Uncle Walker and Auntie Nancy: The couple who put Anegada on the map

One thing is for sure: Anegada is a place quite different from the rest of the BVI and you either “get it” or you don’t. There does not seem to be any half-way on this. — Walker Mangum

Indeed, if you’ve been to Anegada, you know how different — and to some people, special — this low-lying, coral island is, with its wild landscape and gorgeous blue-green water. And if you’ve sailed here, you know how difficult it is to navigate to and around Anegada, with the 18-mile-long Horseshoe Reef and numerous shipwrecks that dot the waters around the island. 

Aerial view of Anegada, taken from Walker and Nancy’s airplane.

In fact, navigating to Anegada is so difficult that in the 1980s, BVI charter companies forbid their customers from sailing to Anegada unless they had a local captain who was “certified” to sail here. But that changed in the 1990’s, thanks in no small part to a sailor, pilot, and rocket scientist named Walker Mangum and his wife, Nancy.

The Forbidden Island

In the late 1980s Walker was racing sailboats in the U.S., when he and a friend decided to go sailing for fun (not racing). They wanted to go to a place where they could just “chill and have a good time on the boat,” and the British Virgin Islands seemed to fit the bill. The BVI had already earned a reputation as a sailor’s paradise, but with the charter industry here in its infancy, it was still a hidden gem, lacking the crowds of tourists that other Caribbean islands had already succumbed to.

So Walker, his (now deceased) wife Gail, and two friends chartered a bareboat for a week with a company based out of Nanny Cay marina. The company had an ad in Sail magazine that said, “Sail to the Forbidden Island.” They were the only company at the time allowing bareboat captains to sail on their own to Anegada. Of course, this “Forbidden Island” intrigued Walker, so around day four of their charter, they made their way up from Virgin Gorda to Setting Point – the anchorage at Anegada. But their navigation was off, and they ended up on the west side of the island. Finally, they made it to the anchorage and came ashore.

Walker says that he knew from the moment he stepped on shore at Anegada that this was the place for him. He candidly describes himself as obsessive-compulsive, and as he puts it, “Anegada became one of my obsessions.”

Walker and Nancy with Lowell Wheatley, who opened the Anegada Reef Hotel. Lowell — who was famous for his grilled lobster and “Anegada smoodies” — was one of their first friends on the island.

One of the charms of Anegada for many people is that there’s still a good portion of the island’s roads that are unpaved. But back in the late 1980s, there were no paved roads at all — just sand. And back then, the only real hotels on the island were Anegada Reef and Neptune’s Treasure. The now-famous Big Bamboo restaurant and bar was just a tiny shack, with an ice chest on the sand and a charcoal grill. In fact, on that first visit to Anegada, Walker and his friends went diving at Loblolly Bay. And when they came in from diving, there was a young guy cooking chicken on the little grill that was Big Bamboo. That young guy was Glen Levons, son of the owner, Aubrey — and he was 14 years old at the time. 

In 1988, Walker’s wife, Gail, passed away from breast cancer, so he didn’t make it to Anegada that year. But in 1989, he brought his new wife, Nancy, to the island, and they started visiting every year. For the first 12 years or so, they chartered a yacht and stayed on the boat. That is, until his friend Randy, who managed Neptune’s Treasure, said one day, “Walkah, you know you got the most expensive room on the island!” As Walker says, Randy had a “curious way of telling you things.” But Walker got it, so he and Nancy ditched the charter and began staying ashore on Anegada. And the more time they spent there, the more living on Anegada became Walker’s dream. 

Uncharted Waters

Around 1990 — just when portable GPS units were coming out — the Moorings charter company had a promotional offer — if you paid for your charter by March, they would give you a GPS unit. None of the charter boats had GPS units at that time, so Walker jumped on the offer and got a GPS unit with his Moorings charter. When they sailed up to Anegada, he decided to record the positions of the channel markers. Walker took the GPS positions and called them out to Nancy, who meticulously recorded them in a notebook.

This was also the time when the worldwide web was just coming into existence. So Walker took his Anegada experience and data and created a web page showing how to navigate to Anegada, both with and without GPS. In fact, Walker’s “Navigating to Anegada” webpage still exists, and people still use it! 

The approach to Anegada, from Walker’s “Navigating to Anegada” website.

About six months after the webpage was created, Walker got a call from a guy in England who asked Walker if he was confident in the positions he’d recorded for the channel markers at Anegada. By this time, Walker had returned to Anegada with another GPS unit (this one from his Piper Saratoga airplane) and checked the positions of the channel markers against his initial recordings — and they matched up perfectly. So Walker told him confidently, “Yes. These are the correct positions.” 

The guy explained that he’d been to Anegada in the 1960s on an RMS Steamer, and they had taken some soundings around Anegada, but only a few. He told Walker, “You know, at this time, all the charts that are published on the waters around Anegada are based on soundings taken before the U.S. Civil War. The last sounding data from Anegada is from the 1850s!” Walker was floored.

One of his passions when he first started visiting Anegada was windsurfing (in 1992, Walker won the North American sailboard racing championship), and he’d windsurfed here every year, so he knew the waters all around the west end of the island. And one of the things he’d observed during his windsurfing trips here was that the seafloor changes. Sand moves. He knew those 1850s soundings were worthless. So he decided to do his own mapping.

He created a grid of points around Anegada, and he and Nancy went out on a boat with a portable depth sounder, his portable GPS, and a handheld radio. They navigated around the island, and at each point on the grid — with Walker in the water and Nancy in the boat — Walker would call out the point number and the depth. They spent about four days mapping the waters around Anegada, from Government Dock to the west end — as he puts it, “All the places where people have any business going.” Then they took all this data and compiled a chart of Anegada, which Walker put on his website. 

He also sent the sounding data to his friend in England, and that data — compiled by Walker and Nancy — is now on the British Admiralty chart. And on the back of the chart, Walker Mangum is credited.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, a busy night in the harbor at Anegada was a half-dozen boats — all cruising boats and liveaboards, no charters. But after Walker’s “Navigating to Anegada” webpage was published in 1990, charter boats began coming in. When they were there, Walker — being both observant and inquisitive — would talk to the newcomers, and almost without fail, they would tell him, “Yeah, the charter company gave us this,” and show him a printed copy of his webpage on navigating to Anegada. Walker and Nancy had literally put Anegada on the map!

Anegadians took notice of the increased activity, and more and more businesses started opening up to accommodate the newfound popularity. Walker and Nancy became good friends with the people of Anegada and are considered family by many of them. In fact, most people on Anegada refer to them as “Uncle Walker” and “Auntie Nancy” — nicknames that started with the Creques.  

What the hell is a cow wreck?

In 1995, Jimmy Hodge — a friend of theirs who was a well-known charter captain from Sea Cows Bay, Tortola — came to visit Walker and Nancy at their home in Houston. During his visit, Jimmy told Walker, “Walkah, you got to go to Cow Wreck.” Walker said, “Cow Wreck — what the hell is that?” “It’s on the north side, and it’s new, and you’ll really like it!” So when Walker and Nancy went down to Anegada in the summer of 1996, they visited Cow Wreck for the first time. And that started their friendship with the Creque family.

Ten years later, in 2006, they were visiting Anegada in the spring, and Bell, the matriarch of the Creque family, told Walker, “Walkah, you got to come back in July.” Walker asked, “Why July?” “Because I’m having a family reunion, and you’re my family.” Walker and Nancy happily obliged, and it was at that reunion that the names “Uncle Walker” and “Auntie Nancy” really took hold. 

Anegada’s Hidden Treasure

Walker told me that when he was growing up, his grandparents’ house had a galvanized roof, and he always wanted to live in a house like theirs, with a galvanized roof. Well, in 2007, Walker’s dream came true. He and Nancy built a cute little yellow cottage with a galvanized roof on Cow Wreck Beach in Anegada, surrounded by some of their dearest friends. It’s one of my favorite places in the world, and a fitting home for the couple — Uncle Walker and Auntie Nancy — who put Anegada on the map. 

Hidden Treasure in 2007, shortly after Walker and Nancy moved in.
Hurricane Irma BVI

My Irma Story – Part 2

Today marks 114 days since Hurricane Irma wrecked the British Virgin Islands, and 107 days since I evacuated.

I’ve put off posting “Part 2” of my Irma story because it was difficult. Not difficult to write – that part was done within a couple of weeks after the hurricane – but difficult to revisit my photos and re-live the days immediately post-Irma. Every day I reflect on how incredibly fortunate I’ve been through this ordeal. But even though it’s been almost four months, many of the people there are still living with no power, no running water, and no light at the end of the tunnel.

I hope that through this post, people who know and love the BVI and its people are reminded that there’s still a long way to go before the BVI is back to “normal.”

Thursday – day one post-Irma: I woke up with the sun and went straight to Tamarind Club to find everyone there ok, but the hotel had been almost completely destroyed. There were entire trees in the pool. I think about a dozen people rode out the first half of the storm at Tamarind, and during the eye, four more people, who lived across the street, joined them because the storm had already taken the roofs to their houses.

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The Tamarind Club lost huge sections of roof and nearly all its windows.

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This is what happens when the roof blows off during a Cat 5+ hurricane.

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This is what happens when the doors and windows blow out during a Cat 5+ hurricane.

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During the walk down, the first thing I noticed – other than the unobstructed view of the bay and valley – was that power poles weren’t just “down,” they didn’t exist any more. The poles were in splinters and the metal and ceramic parts where the lines attach were shattered, twisted piles of metal strewn everywhere. This wouldn’t be a matter of repairing the equipment – it would all have to be replaced. It would be like installing electricity on the island for the very first time.

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Restoring power won’t be just a matter of putting the poles back up. Everything will have to be replaced.

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As the day went on, more and more people showed up and the “coconut telegraph” was spreading the word about who had been verified safe and who still had not been heard from. I walked down to the beach with my friend Richard Currie. The destruction was incomprehensible. Entire buildings were gone – turned into piles of rubbish or collapsed concrete. Naomi’s bar and restaurant at Josiah’s Bay beach was completely gone. The upstairs of Big D’s building on the beach – the part that he lived in – was gone. The downstairs, which was the beach bar, was partially collapsed. The container that had been Steve’s surf school had been tumbled and blown some 100 ft or more from where it once stood, and pieces of surfboards were strewn along the entire road down to the beach.

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The back of Big D’s place, and what used to be Naomi’s Beach Bar.

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Currie checking out the rubble that used to be Naomi’s.

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The top floor of Big D’s place is completely gone, and the bottom floor is mostly collapsed.

What used to be a sandy path from the parking lot to the beach was now a raging river. There was debris all over the salt pond. Currie spotted what he thought was a first aid kit in the bush by the road. He ventured into goodness knows what kind of water, sludge, and debris to retrieve it. It turned out to be an oxygen kit that had belonged to the Josiah’s Bay lifeguards. A good thing to have salvaged.

We stopped at our friend Chris’ apartment to decompress for a minute. He had vodka and red bull – luxuries at this point. Currie found a coconut and cracked it open, and I had the best coconut water I’ve ever tasted.

Chris’ place had fairly minor damage, so he could house a couple of people, and several others left Tamarind to go back to their own houses or stay with other family or friends. Tamarind had only two and a half rooms that were still livable, so every bit of strain that could be taken from their housing situation was good. But the following day, a friend of Tamarind brought in a family of four who had been on their catamaran in East End during the storm. During the first half, the wind was so strong it was lifting their boat off the water, so when the eye came, they ran to shelter on a car barge nearby. They spent the second half of the storm in the mechanical room of the barge while it was tossed around in the storm surge and wind. It finally settled in the mangroves, and they spent the night there. But it was not a safe location, so the Tamarind family took them in. There were now between eight and 10 people staying in two and a half rooms at Tamarind.

On our way back from the beach, Currie and I passed a piece of construction equipment that was going down the main roads and pushing the debris to the sides, making just enough room for a car to pass. I’m sure they were doing this for emergency personnel and electricity equipment to get through. But it was a small sign of hope that there would be a recovery.

Hurricane Irma BVI

In the foreground is a friend’s house, or what’s left of it. The front is completely blown off. (My apartment is in the background, up on the hillside.)

Friday – day two post-Irma: Hurricane Jose was headed our way. I spent a good amount of time prepping my apartment for the likelihood that it would flood. I didn’t completely trust that our roof could withstand another storm, and even if it did, I would have major roof leaks. So I moved everything that I could to places higher than 12” off the floor. I stashed things in the dishwasher, oven (it’s gas and the gas wasn’t connected anyway), washer, and dryer. The top drawers of my dressers and the top shelves of my closets were bursting at the seams with clothes and linens.

As I cleaned and prepared for Jose, I also got a better perspective on the damage that my apartment had endured. Fortunately, it was minimal. But there were signs of the hurricane all around: chips of cement that had fallen from the ceiling while the apartment was violently shaking; shreds of plant matter on the walls opposite the front doors and front windows, blown in through the cracks and crevices that opened up as the doors and windows strained against the hurricane-force winds; chunks of cement missing from the patio, where the boards that had been screwed into the exterior walls to cover the windows were violently ripped off (and carried to who-knows-where).

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I’m glad I didn’t see the projectile that took this chunk out of the patio wall!

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This door was boarded up and reinforced, but the board and reinforcements were gone by the time the eye came. You can see where the concrete screws were ripped out of the wall, and all the abrasions from debris hitting the wall.

Hurricane Irma BVI

The wall on the left side of my laundry room is partially open, made of decorative concrete blocks. I had covered it with thick plastic, but that was no match for the wind and rain that we endured during Irma. It’s difficult to tell, but the water here is ankle-deep.

When I had done as much as I possibly could at my place, I went to one of the first-floor apartments and prepped it, in case my place got too scary. It had lost a couple of windows in the back of the apartment, but overall, it was in pretty good shape. I cleaned up thousands of shards of glass in the living room – a result of the French doors being blown out (my landlord had boarded them up again immediately after Irma), and I got one of the bathrooms ready to serve as a secondary safe haven for the kitties and me. I was not taking any chances.

After a long day of cleaning and prepping, I was fortunate to be able to walk down to Tamarind and have a simple dinner with friends, and then take a shower. It was super-quick, but it was a real shower, which was a luxury that very few people had, with no electricity, and more importantly, no running water.

Saturday – day three post-Irma: This was a day for good news. First, Jose took a more northward turn than predicted and missed us. There was a brief period of gusty winds, but we didn’t get even a drop of rain. Prayer answered.

Then, early in the morning, I saw a relief helicopter buzz Josiah’s Bay several times, presumably looking for a place to land. The sight of outside help sent me into a mini-breakdown. That was the first, but it wouldn’t be the only breakdown that day. Later, I was able to get wifi access and FaceTime with my sister and with my boyfriend. Communication up to this point had only been via basic text messages, so actually hearing their voices and seeing their faces seemed almost magical after everything that had happened in the past four days.

Hurricane Irma BVI

Despite the massive destruction, the water at Josiah’s Bay was as gorgeous as ever after the storm.

Next, my landlord was able to reconnect the cooking gas, and my stove and oven have a manual pilot light, so I could do basic cooking at home. I had taken everything significant out of my fridge and freezer on the morning of the storm and put it in coolers with frozen water bottles and ice packs. But the weather was so hot that the ice was going quickly, even in what are supposed to be “good” coolers. So I had taken all of the cold stuff to Tamarind for them to use before it spoiled. Still, it was a relief to know that I could make coffee and maybe toast in the morning, or heat up soup or pasta at night.

Sunday – day four post-Irma: In a disaster situation, typical, daily activities take exponentially longer than normal, as evidenced by the trip that my friend Cat and I made to the main grocery store, near town. The drive that normally takes less than 15 minutes took nearly an hour. It was my first opportunity to see how other parts of the island fared. Irma spared no one and nothing.

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Cars dotted the landscape like discarded Matchbox toys.

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A lone palm tree stands next to a foundation where a house once stood.

We arrived at 9 am to find out that they wouldn’t be opening until noon. But we had a good place in line, so we decided to stick it out and stood in line for over three hours in the blazing sun. We soon realized that neither of us had brought water. After an hour or so, Cat saw a lady who was working in the store come out and bring a few bottles of water to some people. Cat gave her $8 and asked her to bring all the water that would buy us. It took a while, but the lady finally returned with 8 bottles of water. Cat and I each took one, and she gave the remaining 6 to people standing around us in line. I can’t believe I didn’t even take water with me. I always have water with me. Evidence that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Besides the threat of dehydration, operation “grocery shopping” was relatively smooth. Police officers showed up just before noon to manage the line and control who got in – 25 people at a time. They should have come sooner, though, because arguments were brewing about who was in line where, and a few minor brawls broke out. But inside the store, everything was orderly and surprisingly fast (faster than on a normal day!). We bought $575 worth of water, cleaning supplies, canned foods, and pet food.

But the best part of the day came while were standing in line, trying not to get fried in the blazing sun. When there’s no power and very little traffic, the island is amazingly quiet. We heard a bit of a rumble and looked around to find the source. Flying overhead we saw a beacon of hope – two Osprey helicopters. It’s hard to describe, but when you’re in what is quite literally a disaster zone, with little or no contact with the outside world, and no way to leave, there’s a feeling of desperation and survival. Even if you’re unhurt and have access to food, water and basic necessities, it feels like you’re barely surviving, and you live just day-to-day or even hour-to-hour. These helicopters were concrete evidence that the outside world knew what had happened and that help was on the way. And even though I was in a better situation than most people on the island, the feeling of joy and relief when I saw those helicopters was incredible.

Hurricane Irma BVI

Two UK military helicopters over Road Town, four days after Hurricane Irma.

Monday – day five post-Irma: The focus this day was cleaning. Cat and her boyfriend were staying at her parents’ house. It was spared any major damage, but the master bedroom windows had blown open during the storm, and everything was covered in mud, dirt, and leaves. I spent two hours sweeping dirt and leaves from the ceiling and walls with a broom and barely made a dent. But it was a start.

In the afternoon, my friend Geoff and I went about halfway across the island, to Nanny Cay Marina, to find one of the vet techs who had managed to save files from the veterinary office. She was offering to complete export paperwork for people trying to get off the island with their pets, and I wanted to be prepared in case I decided to (or it became necessary for me to) leave. The devastation at Nanny Cay was another unbelievable sight – boats blown onto land and piled on top of one another, or capsized and half-sunk in the water. That’s the thing about this level of destruction. Just when you think you’ve seen the worst possible devastation, you come across something even more inconceivable.

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The drive through town and halfway across the island showed us the extent of the destruction.

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More boats washed up on land.

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This used to be “The Cab,” our favorite place in town to hang out.

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All the buildings on the main road through town were destroyed or severely damaged.

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I don’t think any of the buildings in town made it through the storm with their windows intact.

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One of the ferries, washed ashore at the ferry dock.

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There are no words to describe what it’s like to see this in person.

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Hurricane Irma put yacht Catsy front-and-center at Nanny Cay Marina. She now sits on top of the guard house at the entrance.

Hurricane Irma Nanny Cay Boats

Boats toppled like dominos at Nanny Cay Marina.

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Nanny Cay Marina. Boats capsized and partially submerged, and chunks of the dock floating in the water.

Hurricane Irma BVI

There are more boats underwater at Nanny Cay Marina than there are still floating (or even partially floating).

On the way back to Tamarind, I stopped by my apartment to find that my landlord had gotten a generator to run the water pump. On the day following the storm, he had opened one of the cistern covers, so water was plentiful. The problem was, the cistern is below the bottom level of the apartment, and I live on the top level. Carrying 5 gallon buckets of water up 50+ stairs is challenging to say the least! (Fun fact: A gallon of water weighs 8.34 pounds, so 5 gallons weighs 41.7 pounds!) And the 15 gallons of drinking water and 8 gallons of cistern water that I had stockpiled were going fast. (Another fun fact: It takes nearly 5 gallons of water to flush a standard toilet. Unfortunately, I just learned this fact immediately after the storm.)

Now, I could fill my water jugs and buckets directly from the sink and tub – no more carrying water up the stairs! And more importantly, the prospect of being able to properly shower, wash dishes, flush the toilet, or even just wash my hands – even if it was only for a few hours a day – was bliss.

Tuesday – day six post-Irma: It was a day filled with futility. It started with a mission to do much-needed laundry at a laundromat we heard was open. But when Cat and I got there, we were greeted by a sign on the door: “Sorry, no water.” Disheartened, we decided to go back to Tamarind and sort out the best way to get the most critical laundry washed by hand. It was most likely going to involve a bucket and a rock. We were truly back in the frontier days.

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The laundromat was just down the street from our local East End grocery store, which had found a clever (and apparently effective) way to prevent looting.

(Disclaimer: My family does not yet know about the next series of events. If they had known at the time, they would have surely killed me.)

While we were strategizing on what to wash, how and where to wash it, and where to dry everything, three people showed up from the US Embassy in Barbados, looking for American citizens who wanted to evacuate. I jumped up and down with my hand in the air yelling “Me! Me! Me” like a five-year-old volunteering to be a taste tester at a candy factory. They were happy to have found some people (a few others were interested) because they needed to fill the evacuation plane. But when I told them that I had three cats that needed to come with me, my hopes were ruined. The guy in charge told me that the pilot might allow one cat, but there was no way he would allow three, or even two. I told him that I didn’t think I could leave without my kitties. He understood, but I only had until about 3:30 pm to decide. As we continued to talk, I discovered that he knows one of my very best friends from high school, who is a Director with the US CDC (Centers for Disease Control) in Barbados. Small world.

I ultimately decided not to leave without my kitties.

But amazingly, another opportunity came that afternoon, in the form of an email from my friend Jeff, who is the chief pilot with Fly BVI charter company. The company was doing an evacuation flight to San Juan at 3:30 pm, and he confirmed that I could bring all three kitties with me. Now, with a real, viable option to evacuate with my cats, I had to make the hardest decision I had ever made – to leave my home, my friends, and my island family. But I finally decided it was best to leave.

I had 30 minutes to go to my apartment, get the kitties rounded up, and pack what I needed to bring with me. A friend, Miguel, went to the airport with me to get on the same flight.

We staked out a place directly in front of the door that was being used to enter the “security” line. We told two people – whose job seemed to be to coordinate and control the chaos – which flight we were there for. (The airport was inundated with people, but many of them just showed up with no firm plans, hoping to get on any flight they could.) Miguel and I waited, but never heard our flight called. I even spotted a Fly BVI pilot and enthusiastically told him that we were on his flight. He told me that, no, we weren’t, and showed me his manifest to prove it. I said, ok, we must be on a flight with one of the other pilots, because we spoke directly to the chief pilot and ensured we were on the list. He shrugged his shoulders and said he didn’t know.

Shortly after 3:30 pm, our estimated departure time, another Fly BVI employee (Albert) came by and asked if we were ok. We told him that we were supposed to be on a Fly BVI flight at 3:30. Had it arrived? What was going on? He said, “Are you kidding? That flight just left. We couldn’t find you guys so we took another group who needed a flight.” Despair hit again.

Albert managed to catch the pilot we had seen earlier and found out that there was one seat available on the flight. Miguel only had a small backpack, whereas I had a suitcase, an overstuffed backpack, and three cats. So I told Miguel to go. Albert promised to get me on a flight the next day. There was hope again.

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After the original evacuation flight fell through, my friend Cindy picked me up at the airport and brought me back to Tamarind Club

I went home, unpacked, and repacked, making better decisions about what was important and what was not, and got my house more properly sorted for me to be away for an unknown period of time (windows locked, blinds down, things put away). I didn’t sleep more than two hours that night.

Wednesday – day seven post-Irma: I woke up to cat vomit. My oldest cat, Trouble, is 14 years old, diabetic, and has inflammatory bowel disease. So waking up to cat vomit wasn’t that unusual. He also gets dehydrated easily, and I had been giving him subcutaneous fluids on and off for several days since the storm. But his blood sugar had been normal, so that was a good sign. The vomit was not a good sign. It was pure blood. I gave him 200 cc of fluids, he ate a few bites of food, and I checked his blood sugar. It was good. I decided that I needed to get him to a vet once we were in San Juan.

I was traveling with a carry-on suitcase so full that the zipper was about to pop, a backpack weighing about 35 pounds, two cats in soft “under-the-seat” airline approved carriers, and one cat in a larger, hard-sided carrier. It was nearly impossible for one person to carry it all.

The family of four that had come to Tamarind after the storm was leaving on my flight, and the daughter was indispensable in helping me manage everything. She carried my cat Coco, in the larger, hard-sided carrier, through the entire process – from Tamarind Club to the airport, onto the plane, off the plane, through customs in San Juan, and onto the shuttle to the hotel.

It was hot as hades that day, and the plane – a small, 9-passenger Cessna 404 – was like an oven until we reached altitude several miles out of Tortola and the AC started to sort of kick in. I was sitting in the back row, just in front of where the kitties were stowed, and I could see them panting frantically. Trouble was still and quiet, but he looked at me when I spoke or jostled his carrier.

We were fortunate to go through a special immigration section of the San Juan airport that was processing most of the evacuation flights. They were set up to handle the non-US citizens – some of whom didn’t have the proper visas to enter – without turning them away unless absolutely necessary. Only three of the nine people on my flight were American citizens, and some of the non-citizens had to go through additional paperwork and processing, but we all got through eventually. The immigration and customs officials didn’t even ask for paperwork for the cats. So much for that frantic trip to Nanny Cay on Monday. (Granted, the BVI is recognized by the US as a rabies-free country, so the paperwork was frivolous anyway.)

A shuttle took everyone to the main terminal or to their hotel. As soon as I arrived at the hotel (the only one in San Juan that was accepting pets) and got into my room, I put out the kitties’ food and water. Trouble was very weak and having trouble standing, so I immediately hooked up his fluids and gave him 100 cc. I had brought a few small cans of tuna (his favorite food), and I offered one to him. He lapped up some of the liquid on the top. I checked his blood sugar. It was a little low, but not dangerous. He was becoming more responsive and moving around a bit. Good signs.

But within an hour, he had passed away.

As I sat on the bed – a refugee who had just left her home and friends, in a San Juan hotel with no flight back to the mainland, with her dead kitty on her lap – I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with my life. I cried, for a multitude of reasons – for not being able to get Trouble to the vet in time, for the realization that I could have not made it through the storm, for my friends and island family who weren’t able to evacuate and were still there dealing with the horrible aftermath, and for the uncertainty that we would all face as we tried to pick up the pieces and move on.

But after a few minutes, I pulled myself together…

Because I am stronger, mentally and emotionally, than I ever though I could be. The first week post-Irma was hard. The following weeks and months were hard in different ways, and the coming weeks and months will be harder. But nothing will compare to what my friends and island family who stayed in the BVI have gone through, and for many of them, will continue to go through for months or even years.

I am fortunate beyond words. I did not lose anything – not one single thing – in this horrific storm, unlike countless others in the BVI and across the Caribbean.

I have a wonderful, supportive family and a boyfriend who helps me see the light when all I can focus on is how long the damn tunnel is. My friends – both in the States and in the BVI – would do literally anything for me. I have my two kitties – Coco and Albert – and I was able to have Trouble cremated, so I can ultimately take his ashes back to the BVI and give him a proper burial. I have my health. My clients have been incredibly understanding, and I know my business will continue to thrive and grow.

Hurricane Irma BVI

Al Kitty, asleep on the hotel bed in Puerto Rico.

I am living a life that I love. It’s not always palm trees and boat drinks. In fact, it is noticeably void of those things right now. But it is my life. And everything that has happened, and will happen, just makes me stronger. If this is my karma, then I’m ok with that.


My Irma Story – Part 1

“Two hits so far. Karma’s a bitch. Lol”

That’s the email I received from my ex on Tuesday night, September 5, barely 12 hours before Hurricane Irma began to terrorize the BVI.

(I can only guess by “two hits” that he was referring to the tropical storm that had flooded much of the BVI a month earlier, along with the upcoming storm, Irma.)


But Irma is nothing to laugh about. It devastated the entire British Virgin Islands chain, not to mention St. Barths, Barbuda, Saint Martin/Sint Maarten, Anguilla, St. Thomas and St. John, before moving towards the Bahamas and the US. I don’t know the total death count from the storm, but estimates in the BVI range from 5 to 15. Regardless, any loss of life is tragic. Not “lol.”

I’m one of the most fortunate people in the BVI. My apartment building is intact, and while there is massive cleanup to be done both inside and out, I didn’t have any major damage. Four out of the six apartments in my building lost windows. The majority of homes on the island lost their roofs. And even of those that didn’t lose their roofs, most lost some or all of their windows, meaning hurricane force winds and rain destroyed the house from the inside out. My house has a roof and all its windows. I’m in the 1 percent.

I prepared for this storm for two days prior, stocking up on water, canned foods, and cat supplies. I took everything I could off the counters, coffee table, dressers, etc. My apartment looked like it was vacant of tenants. My landlord boarded up all of the windows on the front of the building (facing north/northeast), including one side of my glass French doors. (He couldn’t board up both sides, because those doors are the only entry into my apartment.) I’m glad he did.

Hurricane Irma

My windows were boarded up. I had put away all of my “decorative” items and moved as much stuff off the floor as I could.

I had told my parents a few days prior to Irma that I wasn’t in fear for my life with the upcoming storm. My fear was of the unknown – will the roof hold, will the doors blow in, will debris smash through the windows…

Knowing that winds would be 150 mph or more, I made mental plans of what I would do if any of these things happened. My bedroom closets are the built-in king (not framed into the house) so they have a ceiling structure that’s below the ceiling of the apartment. That would be the first choice of places to go if I didn’t feel safe. Next would be the master bathroom, since it has just a relatively small window over the shower, and I would take my patio cushions, which are as thick as sofa cushions, to protect the kitties and me. I was prepared, logistically and mentally, I thought.

Wednesday, September 6 – Irma hits: The wind began to build during the morning hours, and the electric company cut power to the entire BVI around 6 am, hoping to avoid unnecessary damage to the electrical grid. I messaged my family and my boyfriend, Ari, around 8 am. “The wind is crazy. I can’t imagine how it will be in 5 hours” (when the eye was projected to pass over), “but everything is ok.” I read, dozed a little, and watched through one of the bedroom windows (that wasn’t boarded up) while everything I could see was violently destroyed. Trees fell like dominos and pieces of debris flew all around.

By 10:30 am, cell service was getting spotty, but I could still send messages to let family and Ari know that I was ok. I ventured into the living room to check on the rest of the house. My front doors (the glass French doors) – which have steel rods that come out of the top and bottom and latch into the cement door frame, along with a deadbolt holding them together – were groaning and straining against the wind. By 11:30 am, the storm had gotten unbelievably loud, with no breaks in the wind, rain, or noise. By this point, every tree within sight had its top snapped off, and the remnants looked like they had been corkscrewed. There was hardly any vegetation left anywhere. It looked like a bomb had gone off in Josiah’s Bay.

Hurricane Irma

Josiah’s Bay, taken during the eye of the storm. Most of the houses you see in this picture weren’t visible before the storm due to the lush vegetation and trees in the valley.

By around noon, the apartment was shaking like there was a never-ending earthquake. I never thought I would doubt my apartment building’s ability to remain standing, but that fear was running through my mind. I knew we were getting near the eye, because my ears were popping like crazy from the change in pressure. I ventured out of the bedroom to check on the rest of the house. In the living room, the board and reinforcement on the one French door was gone, and both doors were bending and flexing so much that water, leaves and dirt were rushing and blowing in. I tried to move furniture out of the path of the water and debris, but it was already soaked. I doubted the doors would hold much longer.

The situation was similar in the kitchen, with the kitchen windows over the sink flexing and bending so much that a huge waterfall was pouring in. It was so strong, the water didn’t even flow into the sink below – it came right through the windows, down the edge of the countertop and onto the floor. I threw as many towels as I could around the window and on the floor, but they were immediately soaked. I arranged one towel so that the water running from it would pour into a two gallon pot on the floor, but the pot filled and overflowed right away.

Hurricane Irma

Just before the eye hit, mortar started raining down from the ceiling in the master bedroom.

All of this took maybe two or three minutes. I went back into the bedroom with the intention of putting the kitties in the bathroom and joining them. But as soon as I got them into the bathroom, mortar from the ceiling in the master bedroom started raining down on everything, pelting me like a hailstorm, and water started pouring down one of the exterior walls. I thought to myself, “The roof is going to go.”

I pushed the furniture to the middle of the room, threw the kitties in the master closet (thinking it was the safest place for them since I could just keep them there and not open the closet doors for the rest of the storm) and took refuge – not in the master bathroom as my original plan had been – but in the second bathroom, which is on the back side of the apartment.

Like the master bathroom, it has a small window over the shower, and I could see pieces of metal roofing flying by the window. I laid down in the shower and covered myself with patio cushions and prayed. For the first time in almost 44 years, I was afraid for my life.

That lasted for about 30-45 minutes.

As soon as the eye came and everything was calm, my landlord, Greg, rushed up from the floor below to check on me. I showed him the damage so far and explained what had happened. He tried to reassure me that the mortar that had rained down was simply used to fill in the cracks where the wooden interior roof structure sits on the poured concrete wall. As he put it, “It’s functional, but not structural.” I wasn’t convinced.

Hurricane Irma

There’s supposed to be a door there.

The door that leads from the stairwell to my patio had also blown off – torn right off the hinges. Fortunately, it was laying on my patio and didn’t become a projectile. He picked it up and put it in my living room.

We went out onto the patio to survey Josiah’s Bay. It was surreal. What he had described just a few days prior as a “big green cushion” was a wasteland. There was no vegetation over three feet high, and no green anywhere in sight. It looked like there had been a massive wildfire. You could see every house, every car, everything in the entire bay and valley. There were very few houses with roofs still intact.

I saw my friends “bear” Chris and Horacio on the roof of their building below me, surveying the damage. I yelled down to them to let them know I was alive. It felt good to see friends and have some limited communication with them.

Josiah's Bay - Before

Josiah’s Bay September 4, 2017. Two days before Hurricane Irma.

Hurricane Irma

Josiah’s Bay September 8, 2017. Two days after Hurricane Irma.

Greg prepared me for what the second half would be like – winds from the opposite direction and probably not as strong as the first half, but there would be more rain. He was right. I managed to send a basic text message to my family and Ari that the eye had passed and we were in round two. “It’s scary as hell and we’re freaked out, but we’re ok.” At the beginning of the second half, I left the kitties in the closet and I stayed in the second bathroom, but as the storm tapered off around 4 pm, I ventured out and let the kitties out of the closet. By the time the storm ended, it was too late to walk down to Tamarind Club or into Josiah’s Bay to check on my friends.

I cleaned up what I could of my partially flooded apartment, tried to eat, and more importantly, tried to sleep. But my mind wouldn’t let go of two thoughts: how much devastation Mother Nature can inflict, and what the next days and weeks would hold.

Fearlessness in the Face of Island Adversity

The following post is rated PG-13 for strong language and disturbing imagery.

Those of you who know me personally, know that very few things freak me the hell out as much as spiders. And in the past six months, it seems that the Island gods have come to recognize this and have decided to teach me a lesson in fearlessness.

The evidence…

Late this summer, I was getting ready for bed one evening, when I looked out of my bathroom into the bedroom and saw a giant spider on the wall by my bed. But not just any spider – it was a tarantula! This thing was so big, you could almost count the hairs on its creepy, not-so-little legs.

A very fuzzy picture of the tarantula - because it was taken from almost 20 feet away!

A very fuzzy picture of the tarantula – because it was taken from almost 20 feet away!

At this time, I was living by myself, so I didn’t have a designated “in-house-spider-exterminator” who I could lure into the bedroom and lock inside until said spider was taken care of. So, in a panic, I called one of my friends who lives just down the hill, and he (reluctantly, although he would never admit it) came up to take care of the intruder. When he saw it, even he was a bit freaked out!

But with the help of a dried-out sponge mop and a shop vac, he managed to kill and dispose of the spider so I could go to bed. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well that night.

Then, a couple of months ago, I came home one evening and noticed something in the middle of my kitchen floor that didn’t belong there. Not an unusual situation when you have three cats. I put away some stuff and piddled around the apartment for a few minutes, failing to investigate the foreign object right away.

When I finally went into the kitchen and turned on the light to deal with what I expected to be a furball or a dismembered cat toy, I discovered that the offending object could move, although just barely. And even though it was missing a few, it obviously had eight legs at one point in its life!

Upon closer (but not too close) investigation, it was unmistakeably deemed to be a brown recluse. Now, although there are more creepy-crawlies on this island than I would like to acknowledge, none of them are highly dangerous or poisonous to humans (none of the land-based ones, anyway). Except brown recluse spiders.

Brown Recluse

This is what a brown recluse looks like after “playing” with my cats.

Not wanting to inconvenience (and freak out) my friend down the hill for a second time, I decided to handle this one by myself – with the aid of a stiff-bristled broom. I figured since it couldn’t move very well (the cats had obviously been “playing” with it before I got home), I could impale it with the broom bristles and sweep it up and throw the body over the balcony. What I didn’t anticipate was that the spider might get caught up in the broom bristles.

When it disappeared into the broom, I hauled ass outside with the broom and the now “missing” spider, beat it against the side of the building over my balcony, and left it outside in the breezeway until the next morning. Then I tied a trash bag around the bottom part and took it to the dump, just in case the spider recovered and wanted to get revenge.

But the most recent test of my fearlessness was probably the worst. After yoga one evening, I got into the Jeep and was checking my texts before I drove off. The door was open, so the interior lights were on, and that must have woken up an uninvited passenger. Which was…another huge spider!!! This one was as big as the palm of my hand, and I could see his eyes!

He leapt from the passenger-side floorboard into the passenger seat and onto the center console. I jumped out of the Jeep like my seat had just become an electric chair. In a move that is now typical, I panicked for a second. But then I realized that my yoga instructor’s brother was nearby – I could go get him to deal with this situation. (I’m not sure why it always has to be a guy to help out in these instances. I guess it’s the primal “Southern Belle” that comes out when I’m in fight-or-flight mode.) But he was so far away, I was afraid by the time I got to him, explained what was going on, and (hopefully) got him to come take care of the problem, Mr. Hitchhiker would have found a nice cozy place to hide, and I’d have to fumigate the Jeep before I could ever get into it again.

Instead, I grabbed a towel that was conveniently left in the back seat, wrapped it completely around my hand – like eight times – and used that to “pick up” the spider and fling him as far away as I could.

All I can say is that it’s a miracle this ordeal happened while I was sitting in the Jeep, idling. If I had been driving, all three of us – Mr. Hitchhiker, the Jeep, and I – would be in the ocean right now.

But wait – it gets better!  On the way home I stopped by my local hangout to say “Happy Birthday” to a friend and have a good, stiff drink to calm my nerves. When I got home, I went to the back of the Jeep to get a box out, and what did I see? Mr. Hitchhiker apparently had a friend, albeit one that was slower and/or dumber and hadn’t quite found his way inside the Jeep yet. That’s right – there was Mr. Hitchiker’s accomplice, staring at me from the back windshield of the Jeep. Seeing him was such a shock that this time I jumped and screamed – so loud that if my neighbors had been home, they would’ve come running to see who was attacking me.


See – I’m not kidding! This thing was HUGE!

I grabbed my trusty towel, and from about six feet away, snapped it at him like a teenage boy in a locker room. Success! I managed to knock him off the Jeep and onto the ground, where I found him camouflaged on a small branch behind one of my tires (another reason to always carry a good flashlight in your purse). There was no way I was letting this fucker live, so I grabbed the biggest rock I could find – about 10 inches in diameter and 10 pounds – and dropped it right on him. Convinced that I had succeeded in killing the creepy bastard, I picked up the rock, and then almost fainted when he came running from under it and up the wall that surrounds my parking area. At this point, it was full-on war.

Spider Under Rock

Can you believe he lived?!

The only weapon I had left within easy reach was a can of OFF, which I proceeded to spray on him as he ran across the top of the wall. When there was no more OFF, I ran downstairs and grabbed a can of Raid. Of course, by the time I got back upstairs to the parking area, he was nowhere in sight. But I sprayed the hell out of that wall, the ground around the Jeep, and over the wall as far as I could reach.

I have a feeling the Island gods aren’t going to let me win this one, and he’s still up there, plotting his revenge. All I can say is that thankfully, he’s on the other side of the building from my apartment.

A note to the Island gods…Just keep in mind that you won’t have anyone to torment if you give me a heart attack.

A New Year’s Resolution: Island Edition

Looking back at the previous twelve months, there are plenty of reasons why I would be completely justified in saying, “Good riddance 2015. I’m not the least bit sorry to see you go.” A difficult divorce, friends who betrayed my trust, business deals that fell through…

But in all honesty, when I look at my island life, most of it I wouldn’t trade for the world. I mean, come on, what do I have to complain about?! I live in a place that many people spend years saving for, just to visit for a week.

So in 2016, I’m going to do my best to stop complaining and just be grateful. And to get the year started off right, I made a list of some of the things that I’m thankful for in my life here on a rock….

~ On any single, clear evening, I get to see more stars than most people see in a month of evenings combined.

~ Within a mere ten minutes, I can drive to two of the best (IMHO) beaches in the Caribbean. And if I want to get some exercise, one of them is only a 20-minute walk away. Granted, the walk back is brutal, but my calves have never looked better! 🙂

~ The worst traffic I ever encounter is the 15 minutes it takes to get through town during rush hour – if it’s payday, and it’s raining. No more soul-destroying, hour-long commute each way to work every day.

~ No more pointless meetings. If I’m feeling isolated and need to have a “real” business conversation during the day, I have plenty of Stateside associates who appreciate a few minutes of distraction to hear about the “drudgery” of living on a tropical island.

~ I live more simply than I ever have. I don’t (and literally can’t) spend my weekends mindlessly wandering through Target or around the mall just looking for stuff to buy.

~ On that same note, the constant threat of power and/or water outages keeps me diligent about ensuring that I have the basic necessities (phone and laptop charged, solar powered devices fully juiced, 5-gallon water jugs filled), rather than worrying about whether the grass was mowed in just the right criss-cross pattern.

~ I’ve learned to navigate – and appreciate – the cultural differences in the way people interact. The person ringing up your purchase at the grocery store may look like she had a nice, tasty bowl of bitch-flakes for breakfast, but a simple “Good afternoon” can change someone’s demeanor in a flash. And if you ever need help, she’ll probably be the first one to come to your aid.

So in 2016 I will replace my attitude with gratitude…For this wonderful life, with wonderful people, on a beautiful tropical island.


Eighteen Lessons in Eighteen Months

October 22 was my 18month island-girl anniversary. Reflecting on my time here so far, I thought about how much I love island life, and how it has tested me in ways I could never have imagined, or possibly endured, in the States. In celebration of my rock anniversary, I’ve assembled a list of lessons learned since I moved to this small island. Some are practical and some are personal. But each one is something that required a change in perspective and lifestyle to learn and embrace. I hope some of them resonate with you.

1 ~ Don’t wait until you need it. Buy it when you see it. (Applies only to non-perishable items.)

2 ~ Not having the “luxury” of spending days on end searching dozens of stores for the exact item you’re looking for, can itself be a luxury.


3 ~ You can predict the weather based on the state of your hair.

4 ~ Always keep electronics fully charged.

5 ~ Keep flashlights and candles where they can be easily accessed in the dark. Not in the vicinity of furniture that has a reputation for breaking toes.

Broken Toe

6 ~ How to fit a Jeep into spaces that, technically, should be two inches too small.

7 ~ Greet everyone courteously – i.e. “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” etc.

8 ~ On an island, “No problem” doesn’t mean, “That will be easy.” The correct island translation is, “I hear you, but I may or may not do what you’ve asked, depending on how much trouble it will be.”

No Problem

9 ~ Always bring reading material to places where you may have to wait:  government offices, doctor’s offices, the bank, the line at the grocery store on a Saturday…

10 ~ A hair dryer is not a basic necessity.

11 ~ Vinegar will clean almost anything.

12 ~ You don’t need fancy equipment, or even a gym, to stay in shape.

Beach Exercise

13 ~ Everyone has a story, and most of them are extremely interesting – if you’ll just listen.

14 ~ Have compassion towards immigrants – making a life in a new country is much harder than most people realize.

15 ~ Your closest friends can be people who you have very little in common with on the surface. And that’s a good thing.Peanuts

16 ~ Appreciate the quiet.

17 ~ During the day, look around at the beauty of the island. And at night, look up and enjoy the stars.

Moon at Night

18 ~ Sea water heals both physical and emotional wounds. Indulge generously.


Smuggler's Cove, Tortola, BVI

The Healing Powers of Vitamin Sea

This summer has been a bit rough, from friends who are going through hardships to my own personal issues. To add insult to injury, our rock is in the middle of one of the worst droughts on record, and the landscape, which is typically lush and green, is all brown and dead. But the one ray of proverbial sunshine is the sea. In contrast to the depressing inland landscape, the sea remains its gorgeous, blue-green self. One of the first things I do every morning is step out onto the balcony to check out my local beach and see which shade of turquoise the water is today.

But despite having direct, visual access to the sea, I sometimes go weeks without actually dipping my toes in the water (or in the sand). Life gets in the way, whether you live in a city, in the country, or on a tropical island.

This was the case recently. It had been two weeks since I’d had any “vitamin sea,” so I set an intention to go to the beach one Friday afternoon. The universe conspired against me – errands in town took twice as long as they should have (even considering the way things operate on this island), clouds moved in, and my mood was less than sunny and light. It was almost two hours later than I had planned, but with persistence (aka stubbornness) on my side, I finally made it.

Rather than visiting my local beach, which is large, well-known, and easy to access, I decided to venture a little farther and visit a beach that’s more secluded and rarely visited by anyone other than guests a small, nearby resort. And as luck would have it, I was the only one there on this particular afternoon.

When I go to the beach alone, I typically just get in the water for a few minutes to cool off and spend most of the time in a beach chair, catching up on some leisure reading. But this time, I decided to hang out in the water for a while. Since I didn’t bring a float or noodle to laze around on, I just floated on my back, with my ears submerged in the water to block out the sounds of the outside world. I floated, and floated, and floated, for what seemed like forever (although in reality, it was probably more like five minutes).

As I floated, looking up at the blue sky and listening to the faint crackling of the water, I tried to put some mental energy towards assessing the things that are going on in my life and in my friends’ lives. But my mind wouldn’t cooperate. The situations arose in my mind, but my mind refused to latch onto them. Granted, my problems and my friends’ problems didn’t go away, but it was nice to have a respite that forced me to get out of my own head for a while. Often times, a clear head is what’s needed to see things for what they really are, deal with them, and begin the process of healing. And this is just what that dip in water allowed me to do.

If everyone had direct access to the healing powers of the sea, I believe the world would be a better place.

Palm trees Tortola BVI

Images of Island Life: Part 2

Further evidence that living on an island isn’t all* palm trees and boat drinks, here’s Part 2 of the series, “Images of Island Life.” All photos—from the beautiful to the bizarre—were taken during our first year here on Tortola, BVI.

*Well, as you’ll see below, sometimes island life is about palm trees and boat drinks. 😊

The bar scene on an island can be quite entertaining

Cat in a Box

Who needs “hair of the dog” for your hangover? On our island, you can get “hair of the cat.”

Guess who

During the day, a disguise can help protect your reputation.

After dark, the "weirdos" come out.

But after dark, the “weirdos” really come out.

Topless bartender

Apparently, they’ll let anyone bartend.

Topless bartender

On-the-job hazards go far beyond carpal-tunnel. At our local hangout, being accosted by a bearded dude is a likely occurrence.

Tourists provide a never-ending stream of amusement (and shock!)

The contrast between lobster-emblazened swim trunks and the leg tat shows diversity in taste.

The contrast between his lobster-printed swim trunks and the leg tat shows diversity in taste.

Caution...This cannot be unseen

Caution…  This. Cannot. Be. Unseen.

Willy T, Norman Island, BVI

It’s higher than it looks. Jumping from the top deck of the “Willy T” is practically a rite of passage for visitors to the BVI.

Even "locals" act like tourists sometimes.

And sometimes, even “locals” can’t resist acting like tourists.

Pets from the U.S. have to adapt to new surroundings, just like people

Seriously? How about a fan over here?

Wearing a fur coat in the tropics can be rough. Snowball says, “Seriously? How about a fan over here?”

Cat on Suitcase

Apparently, Coco’s getting “rock fever.” Road trip anyone?

Cat in shower

Trouble knows that staying hydrated is important. And that it takes 76 seconds before the water gets hot.

Siamese with toys

Smooth has resorted to hoarding as a coping mechanism. He who dies with the most toys, wins!

German Shepherd by pool

Most dogs love the clear, calm waters of the ocean, but the classier ones prefer infinity pools.

Up next: night scenes, the many faces of island weather, and the truly bizarre!

Josiah's Bay Beach Tortola, BVI

Images of Island Life: Part 1

Some of the drudgeries of daily life—grocery shopping, paying bills, vehicle issues—are pretty much the same regardless of where you live. But when the daily chores take place on an island, they’re framed by a backdrop that ranges from the beautiful to the bizarre.

As Bill and I are coming up on our 1-year rock anniversary, I thought it would be fun to share some of those backdrops with you. So here’s what daily life on an island (mostly) entails…

Traffic and vehicular issues are quite different on a rock

island Traffic Jam

Island traffic jams usually involve livestock rather than accidents or construction. Cows are the worst. They’re slower and take up more road space than goats or sheep.

BVI Driving

The hills can be brutal, not only on your calves, but also on your axles (if you’re a car).

Yep, I don’t think the wheel’s supposed to turn that far.

That’s just painful.

I think there’s supposed to be a solid connection here…


Your own parking spot, no matter how tight, is one of the most sought-after perks in renting a house or apartment. Second only to electricity (and more reliable).

BVI Dodgy Driving

But if it’s raining and you can’t find a place to park at the local grocery store, no problem. Just drive right in.

Virgin Gorda BVI Runway

Landing in Virgin Gorda is my favorite air travel experience of all time!

The wildlife ranges from scary to cute to just plain annoying

Don't be fooled by the lack of size perspective. This picture was taken from 12 feet away.

Don’t be fooled by the lack of size perspective. This picture was taken from 12 feet away.

Island Spider

A little smaller, but no less creepy. Thank goodness for a Shop Vac with a long hose.


I have to admit, I have a fondness for the little lizards (locals call them wood slaves) that show up in my shower.

Lizard BVI

A rare look at the underside of a lizard. In an unusual turn of events, this one was on the *outside* of our screen.

Snorkeling BVI

These are my favorite fish. I really need to look up what they are.

Snorkeling BVI

I like these too, but only when viewed from outside the water.

Island rooster

Pretty. And pretty annoying. Someone please get these guys an alarm clock.

Christmas trees come in all shapes, sizes, and materials

Roundabout in Tortola, BVI

Who says Christmas trees have to be fir, spruce, or cedar?

Miniature Wooden Christmas Tree

My sister sent me this small, wooden tree (originally from Germany!) because, as she so poignantly put it, “Everyone needs a Christmas tree.”

Airplane bottle Christmas tree

Even the local bar has a Christmas tree. Drift wood with airplane bottle ornaments – perfect!


Snow-covered tree. Wishful thinking, island style.

Next up: pets, tourists, and scenes from a local bar!

Girl Sitting on Beach

Alone On a Rock

Anyone who’s a regular reader of this blog knows that I have a lot of friends here on Tortola, most of whom are a short (albeit precariously steep) walk down the hill from our apartment. But for 12 days earlier this month, I was, technically, alone—without my partner, my significant other, and my companion—while Bill was back in the States, getting his health checkups and visiting family and friends.

This was only the third time in our 19-year relationship that he’s traveled and left me at home alone, and the previous two times were only for a few nights each. Granted, for over ten years, I traveled extensively for work, mostly without him. But when you’re the one who’s doing the traveling, you’re far from alone. There are tons of people at the airports, hotels, and restaurants that become your temporary home-base. And there are meetings with colleagues, customers, or tradeshow attendees. So being the one who leaves is quite different from being the one who is left.

Sandy Cay, Belize

Some days felt like this.

During Bill’s previous two trips, I was working in an office, so between being at work all day, going to the gym, and running errands, I was barely home to notice his absence. Which made this time even more unique, since I’m now working from home, with my living room being my gym, and the only pressing errand being a trip to the grocery store. So nearly every waking hour was spent here, at the apartment, without his presence.

Soon after Bill’s departure, I discovered that even on a small island, where you literally can’t go anywhere without running into someone you know, it is possible to be very, very alone. I hadn’t watched TV since the beginning of the year, yet during those twelve days he was gone, I turned on the TV just to simulate having someone else around. But virtual company is a poor substitute for the real thing, so nearly every evening, I was compelled to visit one of our favorite hangouts, in search of people to talk to. (Confession: I talk to my cats, but they’re not very good at keeping up their side of the conversation.)

The upside of being alone was that my daytime productivity went through the roof. The downside was that I had to do everything that Bill normally does—including lug five-gallon water jugs up and down our stairs, re-light the stove pilots when they went out, haul off the trash, and wash the Jeep. This resulted in the realization that although he may have fewer domestic responsibilities than I do, they’re exactly the ones I can’t stand doing. Note to self—no more (or at least less) grumbling about the uneven split of household chores.

Thanks to FaceTime and unlimited international calling plans, we were able to talk every day, with multiple phone calls on some days.  And every time we talked, Bill would boast about the speedy internet, or what restaurants he visited, or what he went shopping for that day. He truly enjoyed his time back in the “real world.” But to me, his depictions of and enthusiasm for life in the States didn’t compare to the warm weather and breathtaking views of early spring in the Caribbean that I was enjoying. Although I would prefer not to go about it alone, I’m still quite happy here. And after almost two weeks, I’m very glad to have him back on the rock with me.

Bill and Danielle

Better together…