Seconds after disembarking the ferry on Jost van Dyke, the excitement of getting our passports stamped wore off. Despite all the boats anchored in the bay, we saw no people…anywhere. During the ride, a ferry worker said there were only 200 permanent residents on this 4-square mile island. One hundred and ninety-nine to go after meeting the customs agent. With no other transportation than our feet we began to walk. It was ten in the morning and the ferry wouldn’t return until three that afternoon. What were we going to do all day?
We walked from the dock to the beach of Great Harbour awed by the row of mature palm trees lining the water. Behind them were small houses whose painted signs showed they were businesses. None were open. The only significant structure, the Methodist Church, looked delicious as a cake with its butter yellow walls and red frosted trim. Standing silently next to the island’s above-ground graveyard, it was beautiful yet disconcerting. We felt alone until an old Ford truck lumbered past. We waved at the occupants as reggae sounds floated in the air. Out in the bay, a motorized dingy buzzed toward a distant dock.
We followed the music toward a large structure. Upon spotting the hammock between two palm trees we realized we walked into Foxy’s Bar. And it was serving breakfast! We grabbed a table that had an old Caribbean map decoupaged to it. The wood columns that supported the roof were hidden by thousands of business cards. The ceiling was a bit naughtier with thongs and bras hanging from rafters. Apparently, Foxy’s got more exciting after sunset, long after we would be gone. Several tables over, four older gentlemen with British accents ordered Heinekens. A family of a mom holding a baby, two boys and a dad walking down the dock waved at the gentlemen. They joined the old men and more Heinekens were ordered. The two boys, one stark naked, splashed along the shore. As we ate Foxy’s French toast, a woman’s loud cackle came from a nearby building. Behind us, some people opened a squeaky gate that, according to the sign on it, led to a hotel on top of the hill. The island was finally waking up.
After breakfast, we spotted what must have been the only taxi. “How much to the Soggy Dollar?”
“For both, ten dollars,” she said. She drove us up and over the switchbacks to White Bay and the entrance of the Sandcastle Resort – “Home of the Soggy Dollar Bar.” But tables were empty with no bartender in sight.
Intrigued by a trail that disappeared up a rocky outcropping, we started climbing. The view of White Bay from above overflowed with boats; small, large, with sails and without. A cruise ship was anchored at the farthest reaches of the cove. The water shined teal near the shore, tourmaline in the bay and darkened to sapphire out at sea. Somehow it made the boats even whiter, like bleached teeth bobbing in the surf. Below us, black rocks were polished to onyx by the waves. When the waves crashed against them the sound of the receding water pulling down the rocks was like a giant pachinko machine filled with hundreds of pinballs.
At the opposite end of White Bay, a man organized some swim fins and goggles on the rocks. Finally, somewhere to rent snorkel gear. We inquired about the price and the man, who introduced himself as Wayne, said he didn’t know because it was not his business, but his brother’s. He was only helping until his brother returned from an errand.
“How about twenty dollars each for two hours?” We offered.
“OK.”
As we tried on masks, Wayne told us he was afraid the snorkeling would not be good because a storm the week before had brought huge waves crashing into the bay. The rocks we just walked over were not there last week. “Nature happened,” he shrugged.
When we swam to the reef, we saw what Wayne meant. The normally colorful reef was dusted with sand. Every few feet, there were glimpses of gold and purple and the sand hadn’t kept the fish away. However, snorkeling proved difficult in the still rough water and I found myself winded with constantly fogging mask. My husband’s mask had started to leak so we gave the gear back to Wayne after just one hour.
We headed back to the Soggy Dollar for some liquid comfort and discovered the place that was empty earlier was now packed. We had to wait in line to order. Each table held groups of well-acquainted people, talking and laughing. Where did all these people come from? The cruise ship? The Sandcastle? The 200 residents?
By a tree some people played a game that was new to us. A small metal ring attached to a long string was tied to a tree branch. A metal hook hung on the tree’s trunk. The goal was to swing the ring and catch it on the hook. While I finished my drink, my husband played. Several minutes and many attempts later, he hooked it. Arms raised in triumph, he returned to the applause of nearby drinkers. A young girl who was watching him took a turn. We guessed she was a local’s daughter because she had been standing by the kitchen door and waitresses patted her head. She hooked it on her third try. Show off.
Our ride back to Great Harbour was in a VW mini-van, which we shared with the driver’s son and a local woman. The driver asked us how we like Jost. We said it was beautiful. He then told us the road we were on was built just three years ago and was the only paved road on the island.
We walked from the dock to the beach of Great Harbour awed by the row of mature palm trees lining the water. Behind them were small houses whose painted signs showed they were businesses. None were open. The only significant structure, the Methodist Church, looked delicious as a cake with its butter yellow walls and red frosted trim. Standing silently next to the island’s above-ground graveyard, it was beautiful yet disconcerting. We felt alone until an old Ford truck lumbered past. We waved at the occupants as reggae sounds floated in the air. Out in the bay, a motorized dingy buzzed toward a distant dock.
We followed the music toward a large structure. Upon spotting the hammock between two palm trees we realized we walked into Foxy’s Bar. And it was serving breakfast! We grabbed a table that had an old Caribbean map decoupaged to it. The wood columns that supported the roof were hidden by thousands of business cards. The ceiling was a bit naughtier with thongs and bras hanging from rafters. Apparently, Foxy’s got more exciting after sunset, long after we would be gone. Several tables over, four older gentlemen with British accents ordered Heinekens. A family of a mom holding a baby, two boys and a dad walking down the dock waved at the gentlemen. They joined the old men and more Heinekens were ordered. The two boys, one stark naked, splashed along the shore. As we ate Foxy’s French toast, a woman’s loud cackle came from a nearby building. Behind us, some people opened a squeaky gate that, according to the sign on it, led to a hotel on top of the hill. The island was finally waking up.
After breakfast, we spotted what must have been the only taxi. “How much to the Soggy Dollar?”
“For both, ten dollars,” she said. She drove us up and over the switchbacks to White Bay and the entrance of the Sandcastle Resort – “Home of the Soggy Dollar Bar.” But tables were empty with no bartender in sight.
Intrigued by a trail that disappeared up a rocky outcropping, we started climbing. The view of White Bay from above overflowed with boats; small, large, with sails and without. A cruise ship was anchored at the farthest reaches of the cove. The water shined teal near the shore, tourmaline in the bay and darkened to sapphire out at sea. Somehow it made the boats even whiter, like bleached teeth bobbing in the surf. Below us, black rocks were polished to onyx by the waves. When the waves crashed against them the sound of the receding water pulling down the rocks was like a giant pachinko machine filled with hundreds of pinballs.
At the opposite end of White Bay, a man organized some swim fins and goggles on the rocks. Finally, somewhere to rent snorkel gear. We inquired about the price and the man, who introduced himself as Wayne, said he didn’t know because it was not his business, but his brother’s. He was only helping until his brother returned from an errand.
“How about twenty dollars each for two hours?” We offered.
“OK.”
As we tried on masks, Wayne told us he was afraid the snorkeling would not be good because a storm the week before had brought huge waves crashing into the bay. The rocks we just walked over were not there last week. “Nature happened,” he shrugged.
When we swam to the reef, we saw what Wayne meant. The normally colorful reef was dusted with sand. Every few feet, there were glimpses of gold and purple and the sand hadn’t kept the fish away. However, snorkeling proved difficult in the still rough water and I found myself winded with constantly fogging mask. My husband’s mask had started to leak so we gave the gear back to Wayne after just one hour.
We headed back to the Soggy Dollar for some liquid comfort and discovered the place that was empty earlier was now packed. We had to wait in line to order. Each table held groups of well-acquainted people, talking and laughing. Where did all these people come from? The cruise ship? The Sandcastle? The 200 residents?
By a tree some people played a game that was new to us. A small metal ring attached to a long string was tied to a tree branch. A metal hook hung on the tree’s trunk. The goal was to swing the ring and catch it on the hook. While I finished my drink, my husband played. Several minutes and many attempts later, he hooked it. Arms raised in triumph, he returned to the applause of nearby drinkers. A young girl who was watching him took a turn. We guessed she was a local’s daughter because she had been standing by the kitchen door and waitresses patted her head. She hooked it on her third try. Show off.
Our ride back to Great Harbour was in a VW mini-van, which we shared with the driver’s son and a local woman. The driver asked us how we like Jost. We said it was beautiful. He then told us the road we were on was built just three years ago and was the only paved road on the island.
“That’s the ferry!” the woman suddenly exclaimed. Sure enough, it was motoring into the bay and several people already stood around the dock. Stunned and disappointed we wondered, where had the time gone?
For more information: Foxy's Bar & Soggy Dollar
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