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"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
Lewis Carroll

We left St John in January only to return again in April. This trip is a special one as joining us in this adventure are my sister and brother-in law, Sharon and John. (You remember Sharon; small, yet mighty Sharon, who is mama bear to my niece Caitlin?) Sharon went to St Thomas by way of Boston. Boston coincidently is where her son (Caitlin’s brother, Devon), lives and works. So mama left a couple of days early to spend time with her boy and see the sights of Boston. Brother-in-law John flew out of Seattle on a red-eye arriving in Boston at 6AM the next morning. He then met up with Sharon at the airport and caught a direct flight out to St Thomas. Now why does Boston have a non-stop to St Thomas, but DC doesn’t? It’s not fair. I should complain to my Congressman or some other VIP in DC (a lobbyist?) and demand my right to a direct DC to St Thomas flight. At any rate, this was one long travel day for Brother John.

Our flight was the usual DC to Miami, Miami to St Thomas. We left on time and arrived on time. While in Miami, we picked up lunch at the airport to snack on during the second leg of our journey. No sooner had we picked up lunch and sat down at Gate 30 when our names were called out over the public address system. “Will Marcia Simpson and Randy Kiser please see a ticket agent at the gate!”

Oh-oh… This can’t be good. They over sold the seats. They are booting us off the plane. They found our rum mix and they think they are explosive canisters. They think they found WMD in our luggage. OMG, we’re doomed! We slink off to the desk where this nice ticket agent said, “How would you like to fly in first class?”

Well since we had already paid for a lunch to eat on the plane, we might well have turned her down, complaining of their lack of a direct flight from DC; you know, kind of a protest anti-first-class sit-in. Are you nuts? But of course we’d like to fly first class! After all, they probably heard that I am the very important President of the Seagrape Hill Landowner’s Association and want to stay on my good side. Do I have to report this on my taxes?

As always, we brought stuff along with us that the usual Caribbean traveler would find amazing. This time we brought a plant. Now who brings plants down to the Caribbean? Marcia, that’s who. It seems that there is this plant that her mother gave her about a zillion years ago. This plant has never done well in the chilly climes of Maryland, even though she has taken exemplary care of it. Mom had the original and her plant did so well that it had babies. This is an offspring of the original. In twenty years it has grown and lost so many leaves that it still looks like it is in its infancy. So Marcia, who gives her plants names like one would a pet dog, cat or guinea pig (I think this one is called Clara, or Cora, or Connie, or something) has determined the only way this sentimental plant will reach its full potential is to go to the tropics and have Josephine nurse it back to health (can it be nursed back to health if it never was healthy in the first place?). So, one of our carry-on items is a basket with a plant riding along inside of it. Yes, once again we are getting strange looks from TSA. Hey, this plant gets to ride first class. That alone should make it want to bloom! We are also bringing some back-up rugs for the porch, a new electric hand mixer, a staple gun to fix the sagging material inside our framed wall hanging, a butter knife (because our knives do a great job cutting steak but are not so hot with spreading butter on toast), and two home made shadow box frames for the African masks that can’t be seen for the busy stone backdrop that they hang against. Yes, once again we are heavy laden with more weird stuff.

When we get into St Thomas we get our car and meet up with Sharon and John at the Hook Line and Sinker Restaurant where they are dining (and drinking) while waiting for our plane to arrive. No use making them sit and wait for us at the airport when there are drinks to be had. By the time we get to Reef Madness and get settled in, John will have been up for about 38 hours. He will not need much rum to send him to an alternate reality.

While on St John, Brother John wrote a few poems to recount in real time his experiences, indeed a kind of trip report, some based on island drinking. One dealt with his first day on St John, in fact, his first time in the Caribbean –ever!

Have I mentioned that Sister Sharon is afraid of heights? The trip across the island’s hills and vales culminating in the death defying Reef Madness access road had poor little Sharon hyperventilating. She also is not used to people passing on curves or having large trucks and busses straddling the center line. Hushed and spectral voices whispered in her ear “keep left, keep left” and then gave her ghostly cackles. The Caribe gods were throwing their best island road thrills her way. Welcome to St John!

She needed some serious calming down and we all know how medicinal rum is, right? It has been a long day and we all are feeling dead on our feet, so we opt for stopping in at Island Blues for a quick drink, or two, or three (well we did skip villa happy hour, donchano) and we made the obligatory Washington Post newspaper delivery to Island Blues’ Wally. Sister Sharon forgot all about those scary drop offs that had her so verklempt. We then head over to Shipwreck Landing for dinner. I have been fantasizing for a Shipwreck fish and chips dinner since we left St John the last trip. I am never disappointed. We then head back to Reef Madness and bed.

Much to our surprise, when we arrived at Reef Madness and began unpacking our stuff, we discovered that our cedar chest, where we stow a bunch of personal tropical stuff on site so we can fly with carry-on only (when hell freezes over and pigs...well, you know...) has a jammed lock. This is the second time this has happened to us. You would think we would learn. This time some VIS (very important stuff) is locked away; stuff like shorts and tees and flip flops. Ouch! I don’t want to wear jeans and sweatshirts this entire trip. Everyone gives the key a go at this lock. Everyone is thwarted. Twisting and turning, up and down, in and out. I’ve got blisters on my fingers! Well this sucks. Time to call in the big guns. I must say, Stephen and Lewis from Sunnyrock have bailed our butts out of numerous weird situations. They’ve stood by us for lost car keys, misshapen artwork frames, leaky appliances and a whole host of things that they have no responsibility for what so ever. In short, they have been good friends. So up they come on Sunday afternoon (as if they have nothing better to do on their day off) and give the lock the old college try. Rumor has it that Lewis always wanted to be a safe cracker. He had better keep his day job because he could not get into that lock either. But what he could do (I am chagrined that I did not figure this out myself), was remove the hinges from the rear side of the chest allowing us a kind of backward access to the contents. I think there is something about living on a boat which gives a person constant practice in finding alternate paths to solving vexing issues. Since both Stephen and Lewis live on boats, they both are masters of the alternate route. And so as not to have this bite us again, we will abandon the fashionable but unreliable lock and key system that came with the chest and use the more trustworthy, good old standby hasp and padlock system. We must protect our most valued tee shirts at all costs! I am sure that every guest at Reef Madness is positively aching to get their hands on my 1981 Rolling Stones World Tour tee shirt! They have such good taste donchano.

After the requisite glucose fix for feathered sugar junkies and coffee fix for human caffeine junkies, we headed down to the Donkey Diner for a hearty breakfast. We had an unusual fare of BBQ hash (hash made with some of the meats from the Donkey Diner BBQ Night the evening before) I was a bit reticent at trying this, but it was very good.

Oh-oh, my camera stopped working. Seems as if my battery is dead. Hummm, I just charged that battery. What’s up with that? No spare, of course. And the charger? It’s safely back in Maryland. Damn, I really wanted some pictures of this family trip. There is no camera store on St John so what do I do? I head out for St Thomas, that’s what I do. I get dropped off at the downtown passenger ferry and hoof it to the touristy area one block off the Charlotte Amalie waterfront where there are several shops selling camera paraphernalia. I got a new battery, but they do not come charged – so I need a charger. They have no charger in stock. Geez! They said that their other shop down at the Subbase has one. That would take a cab – no thanks. There is another place along the way that also sells camera stuff. Now if I can only find it. Yes, I found it and they do have “universal chargers” what ever that is. So I get one, race back to the ferry terminal just in time to catch the next ferry back. When I get on the boat and call in for my transportation home I find my ride is already waiting for me in Cruz Bay... at the Beach Bar! I don’t think anything has ever gone quite this smoothly in many a trip across Pillsbury Sound, and that Pain Killer waiting for me dockside really hit the spot.

John and Sharon have never snorkeled before. Sharon begged off this day in order to laze around the villa and perhaps take a dip in the pool, but John was game for his virgin snorkel adventure here in the Virgins, so off we went.

Have I mentioned that John has funny feet, weird feet, disagreeable feet? His feet were never meant for fins. His snorkel equipment doesn’t fit either and he is getting blisters on his toes. Not an auspicious introduction to the sport. After swapping equipment, he does better, except for his funny, weird, disagreeable feet, for which there is no hope, and he is finally able to see the underwater world that fascinates us Caribbean water babies so. John has truly felt the agony and the ecstasy. He is painfully hooked.

A roller coaster ride in your rented four-by
Exposes picture postcards at every curve.
On Maho Beach, lapping waves deliver
The necessary astonishing shade of blue.
Add a sprinkle of finest white grained sand,
A squeeze of sun-screen and you're off
To pursue elusive fins
Of every imaginable hue.

Tonight we will sup at the Donkey Diner. It is Seafood Night with a guest chef. We are sitting in the back when these guys show up to present the chef with their catch of the day, this catch being the biggest Caribbean lobsters we have ever seen. Those guys were huge and very active (the lobsters, not their captors). Perhaps they had an inkling as to what was in store for them… Imagine, swimming around the warm, blue Caribbean waters, hanging with the other lobster dudes, slapping them on the back, giving them high fives, ah…a high one. The world is your oyster, so to speak. Then someone yanks you from your cushy life, and without a by your leave, first sticks you in an unbreathable atmosphere and then plops you into scalding hot water, so some clawless, homosapien, bipedal primate can have you for dinner. And a fine dinner he was too!

Upon arriving back at the villa, John noticed something hiding in the shadows near the roofline. It was the size of a bat. In fact, at first we thought it was a bat. Then we decided it was a gigantic insect. Then we decided it was a mammoth moth. We named it Mothra. Why, on St John, do all nature’s oddities and weirdlings come out so huge? Is it the climate? Something in the soil? Perhaps mutant enzymes leaking into the water supply? At any rate, it is enough to give a lesser being nightmares.

This morning we are pulling out the heavy artillery – the waffle maker. Yes this cannon will blast out 600 waffles a second with little or no kick back. OK, it makes two largish waffles every few minutes, but damn this puppy is one heavy piece of equipment. Hoisting it out of the cupboard takes the place of a 15 minute workout. I am exhausted and will need a great deal of bacon and waffle sustenance to fully recover!

Today we will do some grocery shopping for an in house dinner and perhaps Sharon and John might want to cruise Cruz Bay for trinkets to take back home. John has indicated he is ready to buy some surf socks to protect his funny, weird, disagreeable feet. So off we go.

We picked up some nice looking pork loin chops and salad fixings at the Market Place. Then we headed on down to St John Spice to pick up some rub seasonings. John and Sharon got to met Ruth and Vicki at the shop. They found an adorable lamp, very Caribbean, that was made in a small town a few miles outside of Seattle, Washington. Seemed a bit redundant to buy one on St John only to fly it back to where it was made. It is an interesting assault on the senses walking into St John Spice. The first thing that hits you is that heady, magnificent aroma of fine coffee and spice. It is odd to realize that neither Ruth nor Vicki detects that aroma anymore. How could they not? I suppose that would be a good thing if one worked in a sewage or rendering plant, but it is a bit sad for someone in a spice shop. Or maybe not. Perhaps one gets sick of even good smells if they are intense enough. Still, I love that first hit of fragrance when I walk through the door. St John Spice is also a visual spectacle with all sorts of colorful and eclectic stuff plugged into its niches and recesses. It is one of my favorite places to visit.

Back at the villa, John takes a practice snorkel run in the pool to test out his new socks and see if his gear works better in a controlled environment. He seems to be doing better. Rum drinks for happy hour! Yep, the blender still works well. We placed Rumsfeld in his new retirement position above the TV cabinet and he seems to be content there. He can look out the window at the pool deck during happy hour and still check out the scene inside the villa great room. John and Sharon, who have never been ones for fruity rum drinks, have fallen into that tropical glamour that bewitches people into loving these fruity concoctions; in the islands it seems like the right thing to do.

Seagrape Hill again, the lights of Coral Bay Dancing among the sailboats rocking at anchor.
A shallow draught of the evening trades
Sifts your hair, seeking lost sailors,
While the moon shepherds cloud shadows
Over Hurricane Hole, tarnishing
The rippled silver of the sea.

Tuesday we have to go into the city (Cruz Bay) and get some (gulp) bank stuff done. We also need to go to the hardware store as somehow our hammer drill grew feet and walked out of the storeroom and made its escape down Seagrape Hill. We have some pictures to hang and that drill is the only way to get them on a stone wall. I liked that drill. I bonded with that drill. That drill and I had an understanding. I miss that drill. Where ever you are little drill, I hope you are happy and well taken care of. Now realize that this drill was not the top of the line, super macho, bionicly enhanced, speed demon of a drill. No just your ordinary lay-about, basic (kinda like me) drill. I am sure that there will be something I can find at the hardware store that will work just as well (See if I ever bond with a tool again. They’ll just run off with any Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes through the door - not that I’m bitter….!).

So while we are off to the city, Sharon is getting a massage from Arlene, and John is soaking up rays poolside.

As expected, the banking experience was a disaster. Trying to get a name change on the Seagrape Hill account is like trying to get past US Customs when your name is Fred bin Ladin. In fact, it’s probably harder. Don’t they know I’m the President of SHLOA? Oh, so that’s exactly why they’re giving me a hard time… Something about our motto… Our hardware store encounter was not much more productive. They only carry one type of concrete blasting drill at St John Hardware. This particular drill is super macho, bionicly enhanced and faster than greased whale snot. It also cost a pile of money - money that I don’t happen to have at the moment. So those pictures will have to wait to get hung until our next trip down. Have I mentioned that I miss my little drill?

Back at the ranch, ah, villa, Sharon has been rubbed, kneaded and pampered until she has become a wet noodle. Arlene doesn’t just lightly massage tense muscles. She goes down deep into the tissue and works out all the trouble spots. For a small woman, Arlene must have the hands of a stevedore. I wonder how she would be at arm wrestling. I, for one, would not challenge her. I have my pride after all.

For the afternoon, we are all going to Honeymoon Beach. Sun, sand, and snorkel, that’s the game plan for the rest of the day. I wonder how John's feet will fare?

In all the years we’ve been coming to St. John there has remained one elusive wish that has remained unfulfilled. From our very first visit in the mid-90’s we’ve look across the waters from the North Shore and looked at that big island in the distance. “I want to go to Jost!”.

Oh, we’ve planned on going – numerous times. But this amazing phenomenon know as “villa gravity” (even “island gravity”) has kept us ashore for lo these many years. There was one other thing. We had a trip definitely planned last fall – etched in stone! Our friends Ruth and Ron were providing the impetus for getting us off our butts and onto the water. They chartered a trip with us aboard the good ship Palma Bella with Capt. John Brandi and we were scheduled to depart early in the morning on October 15th. Just one problem… Hurricane Omar chose that day to approach the Virgin Islands and Capt. John, being the wise old salt that he is, advised against heading across the Sir Francis Drake Channel in the face of an approaching storm. Heck, it was a day like that when the S.S. Minnow washed ashore on Gilligan’s Island! And I refused to entertain that scenario unless we could recruit the Professor for this trip! And he was off-island so… Our dreams of Jost remained just dreams…

So we stepped back, re-planned, and re-booked. We’d shoot for April when Sharon & John could join us. It would be a surprise for them as we were midway between both of their birthdays and besides, we’re great believers in “the more the merrier”. Ruth and Ron made the arrangements and here we were: A beautiful Wednesday morning in Cruz Bay, at the National Park Dock, the six of us, and Capt. Brandi with his boat and a big smile to greet us. And after filling out the paperwork for our arrival in the BVI’s we were off: Destination Jost.

But first, a picturesque voyage along the North Shore of St. John, where everything that’s looked so beautiful to us for so many years from the beaches, looks even better from the water…

So after cruising the North Shore, Captain Brandi sets our course for Tortola where he will present our passports and paperwork to the local customs officials. It just seems so silly that you have to check in with the government when you travel between these little islands. If Christopher Columbus had encountered this bureaucracy he might have turned around on the spot and most of us would still be living in Europe! Thankfully, our Captain handled it all effortlessly and soon we docked in Soper’s Hole where some of us immediately found a barstool at Pusser’s. Ahhhh… Bloody Mary, breakfast of champions…

Soper’s Hole was a mere pit stop. We had other places to go, people to see, drinks to do! So after perusing a couple of dockside shops, we pulled out of harbor, went around the western tip of the island and set our sights on one of the most beautiful little beaches on Tortola: Smuggler’s Cove. Marcia and I discovered Smuggler’s Cove on our first trip to the islands about 15 years ago. At that time the beach was totally undeveloped except for the old hotel with the beat up Lincoln Continental convertible sitting in the middle of the open-air and run-down lobby. The car belonged to Bob, who was also the owner of the hotel, which then served as a drink and snack bar for those of us who were lucky enough to stumble upon this scenic little treasure. Back in the 1950’s Bob drove the Queen of England in a parade when she visited this British territory. Behind the bar was a picture of Bob and the Queen. We were lucky to spend a bit of time with Bob who thoroughly entertained us with tales of Tortola from long ago…

Alas, Bob is gone, and the old Lincoln is now a crumpled heap in the underbrush. But nature abhors a vacuum and that law of nature is true even in the Caribbean. After wading in from the Palma Bella we climbed ashore at the latest snack bar/watering hole on the Cove and this time there’s a working blender! A blender that’s powered off of a battery in a car parked behind the bar… Within minutes we were all enjoying the delights of a 300 horsepower Painkiller! We settled in the lawn chairs just behind the beach and soaked in the sights and the reggae infused sounds of our new favorite place. We could have sat there all day…

But Captain Brandi assured us there were even better times (and stronger Painkillers) ahead. So we pulled each other from our chairs, waded slowly back to the Palma Bella, and waved goodbye to Smuggler’s Cove. Was it Happy Hour yet? Well, it was almost noon… Soon come…

Our beloved Rumsfeld’s twin brother has been located and is expected to arrive in our Maryland home within the next week. We believe he was part of a witness protection program involving a rum-running operation off the coast of Rhode Island.

He’s been released and is seeking safe harbor in the Virgin Islands. We know just the place. He’ll be joining us on our next trip down, 10 days from today (but who’s counting?)

Smuggler’s Cove faded into the distance and once more we were in the open waters, islands to the left of us, islands to the right of us. Except for the villas dotting the hillsides, this is exactly the way Christopher Columbus saw it. Except CC didn’t have any Painkillers!

Ahhh…this is the life… Good friends, a good boat, a good captain, and good booze…

Captain Brandi pulled up to a small island just off the eastern edge of Jost (might as well do this slowly since we’d been waiting 15 years to make it there anyway). This was Sandy Cay, big brother to Sandy Spit, which lay a little further off in the distance. Aside from being simply drop-dead gorgeous, Sandy Cay is know for one other thing: It’s the site where the opening scene of Gilligan’s Island was filmed - The scene with the wrecked S.S. Minnow on the beach and that now timeless tune about “seven stranded castaways”. So after dropping anchor, the seven of us (uh-oh, seven of us?) stepped down the ladder into the blue Caribbean and waded onto shore. We ran over the island like kids on a playground, a big sandy playground. Two of us (that would be Marcia and me) started singing the GI Theme, and that morphed into something Bob Marleyish (rum makes anything possible), and then we just danced, right there on the beach. One of those magical goofy moments that comes around once in a while. This time it was fueled by the simple exhilaration of a spontaneous moment in paradise, and rum.

Speaking of rum, aren’t there more Painkillers just ahead? Time to pull up anchor…

Captain Brandi steered us slowly around the south shore of Jost from east to west. First into Little Harbor. Hmmm… There’s a few bars there. Then into Great Harbor… Whoa – a whole lot more bars! And finally we made the turn into White Bay - the motherload of watering holes! I think it was at this point that Captain Brandi regaled us with this bit of trivia: Jost van Dyke has a population of 200, and there are 30 bars on-island. No wonder we’ve seen so many boaters headed in the direction of Jost for all these years. There’s rum at the end of that rainbow!

Once again we anchored just off the beach and waded ashore. The beach at White Bay is gorgeous. Oh what am I saying… ALL the beaches in the Virgin Islands are gorgeous! But this one was a bit different. Perhaps it was the sound of blenders in the background.

OK. For 15 years we’ve sampled Painkillers on St. John. But right in front of us is the bar where, according to legend, the original Painkiller was born. The Soggy Dollar Bar was bustling on a Wednesday afternoon. The cups were lined up on the bar and it looked somewhat like a rum-infused assembly line. What would Henry Ford think? Above the bar was a message board. A message board that announced to a lucky few that someone had bought them a drink, sort of a pay-it-forward rum lottery. And so it was that while standing at the bar waiting for our Painkillers, we glanced up and saw the name of “St. John Ruth” – our Ruth – as the recipient of a “Kiss a Rooster”??? What? I’m so confused… Obviously I hadn’t had enough rum…

So, the day was getting silly and we were getting hungry and we settled onto a picnic table at another of the 30 bars, One Love, and had some yummy sandwiches. From there we waddled back into the water and splashed our way back to the Palma Bella. Hours had passed and somehow it seemed that time had stood still. That is the true definition of a fine afternoon. And so it was, and it was time to go… Back across the Sir Francis Drake Channel to St. John…

We finally did it. Jost had been ours and Jost was good to us. Now when can we go back?

“We come on the Sloop John B
My grandfather and me…”
Ok, we actually did not come on the Sloop John B, but rather in a rented 4-wheel drive vehicle and it wasn’t with my grandfather, but with my sister and brother in-law. Why is it that every time I see a “Sloop Jones” sign, that old Sloop John B song gets stuck in my head and I have a devil of a time chasing it out? I’ve been known to go to some extreme measures to get those pesky little songs (like some TV jingles) out of my head. Sometimes I can use a “song chaser” which is a song that is not as irritating as the stuck song, but it easily gets stuck in my head. Basically I replace one song with another. Yeah, we all have song chasers don’t we? One of my favorite song chasers (because it works really well) is “Put the Lime in the Coconut (and drink it all up)”. The whole problem with song chasers is that you frequently have to go to a second song chaser to get the first one out and a third to get the second one out and so it goes… Occasionally song chasers don’t work. I once drank a full bottle of rum just to try and force a really bad Bobby Goldsboro song out of my head. The hangover was worth it.

So, we ended up at Sloop Jones with credit cards at the ready. Sister Sharon does like to shop and shop she did. She walked into Sloop Jones and her eyes glazed over and she went into a kind of blissful trance which turned to a state of childlike wonder and finally escalated into a great white shark feeding frenzy. She was burning holes in that credit card. Brother John fared only slightly better. The problem was that everything they tried on looked smashing. Which ones to chose; which ones to keep? The obvious solution, keep them all! So Sharon and John in their altruistic fashion single handedly kept St John’s economy going for at least several weeks during that one visit. Sharon and John, Sloop Jones and St John, thank you for your generosity.

There’s a very funny lady who blogs from Tortola about life in the BVI’s and is a regular contributor to the Caribbean Hurricane Network website, which is a place I go for tropical weather information during hurricane season. She calls herself “Dear Miss Mermaid”. This always amusing mermaid is in a bit of a fix right now. Two weeks ago she was rushed to the hospital in Roadtown, and as of today she’s still there, and the doctors still don’t know what’s wrong with her. Amazingly, she continues to blog from her hospital bed, and through her writings you can get a real sense of the highs and lows that one goes through when confronted with a completely unexpected situation such as this one – when your whole world turns upside down and you’re right in the middle of it.

After two weeks, and no improvement, it’s apparent that this is really serious stuff. So we’re stepping back a bit from our usual silliness here on this blog and asking you to take a look at hers. Oh, even now it’s still silly at times, but it’s also a gripping real life story of someone whom we’ve felt we’ve come to know. And she’s someone who we can definitely say is a true friend of the islands, and of all the creatures and people in the islands that make them the kind of place that many of us love so much…

She’s written a book called “Hurricanes and Hangovers”, which is a series of short stories about life in the islands. It’s very amusing and could be the perfect companion on your next trip there. Heck, it could make you think you are there even if you’re just hanging out on your porch on one of these hot summer days.

Here are a few links to places where you can read her musings and to a site that’s just been set up to assist her with her hospital bills. Just buying one of her books would be a great help right now.

Check her out, and after reading her blog, see if you can resist wanting to read her book, or simply making a contribution to help her with her hospital care. We hope you will join us in doing what we can to help her through this. She’s one of a kind…

Reef Madness...The Sequel