Yes, it really is called Drunk Bay.  And it’s arguably the wildest, waviest, rockiest beach on St. John.  Hardly anybody goes there.  It’s a long walk.  Gets real hot.  Swimming is impossible.  Ain’t no bar.  But visual grandeur and surprises?  Guaranteed.  The latest trend (and surprise) seems to be making coral humanoids.  

Here are a few.  To meet more, visit my flickr page...

What do you do with a drunken (coral) sailor?

She likes to tan in the nude (and needs sunscreen).

He should have read the fine print on the Viagra label.

Spaghetti dinner with friends was fun, but nobody wanted to stay up to see the years collide. Except the kids, of course. But they need sleep. I don’t. So by 11, this modest house party was over and there wasn’t an awake soul around me.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! In coral! In Coral Bay, USVI.

I’ve never missed a NY midnight, yet hitting the hay became my decision. I was nearly horizontal. But then the church bells started ringing…

“Come to church!”

Oh yeah! I remembered. The Moravian Church just across the bay holds NYE service at 11—and rings bells like crazy at midnight. They sing and sing and then shake hands and wish each other Happy New Year with smiles of contagious hope.

So my clothes came back on, and I headed out the door. I was late to church, but God don’t mind. And neither do Moravians. Once in the classic old structure, I was clueless about which hymnal or page to follow—and not being a Moravian, that happened a lot.

The Moravian Church has been there for many, many New Years Eves.

But not to worry: A parishioner would appear—head bobbing and voice booming—from beside or behind and hand me the right book and get me on the same page.

All singing was a cappella—no piano, organ, no guitars. Just loud, proud voices echoing through this gorgeous old sanctuary. A church like this thinks nothing of hymns with 12 verses and a chorus each time between them. The lyrics were all about starting anew, the passage of time, faith and renewal.

Repeat! Repeat! Until you believe!

In between hymns, the pastor might say a few things in Christian Island Patois. Through his words, through wide-open windows, two live bands—one reggae and one classic rock—came crashing in like noisy (but not uninvited) guests.

"This better not end up on some stupid blog!" they said.

“Legalize It!” “Tumbling Dice!” “Suzy Q!”

We must sing louder to drown all that out!

At midnight, hoots and howls from the streets and bars joined a clamor of car horns, conch blasts, and fireworks. But nothing compared in sheer volume to the peeling of the bell we sat under in church. That thing must have rung hundreds of times, for five minutes or more.

The sound was glorious and made it impossible to think. Feel it! Listen! Resist the temptation to plug your ears!

One more hymn, and we received the benediction. May the Lord bless and keep you…lift his countenance upon you…and give you peace and prosperity fo’ the who’ yeah a-haid!  Amen Amen Amen!  

Church is out. A New Year begins. It’ll be just like starting over.

Then came gentle handshakes from folks age 3 to 103. The only other White person was a beaming, elderly lady with messy hair, a humped back, and a yellow rain slicker. A number of fellow worshippers kept hold of my hand and said,

“I’m glad you came tonight.”

So was I.

Unlike the island-bro many-moves handshakes (that’s so fun, but so macho), these grasps were simple, caring. And nobody worried about that pushy, dated, dress-for-success suggestion: Always assert a firm handshake.

Early January 1, 2009. A new day, and year, dawns.

On the way home, I stopped by to sing more, but now on to rock and reggae with fellow St. John sinners. “Work of Art” was thumping big backbeats at Skinny Legs while dressed-up natives and dressed-down locals rubbed shoulders with Yachty babes in black lace and their East Coast boyfriend bums in Polo shirts.

The bartender charged me half the usual price for my red wine and knocked twice on the well-worn wooden bar. I took communion.

Then on to Island Blues. Drunks danced with abandon and filled the air with smoke to the sounds of butchered Hendrix and Stones. One local cutie would soon have her choice between two tan men competing for her attention like the geckos here lazily joust over a bit of sugar.

I stayed till almost 2. The party had only begun. Happy New Year.

A private landing assures much untouched booty.

Focusing on fatherhood may be more natural and convenient when we’ve stepped away from our routines and out of (most) ruts. And for that, I’m grateful! Pursuing mutual passions like being on/in water and chasing nature also helps. Here was our strategy today. Perhaps when we’re back home again, we can find the same groove during fishing mornings, baseball afternoons, and bowling nights.

• Rent a 2-person kayak for a ½-day excursion.
• Pile on snorkel gear, lunch, bevvies, camera.
• Relax for a while; let Boy wander off, climb rocks, and collect sea treasures.

AllBoy seeks sea treasures on private beach.

• Paddle against the wind to a private beach cars can’t reach.
• Snorkel one hour around a steep peninsula through gi-normous swells.
• Return to beach, exhausted, for enthusiastic chat and lunch about ocean life.
• Search seashore for shells, coral, crab carcasses, and cool stuff.
• Take pictures and select a few perfect ones for Mom and Sis.
• Throw the rest back into the deep.

Corals, conchs, crab carcasses, critters: Incredible!

• Eat a candy bar and gather up the gear.
• Kayak back, watching for jumping fish, distant sailboats, and lobster traps.
• Let wind and waves carry you home while sun slips behind mountain.

As Vice President of Shirkery for makeyourbreakaway.com and 2 Heads, one of my top career–and continuing education–goals is to perfect the art and practice of leisure. And to pass it on. Fortunately, I’m not alone. There are even consultants like Alison Link whose job is to coach the leisure-challenged on how to find more fun and balance. Marci Alboher of the New York Times conducted an insightful interview with Ms. Link. Please read it–at your leisure, of course.

Sailing and leisure are good for you--and your career.

When conducting workshops or just chatting about Sabbaticals, I’ve been blown away by the number of people who want free time, but also proudly proclaim that they are workaholics.

When I ask, “What’s the closest thing you’ve had to a Sabbatical?” the answers range from bar-hopping to an hour of gardening to maternity leave. Tough crowd. It’s not easy to inspire such un-slacking un-seekers. And yet Ms. Link validates that the value of leisure can be found in small doses:

Leisure has many different definitions — some involving time, some relating to an activity being done, some relating to state of mind. Personally, I am most at leisure when I feel free, present and integrated. I like this definition for myself because it allows me to experience leisure at any moment, even in just a few minutes.” 

Knowing that so many people see the world through “What do you do?” glasses, Ms. Link also asserts that leisure deserves an elevated place in one’s self-perception:

Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t define ourselves by our work? It should be just as valid to define ourselves by our leisure.” 

Even the pelican knows to take flight from his work.

And finally, my favorite suggestion (and the genesis behind this website) is that leisure is worth planning for. It may not just happen. Work usually does, oddly enough. But whether it’s bowling night or pottery lessons or taking a year off, you need to sketch and scheme to make leisure work for you.

We need to plan for leisure — perhaps by doing one small thing every day, identifying long- and short-term leisure goals, putting enjoyable activities on the calendar — like we do other aspects of life.” 

Thanks, Ms. Link, for helping us see the leisure light. When people feel more free and at ease, they help make the world a better place. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go cram for an upcoming Leisure Studies exam. Because believe it or not,

I’ve been shirking the completion of my own Masters in Leisure Studies for most of my adult life…*

* Actually, I do hold a MALS degree from Hamline University in St. Paul. While it actually stands for Master of Arts in Liberal Studies, it took me nine years to complete the dang thing–and to realize that it does NOT stand for Masters in Leisure Studies.

When on Sabbatical, expect many surprises—not always good. You can BreakAway. But you can’t run away from the Bad Thing. Moreover, you may unknowingly step out of the comfort zone and into the danger zone. So remember this 5-word mantra: I knew this might happen. Repeat. Breathe deep.

CurlyGirl has had two strikes already on this trip: a bee sting on the deck and fire ants in her pants in the parking lot of a restaurant. But today she struck out, got beaned, got ejected from the game, AND sent us all into extra innings in the ER. A smashed finger in a heavy door can do that. It can ruin your day—maybe more. Even if you’re a comeback kid.

When S*#@ hits the fan, I like to envision the WCS (worst case scenario). Deal with that first. In this case, death seems unlikely. Surgery? Possibly. But we might still make our plane to St. Vincent next Sunday. Guitar heroine-ism may be compromised, but there’s always piano.

Still, I hate emergency wards. Who doesn’t? The good news is that, so far, (as we say in Minnesota), it could be worse. Today’s long day—one that went according to no plan—went something like this.

• 10:40.  I leave house to go pick up friends B&E, who arrived from NYC last night but are carless (thanks to car-rental overbookings and incompetence), in a house atop Bordeaux Mountain. We are all planning to go to Maho Bay beach for the day. Coolers and gear are packed. Snorkeling and Red Stripe await.
• 10:45. As I pull out of the driveway, CurlyGirl screams and AllBoy comes rushing out the door. She has caught her hand in the heavy door. The winds are strong; her hand is small. Partner comes out to help. I leave post-haste as drama unfolds, convinced that this is just sibling stuff.
• 10:55. Atop Bordeaux Mountain, I can’t get to B&E’s house, because construction vehicles are in my way. I negotiate with Guys who move heavy machinery. Then back down the steep hill to B&E’s house—a death-defying act in its own right. I’m loving it.
• 10:58. Mom E is waving and yelling from their house as I try to get there. I wave back. I am calm. Navigating steep, pot-holey hills and fresh mud backward in 4WD. How cool is that?
• 11:01. I arrive. B&E’s 2 daughters greet me, concerned. I am told by the Adults that there is a Medical Emergency. CurlyGirl’s finger is cut open. I call home. Girl caught her finger in the door a SECOND time—after I left—when the wind slammed it shut again. This time: Serious. “I think the end might fall off,” Partner tells me in a very shaky voice.
• 11:05. Phones stop working. We try them all—landline, 2 cels. I must get home. I suggest that B&E and 2 daughters come with me, or they’re stuck atop the Mtn all day. They pile in.
• 11:12. I drop the Family at the bottom. Head home, up the other side of the hill. Partner greets me, in near panic. Blood is everywhere. This is unusual. I take a look. Indeed, middle finger is “dangling at the tip; might fall off.” CurlyGirl’s shock symptoms on the couch (watching “Tinkerbell”) suggest this is serious. No movement. Pupils dilated. Shallow breathing. Even AllBoy looks shocked.
• 11:15. Phones are working again and calls are made to the local medical practice. Dr. C (we go way back) explains that his clinic is closed (it is Saturday, after all) and the ER is probably the best option. Though they have no X-rays. Yet on-call doctor is credible and does mastery stitchery work, if needed. Good to know.
• 11:18. Strap Self and Partner and Boy and Girl in car. Head back down the hill. Drop Boy with Family B&E, who get to beach via temporary use of Crusty Jeep.
• 11:20. Girl and Partner ride in back seat. I put on music in vehicle. Children’s Pain Killer begins to take effect. Visions of St. Thomas surgery rooms dance in my head. “I knew this might happen…”

No BreakAway is complete without a visit (or 2) to the clinic.

• 11:40. Arrive at St. John’s Only Clinic. Nurse and doctor are awaiting, though it’s doctor’s day off. Impressive. They take us straight to a room, hand me paperwork. They schmooze the patient, who does NOT want them to remove the bandage. Much loud crying.
• 11:45. They unwrap bandage. Girl screams bloody murder…for next 20 minutes or so. They gradually wash, dab, fondle, pick, probe, confab, and ponder.
• 12:05. Dr. explains that the cut is severe, nearly through the finger. Straight through middle of the fingernail. They could remove fingernail, but that would hurt more—and nail may act to hold finger together. Don’t know if bone is broken or crushed. Don’t have X-rays. Can only wrap tight and hope it holds.
• 12:10.   They rewrap the finger, to the sounds of Girl screaming and thrashing. It takes 2 parents to hold her down. I show her pictures of rock stars and bad ads in Rolling Stone magazine to try to distract. It works, at times. She likes Brad Pitt. Yells NONONO when I suggest I grow a mustache, beard, long hair.
• 12:15. Dr. pulls me aside for a pep talk and discharge marching orders. Finger too small to do stitches, splint, surgery. Let’s just hope. (Smile, shrug of shoulders.) No swimming til at least Tuesday—no ocean, pools, water. Tap water here is NOT good. Wash with bottled water. Use disinfectant. Rewrap daily. Try “liquid band-aid” first times in water next week, but know that stuff stings. (I’ve never heard of it.)
• 12:17. If fever or green pus, bring in immediately. Know that infections are more common and severe down here. Even the air has germs.
• 12:20. More paperwork. Sign off; copy insurance card. No cost. Doctor leaves.
• 12:22. We exit. Head to downtown Cruz Bay to buy medical supplies as suggested, pick up some seafood to cook for dinner, and find B&E a rental car using old contacts.
• 2:30. Supplies are in hand. As is fresh tuna, salmon, London Broil, and prawns. Car procured after much drama with old ‘friends’ at local car rental joint (owner will rent his own jeep and drive his beater). I stay in Cruz Bay to wait for B, ensure closure on the rental car deal, and drive Crusty Jeep back to Coral Bay.
• 4:00. Home. Start chopping vegetables and cooking. Good therapy. Never mind that the knives here are sharp and I cut my middle finger…
• 5:55. CurlyGirl is strong. Her parents are spent. Dinner is served (the first course).
• 10:55. Dinner is over. Children’s painkiller is served (again). Step outside to thank the stars and repeat: 

“I knew this might happen.”

• 11:55. Retire.

Untraditional Christmas cactus in full bloom.

“Traditional” does not describe this Christmas Day. But meaningful? Oh yes. Going somewhere new forces you to see things in a new way, while also making memories more alive and vivid.  Folks not here—family and friends—seem closer. Christmas is a feeling. A hope. A light in the dark. 

The stars are brighter down here. You just can’t stop yourself from staring at them. Could wise men 2,000 years ago have seen something up there? Why not? What’s left if you don’t believe in something? Faith is never blind. Without it, I wouldn’t be here.  On this BreakAway.  On this island.  

On the more secular side of things, Santa paid a visit and left some modest booty for giddy kids. My family spent a glorious day on the beach, living in the light. The feast made us all happy as kings. And steel drum bands from V.I. schools proudly strutted their Christmas-carol stuff on public TV.

I opened not one gift. And I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Peace.

Annaberg Plantation ruins rock.  The National Park Service has a big challenge maintaining all their holdings, but they’ve kept this treasure from going to ruin.  With a view of the Sir Francis Drake Channel (great sailing!) and Tortolla (great daytrip!), there’s a lot to go right.  Today was a treat for the camera.  Beaches and vistas offer not so much to focus on.  But here?  A sea of plenty.

Annaberg Sugar Ruins: A sweet slice of history.

T’was a pleasure to be here on BreakAway, on a more leisurely pace.  Rather than rushing through this requisite stop, we were able to wander, ponder, and linger.  What a great day for home-schooling.  This temporary teacher was able to mostly shut up and let the sights and stories speak for themselves.  

For about 100 years until 1848, this island grew tons of sugar cane on 75% of its land.  That fact is hard to digest–because the terrain here is rough, rocky, and steep.  But even harder to ponder is that the peak population then was shy of 2,500.  1,000 Danes, and 2,500 slaves.  Clearly, everybody worked long and hard and in nasty conditions.  

A Rocky Proposition:  Faraway Farming on Precipitous Mountains

When the bottom fell out for their crops–most of which had been shipped back to Europe–they shut down the sugar mills and freed the slaves.  Most Danes went back home, but some stayed on in what was then called “The Danish West Indies,” and have generations still here.  Heck, there were Danish-speaking visitors touring the site on this day.  

Walls with stone, coral, and shells remain popular.

Since my own lineage is 50% Danish, I enjoy getting in touch with this rare heritage connection.  The streets and sites still host Dane names; “bergs” and “steds” are everywhere.  Heck, even the native patois still holds Danish language and lilt–along with African, English, and more.  As local leader and legend (now 90-something), Guy Benjamin, once said to me with a smile, “We were Danes here once too, you know!”

As for the slaves, most were given a piece of land, and most stayed.  Many descendants still live here, are regarded as the native settlers, and hold what are now sometimes valuable expanses of property.  Some post-slavery anger and edge carries on, to be sure.  But the vast majority are kind, proud folks.  Their traditions live on in the schools, churches, festivals, and daily life.  

It's impossible to envision farming by hand here.

St. John Becomes a National Park

Although there’s virtually no farming today, at least 75% of the land remains natural and raw–thanks to the Rockefeller family.  They bought up that land from Denmark, saved one pristine, rare flat slice (with seven small beaches) to create the famous “Rock Resort,” Caneel Bay.  Then, in 1956, they gave the rest to the U.S. National Parks.  We can’t thank them enough.  

That pristine treasure is what makes this island so singular.  Most beaches are public with NO development.  There are only two resorts and just a handful of condos.  You can find groomed hikes, decent facilities, and even an underwater snorkel trail.  Best of all, you can find countless places and be completely alone in untouched Caribbean wilderness.  

Like this purple succulent plant, the past lives on...

Dozens of ruins are still diligently maintained throughout St. John.  But Annaberg is the largest, most popular, and most storied.  A trip there helps put the puzzles of the past together, while also providing breathtaking beauty, awe, and perhaps a few ghosts.

As part of their efforts to bring the past into the present, the Annaberg Ruins host local artisans to demonstrate island crafts several days a week.  The day of our visit, a master gardener took us on a tour of a perfectly maintained plot.  And atop the hill, an old-school chef treated us to fresh johnnycake.  

Bananas, Bay Leaf & Ripe Guava

Of many tastes offered, the sweetest was sugar cane!

It’s not easy maintaining a garden on St. John.  With rocky soil, a long dry season, and steep hills, it takes a patient and persistent master gardener to bring fruits to hard labor.  There are some, though, including the gentleman who helps keep Annaberg in bloom.  The garden there includes papaya, bananas, guava, and mango trees.  And lower on the ground, many herbs like bay leaf (“smells like Old Spice after shave”) and lemon basil flourish.  

There was plenty to taste, including the herbs and sweet guava.  But best of all (especially for the kids) was sliced up stalks of sugar cane.  “You can chew and suck it, but don’t eat it!”  

Fresh Johnnycake Cooked in a Hot-Coal Pot

The chef served up a delicious taste of tradition.

Johnnycake is a local delicacy–a sweet, flat bread that can be cooked or fried.  Our chef prefers to bake it, and the warm, crumbly samples were so delicious I’d not change a thing.  Hot-coal cooking is still popular with locals, perhaps to keep the heat outside the house.  Light coals, spread them out, and then place a large cast-iron pot over it.  You can cook most anything in there, from stews to fritters to, of course, johnnycake.  

This chef added the extra step of putting a cover full of hot coals on top of the pot.  That way, the heat comes from all directions–and makes for a nice, crispy crust.

Yep, there are wild donkeys on St. John. They’re not that wild, actually, and sometimes look lazier than statues. But they’re feral. And even though most tourists are tempted, it’s best not to to feed them. Or pet them. Or even get close. They’re aggressive and have bad breath.

Beware the feral donkeys, and their do-do.

Why are they here? Like so many locals, they arrived long ago and got stuck.  Like being on island time. Not that donkeys have anywhere else to go.  

Most folks say they were used for farming—way back in the 1700s and 1800s, when 75% of this hilly place grew sugar and spices for shipping back to Denmark.

Nowadays, they mostly harangue tourists, nosh on dumpster chow, chomp on landscaping, and have loud sex in the middle of the night. (While two procreate, the others cheer them on.)

They’re not entirely useless. Local “bush doctors” watch them for clues on what bark they chew on when arthritis sets in. St. Croix (USVI) requested and imported some for their own local color. And one enterprising US escapee used to offer rides on a tame one to gullible vacationers.

She went out of business and moved back to New Jersey. As for the donkeys, they’re still here, providing an moving-target driving hazard and making asses of themselves.

Call me crazy. Call me foolish. But I could stare at the sea, sunflakes, and sailboats till bedtime. That’s why I’m here.

Staring at the sea...even better than TV.

And although the digitalia get plenty of action in my posse, the TV has yet to turn on–I’m pleased to say. Yet that’s not the norm. And the attraction and addiction to screens shows no sign of abating…

• 30 Percentage of in-home online activity that takes place while simultaneously watching TV.
• Source: Nielsen Media Research