

Gordon Campbell Gray isn't looking back -- except perhaps in derision. The man who's been called the "London hotelier to the fashion and Hollywood set" said the Caribbean "had gone off the European agenda. When you've been to the Seychelles and Maldives and Bali, and stayed at all the Amans, you can't go to a room with tropical birds on the bedspreads and matching curtains. Why would you?"

Gray is not only this man's last name, it's his favorite color, so the décor is a monochromatic medley accessorized with slate-colored river stones, Asian sliding screens and Indonesian day beds. The highly graphic close-up nature photography (shells, plants) hanging on the walls was shot on the grounds, in black-and-white, of course. While the spa could best be described as clinical, the furnishings and amenities in the rooms are so tasteful and of such high quality (including espresso machines) that there's no hint of drabness or severity; ubiquitous orchids throw dramatic splashes of purple and magenta into the mix. Then there are the gardens bursting their borders, the beach, the sea and sky. "All the color is outside," said Campbell Gray.

Despite their competitive stances, there are two points on which Hulford and Campbell Gray are in complete accord. One is the quality of their local Antiguan personnel. The other is the experience of dining at Harmony Hall, where each hotelier happily sends guests on luncheon outings. On an island whose axis of tourism run from northwest (St. John's) to southeast (English Harbour), Harmony Hall is off by itself on Antigua's eastern peninsula. The half-hour to 45-minute drive is like taking a day trip to Tuscany-by-the-Sea via the rural West Indies.

Tables are arranged al fresco under cream-colored canvas tents and umbrellas, around an 18th-century stone sugar mill (a sure sign of a steady breeze) overlooking Nonsuch Bay. The two-tired Selezione di antipasti misti (mixed appetizers for two) would have made a fine meal by itself, with double tastings of 10 delicacies (including home-smoked tuna, octopus terrine and snapper tempura), but this is no place to stop at the first course. A selection of homemade pastas and a seafood-heavy selection of main courses round out the menu, and it's the kind of place where you want to luxuriate, even if the wind blows neem blossoms onto your fazzoletti or cappellotti, and a tropical shower sends you running for a sheltered place to take your dessert, coffee and complimentary digestivo.

But all good lunches must come to an end, so it's convenient that Harmony Hall is near Half Moon Bay. On an island spoiled with good beaches, this is the one pictured in the guidebooks. When I dropped by, there were fewer than 10 people along the kilometer-long, perfectly symmetrical semicircle of sand.

My next stop was Betty's Hope, the island's first sugar estate, founded around 1650. I was able to explore the grounds in privacy, which, along with a dramatic late-afternoon sky, added to its poignance. King Sugar's ghost was a palpable presence in this partially restored ruin; the plantation could process 12 tons in a week. This monolithic mill was the ultimate economic engine for colonialism. A plaque described an African-style daub-and-wattle slave village with a population of more than 300, whose lot was not significantly improved by emancipation in 1834.

Antigua's only 10 by 13 miles, but it's just big enough and the roads just sketchy enough that you wouldn't want to be criss-crossing it all the time, especially after dark. In order to take in the attractions of St. John's and its environs, I moved from Curtain Bluff to Galley Bay, an all-inclusive resort on Five Islands Peninsula not far from the capital. I'd been hearing an awful lot of talk about Antiguans' talent in the hospitality department, but so far I'd been hosted mainly by foreigners. At Galley Bay, which is under Antiguan management, I experienced some of the nicest guest relations I've ever seen anywhere. Not only was the dining room maitre d' Mike Matthew a superstar -- it was like having Harry Belafonte himself treat you like a swell regular at the first seating -- but even behind-the-scenes personnel like house- and groundskeepers met you with sincere smiles and warm greetings.

The next day I nosed around St. John's, a remarkably clean little city with well-preserved bones of colonial-era architecture and lots to do. I stopped into the cricket ground, where South Africa was walloping the West Indies; across the street there was a kickoff concert for carnival season -- still two and a half months off, but it's never too early to crank up the pan and calypso bands.

From there it was a short walk down to Redcliffe Quay, a cluster of boutiques and small eating and drinking establishments housed in a restored dockside warehouse district. Again I found myself in a place where colonial-era architectural remains had been repurposed as vital, tasteful businesses aimed at a discerning class of client, resident and tourist alike. At C&C's Wine Bar, I quaffed a South African varietal, which is the only kind they sell -- not because either owner is from there (one is Antiguan, the other Belgian), but because they like it. Yachty English Harbour is not Antigua's sole cosmopolitan precinct.

With the end of my visit drawing near, it occurred to me that while I'd eaten very well in Antigua, I'd had hardly anything that could be called Antiguan or even Caribbean. I had allowed to go unchallenged Catherine Ricard's comment that "they just don't know how to cook." So I perked up when I heard about Home, in a residential neighborhood of St. John's.

Chef Carl Thomas grew up in the house that's now Home, then lived for many years in New York where he sold diamonds and met his wife Rita, who is German. When he retired, it was time to go back to Antigua and pursue his passion. "I saw a need for upscale Caribbean cuisine in a retro setting," said Thomas.

Ceiling fans distributed an air of general good feeling throughout the dining room, whose pastel peach walls were decorated with Afro-Caribbean masks, its seats occupied by a handsome assortment of Antiguans, Brits and North Americans. The feeling only intensified as I worked through Thomas' turtle gumbo, which would be a big hit in New Orleans, and the blackened jackfish in chili-garlic sauce. Caribbean bread pudding with whiskey sauce took the edge off all those savory flavors.

"I've tried to take old Caribbean food from our peasant, agricultural past and make it new by lightening it with an infusion from all the colonial powers that dominated this part of the world," Thomas said.

To me that sounded like more than the esthetic underpinning of a cuisine; it sounded like a metaphor for the Antigua I met, a proud place that's well able to satisfy sophisticated international appetites. But no metaphor ever tasted so damn good as that dinner.