I like Jimi Hendrix, but enough is enough. As the final chords of All Along the Watchtower pierced the night air and vanished into the mangroves, I waved goodnight to the rest of the crew and went below. That started an exodus. Ten minutes later the bay was as completely, spookily silent as it had been that afternoon before we steamed in, dropped anchor, popped open some cold ones, fired up the grill, and cranked up the stereo.
This was hardly good anchorage etiquette, and almost anywhere else in the Caribbean wed have been targeted by a deputation of angry cruisers if wed made this much of a racket (not that it would have occurred to us to do so). But here, on the south side of Vieques, we had an anchorage that could have held a hundred or more boats virtually to ourselves; apart from a solitary catamaran tucked into a cove half a mile from us, the only sign of life in Ensenada Honda was a Navy watchtower peeking above the trees to the east.
Id never been in a Caribbean anchorage this empty. I suppose it was hardly surprising. If you asked someone to name all the Caribbean islands, Vieques and its smaller sister, Culebra, would probably be the last ones mentioned. I knew exactly two things about Vieques: one, that it is home to two bioluminescent bays, whatever that is, and two, that it and Culebra had spent the best part of several decades having the bejazus bombed out of them by the U.S. Navy. Hostilities against Culebras beaches ceased back in 1974, but it was only in 2003 that the Department of Defense finally stopped using the eastern end of Vieques for target practice. Thats recent enough for the stigma to remain in many peoples minds.
One Saturday in January, we slipped out of the CYOA Yacht Charters base in Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas, and pointed the bows of our immaculately prepared 40-foot Fountaine Pajot catamaran, Sarah Sue, due west for the 20-mile passage to Culebra. We were an all-male crew that illustrated the dictionary definition of motley; the desire to get out of frozen Massachusetts for a week was one common denominator. Another was a willingness to wager a guaranteed good time (i.e., the BVI and USVI) against the unknown (Culebra and Vieques). None of us had been there before, which also meant none of us had preconceptions about what wed find.
I liked Culebra on sight. Its the quintessential Caribbean island: big enough to be interesting, small enough to be easily explored by land or from a boat. Not only that, but according to the books it and its surrounding archipelago of 20-something small islets and cays are home to some superb coral reefs. Speaking of which, you need to pay attention to the winding channel that takes you through the large, sharp-looking reef that protects the approach to Ensenada Honda (another one). At the head of this big natural harbor is Dewey, a kind of Caribbean Sleepy Hollow, where there were moorings free for the taking amidst a small armada of heavy-duty cruising boats.
We spent that night inside the reef at the mouth of Ensenada Honda, as sweet and still a night as any Ive spent on the hook. The dozen or so boats around us were all far enough away for comfort, and the evening quiet was broken only by the odd burst of laughter drifting across the water. The five of us reclined on Sarah Sues generous trampoline, drinks in hand, staring up at the glimmering veil of the Milky Way and talking about nothing in particular as the stresses of work and life in general slowly evaporated. Already, we were inhaling the essence of the islands. I was starting to realize why more than a few of the cruising boats wed seen anchored off Dewey appeared to have been there for some considerable time.
The 10-mile sail to Vieques ought by rights to have been a fast reach, but the wind was light enough for the cats twin Yanmars to be called into service. We could have gone to the main port of Isabel Segundo, on the north coast, but thats a lee shore and the only interesting-looking anchorages are still out of bounds, thanks to the unexploded ordnance littering the seabed and hillsides. A small wars worth of depleted-uranium ammunition was expended around the islands eastern tip, and the islanders point to Viequess above-average cancer rate as evidence. The clean-up process is underway, but it will take many years. In the meantime, two anchorages that Don Street describes as among the top 10 in the Caribbean are still off-limits, as we found when we poked our bows into Baha Salina del Sur. A gorgeous crescent of white-sand beach, a bottom on which every clump of weed could be discerned 20 feet downit looked like paradise, but beware the serpent. According to the Yachtsmans Guide to the Virgin Islands, the Navy advises against anchoring here; according to the very terse message that was communicated to us via loudhailer from the beach (White catamaran! White catamaran!), the civilian ordnance-clearing contractors strongly discourage it.
Its an ill wind, etc. The mere fact that nearly 80 percent of Vieques was under Navy control for so many years kept the island both out of the public eye and out of the rapacious clutches of the developers who are running wild over so much of the rest of the Caribbean. When the Navy left, it turned its property over to the Fish & Wildlife Service, with the result that most of the island is now a wildlife refuge. Even now, five years after the bombing stopped, tourist traffic is more of a trickle than a flood. The package-tour, cruise-ship masses are thankfully absent, and so are the sailboat-cruising masses. At Esperanza, where we spent an afternoon snorkeling and restocking the larder, we were one of three sailboats in the town anchorage. Next door, the aptly named Sun Bay held a couple more cruising boats lying quietly to their anchors. The town was almost a caricature of itself, in the nicest possible way; palm trees fringed one side of the road running along the beachfront, and a handful of surf shops, bars, and guest houses lined the other. Iguanas scurried between the trees and people sat quietly nursing beers on shady porches, looking out over the sea to the hard flat line of the horizon. A snack-bar owner hunched over a chessboard with his sole customer. Here, a high-rise means two floors. I imagine Tortola or Key West would have been like this a half-century ago.