Wing Foiling, Megayachts & Giant Spuds: A New Year in the British Virgin Islands

When is the appropriate cut off time to stop wishing everyone a Happy New Year? I ask because once I was so late sending Christmas cards they evolved into Happy New Year cards, then drifted past Valentine’s Day, and finally docked—with an extreme identity crisis—as Happy Easter cards. This year we didn’t even attempt postal optimism - there are no mailboxes in the ocean, and cards would get soggy. Instead, we spent the holidays gawking at the massive annual gathering of the yachts for New Year’s…It was a happening….It was a “yachtening”. There was so much bragadacious boatage in one place - it was like the ultimate Mr Universe competition, thankfully without the speedos but still with plenty of tanning oil, flexing and rubber necking. This yachtening takes place in North Sound, Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands. I know there were a lot of virgins in that sentence. Take it up with Columbus.

We also invested heavily—emotionally and financially—in a Christmas gift for two middle-aged pilots stubbornly refusing to totally accept a non-aviation lifestyle, a retirement budget, or common sense: a wing foil. If you don’t know what that is, congratulations—you still have a brain and cartilage. It’s essentially a giant inflatable wing you wrestle into the wind (imagine Neptune doing the “Y” in the YMCA song) while attempting to stand on a floating board. Then, just when dignity has fully evacuated your body, the board lifts out of the water and flies. At least that’s what happens with the twenty year olds we’ve watched do it on YouTube.

In reality, we flopped around for days, tutored by the very young, very professional Bitter End Watersports team, they cared for us like elderly fish being returned to the sea by well-meaning children. Our progress could best be described as micro-successes. Blink-and-you-miss-it achievements. If I never mention wing foiling again, please don’t ask how much the kit cost.

North Sound is home to some of the most extraordinary marina resorts in the Caribbean. Our favorite was Bitter End Yacht Club. “Yeah, because it’s so good you stay till the bitter end,” my daughter Elsa observed. While this may once have applied to me in my London clubbing days, it actually refers to the end of a rope—which on boats is never called a rope, but a line, because sailors enjoy being superior and trying to make the lifestyle look more difficuly than it already is.

Out of roughly 200 boats packed into North Sound for the holidays, we were the only trawler. I’m not sure what this says about us, except that most of our neighbors were charter catamarans and megayachts designed exclusively for drifting beautifully from island to island while guests are gently hand-fed exquisite morsels and served curated cocktails with self-congratulatory names suggesting that by drinking this, you too have become at least a sailor, and even a pirate: Titles like, The Rum Runner, The Commodore, or my personal favorite, Black Beard’s Virgin Passage Reserve.

Others abandoned the maritime fantasy entirely and converted their boats into floating man-caves. One nearby catamaran had a giant projector mounted on the stern so passengers could watch American football. Nothing completes a tropical paradise escape quite like listening to a man shout at referees from a boat 100 feet away.

Other highlights included Saba Rock—a single acre turned into a full-throttle sunset party that felt like St. Tropez had been shrunk to party-in-your-pocket size and plopped into the Caribbean—and Biras Creek, magnificently rebuilt after Hurricane Irma. We didn’t make it to the main resort, but we did eat at their marina restaurant, The Mangrove, where the tables are placed so close to the water I spent the entire meal quietly rooting for a waiter to misjudge a step, and end up serving dripping entrees.

All of these resorts are located within a mile of each other overlooked (I felt with slight disdain) by Richard Branson’s Moskito Island, which lies next to his other island, Necker - because clearly owning one island is simply not enough when you are a billionaire.

After the final midnight horn chorus of 200 boats competing to make the most noise…plus some fireworks and music till the wee hours—we fled north to Anegada. Beautifully remote, quiet and exposed. Pink-sand perfect. Which is exactly where our dinghy motor chose to stage a full emotional meltdown. Our dinghy, Moonbeam, is far more important than a car. When a car breaks down you Uber or maybe even walk. When Moonbeam breaks down, you regret not taking high school swim lessons more seriously and wonder where exactly to stash your husband for his frequent time-outs.

The day dissolved into hauling Moonbeam up onto the top deck, then down again, then up again, all in rolling seas like an unwieldy yo-yo. We have a crane for this, but still a 400lb crazily swinging dink can do some serious damage to a boat and our patience. Unkind words were perhaps exchanged. Terms like impeller ( I believe this to be a gazelle like tool), clogged drains (possibly painful without correct flushing technique), and ratchets (bigger than mouse shits) were lobbied at me as fast as I was going off boat life. Thankfully, with my expert assistance—tea delivery, spanner holding, and precisely calibrated sympathetic groans—Moonbeam was revived just as the sun set and declared seaworthy. Ken may have also had something to do with it…

At that point, we had gone off Anegada. It’s not you, Annie. It’s us. We’ll be back for lobster another time. So we headed south again, past the megayachts of North Sound, to Great Trunk Bay on Virgin Gorda. I’m writing this sitting on the bow deck, staring at enormous granite boulders piled up along the beach like an aquatic giant (much bigger even than Jason Mamoa) had gone to the Giant grocery store, bought potatoes instead of yams, realized his error just as he got to the beach, threw them down and swam off in disgust. You will never unsee this. You’re welcome.

The most famous and picturesque of all the piles of potatoes is The Baths—more rocks forming caves and passageways perfect for wading, and frenzied Instagramming. You can reach them either by tying your dinghy to a buoy and swimming in, or—new option—arriving by cruise-ship bus. We arrived during peak humanity, and endured a noisy lunch at the restaurant with 100 enthusiastic cruise ship diners….but discovered that the as described on the signs, “moderate hike” to follow to actually get to The Baths filtered most of them out, leaving us alone with the good stuff.

Picture soaring granite shards, water sloshing underneath, light dappling, and impressive echos. It’s magnificent.….for giant pototoes. As for the “moderate hike” description…no one mentioned how dangerous these seemingly benign rocks could be - a smaller, feistier lump of stone jumped out at my toe, causing a snapping sound. A little like a twiglet breaking….I am now sporting a purple, and angry looking digit. But since medical care is limited to what we could beg off Doctor and Vet friends before we left, I will just hobble along in blissful ignorance as to whether it’s broken or not. My erotic foot model days were over anyway…. If you want to see a photo of the toe let me know in the comments below! I am very proud of my RRI (Rock Related Injury).

In the next episode of “Why Are We Doing This Again?” I will recount the sorry, but also hilarious (because the voices in my head bequeath it so) story about a vital piece of equipment which was STOLEN, plus the ”I can’t unsee that” of a spicy boat bar where people jump naked from the top deck….and more. This next one is going to be a pirate’s delight, and to protect the not so innocent, it will be behind the paywall. If you have been on the fence about becoming a crew member (which lets face it, costs less than one Black Beard’s Virgin Passage) then please sign up before you miss even possibly seeing my purple toe… I know you want to.

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