How to Panic-Clean a Boat When a Rock Legend Is Coming for Cocktails

This morning I am standing in the boat’s galley getting ready to make breakfast and stopped to admire the floor, which is gleaming in a way that indicates dedication to cleanliness Ken and I do not possess. Yesterday afternoon I scrubbed it on hands and knees like an extra from the Handmaids Tale (minus cloak and bonnet), and now the air carries a delicate bouquet of Murphy’s Oil Soap with essence of Mr Muscle toilet cleaner. It smells less like a boat kitchen and more like a luxury spa.

If it’s not obvious already, we are not boat owners who prioritize cleanliness. Normally every horizontal surface is upholstered in dog hair. The fridge contains at least one green, slimy science project-possibly with a pulse-loitering at the back of a shelf. There are always damp clothes draped around the boat like nautical surrender flags. And then there was the Cornish Hen…

Last week I removed a whole Cornish Hen from the freezer located below deck in the machine room, intent on cooking it, and promptly forgot about it, leaving it to thaw peacefully in the tropical warmth beside one of Ken’s extensive tool collections. I did briefly wonder why the boat had filled with flies and developed a putrid, low-level stench usually associated with crime scenes, but I blamed it on the dog as one does with all mystery smells that can’t be easily pinned on the Husband.

So yes, I feel confident in calling us boat slobs. But yesterday was different. Yesterday demanded we immediately raised our standards.

Because last night, we were in the company of a rock star legend. Not near one. Not watching one on a stage. But actually hosting one on our boat. Complete with crackers in a bowl, rum cocktails and nautical themed bathroom napkins.

How did this happen?

After tearing through four countries-Bahamas, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and the US Virgin Islands-to get to the BVI, we decided to slow down. This is one of our favorite parts of the world and, quite frankly, a large part of why we dropped a pirate’s ransom on a floating house in the first place. (See what you got us into, Crew Feelin’ Nauti?)

So instead of continuing our usual pattern of relentless forward motion, we’ve decided to stay put until mid-March and just…exist. This is unusual for us and downright suspicious by charter-boat standards. Typically, people fly into the main island of Tortola, clamber enthusiastically onto a rented catamaran, and spend seven to ten high octane days “doing the BVI”-island-hopping at speed, fueled by itineraries, credit cards and alcohol. It works because everything is close, it’s wildly fun, and every island has its own personality. (Crew members may wish to revisit last week’s discussion of Pooper Island.) BVI truly is a boat lovers playground.

But what a gift it is not to be confined by schedules and deadlines. We’ve already whizzed around all the islands twice. Now we’re lingering. Staring at sand. Paddling in the shallows. Exploring hidden bays. Staying as long as we like. It’s strange. It’s idyllic.

Which brings us to now.

We are currently moored at one of our favorite beaches: White Bay, Guana Island. Usually we hike all over each island, discovering them one thigh burner of a hill after another, occasionally catching a glimpse of our boat nestled far below, as Gypsy snuffles in the undergrowth. Or we pay “island tax” and treat ourselves to an expensive dinner at the local restaurant to better understand an island and its inhabitants-or that’s our excuse anyway. However, the only part of this island offered to us is the beach.

It’s a great beach.

I believe that its attraction is that there is no beach bar, no boutique, no market, no $10 to rent beach chairs - nothing except sand and nature. Guana Island belongs to a billionaire who has turned the entire 850 acre island into a conservation site with just a sprinkling of exclusive houses you can rent peppered along a ridge line high over the bay. Along the beach are discreet but persistent signs reminding you that the island is private and reserved for guests only.

Fortunately, in the BVI, beaches are public up to the vegetation line. So we get the same glorious sand as the billionaire and his well heeled guests, and they must tolerate us…and our large, hairy dog.

Until recently, despite much craning through shrubbery, we have never seen anyone actually staying on the island. It felt aloof, unobtainable and austere. The houses on the ridge line looked down at us in the bay as if to say, “you are boat people and a mild inconvenience”.

Then it changed...

From here on: rough seas, bad decisions and full disclosure….