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Photo by: Zach Stovall

Sailors recommend journeying counterclockwise round the BVI due to prevailing winds and tacking, or some such silliness. Since Boatosaurus’ big engines mean we needn’t bother about winds – and since this crew is most definitely tackless – I decide to go clockwise. This assures that we will not run into embarrassing situations on consecutive nights along our journey.

We steer southwest along the coast of Tortola, with St. John, USVI, looming dead ahead and Blondbeard succumbing to dance fever on the foredeck. Just before we cross the watery border that separates the two Virgin Islands, I turn and thread between Steele Point and Great Thatch, heading full throttle into open water, with the hills of Jost Van Dyke rising to our north like a mermaid’s come-hither hips.

Our first stop is Great Harbour. As we idle into the anchorage, a series of helpful sailboaters who see us approaching mooring buoys close to them yell out that there are “much better buoys” over yonder. We motor back and forth across the bay, continually directed to other best buoys even farther away, until I’m finally overcome with thirst. So we stop in the middle of all the sailboaters – whom I’m beginning to suspect of perfidious snobbery when it comes to powerboaters – and press a button, sending our anchor and chain rattling to the bottom and watching the sailboats sway in the wake.

Due to his extensive small-engine experience, I’ve anointed Redbeard dinghy master, though he keeps asking me not to call him that in public. As he starts the motor, the rest of us climb aboard the inflatable rubber boat. Graybeard’s the last one in and loses his balance. He falls and hits the side of the boat like it’s a trampoline, bouncing up over the heads of Blackbeard and Blondbeard and landing face first on the deck. Fortunately, he’s not hurt, as several bags filled with expensive camera gear cushion his fall.

Our inflatable safely tied to Great Harbour’s dinghy dock, we make a beeline for Foxy’s Bar.

Ultimate Caribbean Beach Bars...

As I pass a rumpled pile of clothes leaning against a stone wall, it speaks: “Foxy ain’t here!” It’s himself, chilling out after a long day spent fishing to restock his restaurant with fresh catch. I’ve known Foxy longer than I’ve known Mrs. Capt. Salt-and-Pepperbeard, and he’s a personal hero who, over the past 42 years, has taken Foxy’s from a temporary rum shack to the Caribbean’s most famous bar – all the while enjoying one of the greatest lives ever lived. In one of the first moves by the British Empire I can’t argue with, the queen recently named Foxy a member of the Order of the British Empire.

Foxy sips his bottomless glass of red wine and composes a song to immortalize (and endorse) our inebriate expedition. Not long after sunset, though, he slips away, leaving us to studiously sample his microbrew beers and rum-infused drinks like the Dread Fox, Sly Fox and Wreck on the Rocks. As predictably happens only when everyone in the crew is married or dating, we find ourselves remarkably popular with the ladies at Foxy’s. We drink and dance long into the night, until finally a gentleman, presumably a sailor, approaches to ask if we came to the Caribbean only to dance with other men’s women. After that, we dance with only his woman.

Next Captain's Log: Ode to the Painkiller...

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