My heart is breaking today. St. John, my favourite island in the world, has endured a brutal battering by Hurricane Irma. I wrote the following article about a week before the storm, after my stay there in July. That was probably my ninth visit to St. John over the years, and I fall a little more in love with it every time I go.
I know it’s a changed place now, and this article will need, shall we say, a LOT of updating as the situation on St. John becomes more clear. But to quote Chris B Pye, one of the residents whose posts I’ve been following on Facebook, “So far everything I’ve seen and heard, the people here are fine. That’s the most important thing. The rest is just stuff, and stuff can be replaced.”
These folks are a resilient bunch, and they will pull together to help each other through the worst. They don’t call St. John “Love City” for nothing!
But they urgently need all the help they can get. At the end of this article, you’ll find more information about how you can donate funds or volunteer, as well as sites where you can search for news of friends and loved ones in the path of the hurricane.
I’m posting the story below, with photos from my previous visits, as a salute to the people of St. John, and to the island that has lured me with its siren call again and again. Read on to discover why I will be back…and why so many who visit here choose to never leave.
Some sojourns seem designed specifically for 21st Century social media consumption. Duck-lipped selfie with the Mona Lisa? Mais, bien sûr! Piccie of the Leaning Tower of Pisa supported by one carefully placed finger? Perfecto. Instagram of an Egyptian pyramid in the palm of your hand? Absolutely.
Then there are those rare holiday havens that feel less like fleeting, frenzied snap-and-go destinations… and more like destiny. The most magical places aren’t about bagging bragging rights; they’re about feeding a hungry hole in your soul.
On my way to breakfast my first morning at St. John’s Caneel Bay resort, I pass several wide-eyed deer, an iguana basking in the sultry Caribbean sun, and a herd of donkeys, casually scratching their backsides on the trunks of palm trees. But something’s missing here. There’s not another human being in sight.
Just as a vague sense of panic sets in—have I missed the Rapture?—I near the waterfront breakfast pavilion, where I catch a reassuring whiff of bacon. So unless Noah’s menagerie has learned to use opposable thumbs and toss a skillet—or a wayward boar has spent too much time tanning in the sun–I’m relatively certain there are at least a few lost souls lingering about.
If a haven of such solitude seems improbable in the ever-popular Caribbean, consider this. More than half of St. John is devoted to national parklands, making it arguably the wildest and most pristine of the U.S. Virgin Islands.
St. John encompasses only two actual towns: Coral Bay, a quiet crossroads centered around a harbor where sailboats bob in sapphire-blue waters, and its brasher, bolder sister, Cruz Bay. Yet even Cruz Bay, the main port, hardly signifies as a big city, with free-range hens shepherding their chicks along a spaghetti-like labyrinth of roads.
But don’t imagine for a minute that being swaddled in the bosom of Mother Nature is boring—because this hot mama also knows how to party. I’ve visited more than half a dozen times in ten years, and I’ve always found something new to entertain me.
Read on to discover the best bars, beaches, snorkeling spots, and hotels that St. John has to offer. (more…)
I’m not even halfway up Gros Piton, the taller of St. Lucia’s signature twin peaks, and I’m already starting to perspire from places where I didn’t even know I had pores. My shins. My elbows. My earlobes.
It’s an inauspicious start to what I’ve dubbed my “Surf and Turf” tour of St. Lucia, a lush 238-square-mile isle in the West Indies’ Lesser Antilles. Over the course of a week, I plan to scale the 2,619-foot summit of Gros Piton, scuba dive along the coral reefs, and horseback ride through the waves. But at this moment, my body is screaming, “Abort! Abort!”
“Please tell me this is the steep part,” I gasp, scrambling up yet another massive pile of rocks behind my guide, Chad William, a lean, taciturn man with a sparse, bushy beard. “If not, just lie to me, man,” I implore him. “Keep hope alive.”
Hailing from the tiny village of Fond Gens Libres, founded at the foot of the mountain by freed slaves more than 200 years ago, William hardly breaks a sweat as he negotiates the trail, which was carved centuries ago by villagers seeking high ground as the invading British threatened to capture and re-enslave them.
But it’s not just the mountain’s historical relevance that has brought me here today. It’s the promise of unparalleled panoramas.
Peter Island, BVI–Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me. As Johnny Depp so convincingly depicted in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” films, there was an undeniable allure to the life of those seafaring swashbucklers in centuries past: the freedom, the adventure, the really cool clothes.
Sure, there was a downside. It was a cut-throat profession (har!), and there was always the chance you might be doomed to sail the ocean forever as one of the insatiable undead, like the crew of Jack Sparrow’s ship–or in a far more likely scenario, be abandoned on a lonely spit of land.
Pirates poetically dubbed the latter punishment “being made governor of your own island.” But, as I’ve discovered, that’s not such a terrible fate after all–if you happen to be marooned on Peter Island. (more…)