Sailing Manuia: BVI Anegada New Year Celebration
December 28, 2024 - January 4, 2025
Tortola - Virgin Gorda - Great Camanoe - Anegada - Jost Van Dyke - Copper Island - Tortola
December 28, 2024 - January 4, 2025
Tortola - Virgin Gorda - Great Camanoe - Anegada - Jost Van Dyke - Copper Island - Tortola
Manuā, Onion Bags, and Mild Catastrophes
We arrived in Tortola with that special kind of travel buzz that only comes from 12 hours of airports, three boarding passes, and the faint smell of someone else’s airplane sandwich. Stepping onto the dock at Dream Yacht felt like crossing the threshold into vacation—until we counted heads and realized we were three short.
Valera, Olga, and Danilka’s plane had been canceled, sentencing them to an extra night somewhere decidedly not the Caribbean. We agreed to pick them up by ferry the next day—sorry, “parom,” because it sounds saltier and more official.
Our provisioning had arrived, but the most important category was conspicuously absent: alcohol. On New Year’s Eve. In the British Virgin Islands. Antosha, Nadya, and Natasha immediately set off on a beverage reconnaissance mission, eyes narrowed, mission clear.
Provisioning also came with a bonus—an enormous bag of onions, the kind that could outlast several hurricanes. Lena began quietly plotting their culinary fate on the last day of the trip, in keeping with the sacred tradition that all provisions must be consumed before docking. We also had an enthusiastic surplus of oats in various grades and textures, as though preparing for an oat-based endurance challenge.
Meanwhile, Mike discovered the boat’s water tanks were as dry as the humor in this log. Tortola itself was out of fresh water, and the charter company’s advice—refill at another marina—felt a bit like “just find a nearby oasis.”
So we began our BVI adventure half-crewed, half-supplied, and fully committed to laughing about it later. That night, we toasted the trip’s start with whatever was handy, watching the masts sway against the dark sky, already plotting the first sail.
Our spirits survived the previous day’s dry start, so we left the marina with a simple plan: sail to The Baths for that perfect, sun-drenched Instagram shot. Mike and Lena, seasoned veterans of the spot, picked a buoy just off the tiny beach leading to the famous rock maze. In the interest of “keeping it simple,” we skipped lowering the dinghy and decided to swim in.
From the boat, the distance looked harmless and the waves… negotiable. Nadya led the charge like a woman auditioning for an adventure catalogue. Antosha, who calmly announced, “I can swim, but I don’t like to be wet,” stayed on the boat in solidarity with the dry towels. Lena, Mike, and Natasha followed Nadya into the swell.
We may have underestimated the waves, but the payoff was worth it—towering boulders, hidden pools, sheltered lagoons. We took enough photos to fill a cloud account, and Nadya’s shots could sell luxury properties.
The swim back was less glamorous. The waves had grown, the beach exit had somehow shrunk, and the dinghy was starting to look less like a luxury and more like an essential service. A few of us voted for extraction, and the new plan was simple: whoever made it to the boat first would bring it around. Antosha and Mike took on rescue duty, returning to collect the more sensible swimmers, while the rest of us powered through in what can only be described as the “mild regret” stroke—equal parts forward motion and personal reflection.
Everyone reunited, we sailed to Marina Cay, where the water was calmer and the sky turned lavender. As darkness fell, the missing trio—Valera, Olga, and Danilka—finally arrived via ferry. They brought no luggage, but plenty of smiles. The airline battle could wait; tonight was about food, a drink, and the bliss of horizontal living.
The morning started slow, partly because Valera woke up under the weather and partly because airline hold music had taken over his life. The luggage was still missing, the answers were vague, and optimism was running on fumes. Mike suggested we lend clothes for the week and retrieve their bags on the way home. The crew wardrobe instantly became a shared resource—high fashion if you squinted, eclectic if you didn’t.
Meanwhile, Danilka kept himself entertained by using his berth in a way no yacht designer could have predicted—entering from the top hatch, exiting through the parents’ bed, then reversing the process. We lost count of how many times he cycled through.
Finally, we set sail for the Bitter End Yacht Club.
We spent the afternoon lingering in the water—half-floating, half-daydreaming—when our inflatable flamingo staged an escape. One minute it was part of the crew, the next it was making a break for Anegada. Olga, without hesitation, launched a solo rescue, cutting through the water like a woman who’s done this before. Danilka stood on the swim platform, bouncing in place and hollering “Flamingo! Flamingo!” as if sheer volume might reel it back in. Minutes later, the fugitive was returned to custody, slightly deflated but still seaworthy.
Anton secured us a table at Ikigai Omakase, a Japanese restaurant perched perfectly for sunset. Sushi, sea views, and a sky that looked hand-painted—it felt like the tide had turned in our favor.
Somewhere between the last piece of sushi and the sunset’s final applause, we remembered—briefly—that Manuia was still harboring an enormous bag of onions and not one but two full sacks of green fresh peppers from our provisioning haul. It was the kind of mental jolt that makes you wonder how to work both into the menu without accidentally reinventing the concept of “all-pepper onion stew.”
We broke in the snorkeling gear early, and then stopped by at the Marina for the last civilized shower before the New Year’s Eve. Valera and Olya went hunting for upgraded swimwear, but the clock was against us: thirty minutes dockside before we had to move on. The mood was mildly frantic, but the showers were glorious—those brief minutes of hot water felt like a luxury spa, if you ignored the timer.
We set a smooth course for Anegada—New Year’s Eve destination and proud capital of lobster lore. The approach was flat, wide, and impossibly turquoise, like we were sailing into a painting.
Earlier in the day, Antosha was once again in his natural habitat—posted at the mast, hauling sails in and out of the bag with the quiet determination of someone defusing a very large, very windy suitcase. At one point the bag itself staged a minor rebellion, but Antosha coaxed it back into service with a few well-placed tugs and some mysterious adjustment only he understood. Valera, meanwhile, took up the noble art of jib-line coiling, producing spirals so precise they could have been auctioned off as modern art. It was the kind of behind-the-scenes seamanship that doesn’t make it into the holiday brochure, but absolutely makes the trip work.
We transformed Manuia with New Year’s decor, and those who were ready took part in the evening’s entertainment—our “nomera” performance. Presents were collected for the youngest crew member, Danilka, and then we set off for the restaurant.
We were greeted by the staff and ushered to a long, festive table—the Manuia New Year headquarters. Champagne flowed, toasts rose, and plates of lobster arrived in such quantities that the conversation slowed to a buttery, satisfied hum.
When midnight struck, the entire bay exploded into sound and light. Fireworks arched overhead, and every boat in the anchorage joined in with its horn, turning the harbor into a floating brass band.
By now, we’d learned that Danilka’s diet consisted exclusively of buckwheat, so we stopped offering him lobster altogether. The plan seemed to work—he remained an unshakable bundle of energy, ready to leap overboard at a moment’s notice. We may try that diet someday—purely in the name of science.
Hooray, Happy New Year, and here’s to a start as bright and loud as the bay itself.
We dedicated the day to exploring Anegada—national park, postcard views, and wide-open spaces. Through a telescope, we spotted what might have been flamingos… or possibly very convincing pink blobs. Even magnified, the debate remains unresolved.
Nadya and Anton set off on a motorcycle adventure, remembering (fortunately) to drive on the right side of the road, earning themselves a safety award and a few jealous glances.
Meanwhile, a restaurant reservation misfire caused mild ripples of irritation in the crew. Lena, Mike, and Natasha avoided the drama entirely, choosing the proven wisdom of staying and eating dinner aboard.
No big voyages, no tight schedules—just the rare rhythm of a true rest day at mooring buoy.
The day began with our now-beloved morning sport: securing the next mooring ball. With Mike’s reservation app in hand, he, Lena, and Anton gathered like competitive gamers on the deck, waiting for the perfect moment to click. Anton had developed a suspicious level of enthusiasm for this game—though that’s strictly “between us.”
Today’s Wi-Fi was hopeless, so we took the dinghy ashore for a stronger signal. Victory went to Anton. The prize: a ball for Jost Van Dyke.
From Anegada, we sailed smoothly to Jost, where most of the crew went to see the blowhole. Mike and Lena stayed aboard, preserving energy for the inevitable logistics ballet ahead.
That evening we had a reservation at the famous Foxy’s—part restaurant, part beach bar, part open-air carnival where the dress code is “shoes optional, rum mandatory.” The place was already buzzing, music spilling out onto the sand, the smell of barbecue drifting through the crowd. We ate, we laughed, and somewhere between the cocktails and the conga line, Olya took on the jumbo Jenga tower. Let’s just say… the leg didn’t like that. The game ended, the tower won, and Olya earned herself a souvenir limp to remember the night by.
Soggy Dollar Bar in the morning.
The classic experience is to swim ashore for your Painkiller cocktail. But on Day 5, it became clear that Valera wasn’t much of an Olympic swimmer, and the whole family preferred a dry arrival. No problem—Mike, ever the good friend, dropped the dinghy and ferried them in. Lena, understanding but cocktail-deprived, stayed aboard to wait.
Eventually, everyone reached the beach. Drinks were poured, dancing broke out—Antosha and Nadya in particular looked ready for the local gossip pages. Natasha stayed in the water, snorkeling in that impossibly clear turquoise.
The trip back was pure slapstick: Valera struggled to reboard the dinghy, Danilka toppled overboard (rescued in seconds), and Olga—handball legend—swam to the boat faster than any dinghy could manage. The rest of us floated back in varying degrees of amusement and rum-induced buoyancy.
The mood had shifted. The laughter from earlier felt thinner, replaced by the quiet hum of small irritations starting to take shape. Nothing dramatic yet—just the kind of unspoken glances and slightly-too-long silences that suggest the wind is changing, even if the sails haven’t been trimmed for it.
The plan was simple: sail to Cooper Island for our final night, with one last snorkel stop along the way. Morning began on island time—Valera, Olga, and Danilka emerging last, as you might expect from a family traveling with a small child. They’d earned their slower starts: trying to rest, sleep in, and still catch up on the fun they’d missed early in the trip.
By the time we reached the snorkeling cove, the sun was already sliding toward late afternoon. Most of us dove into fins and masks like contestants in a reality show; the trio instead began the methodical business of getting ready for shore—packing bags, organizing Danilka’s gear—moving at the measured pace of people who know their priorities and have nothing to prove.
Enter Lena, whose patience—already a rare commodity—went up like a flare in a dry marina. Her volume carried impressively over the sound of the waves, the kind of performance that makes passing dinghies slow down to rubberneck. The rest of us busied ourselves with masks and straps, pretending to be deeply fascinated by our own equipment.
The compromise: Anton, Nadya, and Natasha slipped off snorkeling, Mike ferried the trio to shore, and then came back for Lena, giving her a little extra time to let the tide carry off the worst of her mood.
That evening was our “last supper,” usually a time for reflection, toasts, and gentle exaggerations of the week’s events. Nadya somehow procured perfect steaks and, with Natasha’s help, turned them into something that could win awards. But the seating was lopsided, and Lena’s earlier outburst lingered like a stiff headwind in a narrow channel. Conversation never quite found its usual rhythm.
It turns out sailing is as much about managing personalities as it is about trimming sails—and on this day, our winds were fine, but the crew dynamics needed reefing.
The morning began with glassy water and a warm breeze—a postcard BVI send-off, if you ignored the fact that everyone onboard was running on a mix of sunscreen residue, mild dehydration, and lingering grudges. We slipped lines and headed out, the catamaran gliding past green island ridges and turquoise shallows like she knew her way home.
Conversation was polite, but thin. Somewhere between Guana Island and the marina, a few half-hearted jokes surfaced, but the silence mostly belonged to the steady hum of the engines.
Back at Tortola, our final nautical act was to join the refueling line—long enough to contemplate every questionable snack we’d eaten this week. The sun pressed down like it had an agenda. Crew members shuffled between shade patches, offering occasional “almost there” nods.
Goodbyes came next: awkward, a little sweaty, but genuine enough to remind us why we’d all signed up for this in the first place.
At the airport, Mike and Lena cracked open laptops and began the first draft of "Crewing on a Sailing Vacation with Mike & Lena — LOGISTICS" - a survival manual and a cautionary tale. Topics covered: Golden Rules for a Happy Crew, Definition of “Ready”, and Boat Life 101.
Was the trip worth it? Absolutely.
Did we learn a lot? Without a doubt.
And six months later, despite water shortages, lost luggage, buckwheat diets, and multiple floating misunderstandings—we’re still talking to each other. Which, in sailing terms, counts as a perfect voyage!
Drives the boat, drops the wisdom.
Perfectionist flirting with chaos.
Keeps the peace. Unshakable at sea.
Always ready, always steady.
Looks like a postcard, eats like a local.
Fuelled by optimism and whatever’s left in the fridge.
Beats the dinghy to shore without trying.
Jumps in so fast, even the dolphins look surprised.
Explore a breadcrumb trail of ports, countries, marinas we’ve boldly wandered.
