Post-Heineken Regatta – Prior’s Arrival – Setting off from St. Martin – Passage to St. Barth's – Ile Fourchue – Vaval – The Riviera of the Caribbean

After extensive provisioning and late night parties, with a large tab at the local Budget Marine to boot, our new crew pulled Polaris’ anchor from St. Martin’s safe albeit busy harbor, the Simpson Bay Lagoon, and set off for Marigot to clear customs.  We zipped to shore in the Little Dipper’s new and improved, sexy 15 horsepower Mercury two-stroke – which marked a significant status increase from struggling with the old 4-horse. 

Marigot seemed a ghost town compared with the raucous parties the Heineken Regatta displayed a week prior.  The customs office was no different.  The local official informed us, “It be closed far Carnival mon.”  In the Leeward Islands, where everyday seems to be a holiday, this was no exception – customs closed at noon.  Another day in St. Martin was just added.  Down here such setbacks are part of everyday life on island time.  After a leisurely cruise up the coast we caught sight of a beautiful secluded beach lined with palm trees and decided, “Let’s stop there!” Did I mention the easygoing part? 

The beach was ours for the night, and the setback proved to be an opportunity in disguise. Taking to shore with the essentials – rum and mixers – we stayed there for an amazing sunset.  After watching a ball of orange fire sink below the horizon, framed by silhouetted rock sculptures on the point, we moved back to the boat for a much needed night of relaxation and peace after a week of late nights, racing, and repairs. 

Peace and relaxation seemed to be the daily order, because the next morning we were rewarded by a mellow passage to St. Barth’s on a broad reach with minimal swell.  Whales breeched on the horizon as Scotty fought a worthless barracuda (our fishing since receiving the second batch of stowaways has been shameful and there is talk of making Sanford walk the plank).

In early afternoon Polaris took respite at Ile Fourchue, the ancient caldera of an extinct volcano a mile west-northwest of St. Barth’s, for lunch and exploring. The stop was well warranted with excellent snorkeling in a protected marine park, and for those readers with a cruise through the Leeward’s on their horizon, take note. 

A quick afternoon sail brought us into Gustavia, St. Barth’s chic port framed by classic French red-roofed houses, glitzy jewelry shops, and expensive cafés. Gustavia is packed with multi-millionaires and their wives who actively diminish their childrens' inheritances at Cartier, Louis Vitton, Hermes, and Bvlgari, to name a few.  The marina was filled with, amongst others, the largest privately owned mega yacht in the world (approx. 450 ft. LOA).  Although we were at about 10 on the chill scale, there was the sense we had entered a realm of the super wealthy, and there was a subconscious excitement in the air.  We were set on continuing the mellow night, but hey, things aren’t always what they seem.

First stop had to be Le Select.  The bar is a local staple and was popularized by Jimmy Buffet’s infamous song “Cheeseburger in Paradise”.  Our friendly demeanor (standard) led us to conversing with locals about the happenings that night.  A friendly girl at the sunglasses shop mentioned there would be a parade of steel drums moving through town for a celebration called “Vaval.” We had no idea what this entailed, but after further inquiry with several sources we found that at the end of the parade locals burned an effigy of “Vaval” at Shell Beach. 

In St. Barth’s the extraordinary is the norm, and people mention such happenings with nonchalance reserved only for the Riviera of the Caribbean. Expectedly, no one really knew nor cared what time it’d start – “seven, eight, somewhere around there” they’d say.  It appeared, that neither the friendly French girl nor the bar tender shared our passion for bonfires on a beach – let alone a pyre capped with an effigy – or joining in on parades led by steel drums.  We were somewhat excited but still unsure of what to expect.  After some beers and burgers in paradise, we casually strolled around town anxiously waiting to see what might come. 

The start of the festivities was unmistakable.  Somewhere in town, was a noise of steel drummers rehearsing.  We strolled towards Le Select (the unofficial starting point) to see about the commotion.  At first glance, it was not too impressive, and the unexcited attitude of the locals was seemingly explained.  There were just a couple locals brushing the rust off their steel drums, portly bass drummers with black and white faces, and a few young children banging on bamboo stalks and blowing whistles. 

As the base drums kicked in, the rhythm was established, and the crowd took more interest.  A few people (including us) started dancing and moving to the beat.  Slowly, and surely the size and intensity of the band grew.  A steel added drum here, a base drum there, all the while whistles blew with increasing frequency.   Women using conch horns added an island feel to the percussion.  All of a sudden, 100 feet behind us, a separate band appeared, pounding on their instruments and in full swing.  People dancing, jamming, and beating away surrounded us on all sides.  Many painted their face black and white as a symbol of the cross, and those less devout (or more stylish) dressed in the same motif.  We took to the scene like fish to water.

Meanwhile, some local elders were sporting up the effigy of Vaval, which had been next to Le Select the whole time without our noticing.  Vaval was a 12-foot statue of a man set on a large stick, and dressed in a red shirt with black trousers and suspenders.  He had the caricatured face of a Carib with curly long black hair that marked the life of one who might enjoy mischief.  Once the crowd had reached the required size for marching, the bands began their parade to the beach.  There was no question, with beers in hand, that we would dance ourselves silly right behind them the whole way. 

The procession weaved in and out Gustavia’s petite streets, stopping every so often to put Vaval down and fill him up with the needed goods for his journey – a bottle of rum, a smoke, or in one case a cell phone call.  As the parade moved closer to the beach, the crowd grew in size and intensity.  The beat grew faster, the sky grew darker, and the excitable energy of the band and mythic aura of Vaval was so palatable you could taste it.  People drew together, and strangers were now friends.  Needless to say, we were far from the only ones dancing.  The devout local women here were clearly not new to this event and like a bacchanalian island, some knew no bounds.

Slightly exhausted after an hour of full-out dancing through the streets over a half mile, we came to the top of a hill, and overlooking Shell Beach we saw Vaval’s funeral pyre down by the pristine white shore. The party atmosphere was intoxicating (or maybe it was the Presidente beer), and the final stage of the celebration was upon us. This marked the beginning of our weekend in St. Barth’s and the energy never abated.  Vaval burned in all his glory, and our night closed in the midst of a dance party on a 56-foot Swan sloop moored in the center of Gustavia Harbor, celebrating youth.

It would be unfair to say St. Barth’s treated us well.  We dined on fine French Caribbean cuisine at Maya’s Restaurant where our waiter had seen, and complimented, our dance moves from the previous night.  The following day we went beach hopping to the island’s beautiful gems of white sand and turquoise water dotted by topless Swedish models.  In-between stops we took joys in whipping a rent a car down impossibly narrow and steep island roads.  The last night was spent at le club, and as we sipped cocktails with supermodels till the early hours of the morning, everyone celebrating their good fortune of being here, now.

Catching not fishing, choosing not begging, winning not losing, and absolutely crushing life,

From the mighty Polaris,

 The Stowaways