The Last Monday of 2004: A sailing ship called Arabella rocked gently at anchor just outside the Red Hook marina, nearly ready for a British Virgin Islands cruise.
My wife, Juju, and I were the last passengers to show up. We arrived just before the 4 p.m. boarding deadline.
As crew member Al Keddy steered the ship’s tender close to the Arabella, Juju looked up and said, “It’s a sailboat.” When we made our plans, the word “cruise” had registered with her, but not what type. No, this wouldn’t be some kind of Carnival, Princess or Royal Caribbean. Think small.
The Arabella lounge held a compact bar, a flat-screen TV, handsome settees along the walls, tables in the middle–everything done in dark, polished wood and black leather. We were aboard the largest and handsomest vessel in the harbor–three tall masts, a gleaming white cabin, 160 feet of pure yachting luxury.
The Arabella, Keddy told us, once belonged to actress Kelly McGillis. After a fire destroyed almost all of it except the hull, Don Glassie, head of the Atlantic Stars Collection, a hotel and charter sailing group, bought the remains.
Glassie, a hotelier and yachtsman out of Newport, R.I. had 40 feet added to the middle section, refurbished it all–inside and out–and in 2001 launched Arabella into service as part of his Classic Newport Cruises fleet. The Arabella plies the waters of Chesapeake Bay in spring and fall, New England in the summer and the Caribbean in winter.
Below decks, we found 20 minuscule cabins. Ours came with a double bed perched atop a chest-of-drawers base. A cute satellite television peeked from a corner above the bed, just aft of the porthole. A tiny sink took up one corner. We found a toilet and a showerhead shoehorned into a fiberglass enclosure.
Still, despite its jail cell dimensions, our cabin offered a bit of luxury–green marble around the sink, brass fittings, handsome brown-striped bedspreads, individual climate control and Dorothy Prentice toiletries.
Up top again, we noted a large, round whirlpool tub on the rear deck, a gas grill bolted to the portside rail and a handful of cordial fellow passengers.
We felt as if a rich yachtsman had invited us to a weeklong party at sea, even if it did cost us nearly $2,000 per person to get in.
The British Virgins would provide the scenic backdrop and some ports of call but the schedule demanded nothing more than swimming, snorkeling, kayaking, sunbathing, eating, drinking and partying–lots of partying.
There would be 21 of us before the week was through, Capt. Sandy Sunderland said. Two people had been delayed in New York, looking for lost luggage.
Packed to the last bunk, the Arabella could hold 40 passengers. With only about half that number on board, our party would be just the right size.
Arabella sailed off to St. John, still in the U.S. Virgin Islands, dropping anchor in Cruz Bay. Passengers gathered on the rear deck for Sunderland’s first “captain’s call.”
Sandy Sunderland is a sandy sort of guy–sandy hair, sandy beard, gritty sense of humor.
“On past trips, we got a lot of complaints about the water not draining in the shower,” Sunderland noted. “That’s because the boat’s probably tipped away from the drain. So try not to shower when we’re sailing.”
The topic of meals came up. Breakfast and most lunches would be served onboard, buffet-style. All but one dinner ashore–Thursday night’s–were included in the fare.
Finally, he cautioned, “We want no illegal drugs on the boat, and no bad people on the boat at any time.”
A dinnertime cookout on the rear deck made it clear there weren’t any bad people on the cruise.
We had Lynn and Michael from Miami; Bill and Marsha from Bernardsville, N.J.; Diana from Avon, Conn.; Marianne from North Granby, Conn.; Judi and Dave from Atlanta; Mike from Falmouth, Mass.; Mike’s friend Judi from Seattle; Nicholle and Justin from Toluca Lake, Calif.; Justin’s parents, Sonja and Bob from St. Louis; their daughter, Ashley, a freshman at Mt. Holyoke; Phil and Jenny, newlyweds from Baltimore; Bob and Juju from Chicago.
Keddy and first mate Max Keohane took groups of us ashore in the tender, maneuvering between Cruz Bay ferries and fishing boats tethered on the docks. Most people hit the shops, looking for island wear.
I was pleasantly surprised to see that the United States National Park Service headquarters–St. John is two-thirds national park–now occupies a big and brand-new frame structure at the Cruz Bay docks. When I last visited St. John in 1998, the visitor center had been crammed into a one-room cabin.
The Arabella folks could shop or we could bar hop, but at 10 p.m., the clerks at the Mongoose Junction Mall boutiques locked their doors. So we headed for the saloons.
Woody’s was jammed and as noisy and grubby as I remembered it from ’98. Juju and I took a pass. In Duffy’s Love Shack, newlyweds Jenny and Phil were nuzzling at the bar, ignoring the ear-popping reggae. We left the lovebirds alone, and took the next tender back to the ship.
The last Tuesday of 2004: On the way to Tortola’s West End and the British Virgin Islands customs office, Marianne, a graphics designer, revealed that this was her third cruise on the Arabella. The other two were summer and fall runs up the eastern seaboard.
“We’d sail in New England,” she said. “We’d stop at some islands, go around cute little towns. A couple of the men with us didn’t like it. `We came to sail, not to shop,’ they said.”
Marianne’s friend Diana was another Arabella repeater. “I love to sail like this,” she said dreamily. “Maybe I’m a water baby. It’s so relaxing. You can feel the ocean under you.”
The ship proceeded to an anchorage near Norman Island, reportedly the setting for Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island.”
We snorkeled there for awhile, but the waves pummeled us relentlessly, so we moved on to more protected waters near the famous Norman Island caves at Treasure Point. That’s where pirates of centuries past supposedly hid their ill-gotten booty.
Our treasures appeared under the water–bright coral, angel fish, parrot fish, goat fish, blue tang, French grunt . . . wildlife of many shapes and colors. Maybe I misidentified a few, but they were fun to watch. And looking up, we had a water-level view of the Norman Island cliffs, covered with vegetation and, somebody said, scores of, goats.
We were off to a good start.
By late afternoon, the delayed ones had arrived–Ben Cohen and his 14-year-old daughter, Aretha, from Williston, Vt., just outside Burlington. Using some kind of nautical networking, Capt. Sandy had managed to retrieve their luggage and get them to the boat.
“How did you do that?” Ben asked him.
“I could tell ya, but then I’d have to kill ya,” Sandy replied.
Everyone wanted to get acquainted with the newcomers. We already knew that our own professions ranged from lawyering to construction work to graphic design–all pretty good walks of life.
We also knew that a couple of West Coast celebrities were in our midst: Nicholle Tom, best known for her role as the teenage daughter on “The Nanny” TV series, and her friend Justin Willman, a popular Los Angeles-area magician who bills himself as “Justin Kredible (the name as published has been corrected in this text).”
So, in various conversations, people asked about Ben’s line of work. He said he was a founder and president of Business Leaders for Sensible Priorities, an organization that urges cuts in wasteful defense spending in favor of an emphasis on education and other domestic social concerns.
Inevitably, someone wanted to know what he did before entering into a career of non-profit advocacy.
“I was in the ice cream business,” he said.
It took a while for the news to make its way around the ship: Ben + Vermont + ice cream = Ben from Ben & Jerry’s! He and Jerry Greenfield sold the business to Unilever in 2000, but Ben still was an icon to ice cream lovers. He obliged fans by autographing a few Ben & Jerry’s coupons, but soon enough, Ben and Aretha became just a regular pair of Arabella good people.
We anchored in an area off Norman Island called the Bight. Other boats bobbed all around us, their lights twinkling on tall masts against a star-filled sky. Romantic, no?
At the noisy, festive Pirates Bight restaurant and bar, we dined at a long table on basic fare–ribs or fish or chicken. Phil, the newlywed lawyer, ordered some wine for his end of the room. Ben bought a round for everybody. Conversation? Great fun, a lot of laughs, but forgettable.
Afterward, the tender met us at the dock and ferried a few of us to the Willy T., an even more clamorous floating restaurant and saloon atop the deck of an old trading ship.
Some patrons looked as if they’d fail a hard-nosed ID inspection, let alone own a yacht. A few had faces redder than sunburn, and at least a couple of guys staggered around chatting up women, while recorded calypso blared.
One kid approached Nicholle and said, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look just like that chick on `The Nanny?'”
“Well, I am . . . ” Nicholle began.
“No, really,” he slurred. “You look jush like her. You gotta check out that show.”
Nicholle smiled and shrugged. The tender had arrived, Max at the helm, and it was time to return to Arabella.
The last Wednesday of 2004: Our anchor dropped in Manchioneel Bay, so we could spend an afternoon on and around Cooper Island. Choppy waves ruled out snorkeling at nearby Cistern Rocks, but a few passengers took kayaks in that direction, while the rest of us chose to enjoy the powdery strand outside the Cooper Island Beach Club.
We had a lazy few hours of swimming, sunning, hanging out at the beach bar and browsing through the Seagrape Boutique.
All too soon, the tender appeared for the 3 p.m. pickup. Back on board, we all found ways to entertain ourselves. A few passengers read novels. Some watched TV. Ben and Aretha played with little board games they had brought along. Nothing too rowdy, but . . .
Typical shipboard entertainment: Roll a quarter down your nose onto the rear deck cocktail table and get it to bounce, on one hop, into a tumbler. This kept everyone riveted for nearly an hour with a lot of whooping involved. Justin, the magician, bounced the quarter into the glass on his first try. He acknowledged the raucous cheering with a little bow.
Who says you need chorus lines and standup comics during a winter cruise?
That night, we all went out for a privately catered dinner under a tent on Peter Island. We never caught a glimpse of the famously posh Peter Island Resort, but had a good time nonetheless.
Last Thursday of 2004: After breakfast, a gentle sail brought us to Spanish Town on Virgin Gorda. We found bag lunches lined up along the bar with our names brightly emblazoned on each with vari-colored felt tip pens–members of the crew showing off their artistic flair.
A jitney took us to a hilltop near The Baths. From there we descended a steep path to the most astounding beach in the Caribbean. The Baths at Virgin Gorda is a magnificent shoreline littered with boulders the size of small houses, laced with rocky tunnels and battered, today, by ferocious surf.
Juju and I wiggled along a trail that follows narrow openings in the rocks. It led to a series of lagoons and eventually to another beach, where people lolled, storing up energy for the trip back.
Eventually, we made our way up the hill to grab a drink and a dip in the pool at the Top of the Baths Restaurant. It was a busy place, and the reason became obvious.
From the terrace we had a dazzling view of the whole Baths panorama: those massive boulders, white-sand beach and turquoise water. Many of us had come to the British Virgins for just this sort of moment, and we savored it as long as we could.
Back on the Arabella at 3:45, we set sail for the Bitter End Yacht Club. The ride took the rest of the afternoon and early evening. A ring of passengers in bathing suits enjoyed sunset from the hot tub, batting around a couple of rubber duckies. Ben and Aretha played a rousing game of tiddly-winks.
Another sublime day near the end of a far too turbulent year.
From the Bitter End Yacht Club that night, most of us took a water taxi to the adjoining Saba Rock resort, where we commandeered a table and had another boisterous dinner. Various tropical rum concoctions flowed freely and so did a few lively political discussions.
Anyway, that warmed up people. Later, back on the Arabella’s rear deck, Al Keddy turned up the stereo and people began to dance–on the deck and up on the cocktail table. A few women flung themselves around the poles that hold up the roof. Bill from New Jersey joined the pole dancers, and people began stuffing dollar bills into his belt.
Capt. Sandy looked in and yelled, “Hey, Bill, you should be givin’ ’em change.”
It was that kind of night, the eve of New Year’s Eve, the time when it occurred to us we’d be greeting 2005 in a very special way.
Last day–Friday–of 2004: Following lunch, we took the tender to the bustling Bitter End Yacht Club in its daytime mode.
A pirate hangout in the old days, the northeasterly tip of Virgin Gorda is dominated by the Bitter End, a supermarket of water sports opportunities, boat docks and moorings–with boutiques, bars and restaurants to while away the idle moments.
Offshore, the resort offered small sailboats for hire, and a few hardy Arabella salts took one for a spin.
Juju and I relaxed with a rum punch at the English Pub, took a dip in the water at the beach outside the main building and watched the helicopters flying in and out of Necker Island, Sir Richard Branson’s private retreat next door. Branson, of course, owns Virgin Records and Virgin Atlantic Airways, so he can afford that level of exclusivity.
We returned to the ship in late afternoon. It was time to dress up for the big New Year’s Eve Party. In the Virgin Islands, that means a clean pair of shorts and maybe a Hawaiian shirt for the men, some kind of sarong or wrap for the women, although no one was enforcing any kind of dress code.
On the Clubhouse terrace at Bitter End Yacht Club, we sat at another long table and ordered from the menu. Nothing extraordinary about the food–prime rib, chicken or fish–except that it took a long time to arrive.
We still managed to finish dinner well before 12 o’clock and repair to another terrace jammed with what appeared to be every single person in the Caribbean.
A reggae/calypso trio played, their sounds augmented by one of those keyboards that can imitate entire trumpet sections. We cheered the Atlantic Time midnight and the Eastern Time midnight with more drinks, dancing, kissing and a little fireworks display.
When Central Time midnight rolled around (2 a.m. locally), most of us passengers were back on the Arabella, where the party continued as it had the night before–maybe with a touch more pole-dancing and louder music from the stereo.
Sonja, Bob, Justin, Ashley and Nicholle from St. Louis and Toluca Lake held a quiet family reunion in the hot tub, while the rest of us partied toward Mountain Time.
First day–Saturday–of 2005: Nearly everyone got up at 7:30 a.m., because rough seas nearly hurled us out of bed. We were on our way to the island of Jost Van Dyke for the final stop of the cruise, and the trip wasn’t pretty.
The Arabella tilted wildly. Lounge chairs toppled; a tub full of dirty dishes crashed to the floor. Those who dared to walk around had to grab something every inch of the way. Juju gamely battled seasickness, and I remembered her surprise on Monday when she saw what kind of ship we were about to board.
“Now, this is sailing,” one of the men enthused. “Oh, right,” a woman groaned.
Still, it proved to be an imperfect storm. Calm resumed by lunchtime, not that anyone had an appetite, and we took the launch to Jost Van Dyke’s White Bay beach for a final rendezvous with soft British Virgin Island sand.
At the Soggy Dollar Bar, Bill spent his soggy dollars buying Painkillers and other rum drinks for his Arabella pals, and we toasted the new year once again.
That evening, we sailed (gently) around to Great Harbour (the name as published has been corrected in this text) at the other side of Jost Van Dyke and had another of our long-table dinners at Foxy’s Tamarind Bar–open air, buffet style and somewhat lethargic in mood. Foxy’s own New Years Eve party had been even more crowded, noisier and wilder than the one at the Bitter End, a few regulars reported.
Where do all those people come from?
Sonja and Justin talked earnestly, mother to son at one end of the table. Shoppers in the group looked a bit lost, because Foxy’s boutique people took the night off. We shuffled through the buffet line, feeling bummed that the week’s party soon had to end.
During our last night on the Arabella, we packed our bags and tried to celebrate a little more. Justin treated us to some magic–chewing up a playing card that somehow reappeared in the lavatory, reading minds, pulling stuff out of thin air and earning more raucous cheers. He truly is just incredible.
That might sum up the entire week–hard to believe. Where did it all go? Smooth sailing and rough sailing, 21 people engaged in long-running conversations, building friendships, baking in the sun, floating in clear water, sampling the British Virgins in the highest part of the high season.
Parting was sad, in a way, but I had the feeling that more than one passenger’s New Year’s resolution would involve cruising on the Arabella again.
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IF YOU GO
CRUISE DETAILS
Although the Arabella is a sailing ship, passengers do not assist with rigging or any other chores. Activities include kayaking, swimming and snorkeling.
The ship lacks storage for scuba gear, but divers may arrange for pickups and equipment from outfitters. The two used most frequently by the Arabella are Sunchaser Scuba Ltd. at the Bitter End Yacht Club, 800-932-4286; www.sunchaserscuba.com and Dive Tortola, 800-353-3419; www.divetortola.com. Both charge slightly less than $100 for a two-tank trip, including gear, and offer a wide variety of packages and dive sites.
Weekly winter Arabella cruises similar to the one described in the main story run from Feb. 6 through May 14, leaving and returning to the Red Hook harbor of St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands.
Two exceptions: Cruises Feb. 20-26 and March 20-26 combine visits to the Puerto Rican islands of Culebra and Vieques with stops at Jost Van Dyke and Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and St. Thomas and St. John in the U.S. Virgins. Those cruises depart from and arrive in Charlotte Amalie, downtown St. Thomas.
Itineraries may vary slightly because of restaurant availability, weather conditions and other factors.
Rates are $2,195 per person for a queen-size bed, $1,995 p.p. for a double, $1,595 p.p. for upper and lower bunks and $1,295 p.p. for a very small double. The cost of a single supplement may vary, depending on cabin availability. Prices do not include port fees of $50 per person, but do include all but one dinner ashore. Alcoholic beverages are extra. The company suggests adding 10-15 percent of the cruise rate, per person, for crewmember gratuities.
For more information contact Classic Cruises of Newport, Christie’s Landing, Newport RI 02840; 800-395-1343; www.cruisearabella.com.
— Robert Cross
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E-mail Robert Cross: bcross@tribune.com
