Norman Island

Leaving midday for Norman, with sandwiches and beer in hand we made quick work of the short trip. With just the jib up and the wind behind us we flew across the water at a strong 8 and sometimes 9 knots. The boat was proving itself.

Norman Island is popular with many of the charters and private boats for its good moorings, abundant coral and fish life, and good hikes. We took advantage of all. The pelicans, seen from below with their round bellies and large webbed feet are quite comical. When they dive from 20 feet or so above the surface for a fish it is startling. The occasional tarpon swam by and in spite of their size were not in the least menacing. The barracuda, however, lurking just below us looked like it could have had us for dinner. Many varieties of fish and coral are present in these water and everywhere you look, and some places you don't, there are new creatures to see. Comparing notes after the swim we discover what different sets of eyes discern. Returning to the boat we were all thrilled to find a school of tarpon, perhaps 20 of these very large fish, just hanging out below the boat.

The stitching of the leather covering of the boat's wheel was showing wear from its previous owner so my husband, Frits, set about the task of restitching it. Having made moccasins in his hippy youth he is quite handy with the needle. The eight segments divided by the spokes presented a challenge in that with fewer days on the boat than sections he has to complete more than one section a day and only when the boat is at rest. He's on the third as I write. As the sun was going down we mixed ourselves a rum punch and climbed into the dinghy for a harbor cruise. Translation - 'let's go check out the other boats'. The charters hold little interest but our hosts had spotted friends across the bay. Semi- retired folk who spend 3 or 4 weeks at a time on their boat, Marion and Bob greeted us warmly and made plans to meet up later on Tortola. A small cruise ship was anchored further out so we took a lap around that too. Condo ships cropped up a few years back that appealed to some segments of our aging population. Older ships no longer useful in today's mammoth cruising industry have been converted into moving luxury apartments, each privately owned. This one is probably based in the Virgin Islands but there are others in constant movement around the globe. Cocktails and hors hors d'oeuvres were being served as we cruised by.

More snorkeling and hiking slated for the morning before moving on.

Peter Island

Peter Island, just an hour or two from Tortola, has a quiet anchorage that most charters do not visit. The water is deep and only in the past couple of years have a few moorings been added. Those less experienced sailors are inclined to stay away so for us, and our well practiced hosts it is a more tranquil place to be. The snorkeling is good, the water clear and blue and the air is soft and warm.

Our first snorkel of the trip took us along the western shore where the coral has seen it's share of hurricanes. Much is in it's recovery stage but there is still enough to provide fertile feeding grounds for a variety of fish. The yellow jacks are common as are the blue tangs, squirrel fish and parrot fish. An occasional glimpse of a grey angel and a peacock cow fish keep us in the water for more than an hour.Early to bed after dinner on deck.The next morning the dinghy took us to shore for exploration. There are several good hikes that take you high on the island and loop back through the exclusive Peter Island Resort. We headed up a fairly steep concrete road from which huge views of the surrounding islands, secluded sandy beaches and miles of blue and aqua water could be seen. Within minutes the sky opened up and not only were we soaked instantly but the concrete beneath our feet turned into a fast moving river. Concrete troughs along the sides diverted most of the water into some kind of drainage system very quickly so we continued on. Being wet in the tropics is actually a good thing. As the sun came out again we stayed cool as we climbed higher and connected with a dirt road that led to two magnificent hill-top private homes. We could only peer through closed gates at the back side of a sprawling mansion with blue tiled roofs and a white stucco rounded confection, closely approximating a luscious wedding cake. Later from the boat we could easily see the splendid front sides with covered patios, swimming pools and the like.

Continuing on our walk we were drenched once again and so by the time we sauntered through the spiffy Resort where we had hoped to be taken for guests, our disheveled appearance easily marked us as interlopers.

Back on the boat it was time for 'work'. Sails had to be installed and rigged, equipment tested and small repairs made. Then it was time to move on.

Day 1- Caribbean Vacation

Leaving the dreary November weather of Vermont for sunny warm shores is a must. Not only does the body need a few UV rays once on a while but a break before winter sets in helps one welcome the snow and cold temperatures that are bound to come. After Thanksgiving is soon enough for me.

So here we are, my husband and I and our wonderful friends, another couple from Stowe, on the maiden voyage of their, new to them, 54ft sailboat, Mirage.

We have sailed with them many times. In the early years on charters, and then more recently on their older boat we have traveled the British Virgin Islands, the Puerto Rican Islands of Culebra and Vieques and the island chain from St Lucia south to Union Island.

This shakedown cruise will keep us close to land while still being able to hop from island to island and explore the snorkeling sites, the best hikes and the rummiest drinks.

The first job at hand is to transfer all the necessities from the old to the new. With both boats rafted together we are able to skip back and forth with armloads of dishes, pots and pans, linens and the such and nest happily in our new digs. Once everything has been stowed and lunch prepared we'll be off on our first adventure.

Summer Camp Time Again

It has been almost a decade since my time as director of a summer camp ended so some of the memories may have faded a little. Others are as clear as if they happened yesterday.

I am reminded of certain occasions by a name on Facebook or a chance meeting with an ex-counselor or camper but for some inexplicable reason other incidents come to mind and make be giggle suddenly.

One such occasion involved a serious little girl from Quebec. On this particular day she was taking her riding lesson in the ring when she lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. The impact caused the wind to be knocked out of her, considerably frightening her. The resulting screams brought people running from all directions including the camp nurse and me. On further examination it appeared the pain in her back was of significant concern to request an ambulance to transport her to the nearest emergency room.

While waiting for the ambulance to arrive we kept our patient immobilized in the dusty arena. Once the initial shock of the event had worn off she wanted no part of being taken to hospital. Now the second round of screaming commenced and continued through the back-boarding exercise and into the ambulance.

Once in the emergency room she calmed down but remained seriously ticked off. Finally the nurse arrived to take the particulars. “What is your name, dear?” the nurse asked sweetly. “Janet” our little camper spit back. “and your last name, Janet?” “Duncan” was the sharp retort.

To give the nurse credit, she remained pleasant. I was ready to strangle her. “When is your birthday, Janet?” “December 12th” she begrudgingly replied. “what year?” the nurse persisted. With her teeth clamped tight and a look that could drop a grown man at 20 feet, she hissed “every year.”

The nurse caught my eye and bit down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. I was ready to burst but we both managed to retain our professional demeanor just long enough to escape the room.

Fortunately there was no serious injury and Janet came back to camp that evening with stories to tell. I had a different story to share!

Motorcycle Riding

My father had a real love for cars and motor cycles which incidentally, is not shared by either my sister or me. He especially loved car rallies. If you have never been on a rally in England you haven’t lived! These were similar to paper chases but often lasted 2 or 3 days and nights and were complex enough that some competitors became so lost and disoriented that search parties were sent out to find them, once the time limit had been exceeded by 12 hours or so. The object was to navigate the smallest roads and back lanes to pick up clues and arrive at the various check-points within the allotted time allowance. The planners made sure you could do this without excessive speed but once a competitor became lost or missed a clue then time had to be made up. This necessitated driving at break-neck speed in the pitch dark on narrow lanes. More than once my father ended up in a river and on one occasion, came face to face with a famer pointing a loaded shotgun at him. Apparently he wasn’t the first to miss a bend in the road landing him in the farmer’s front yard at 3:00am.

As kids we went on some of the day rallies and they were fun. My father would drive and my mother would navigate. Just listening to the pair of them disputing the directions was sport enough.

Motorcycles were his first love, however. On occasion my father would go to a race track with a couple of chums but more often it would be a family outing to a motocross in a field or a hill climb through the woods in some obscure place. Off we would go with a picnic basket, raincoats and wellington boots for a day of ‘excitement’. Once parked we would traipse through the mud, find the best vantage point and watch the bikes and riders as they slid around in the mire. It got old very quickly for me but my father never tired of this activity.

In spite of, or maybe because of this upbringing, I joined the Middle-Age Motorcycle Club back in the 60’s. I was far too young for it, I might add, but a friend lent me a small woods bike and, with minimal instruction I followed the group of 6 or 8 men and women into the woods. It was so much fun although somewhat reckless, now that I look back on it.

One warm, Sunday afternoon the group stopped at our local pub for a cold one after a particularly taxing ride. On leaving the establishment we had to enter a busy road. In turn we lined up on a slight incline and waited for a break in the traffic. When my turn came my inexperience became obvious to all who watched. After stalling on my first two attempts, I saw my opportunity, pulled back on the throttle, popped the clutch and stood my bike on its back wheel! I cleared the road in a wheelie that would have impressed Evil Knievel. Across the road was a gravel parking lot where I landed reasonably unscathed although not on my wheels.

That little exhibition stopped traffic and also brought the inhabitants of the pub running to pick up the pieces. They dusted me off and sent me on my way with only minor damage to the bike but major damage to the ego. Although I didn’t know it at that moment, one of those rescuers was to become my husband of 38 years and counting.

Motorcycles are still not my thing and my helmet has been hung up for a number of years but if I hadn’t thrown my leg over that bike on that day, my man for life might have slipped away.

Back in the Groove

I have been absent from my blog writing for far too long and have no real excuses other than it slipped in my list of priorities. More pressing items had jumped to the top of the list but I am about to correct that.

Helping to set up a new office has taken much of my time over the last couple of months. Now happily ensconced on Main Street in Stowe with my trusty Lily by my side and back up to speed on daily real estate needs, I am ready to write again.

Lily is a one year old Yorkshire terrier barely 6 pounds in weight but with the stamina and tenaciousness of one much larger. She will approach any man or beast with a wiggling body ready to lay kisses all over the poor unsuspecting recipient’s face. Then the wanton little hussy rolls on her back with legs spread wide for a tummy scratch.

Lily gets plenty of exercise running and playing with our other dog, Chief and taking long walks in the woods with us in the mornings. During the day there are quick trips down Main Street to the bank, where she performs her party tricks for biscuits, and to the recreation path for strolls between client appointments. While in the office she naps hard and often goes unnoticed. Quite the perfect little dog!

Those of you who have ever owned or known a terrier also know the mischievous side that they all possess. They can’t help themselves. Very smart and trainable for sure, but only to a point. This week two events have come into Lily’s life that have caused her much consternation.

Some critter it appears, probably a fox, takes his evening walk through the fields and noses around the barn for signs of mice. The scent left behind is so powerful to small terriers, although undetectable to humans, so as to send her into a tizzy of yelping and tracking and no amount of whistling, calling, imploring or the offer of treats makes a blind bit of difference. She is gone! Eventually she comes back of her own accord but this is not acceptable behavior.

The second event is the acquiring of a bunny by the neighbors. They rescued this domesticated version and now keep it in a cage close to their house. Lily discovered it quite by chance and now cannot get it out of her mind. Rabbits are supposed to live in burrows in the ground and terriers were bred to find and remove them.

So now we are faced with a dilemma. How do we give Lily and Chief the freedom to explore our fields and woods but not everyone else’s? Hence the invisible fence. We have had one in place for several years that has always worked well for Chief. So well in fact that most of the time he didn’t have to wear his collar to respect the line. A reminder now and again was all he needed. Lily is so tiny that I have been hesitant to shock that little body even once for fear it will kill her. The vet and the manufacturer have assured me that the smallest collar they make is for dogs her size and shouldn’t harm her. The collar is on order and should arrive any day. Lily’s antics will be curbed sooner or later just as long as my stamina and tenaciousness outlast hers!

I’ll let you know who the winner is just as soon as it has been determined. Don’t hold your breathe!

More from Russia

My previous blog detailed my journey to and from Russia but the excitement didn’t end there. The whole trip was one adventure after another. While in Moscow our group of Camp Directors was heavily supervised by the government allowing us access to only what they wanted us to see. They held our passports and travel documents and planned our every move. We were bused from one event to another but couldn’t avoid noticing, as each day lengthened that the number of business men staggering along the streets increased rapidly. As many of them left work they stopped at kiosks for a shot or two or more of vodka. Some were falling down drunk while others made it to the train stations and eventually, home. It was November and there was snow on the ground causing me to wonder if any were ever frozen in place in their suits. It was very depressing.

Our excursions included visits to schools where we were treated like royalty. Students performed for us: dancing, singing and gymnastics at levels far beyond what we were accustomed to for the particular age group. And there was always food. Plates piled high with salami-type meats and other unrecognizable items were pressed on us. Before I wised up, I struggled to make a good showing of cleaning my plate only to have another and another course follow. It was not advisable to decline, I discovered, but painful to soldier on.

The evenings were also planned for us; one night, a visit to the Moscow Circus and another to the Ballet. At the circus, our guide produced tickets for the group but the large female at the door wouldn’t even look at them. She was yelling and gesturing for us to leave. Our guide took up the challenge and the two went at each other for several minutes until suddenly she threw up her hands and stepped aside. Even our guide couldn’t explain it. After a stunning performance we joined the throng to leave and found ourselves tightly massed together and headed for the one door that was unlocked. You hear about people being trampled to death as crowds surge forward in semi panic. I was in full panic mode. Hands were shoving me from behind and yet the wall of people in front was barely moving. At one point I was no longer perpendicular and was unable to regain my balance but luckily there was no room to fall. Somehow we made it out.

Some of our group was taking a side trip to St Petersburg and I wished I had made this plan in advance. An older couple from Mississippi had befriended me and absolutely insisted that I travel with them. Before I could say perestroika the arrangements had been made and we were on our way to the station to catch the overnight train. Since my ticket was booked separately I was assigned to a compartment many carriages away from my friends. It was very small with two sets of double bunks and barely enough room for me to maneuver onto the top one. Once there, the heat was suffocating. My companions, two men and one woman, Russian-speaking only, were unfazed and quickly bedded down. The porter came by to offer sheets, a wonderful improvement on the vinyl covered mattresses, at the daunting price of 12 cents. That was a no-brainer. It was only later that I found out that my ticket cost only $3. For $12 I could have had the compartment to myself!

We arrived at first light, spilling out onto the platform already packed with people. My discomfort from the sleeping arrangement was nothing compared to the panic that seized me when I recognized not one soul. Remember, my passport, travel documents and even my return plane ticket was still in Moscow with the authorities. Stupid! I can’t speak the language and didn’t have a clue what I would do next. With that, a hand took my arm and steered me towards my friends …it was our wonderful guide to the rescue.

The plan that day was to visit a children’s camp in the far reaches of the steppes many miles out of the city. The others in my group had no intention of going as time was short and the city had so much to offer. We toured the summer palace of Tsar Peter where my Mississippi friend’s grandmother had been born. It was quite emotional for her as she explained that her great grandfather had been the ambassador to Russia and he and his wife had been graciously invited to stay there for the birth of their child.

Next was a mandatory visit to the Mayor’s office. Many Russian women over the age of 40 are quite large in girth. Some are large all over. And so it was with the Major. She greeted us in her office through an interpreter, produced tea and cakes and gave us our orders for the camp visit. As we explained that we really didn’t have time for this overnight trip and would much rather enjoy her city, her color rose and her stature grew. There was absolutely no discussion – the group was going. All except me. I was to return to Moscow that night on the train in order to catch my flight back to the US the next morning.

A nice young man was dispatched to accompany me for the rest of the day and make sure I returned to Moscow as planned. So there I was completely alone in a very foreign city with a guide who spoke no English. Our only form of communication was gestures with an odd French word thrown in. It was going to be a long afternoon and evening. Somehow I conveyed that I would really like to go the Hermitage, one of the finest art museums in the world. It is magnificent – floor after floor or masterpieces and almost no one there. My guide clung to me, afraid for his life if he lost me, as we wandered from room to room.

Our next stop was a tall office building where I was seated in the lobby while my guide disappeared into the elevator. It seems he had to pick up my train ticket. Don’t ask why it was there. We then sat together for dinner and to kill several hours before it was time to leave. I was actually looking forward to getting back into that stuffy train compartment for another night.

It was still dark when we arrived in Moscow and I had no idea what was to happen next. What if there was no one to meet me? How would I ever join up with those who held my passport and ticket home? Once again there was just enough time to hyperventilate and then, like magic, a familiar face appeared and scooped me up. We rushed to the airport where I was reunited with a couple of my earlier companions for our flight home. And I thought the worst was over!

If you haven’t already read my previous blog - read on.