b o o z i n g u p t h e b v i

Editor’s note:
In the 25-year history of this magazine, we have assigned
hundreds of writers to report thousands of stories.
Beyond the occasional missed flight or mild case of reef rash,
each has returned unscathed. Until now. In retrospect,
pairing former editor in chief Bob Friel with the assignment
to “check out some beach bars in the British Virgin Islands”
may not have been the smartest move. Friel is a famously
exhaustive researcher on such topics. We might also have
reconsidered sending along several magazine employees to
document his quest, since according to our legal department,
we are now contractually obligated to repatriate their
bodies, should they ever be found. And maybe we shouldn’t
have given him a boat. Or at least not one so big. On these
pages, we have collected fragments of Friel’s reportage,
some sent in from a Hotmail account, others recovered from a
laptop found wedged, eco-unfriendily, into a brain coral off
Anegada. Other fragments, photos and evidence have been
made available by the U.S. State Department and Larry’s
Marine Salvage or are, as state’s evidence, public record.
This dossier represents all we know about …

Ghost Ship
T h e L a s t M o o r i n g o f t h e B o at o s a u r u s R e x

b y b o b f r i e l // p h o t o s b y z a c h s t o v a l l & j o n a t h a n w h i t t l e

7 2  73

C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
M a n n e d U p a n d V i c t u a ll e d
I’ve assembled a can-do crew — the best I
can do at short notice. I have abandoned
the names they used on the ship’s manifest
and address them by the nautical moni-
kers of Graybeard, Redbeard, Blackbeard
and Blondbeard, though nary a one could
raise a whisker if called upon. I, Salt-and-
Pepperbeard, have broken their wills with
landlubber libations poured into the wee,
wee hours this morning, and they move
slowly today, staring dead-eyed as the
harbor staff completes all the preparatory
heavy lifting. Boats arrive at and depart
from the marina like gleaming white bees
attending a hive. Monohulls and catama-
rans fill innumerable slips, but I muster the
crew at a gangway that ascends to the king
of charter boats: a 47-foot-long, 25-foot-
wide twin-dieseled, tri-air-conditioned
and quad-cabined behemoth that soars
above us three decks high. It is so new that
it has no name, so I christen it Boatosaurus
Rex. On this, we will ride to infamy.
Galley workers from the Moorings’
catering operation cram our larder with all
manner of pre-prepared chicken curries
and lasagnas on the off chance we’ll resort
to food. Our primary concern, though, is
the starter kit I’ve ordered to keep our
whistles well wet until we can find our first
suitable beach bar. When a team of long-
shoremen finally muscles several wheel-
barrows’ worth of rum and beer aboard, I
sign the beverage chit ($413.80 American),
humbly call upon the blessings of Neptune
and Bacchus and order the lines cast off
and the stereo cranked up. We sail.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
Drinks Ahoy
Sailors recommend journeying counter-
clockwise round the BVI due to prevailing
winds and tacking, or some such silliness.
Since Boatosaurus’ big engines mean we
needn’t bother about winds — and since
this crew is most definitely tackless — I
decide to go clockwise. This assures that we
will not run into embarrassing situations
on consecutive nights along our journey.
We steer southwest along the coast
of Tortola, with St. John, USVI, looming
74  75
b o o z i n g u p t h e b v i
I humbly call
upon the blessings
of Neptune and
Bacchus and order
the lines cast
off and the stereo
cranked up.
dead ahead and Blondbeard succumbing
to dance fever on the foredeck. Just before
we cross the watery border that separates
the two Virgin Islands, I turn and thread
between Steele Point and Great Thatch,
heading full throttle into open water, with
the hills of Jost Van Dyke rising to our
north like a mermaid’s come-hither hips.
Our first stop is Great Harbour. As we
idle into the anchorage, a series of helpful
sailboaters who see us approaching moor-
ing buoys close to them yell out that there
are “much better buoys” over yonder. We
motor back and forth across the bay, con-
tinually directed to other best buoys even
farther away, until I’m finally overcome
with thirst. So we stop in the middle of all
the sailboaters — whom I’m beginning to
suspect of perfidious snobbery when it
comes to powerboaters — and press a
button, sending our anchor and chain
rattling to the bottom and watching the
sailboats sway in the wake.
Due to his extensive small-engine
experience, I’ve anointed Redbeard din-
ghy master, though he keeps asking me
not to call him that in public. As he starts
the motor, the rest of us climb aboard
the inflatable rubber boat. Graybeard’s
the last one in and loses his balance. He
falls and hits the side of the boat like it’s
a trampoline, bouncing up over the heads
of Blackbeard and Blondbeard and landing
face first on the deck. Fortunately, he’s not
hurt, as several bags filled with expensive
camera gear cushion his fall.
Our inflatable safely tied to Great
Harbour’s dinghy dock, we make a beeline
for Foxy’s Bar. As I pass a rumpled pile
of clothes leaning against a stone wall,
it speaks: “Foxy ain’t here!” It’s himself,
chilling out after a long day spent fishing
to restock his restaurant with fresh catch.
I’ve known Foxy longer than I’ve known
Mrs. Capt. Salt-and-Pepperbeard, and he’s
a personal hero who, over the past 42 years,
has taken Foxy’s from a temporary rum
shack to the Caribbean’s most famous bar
— all the while enjoying one of the greatest
lives ever lived. In one of the first moves by
the British Empire I can’t argue with, the
queen recently named Foxy a member of
the Order of the British Empire.
Foxy sips his bottomless glass of red
wine and composes a song to immortalize
(and endorse) our inebriate expedition.
Not long after sunset, though, he slips away,
leaving us to studiously sample his micro-
brew beers and rum-infused drinks like
the Dread Fox, Sly Fox and Wreck on the
Rocks. As predictably happens only when
everyone in the crew is married or dating,
we find ourselves remarkably popular with
the ladies at Foxy’s. We drink and dance
long into the night, until finally a gentle-
man, presumably a sailor, approaches to
ask if we came to the Caribbean only to
dance with other men’s women. After that,
we dance with only his woman.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
O d e t o t h e P a i n k i ll e r
Our plan had been to record every drink
drunk on this trip, but once we got to
the 18th round last night, whoever was
supposed to keep count — we now can’t
even remember whom that was — gave
up. From the flying bridge, I attempt to
focus as the crew sluggishly retrieves the
anchor and we motor around the corner of
7 6  77
Jost Van Dyke to White Bay. Dead sailors
may go to Fiddler’s Green, but when
Caribbean rummies kick the bucket, they
go to a heavenly version of White Bay —
which is exactly like the earthly version,
only without the occasional boatload of
boutique cruise-ship passengers.
There are no dinghy docks at White Bay,
so Graybeard’s faced with a beach landing:
The rest of us jump into shallow water, tell-
ing him to stay on board until we’ve pulled
the boat onto the sand. He will have none of
that, though, and jumps out just as a swell
catches the dinghy. He falls flat, face first
7 8  79
into the shallows, where the dinghy mounts
him like a lovesick manatee.
On the beach, we slog through the
powder-soft sand, feeling each one of the
morning sun’s photons jab at our bodies.
The shade beneath the Soggy Dollar Bar’s
patio roof offers welcome relief. It’s only 9
a.m., but we’re professionals and this is a job,
so we order a round of Painkillers, born and
bred right here at the famous Soggy. Their
painkilling abilities prove extraordinary.
The cream of coconut, always laid on a little
thick at the Soggy Dollar, offers a smooth,
stomach-soothing taste. The pineapple and
orange juices replenish precious bodily
fluids, and the nutmeg works as a tradi-
tional detoxifier. And oh yeah, the rum gets
you buzzed again, which is really the only
true cure for a hangover. After two rounds,
the sun once again becomes our friend, and
we’re able to grab walkies and wander down
the beach to Ivan’s Stress Free Bar.
Another of Jost’s fortunate sons,
66-year-old Ivan Chinnery has run his
bar, restaurant and campground on the
quiet side of White Bay for 19 years. As we
relate our alcoholic quest to him over a
round of potent Bananawhackers, he nods
sagely. He’s not overly impressed with our
attempt to drink the BVI dry. He’s had
real legends belly up to his bar, including
the immortal god of all drinkers, Keith
Richards. We agree we cannot hold a
candle to Richards — and not just because
he would instantly burst into flames.
As we descend the hill that separates
the two sides of White Bay, we witness an
armada of booze-hungry boaters pouring
through the narrow cut in the reef. Some of
the best times you’ll find in the Caribbean
happen when you stumble upon the right
place at the right time for a local’s party day,
when the belongers and longtimers retake a
particularly cool spot from the tourists. And
in the Virgin Islands, that’s White Bay on a
Sunday. Along the beach, we meet fun- and
rum-seeking folks from the BVI’s Tortola
and Virgin Gorda and the USVI’s St. John
and St. Thomas. They anchor their boats
stern to the beach, then spend the entire
day wallowing in the warm water — some
zealously, perhaps romantically, attached to
their pool noodles — and taking turns stag-
gering through the sand for more drinks.
White Bay offers a poor overnight anchor-
age, but we couldn’t leave without a visit to
the One Love Bar, where Seddy Callwood,
like his fishing father, Foxy, supplies the
kitchen with all its fresh fish and lobster.
Seddy can sometimes be persuaded to do
magic tricks, while his wife’s Bushwhackers
magically make your sobriety disappear.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
B i tt e r , b i tt e r
From Cooper (more Painkillers), we
journey into the belly of the sailing beast:
Virgin Gorda’s North Sound and its Bitter
End Yacht Club. We warily head ashore,
but perhaps just to befuddle us, all the

sailorlike folk here are unfailingly helpful
and friendly. Though none of the Club’s
three watering holes are genuine beach
bars, they nonetheless carry a fine selec-
tion of rums (not that our abused palates
could tell the difference between an aged
Barbancourt and that blue stuff barbers
use to sterilize combs). Bitter End’s pub
also serves a mean shepherd’s pie, which
is well-known to be among the best of the
hangover cures that don’t include some
hair of the dog. It works, but barely.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
Cow-Wrecked
Boatosaurus gets to stretch its legs on the
15-mile crossing from Virgin Gorda to Ane-
gada — reassuringly called the Drowned
Island. As tempting as it is to punch the
coordinates into the boat’s autopilot and
then join the ’Beards for a breakfast of
Red Stripes, the fact that, over the years,
Anegada’s reefs and shoals have claimed
hundreds of ships keeps me obsessively
checking the charts. With Graybeard man-
ning the binoculars, we finally pick out the
channel markers and navigate our way to a
mooring in time for a rum brunch.
Anegada’s north shore is nearly all
beach, with two notable bars, Big Bamboo
and Cow Wreck Beach Bar. Big Bamboo, on
Loblolly Bay, has the slightly better beach —
though on this island, the fourth-best beach
is just about as good as it gets anyway — but
since this trip is all about the booze, we opt
for Cow Wreck, which offers the better bar.
How much rum does it take to wreck a cow?
Well, the bar goes even further with its spe-
cialty drink, the Cow Killer.
Back on board, it’s night four of the
Natural Selection Olympics, in which we
compete in a series of events that combine
prodigious amounts of alcohol with running
on slick decks and diving from great heights
into black water. At first we’re amazed that
no one has drowned, and then we realize
that replacing most of your blood with
ethanol makes it nearly impossible to sink
in seawater. The scoring so far includes one
chipped tooth, two cracked ribs and assorted
major contusions and abrasions, as well as
three flooded cameras, one pair of broken
sunglasses and a missing boat shoe.
8 0  81
b o o z i n g u p t h e b v i
all of our
potent practice
has led us to
the William
Thornton, the
Willy-T, an infamous
floating asylum.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
Boozin’ on the Big Island
Blondbeard and I disembark on Tortola to
reconnoiter some of the big island’s beach
bars. We limit ourselves to one piña colada
at each joint — of course, there are six bars
and drink shacks on Cane Garden Bay’s
iconic crescent of sand alone. Our favorite
colada of the trip, though, gets served up
at Smuggler’s Cove, a “secret” beach near
the western tip of the island that lies at
the end of a kidney-punching collection of
potholes strung together to impersonate
a road. It’s here that we kick off our shoes
and step back in time. Smuggler’s Cove is
an as-yet blissfully unde­veloped beach of
perfect sand, with water as clear as white
rum and a lively nearshore snorkeling
reef. The beach bars here are primordial,
consisting of battered coolers, rustic bar-
becues and card tables shaded by nothing
but coconut palms. So how do you get a
properly blended piña colada when you’re
totally off the grid? Our vendor of choice
operates her blender via a series of car
batteries wired together with a nest of
cables. Where there’s a will … voilà.
C a p ta i n ’ s L o g :
Ship - Faced
Capt. Salt-and-Pepperbeard’s first law of
inhibition states that there’s an inverse rela-
tionship between inhibition and distance
from the mainland. This accounts for why
Caribbean beach bars have a reputation
for prompting their customers to let their
hair down. It stands to reason, then, that
a bar untethered even from a small island
would foster an atmosphere of shockingly
low inhibitions. All of our training, all of our
potent practice, has led us to the William
Thornton, the Willy-T, an infamous float-
ing asylum of alcohol-fueled debauchery.
The suspense is palpable as we climb the
gangway at 9 p.m. — to find that we’re the
only ones aboard. The crew all but mutinies,
but I quickly placate them with rum.
We stagger forward two hours, still
with only our crew aboard the Willy-T:
Blackbeard lurches up to the bar, slaps
both hands down and says, “I demand to
see a manager, please — I believe we have
been overserved.” He then snorts, his eyes
roll into the back of his head, and he runs
full speed to the side of the boat and flings
himself over, giggling like a pigtailed hop-
scotcher until he hits the water in a full-on
belly-flop. Blackbeard was one of the most
reserved of the group. We are clearly crack-
ing under the pressure.
At some point, we find ourselves back
on the Boatosaurus, or at least that is where
we wake up with a troubling sense of ennui,
debilitating nausea and vision problems.
Cold beer takes care of the stomach and
eyesight, but nothing solves the attitude
problem until we decide to give the Willy-
T another chance to live up to its legend.
After a snorkeling foray, we return to the
Norman Island Bight and prepare to din-
ghy to the Willy. And there is the infamy we
seek. A crowd of sweat-glistened dancers
grinds around the boat’s fantail. Grown
men use roof supports as monkey bars,
landing, occasionally successfully, on the
slippery deck. A tan, toned and breathtak-
ingly limber young lady off a visiting boat
gleefully lays herself down on the bar,
significantly less clothed than is normally
called for, even in the islands. A bartender
readies a can of whipped cream, and (…) ✸