Sailing the Spanish Virgin Islands

            It is said that if you like sailing you also enjoy standing in a cold shower tearing up twenty-dollar bills. Truer words have never been spoken.

            Last week I flew to Vieques, a small island less than ten miles east of Puerto Rico. Armed with neither sailing experience nor the proper waterproof duffle bag, little, naïve me smiled when the dinghy jetted ashore. Twenty minutes later I climbed up onto a Lagoon 360, in non-sailing terms, a 38-foot sailboat or catamaran. Already soaked through and through, I peeled off my wet clothes only to find that everything in my suitcase was wet as well. I let out a shallow sigh and changed into my bathing suit. At least now I was dressed properly to get wet.

            The first stop of our six-day adventure was the bioluminescent bay also fondly called Mosquito Bay.  We threw on our life vests, doused ourselves in some homemade, baby-oil based mosquito repellant, and gracefully set forth in our three-person kayak. Nothing says “how do you do” like sitting in the middle of my best friend and her brother. Nonetheless, we paddled to the middle of the Bay and listened as the tour guide described how and why the Bay “lights” up when you touch it. With childlike curiosity and excitement, we ran our hands through the water watching as our fingers transformed into neon glow-sticks. When the initial awe wore off, I looked up at the sky and the amazement returned; the deep blue sky displayed thousands of bright stars. It was one of those moments where everything appears perfect if not clandestine. And then someone yelps as a jellyfish stings them, and you realize that peace is not perpetual.

            The following day we set sail for Culebra. Up until that point, I’d felt fine, but as the boat picked up speed and the water grew choppier, I knew I was a goner. Some girls manage to vomit with class, but as we hit our seventh, eight-foot wave, I wildly crawled to the side of the boat and saw last night’s margarita hit the sea. No class, no grace. The day before my Dad joked about which side of the boat I’d throw up off of. Without hesitation, I responded, “Every side. After all, we did pay for the entire boat.” I sat by the edge of the boat, gripping until my hands throbbed. I continued to throw up, and when we reached out destination vomit stuck on the side of my face, in my hair, and on my sunglasses. I think my pride fell in the ocean somewhere between the drinks from the night before and our most massive wave, a fifteen-footer. My annoyance factor hit about an eleven on a ten-point scale.

            After washing off the vomit, I looked around at our new destination. The water was a bold aquamarine and the land around the boat looked like the landscape I’d found when I googled the Spanish Virgin Islands. My best friend compared the beaches to those of Chile while I commented on their Italian flare. Regardless of the most similar foreign influence, Culebra donned a unique flavor, one of which reminds you that you are no longer near a commercial mainland.

            The next day we headed to what was labeled the most beautiful of the Spanish Virgin Islands, Culebrita. As we approached the small island, only one other boat sat near us. The sand was white and the water was clear. Sea turtles swam around the boat. We all cracked open a beer and stared. Perhaps it was the alcohol that got to our heads, but I’m almost certain that the sheer beauty of Culebrita was all we needed to get intoxicated. Culebrita is the place you see on the Travel Channel that you are certain does not exist. It is as hard to describe as it is to consume, but it is there to be had.

            Our final destination was Fajardo. Our final sail tipped in at just over four hours and by this point, I was so anxious to get off the boat that I barely remember the scenery. In fact, the only thing I remember is the boat dock where we left our Cat. Hundreds of boats with cheeky names and elaborate designs sat resting in the dock waiting for the next group of college kids or dysfunctional families to take the helm.

            And so now I’ve returned to the mainland – Charlotte – and I’ve arrived at several conclusions; heat rash is very unbecoming, maybe I shouldn’t have drank the water, sitting on a boat in wet bottoms is not hygienic, and spending six days sailing is not a vacation, but a trip. So I believe it’s safe to assume that sailing is not for me. However, through all my mood swings during and after the trip, I know that I am kidding myself when I complain about the previous week. Sure, it wasn’t what I expected or needed, but I was lucky enough to sit in the middle of the ocean void of cell phones, computer, and cubicles. I found parts of the world that are unreachable by car or train and untouched by most humans and animals. I had the chance to be away and although I am glad to be back, there remains a certain sense of intrigue of places detached from everything else, from everyone else.