Chapter 2
At Road Town, Tortola, The Freedom of the Ocean is now safely docked in the harbour and no one has wasted any time getting onto dry land. Ethan has wasted no time either in securing a small boat to take us – just the two of us – on what he describes as a romantic voyage of discovery. So, I’m now standing on a wooden jetty in a very busy part of the marina, with my cell phone firmly clamped to my ear, while I’m trying to reach my family back home.
Ethan is chatting to a very distinguished looking man who is wearing a linen suit and a panama hat. I’m casting my eyes over some incredibly impressive yachts and catamarans in what is known as the boating capital of the Caribbean, and as I can already feel my long wavy hair becoming even crazier in this ridiculous humidity, I’m regretting not bringing along a hat myself. I’m already perspiring profusely in my white cotton shirt and shorts that I’m wearing over my swimsuit. The tops of my flip-flopped feet are being scorched by the hot morning sunshine.
I watch the two men gesticulate over a very sleek looking motor boat. It’s expensive looking with white padded seats and two powerful outboard engines and I can’t help but to wonder why, when I have a full signal on my phone for the first time in absolutely ages, is no one answering my calls? I then realise 10am here is 2pm in London. My boys will be at work and my mum will no doubt still be at her afternoon pensioner’s bingo session.
Then I see Ethan and the distinguished looking man shaking hands and there is a set of keys being handed over. Suddenly he is waving at me with great enthusiasm. ‘Okay, Lori. Let’s go!’
I dash over to untie the mooring rope from the cleat and jump into the boat that Ethan has procured. We set off into the sparkling sunshine and soon made good progress through the stretch of water between the islands that is known as the Sir Frances Drake Channel. As we leave the harbour and the bay, I can clearly see the verdant shapes of the larger islands across the straights from us. In the far distance there is Norman Island, said to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s book Treasure Island, and Peter Island, with its broad curve of white sand beaches and exclusive high-class hotel resort.
I do know a little about the Virgin Islands from my own days as a travel agent. Many moons ago, while I was also a housewife and mother bringing up two little boys, my ex-husband and I had our own very successful travel business. Only, in those days, I used to plan other people’s adventurous itineraries and could have only dreamed of the life I have now.
The Virgin Islands are split into American and British territories. The largest of the British owned islands is Tortola. The second largest is Anegada - also called Drowned Island - as it’s flat and low lying and often flooded by high tides. Although, I know next to nothing about the smaller islands except that there are lots of them – over fifty – and that’s just in the British Virgin Islands or BVIs as everyone calls them for short.
I point a finger across the straights towards a small islet. ‘I know those are Salt and Cooper and Ginger Island, but do you know what that little round one with no trees on it is called?’
‘Aye. That’s Dead Chest Island.’ Ethan answered. ‘There’s nothing growing on it because there’s no freshwater. It’s where Blackbeard the pirate once abandoned fifteen of his crewmen with one keg of rum and a pistol with one shot between them. I suppose he’d assumed they’d all get drunk and then fight over the pistol to commit suicide.’
‘Couldn’t they have just all swam over to Peter Island instead?’ I asked, thinking it didn’t look too far away.
‘It looks close enough but there are dangerous currents between the islands. The story is that they did all try to swim for it but only one of them made it. That’s why there’s a Dead Man’s Bay on Peter Island.’ He remarked.
I stared over at Dead Chest Island and tried to imagine the horror of being stuck in a place where nowhere actually looked too far away and yet everywhere was impossible to reach.
Ethan then boldly opened the engines and began to heartily sing at the top of his voice.
‘Fifteen men on the Dead Man’s Chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!’
I sat back and enjoyed the warm wind blowing through my hair and took in the dramatic shape of Virgin Gorda, the third largest island in the BVIs off our starboard or right side, looking like a giant woman reclining in the shimmering Caribbean heat.
We are heading towards the outer islands now. I know that some are still uninhabited, but others are now the exclusive hideaways of the rich and famous; rock stars, movie moguls and rich entrepreneurs. I decide to look out for Tom Cruise because I’m sure someone mentioned that he’d recently bought one of these outlying atolls.
Ethan saw me peering ahead with eagerness.
‘We’re heading northwest towards The Dogs,’ he informed me.
‘What kind of dogs are they?’ I asked cautiously, wondering if we’d needed rabies jabs.
Ethan laughed. ‘There are no dogs. It’s a group of islands named so because sailors once thought the barking they could hear came from dogs on the islands.’
‘And, if it wasn’t dogs, what was it?’
‘Caribbean Monk Seals,’ he clarified. ‘Sadly, they’re now extinct.’
He looked gloomy for a little while as he considered this awful loss.
We soon approached a group of five small rocky islets that made up The Dog Islands.
They looked wild and rugged against the calm deep blue of the surrounding sea.
‘Now we’re truly in virgin territory!’ Ethan proclaimed.
He sounded excited as he stood proudly at the helm, inhaling deeply, as if the air around here was purer too. ‘Many years ago, the sailors who came here thought this was the very end of the world, and they imagined the horizon line that you see now was the drop off point. All these islands around here are privately owned. But some are also protected wildlife sanctuaries for creatures that can be found nowhere else in the world. See that island up ahead?’
I peer through my sunshades at the shape of an irregular mound in the distance.
‘That’s Mosquito Island. It’s where I first learned to scuba dive. My instructor, Booty Bill, was known as the last pirate in the Caribbean. He was a real character. There’s so many rumours about him finding shipwrecks and treasure around here. No one ever really knew fact from fiction. When I first came here, at eighteen years old, Booty was like a father to me.’
Ethan sighed happily as he remembered those times.
‘He sounds like an amazing man. Is he still here? I’d love to meet him.’
‘No. He retired to Florida. But now, of course, Richard owns the island.’
‘Are you talking about Richard Branson?’ I gasped.
‘Aye, in 2007, he swiped Mosquito from under my nose for just twenty million.’
Ethan shook his head as if 2007 was just yesterday and twenty million was small change.
‘But I thought Richard Branson owned Necker Island?’
‘Aye,
