Bellamy cay

Another beautiful balmy night on Tortola, the BVI’s largest and capital island. I open a wooden box that is affixed to a palapa near the dock and lift the receiver of an old-school telephone. I dial and inform the woman with a Caribbean lilt on the other end of the line that we would like a pick up (as the sign instructs us to do). Within five minutes we hear a distinct “put-put-put”— the rumble of an outboard motor—in the distance, getting nearer. The impervious layer of fog that hugs the water prohibits our view of the approaching vessel. Until finally, it emerges, a tired wooden craft with a lined, bearded skipper steering its course. Salt stains his worn t-shirt and leather boots. Two middle-aged women, buxom and tipsy, have joined us on the dock. They clumsily board the boat and flirt unabashedly with the skipper. One draping herself across his shoulders, and the other plopping herself onto his lap. The one on his lap plants a saucy kiss on his lips and elicits a nervous smirk. He gingerly guides her to the bench beside him and revs the throttle. We lurch off the dock and into the fog.

Engulfed in the mist, it is impossible to see the approaching shore. Our ride is short—less than five minutes before the dock comes into view. We disembark on Bellamy Cay (named after an infamous early 18th century pirate) and are greeted with a sign that says The Last Resort. A hammock is strung in a massive tree and a string of lights sparkles above the entrance. The restaurant, erected in the early 70’s by a British war hero and his wife, is colorful bohemian, and the bar is notably well stocked. There is an eclectic array of funky wall art, throw pillows, wine barrel seating, and hanging lanterns. We are greeted by a young, tanned hostess with bare-feet and a British accent. She seats us at a table on the wooden deck. Minimal exterior walls invite a kind tropical breeze. We dine on ribs and pizza and salad—expertly prepared. It is accompanied with dark island rum and topped off with key lime pie. A sophisticated cat with ivory fur and golden ears cozies up at our feet under the table.

Our server tells us a tale of a donkey named Chocolate that once resided on the premises, and often peeked his head through the Dutch door in order to enjoy scraps of food and swigs of rum that the patrons offered him. A guitarist serenades us with captivating tunes and rich vocals. He is joined by the bartender—a handsome Spanish ex-pat with long dreadlocks—who stuns us with his mastery of the flute. The music is lively. Magical. We congregate on the dance floor. A varied group of sailors from Europe and the States. Drinks are flowing and good vibes are palpable. We drift to the hammock and absorb the magic of the stars, the trade-winds, pirate folklore, the waves licking the shore, the music, and the lush foliage overhead.

The tiny island of Bellamy Cay has an uncommon history. “Black Sam” Bellamy, a tall, tidy, well- mannered English Pirate, commandeered the island as his operations base in the early 1700’s. The richest pirate in recorded history, he was known for his mercy and generosity towards those he captured on his raids, as well as for his custom of tying his long black hair back in a simple band, rather than donning the traditional white powdered wig. He preyed on Spanish boats bearing treasure for the king. In 1932 Władysław Wagner, the "first Polish yachtsman," left Poland to sail around the world. He settled in Trellis Bay off of Bellamy Cay in the early 1950’s where he built a boatyard and ran a small restaurant and hotel. In 1970, a Brit named Tony Snell, a fighter pilot, WWII hero, actor, songwriter and catamaran captain, moved with his wife to Bellamy Cay after traveling the world and opened The Last Resort. He served up good food, good drinks and good music to his guests. Last Resort thrived as a popular destination for visitors to Tortola and BVI sailors for almost half a century.

But in September of 2017, Irma, pummeled the tiny island with catastrophic rain and 180 mile per hour winds. The strongest storm on record in the open Atlantic. She plucked mature trees from the ground, snatched roofs, crushed markets, wiped out wildlife, decimated houses, and left 134 dead. She sucked up entire fleets of yachts and sardonically spat them out in a miserable heap of mutilated wood, metal and fiberglass. In many areas of the Caribbean, little to nothing was left in her tumultuous wake. She reminded us that everything is impermanent. And oh, how we loathe that which emphasizes our transient nature. We despise seeing our creations and possessions tossed and trampled with such carless abandon. A mockery of our time, energy and resources. No one to blame, condemn or hold accountable—except for God, or Mother Nature, or Fate. And while it may console us to condemn them for their wickedness—it amends nothing. Some started to work straight away, clearing rubbish and scavenging for remnants. Some were astonishingly unscathed. Some threw in the towel and resigned from the island. Some reached out for help to raise funds to rebuild. And most are in various stages of restoration. Storms rip away our foundation, but also show us our resilience. The piece that endures and fights to reemerge. And the sailors that have visited these seas for decades slowly return, celebrating the victories and mourning the losses. Iconic locales like Saba Rock, The Bitter End and Willy T’s. And The Last Resort is included in that sad group. Irma ravaged the island and stole this haven from the sailors and gypsies. The Last Resort may, or may not be rebuilt, but the memories live on and the legacy is real. It lives on in our stories and our travel photos and in the tender spots of sailor hearts.

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