Beach Bars in the British Virgin Islands by James Henderson
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“So, when are you next off to the Caribbean then, James?” I was asked the other day.
“Not sure, but it’ll be around the time of the full moon,” I said, without thinking.
It was only when I got a rather curious look that it occurred to me that I might have said something odd. This person was probably wondering if I was a satanist or weird cult follower... she was just turning to leave, presumably worried I might do something dangerous.
“...er, I’m going for the Full Moon party at Bomba’s in the BVI.”
“Now, that’s a bit more your style. Off to the Caribbean for a party...”
It was a plum assignment, I have to admit it, checking out the beach bars of the BVI. But then, there’s plenty of justification too. There are more beach bars per square foot in the BVI than anywhere else in the islands - on remote beaches on islands that themselves are remote. What better way to spend your day than to cruise into a bay, drop anchor and swim ashore for a beer, or have a sundowner on board and then take the dinghy in to join the crowds for an evening’s revelry. Bar-hopping in the BVI is one of the Caribbean’s most venerable activities.
The best way to bar hop around the BVI is definitely by yacht (it is some of the finest sailing in the area after all). There is even a circuit of sorts, so you can usually find a lively crowd if that’s your style. On the other hand, there are also plenty of quiet, remote spots where you can be pretty much alone if that’s what you’d prefer.
I’ve had a fair few good evenings at the William Thornton, or the Willy T as it is known familiarly. Truth to tell, it’s not actually a beach bar, it’s more of a pirate galleon which sits in the Bight, a huge bay off Norman Island, just a short run from the West End of Tortola. Once the Willy T was a Baltic trader, but it’s been turned to more pleasurable pursuits than carrying coal nowadays. It can get pretty lively when the crowds are in... last time I was there the place was taken over by a posse of mad Californians.
The most exotic drink of the night, and there were lots of them, was the ‘body shot’, a variation on a tequila shot, in which the requisite ingredients for the drink were placed strategically on the body of a woman prostrate on the bar--salt on the lips, lemon somewhere between her knees and bikini line and tequila in her belly button. Enough! Enough! I hear you cry.
You’ll be glad to hear that it was an educational experience as well. It was the first time I’d seen remoras, fish which attach themselves to larger fish and feed off the rejected food (or in this case the slops from the galley). Remoras look alarmingly like baby sharks, except for the Wellington boot print on their heads (their suckers for staying attached to larger fish).
The winds run directly down the Sir Francis Drake Channel and so to make ground up the island chain you have to beat back and forth across them. We set off north, towards Tortola, coming just in view of Road Town on the first tack and then, swinging right passed Peter Island and Dead Chest (of the sea-shanty: ‘15 men on a dead man’s chest, Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum!) Next in line was Salt Island and after that was Cooper Island, where a string of yachts were laid up at anchor for the night.
A small wooden jetty stretched out into the bay to receive us. We parked the dinghy and headed up to the bar in the shade of the palm trees. It’s surprising who you bump into in the islands: this time a heavily tanned school friend from twenty years before--’Long time no see. Time off, spending the first million? Not quite, dropped out, this is the life, sailing the world’. At the end of the evening the dinghy weaved a drunken path back to the yacht. It was a late start next morning.
We headed further up the islands, to Virgin Gorda and the curious assembly of rocks that is the Baths. It’s always a good daytime stop, clambering in among all the caverns made by the rocks as the waves rush between them.
By nightfall we were in the North Sound, off the Bitter End Yacht Club. Suddenly I noticed that Saba Rock was missing. Saba Rock, a tiny blip just offshore, has been the scene of some of the wildest evenings in the BVI, where drinkers grabbed musical instruments and had impromptu jam sessions, where Californians invented more and more exotic drinks, the scene of untold naughtiness... It had simply disappeared. It turns out that it had been sold and was being redeveloped. I hope that it turns out as good as it was before.
From here we began a run down the north side of Tortola, eventually reaching Jost van Dyke, an island special even in the BVI. We cruised into Great Harbour and dropped the anchor. Great Harbour could be described as one big beach bar really - there are six or seven of them in a row, shoulder to shoulder on the sand.
We walked ashore at Ali Baba’s, where the barman was asleep in the shade. When we woke him to ask for a drink, he sat up, gave us a shocked look and ran off as though we were invaders. All we wanted was a Red Stripe. A moment later he reappeared, explaining that he had forgotten to turn the pig roast.
We grabbed a drink at each bar along the beach and by sundown we were at Foxy’s. It was a quiet night, just a few people drinking and Foxy himself down for a chat. He has been known to serenade his guests, but not tonight. It was hard to imagine that the place heaves at New Year, when the bar (and the whole beach really) is host to one of the world’s finest New Year’s Eve (Old Year’s Night in the Caribbean) parties, with thousands of revellers dancing on the sand and the whole bay full of yachts. Back on board I lay on deck and looked at the night sky. The moon was nearly full - soon time for Bomba’s Full Moon party (the reason for coming in the first place of course).
Next morning we headed over to Tortola and passed close to Apple Bay, where we could see Bomba’s Bar, but there is nowhere to anchor offshore and so we headed straight for Cane Garden Bay, an excellent anchorage.
Cane Garden Bay is one of Tortola’s best beaches and for bar-hoppers it is a happy hunting ground: the beach bars stand almost shoulder to shoulder. The water was as calm as a millpond and as night fell and the coloured lights from the bars reflected in the inky black water. Soft reggae music was rolling over the waters’ surface--Marley’s Redemption Song, Sly and Robbie doing Gregory Isaac’s Nightnurse and some Luciano songs.
A favourite bar is Quito’s Gazebo, where Quito himself was kicking into gear by the time we made it ashore, singing some of his own songs among the medley of Caribbean rhythms. Taking time out from the dance floor, we sat at the waterfront tables with the waves lapping gently beneath us. The moon had risen, full, and was glinting on the sea and making the white hulls of the yachts shine.
At midnight everyone headed down to Bomba’s, where the party was in full swing. The crowds were spilling out onto the road and music was thumping, shaking the tarmac. Bomba’s Full Moon party is a legendary gathering and sees all sorts of visitors, plenty of locals as well as boat-borne visitors.
The official name of his bar is Bomba’s Surfside Shack and true to its word it is a shack. It is made of driftwood. In fact, Bomba’s is one of the few places around which benefits from hurricanes that carve through the Caribbean from time to time: there’s more driftwood around and so they can build an extension.
But to say it’s made of driftwood is to undersell it because every piece of wood is painted or decorated in some way, with fairy lights, flags, traffic cones, t-shirts and even pairs of knickers. There are slogans everywhere: ELVIS LIVES at the Bomba Shack, A Bomba Punch will do! (they are known for their unusual additives) and on a rather desperate note: PLEASE no dancing on the table.
But then that’s the sort of place that it is. As I took a walk through the sand-floored bar, and as I backed up to let somebody pass I found something touching my shoulder. I turned to see a sheep-skull with a pair of sunglasses and a scarf staring me in the face.
Outside two people were having an animated conversation through a window frame hanging in a tree. An accountant from Boston who had ill-advisedly left his business card stapled to the wall got an unscheduled wake-up call at two in the morning on a borrowed mobile phone. And some Californians were taking advantage of the unusual drinks. So it went on. Another wild night at Bomba’s.