This part of the journey is coming to a close. We made it back to America. Into Miami, down to Key West, then up to Port Charlotte to hang with my mom for a few before putting Orion on the hard for the hurricane season. I sit writing this on my last morning before heading back home. Elia left a few days ago to be with her people in Oregon before meeting me back in Colorado. And I’m actually ready to go. It definitely helps to have 95 degree days sitting on gravel with 1 zillion bugs attacking as the sun sets to help spur me on.

Many adventures since the last blog post. Nighttime crossing of the Great Bahama Banks and the Gulf Stream into Coconut Grove went by easily enough. Down the keys to Key West. Lots of sailing, lots of miles. I just did the math and it looks like we have gone close to 5000 miles in the last year. Chesapeake bay up to Maine, back down to Hampton Virginia. 11 days offshore to the Virgin Islands. South to Dominica. Turn around and all the way back through the Virgins, Puerto Rico, Bahamas, The Keys, and finally to Port Charlotte. Holy shit. All at around 6 knots. Lots of time to sit and think, and be.

But now thinking of the go back. Life on land from the relaxed cruiser perspective. Gotten very good at easy mellow days of guitars and books and writing and boat projects. The stresses of this life are much less overwhelming than those in “reality”. They are present, but somehow they are more real, more pure. If the engine stops running you have to figure out how to fix it. If the wind isn’t blowing from the right direction you stay put and get into where you are. In hindsight the places we ended up staying and getting to know the best were because we were waiting there for a weather window. St. Martin pulled us in, twice. Antiqua, much longer than we planned originally. The south coast of Puerto Rico. Georgetown, Bahamas. Les Saints. All of which we got “stuck” in, and got to know so much better because of it.

So the take away is how to bring the relax back to the real world. How to stay calm in the face of the storm. How to make the most out of a “bad situation”.  So much of life becomes the patterns and habits that we have made and the groves that we dig for ourselves. This winter on Orion has had it’s own tone and mood. It will be interesting to see how that energy gets taken home. Home of old grooves well worn. I can already feel the tug to hook back in. Read the news every morning. Get into the general worked up state that seems to have so overtaken america. Beware brother, beware.

All in all this year has been a dream year that only came about in the thinnest window possible. There were so many things that could have derailed it, and many that had to line up to make it happen. I feel incredibly fortunate that it all worked out. The universe has a funny way of supporting ones dreams. This one really came from a head down determination to pull it off, even if it didn’t make sense on a lot of levels. There is something in there about learning when it is time to be the captain, make the decision that you feel is best, and throw off the docklines, or stay and weather the storm. It could be a lonely place out there, but in my world I’ve had my first mate along on the whole ride. Elia rocks!

And in this time I’ve come to truly appreciate and trust Orion. What a great boat. I’ve learned so incredibly much about how to keep her happy, and what she will do for me if I do. So much of this lifestyle is tied into ones boat. It’s a home that you need to depend on to keep the rain away, but in a very real way, for survival. And then you want her to look good, to feel good, to start when you turn the key, every time. To keep your food cold, your bed dry, and mostly to keep that good strong divider between us and the deep blue sea.

So yes, this year on the boat is coming to a close. But I don’t feel in any way that the adventure is over. Orion sits patiently, waiting for the next splash into the sea to signal the next chapter. Both Elia and I have tuned into what works, what doesn’t and have an idea of how to live a life balanced with time on land and time on the water. I’m hearing the call already. Perhaps next go round it’s to Cuba we will go? Stay tuned…

There are changes afoot. Elia and I have been on Vieques, hiking a lot, talking to local people and starting to fall in love with the place. We began to wonder if there was a way to stay here longer, or find a way to come back.

It kind of started out as a whim. Let’s just wander around the island and see if anything catches our eye. We talked to some local people to get a sense of the place. We met with a real estate agent mostly to just get a free tour of the island. As we drove around she showed us houses and lots with million dollar views and everything was quite out of our reach.

We had given up on the idea of buying a place and stopped in at a little bar in Esperanza to get out of the sun and get something to drink. I mentioned to the bartender that we had been looking at properties, and he threw out, seemingly as a joke, “well I have an island you can buy”. Yeah, right!. We got to talking and he actually did. His name was Ramon and he said that it had been owned by his grandfather, but that he had recently passed The island had been left to him, but he didn’t know what to do with it. He said that it was  “kind of rustic” and hadn’t had loved in a while, but had lots of potential for the right person”.

He could take us out there the next morning and give us the tour. We met him at 9 on the rickety little dock and got into his old fishing skiff. He gunned the engine and we were off, out of the bay, through some mangroves and north for about 8 miles. As we came around a bend he pointed and there it was.

It had a little beach where we could pull the boat up. There was a small run down house with some palm trees. As we went around the back and up the hill we found some plantation ruins, and some boards hanging off the trees. What was this place we wondered. What had it been?

It seemed that his grandfather had worked as a slave on the plantation cutting sugar cane, and that he had grown up in one of the little shacks. Some rich Dane had come in the early 60’s and tried to make a commune with people living in treehouses. When hurricane Enrique came in 77 it blew down most of the treehouses and toppled a tree onto the main house where the Danish man and his island bride were living, killing both of them. After everyone else had left the grandfather stayed on, and since there were no other claims on the land it became his.

The man said that his grandfather had told him a story that the first plantation owner, Mr. Partridge had tied one of the slaves to a tree and left him there to be eaten by fire ants. Ever since then the land, and especially the trees had been cursed. Local people were frightened to go out there, and nobody seemed to be interested in buying it.

This was getting more and more interesting.

We went to a local bar to discuss and try to get onto the internet to see if we could find out any more information. It was very hard to come to any real conclusions, but it started to seem like maybe it could be worked out somehow. The Vieques government is a protectorate of the US so some of the legal issues are fairly strait forward. The owner seemed to like us, and want us to have the land so he said he could carry a note for 10 years which would stretch us, but seemed doable.

If we could put in some time and effort to rebuild the main house, then rebuild some of the tree houses perhaps we could make it into an eco tourist type of destination. Elia feels sure that she can lift the curse off of the land.

We are now in a legal quagmire of looking at zoning, talking to lawyers, administrators, government officials. But as of just yesterday it’s looking like it’s a go. Give us a year or so to pull it together, but hopefully on April 1 of 2018 we will have built our shangri la. Hopefully this is not a foolish move on our part.

Stay tuned.

How did I get so lucky? It started with the dance. There she was, standing all alone. I eased up close, touching softly, slowly moving together. Faster it became, more playful, more energized, turning more into the lion dance, with the Leo’s inside both of us finding someone to wrestle, to hold, to play with. All so very natural and easy.

We are sailing now. A life much different than our dance in Boulder. What has made this part of the journey so wonderful for me is my sweet Elia. She brings a humor and goofiness into every day  that makes our little Orion such a happy place. We laugh and play constantly. Who knew it could all be so much fun?

The banjo comes out and starting with G, we jam. It started with Cripple Creek, over, and over. Then added Boil That Cabbage Down with a slight twist to the G. Branching out now to Miss Ohio, to Ripple, to singing, and growing. So shy at first, playing stronger now.

We make up stories about ladies in restaurants, about other people on boats. Who are the wife swappers we wonder? And then the questions about what does this mean, what are we doing with our lives, where will we go next, how do we want out lives to look when we got back to land.

I’m her little play thing. Her French man to dress up in my green linen shirt. Wouldn’t I look good in that bathing suit, those le saints underwear. She will get fixated on me, my body, my beard, my cute little face. I preen, and she laughs. She keeps telling me I’m the cutest thing ever. In my wetsuit, my pink bathing suit. She doesn’t want a skinny mini, wants something substantial to hold on to. I got that covered. Stroke, stroke, stroke.

She cooks us dinner, she makes me lunch. Great spreads of Garbanzo beans, tacos, green drinks in the mornings with the bullet blender she found on line. I always love it, that’s the deal. We watch inspector Lewis at night with his sidekick Hathaway. Silly British crime shows gets her going.

She gets in the water and swims much longer than I do, entranced by the fish and the coral. A turtle rises and she calls out to it. Porpoises surface and the 5 year old dances with glee on the deck

She has a frock addiction. Before Elia I didn’t know what a frock was. Now we go by the shops and I find there are frocks everywhere, and they are all “so cute”. Many are reluctantly passed by. Some make it into her drawers back on Orion.

Every week she conscientiously does her work from the boat, writing her articles. Always on time, quite responsible in the midst of our loose lifestyle. I read her my blog posts, and she listens and gives insights and feedback.

We sail, and she embraces her role as the one and only first mate. Coiling lines, getting the outboard onto the dinghy, snagging the mooring line, driving back on the anchor. We have developed our roles and our jobs. She secures the forward hatch, me the back. When someone else comes onboard it’s much easier to ask them to just step aside than to help. We have this down.

She writes, and it’s beautiful. So introspective and pure. I admire and envy her ease with the written words. Her mind is so clear as she remembers, when we read about the snorkeling spots to hit, or which restaurants have the best baguettes.

Has taken to rowing the dinghy. First try in Annapolis we went around in circles giggling. Now she takes over when the engine won’t start and gets us back home. Talks about developing her one tiny claw. Over to a boat in the evening with some friends. Eyes sparkle and come alive, laughing, engaging. Beautiful in the morning asleep, Full of her emotions of happy, sad, introspective, questioning, not hidden behind a mask for long.

She tells me we are clairaudient. She’s speaking what I’m thinking and vice versa on a very regular basis. I am feeling more like the women who live together that share their cycles. I too can rise and fall with the moon.

And we sail off into the sunset together. Or maybe just to Florida. This boating future still seems uncertain, but what I’m sure of is that I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.

The contrast between two versions of Antigua is profound. Falmouth on the southern coast is the resting ground for super yachts. As you come into the harbor they are nestled side by side, stern to like so many dominoes. Beautiful, shiny, mammoth. And here, not focused as much on the powerboat, but on the mega sailing yachts. Gorgeous J boats from the 40’s. Immaculate and gigantic.

A whole economy buzzing to keep them looking sharp. Lots of yachty types from England, France, Italy. All very well heeled, and used to being surrounded by luxury, and the finer things in llife. Living on the boats, or in the nice gated community up the hill with the view overlooking the bay. Expats running the restaurants and bars, most of the customers white, All quite clean, people nice, happy, living a good life all based on the tourist/boating community.

There are two ways to get to the other side of the island. Take a taxi for $25, or a local bus for about $1.50. Elia, Ed and I hopped onto a bus from Jolly Harbor into the biggest city, St. John. The sense of adventure starts with the bus itself, which is actually just a small red minivan, crammed with as many seats as could fit. Once all the available seats are full there are drop down benches that fill the isles. We are packed in with older ladies in uniforms heading home from work, kids in matching cloths getting out of school, sweaty t shirted men headed to town, all locals, we are the only white people there.

Through the gates of the marina, past the security corner, and into a different world. At home we dream of tiny houses on trailers as a pc correct, cute alternative to the sprawl. Here they are everywhere. Cute, run down little houses, many with the faded bright colors of the Caribbean, some past saving from the last hurricane. Concrete roads with cars stalled or stopped randomly. Kids playing cricket in red and yellow team shirts.The bus careens around with a toot of the horn for pedestrians or cars heading our way. An endless game of chicken, that our driver wasn’t about to lose.

Into the city. Fast moving, scurrying, humanity, and once again, we are the only white people to be seen. Fancy dressed women with towering hair buns of orange. Teens off the bus, out of school. A few rastas, some scary looking, sullen guys hovering by outdoor bars. Sidewalks crumbling, next to mini canals, for rainwater. Shops carrying whatever seemed to be on sale on the boat from China last week, with a srange assortment of plastic goods and bright shirts, kitchen supplies, and discount shampoos. Everyone moving quickly down the skinny streets, walking half on sidewalks, taking their chances with the next car coming through. No street signs, stop signs. People just know where to go, know the rules.

Dropped from the bus stop at the edge of town, to walk downtown where the cruise ships dock and it all tidies up. Yogurt shops, and a  Burger King, in the same older buildings but with a new coat of paint. Some days up to 5 cruise ships in town at once we heard. No cruise ships in now so all the duty free shops are empty and cavernous.

St John an absolutely  different world from the harbors with the pretty boats. Much poorer, and almost all black. People sweet, kind, helpful to us and to each other. Lovely cadence to their speech which was English and incredibly hard to understand, but with another version that they could switch to when they wanted to communicate with us.

And as I compare the two parts of the island I can’t help but wonder how it all seems to the local Antiguan who is providing the services that make it all happen. From my perspective it feels like the different tourist groups are hugely significant. Us cruising on Orion, anchoring out to save money, trying to do it on the cheap feels like another level than the guys on their Hylas 54, with their 450 gallon fuel tank and their 100 gallon an hour water maker. And then another level to the mega yachts with the crews running it all. Then there is the cruise ship traveler. I have categorized them according to my reality, my values. But to a local my guess would be that they look out and see Orion and see just another white guy with money.

Some places in the world I have felt very excluded by the local population. Here, not at all. The local people have been very friendly, warm, respectful, helpful. The super nice kid helping us with groceries telling us about his girlfriend that left him, and his daughter that he doesn’t get to see enough and about the time he spent in Los Angeles. The old man in the gas station smiling wide and taking about sailing in Penobscot Bay in Maine, and sharing stories of lobster pots, tides, and fog. I am from a different world, but they seem to be ok with that.

Probably these are the questions that come up in any tourist town, with the poor locals providing services to the wealthy transients. Here I guess it’s just that the chasm is so very very wide in places. Is it so wide that it is beyond comprehension? I know that I look at the mega yachts, and am blown away by the absurdity of them. I don’t feel like I want to own one. I’m happy in my life, my version of paradise. Perhaps that is how it is to be from here. Is that really what they are feeling inside? I don’t know how I’ll ever really know.

It started the first week we arrived with a jam on the back deck of Paul’s Blue Sky Catamaran. Guitars, ukulele, harmonica, and even a keyboard came out from below decks. That jelled into a band Elia named Hair Of The Dawg.  We wrote and played the Salty Dawg Blues, with me singing in front of over 150 people at the Salty Dawg dinner, then Jimmy Buffet songs at the Thanksgiving day potluck. We rewrote Christmas carols and joined with 9 other dinghies to serenade the anchored boats in Maho bay on Christmas eve.

Slowly we are finding the musicians. Sharing the tunes. I’m playing more guitar than ever and getting over my fear of singing in front of people. Elia with her banjo and her public debut of Cripple Creek on the Catamaran back deck the other night was awesome. Brother Ed in and out with his guitar for the O’bros jams. Lots of people on boats with guitars, some playing a lot, others feeling like this would be a good time to learn. Giving guitar lessons. Let’s start with blues in E.

Wherever we go there are bands in bars.

The Steel Drum band that plays Sunday nights at Shirley Heights in Antigua high atop a hill in an Admiral Nelson era fort overlooking English Harbor. 20 or so guys all playing parts of an orchestra on steel drums and other percussion. Bag haired Rastas up front on the bass and treble steel drums. Full kit in the back, Young and old in matching T’s. Getting into it. Many different parts making up the whole. One guy just knocking on the wood block all night long, keeping up his end. Old rock standards with the island twist. Hard not to dance, to move.

Followed by what was billed as a reggae band, but was far from Bob Marley. Insistent, pounding, loud, singer out front rapping, singing, man on one song, woman the next. No break between sounds. Loud. No space. Island rave. We couldn’t keep up.

At Lagoonies on St Martin we made a rare late evening dinghy ride in for The Sound Experience from Antigua. Billed as a combination of swing and funk. Swunk! Sweaty young artist types creating something new. “I used to be a seaman, now I’m dancing with my demons” sung by the earnest long haired, shirt open post Jim Morrison lead singer.  Bopping gal on a nord keyboard. Sparkling shirtless bass player with a teenage girl in spandex oozing up a flying hula hoop.

Scratch band on Virgin Gorda. Wrinkled, smiling old man playing banjo. All strum, no picking. Old timey sounding like calypso/ pre reggae. Rock standards done to the island beat, all influenced by a different musical history than my own. Grew up in a different kind of groove. Bass player looking bored playing the simple music. Talked to him later and he is in a jazz band, another reggae band. Plays any gigs he can.

George Werthmore at Sopers Hole on Tortola. Solo guitarist finger picking Hot Tuna, Jerry Jeff, Mozart. Bulging eyes, funky hat, all New York, stopped and stayed at our table sharing long stories of running a nightclub in South Africa and all of the crazy things that went down. Played with Hot Tuna once and has tales of Jack Cassidy backstage.

A local band at the lobster festival on Anegada. Huge bass speakers. Need to back way up, or get off to the side. Full sound of much percussion, but then to realize that there was only one drummer, and one guy on a computer that was programming in at least half the sounds. It felt like cheating.  Then out one night to a beach bar to hear smooth island schmaltz played by three guys with matching shirts singing pop tunes, while Elia and I danced barefoot in the rain.

There was a local Jam night on St. Martin. A good old american rock and roll band was playing Tom Petty, Rolling Stones.  They were ripping with 2 guitarists, weary and jaded looking at 30, smoking cigarettes, trading off licks. Old guy drummer was locked in, the bass solid. I just sat and grooved and smiled and felt a profound welling of joy inside. I understood the language they were using. I could speak it, and just appreciated it for being spoken well. The more I listen, the more I play, the more I hear. Damn I love the music.