Peter Island, BVI
18.21.208N
64.36.036W

Instead of heading to ‘the Baths’ as was our original plan, we changed our minds because the weather was deteriorating and decided to go to Peter Island.

Peter Island is only a few miles away from Norman Island but since there were a couple of other boats going in the same direction, we raced the whole way. Due to the high winds, we only had our jib out, but we were we were speeding along at 6+ kts often hitting 7 and better when a gust would catch us.

As was with the other anchorages, this one was filled to capacity as well. We ended up following the others in the harbor by dropping our anchor and then backing to the trees along the beach to secure ourselves; similar to a Med mooring but with a little more space between the boats. It took a little tweaking, but we finally felt secure with the arrangement.

Neither Dale nor Gerry seemed content to sit and talk, so they grabbed hand brushes and started cleaning the Palace’s hull, which had already started growing its own little eco system below the waterline. They kept themselves busy for the better part of the afternoon and had just finished when the rain came.

After the rain had cleared, Dale and I took Gerry and Nicky up to see what was left of the old mansion on the hill. We walked up the old cistern path through the undergrowth of scrub trees and cacti. An old eucalyptus tree was still standing along with more than a few aloe plants that had gone wild. The buildings were primarily constructed with cement and rocks so the ’bones’ of the place were still there. What had been a barely recognizable garden 12 years ago, was completely gone. The raised beds surrounded by rock fences were still intact but the roses and plants they once contained have been replaced with the surrounding vegetation.

Twelve years ago, you could peek through the shutters to see slivers of what lay behind them. The end room, a ballroom of sorts, was the only one that had its doors open. Today the entire home is open. I noticed that the locks are still in place but the hinges holding them to the wood have rusted away and they now swing still locked from the open doors and windows.

Much to my surprise, it appeared to be a single bedroom home with a formal entry, dining room, and living room. Termites have climbed to the highest rafters and the roof has collapsed in many areas leaving holes to the sky. The unique frescoes that once adorned the several nooks that contained fountains have been vandalized. I’m glad I took pictures of them long ago as not one of them had been spared.

The iron fence surrounding the covered patio leading from the house to the view overlooking the harbor is rusted and worn but still standing barely parting the patio from the encroaching elements beyond. Only the granite tiles on the patios and walkways seemed to be impervious to nature reclaiming what once was hers.

We walked around for a little while trying to envision what it might have looked like in its prime, speculated about what had happed to the original owner, daydreamed about what it would take to bring it back, before making our way back down the cement trail we had followed up.

We made our way back to the boat and barbequed dinner on the transom at sundown, watching the moon rise over the island surrounding us. Gerry was the first to see that we had a barracuda that had taken a position under our boat, looking for hand outs no doubt. We had just finished our after dinner margaritas when it started raining again. Seeing how it was after 9pm, we decided it was time for bed.