New Magic In An Ancient Sea

We rounded The Bluff; islands extended in a semicircle from bow to stern on either hand, fair little islands in a shimmering sea, so closely spaced ahead there seemed no place for Barnabus to go. Soon Road Town was on the starboard beam, and the gap between Tortola and St. John became visible. The miles spun slowly astern while vistas of beach and palms slid past as though on an unwinding screen. With a warm sun, a cool trade wind, a fishing line trailing astern, harbors ahead, harbors astern, water over the side for swimming—what price now glory or gain, or the distant metropolis?

St. John, as we approached, revealed itself as a mountainous island with strongly etched valleys running down to the sea. On all sides many of these terminated in coves exactly right for the Cruzan cruiser, a new delight around each headland. We poked into them, sampling beaches and spearfishing like connoisseurs tasting rare vintages, anchoring when and as we pleased. And perhaps one of the best things about St. John is that it is likely to remain in the future much as it is today. In 1956 Laurance Rockefeller turned over to the Secretary of the Interior the deed to approximately 5,000 of the island's 12,000 acres, and it has been set aside as a national park. More area will probably be added, and, meanwhile, visitors can be accommodated in a lovely hotel at Caneel Bay, once maintained as a rest center by the Danish West India Company. There are also guesthouses in Trunk and Cruz Bay, outside the limits of the park.

Cruz Bay is a U.S. port of entry, complete with Government House, docks and a few shops. There is regular launch service to Redhook Bay in St. Thomas, and automobiles may be hired for the trip to Caneel Bay and other points.

We stayed around St. John until even Cruzan time ran out. So finally it was necessary to head out on our final passage across Pillsbury Sound, a spectacular body of water by any standards. Barnabus slid through a gap between Water Point and a small scrubby cay bearing the imposing name of Great St. James Island. The trade wind had continued moderate, and under us the water lay almost flat. Below the keel we caught glimpses of bottom, and ahead and off to starboard St. Thomas was reflected, complete to cloud cover.

St. Thomas through the centuries has been a goal of seafarers, perhaps in part because of the delights of the shore. The town of Charlotte Amalie faces the sea but runs up the mountainsides, perhaps symbolizing the sailor's duality—love of the water but need for the land, with alternating desire to escape from each. Houses cover the slopes of three low hills—Government, Berg and French—which in the old windjammer days were called Foretop, Maintop and Mizzentop. Some streets were too steep for ordinary paving and so became long flights of steps.

As early as 1755 Charlotte Amalie was declared a free port by the King of Denmark, and it soon became not only a center of legitimate trade for the West Indies but a rendezvous of privateers and, in the words of an old volume of sailing directions, "such traffic as the French, English, Dutch and Spaniards dare not carry on publicly in their own islands." It was also a favorite haunt of the Brethren of the Coast, the buccaneers. Dominating the town from a bluff is Bluebeard's Castle Hotel, where a pirate of that name is reputed to have maintained a lookout tower, and on another eminence was once the stronghold of Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard, one of the thoroughgoing rascals of history. He wore flowing whiskers done up in pigtails, through which slow-burning matches for setting off cannon were thrust; he traveled festooned with pistols, which sometimes during drinking bouts were suddenly fired in the direction of his companions; and a favorite pastime was to create a version of Hell by battening down the hatches of his vessel, igniting sulphur and seeing who could take it longest.

The pirates are gone but Charlotte Amalie remains an open and broad-minded city. It is still a free port; no customs duties are levied on most incoming merchandise and shops are stocked with the pick of the world at prices far below stateside levels. A conscious effort has been made to avoid the appearance of overt commercialism. Although St. Thomas is much more of a tourist island than St. Croix, with large modern hotels frankly oriented to the tripper and short-term visitor, it has not bartered away its charm. Much of the city remains a pleasant place to wander and dream, a blend of Old World and West Indian architecture and atmosphere.

As Barnabus sailed slowly into the harbor, our course was paralleled by a sloop from Tortola, deck piled high with produce, a goat tethered to the mainmast. The waterfront along Veterans Drive was lined by sailing craft, one of the last commercial sailing fleets in existence. Steady winds and low operating costs have managed to stave off the incursion of the diesel. Here the strong, sweet smell of rum in casks blends undisturbed with the rich aroma of coffee as cargoes are unloaded from all over the Caribbean, and dusky sailors sing as they add patches to crazy-quilt sails.

Barnabus swung to starboard when we were well into the embrace of the land, and I blinked with astonishment at the number and variety of the yachts moored in the marina at the head of Long Bay. Yacht Haven has not only become the center of the Virgin Islands charter fleet but serves as a base in the West Indies for many cruising vessels wintering far from their ice-bound home ports. Not only are all the other Virgin Islands easily accessible from St. Thomas—unlike St. Croix, which during periods of heavy winds can be virtually isolated from the rest of the group—but St. Thomas forms an ideal jumping-off place for the whole of the curving bow of the Windward and Leeward islands.

Ashore, I found much new, much remembered from visits extending back nearly 20 years, but little essentially changed. The facilities of Yacht Haven included a swimming pool flanked by restaurant and bar, with efficiency apartments behind, all recent; but at venerable Hotel 1829 the planter's punch tasted the same, and the view from Drake's Seat, a thousand feet above the sea, was just as magnificent and almost as uncluttered as on my first climb, before the beginning of the Virgin Islands boom—for such the present influx of visitors and residents must be considered, in part occasioned by the miracles of air transport, in part reflecting a changing economic and social philosophy, whereby having fun today is more important than building for tomorrow. Prom Drake's Seat, where the old sea dog is supposed to have watched his fleet pass in review, Magens Bay and a magnificent vista of the Atlantic, patterned by islands, opened to the north; on the opposite side lay Charlotte Amalie harbor with the blue Caribbean beyond. At this height the trade wind blew strong, carrying a touch of chill, but in contrast the sun seemed even hotter. All timeless qualities, which will never change. Perhaps cement and chrome hotels will appear on more hillsides, and the streets of the towns will become more crowded, but for the countable future there will remain the secluded beaches and deserted coves. Thus my final impression of the Virgin Islands remained much as my first: everywhere contrast, in color and form and character. A place to visit, to sail, to live—all on Cruzan time, of course.