auld

I haven’t celebrated the New Year on Jost for twenty years and have only a vague
recollection of those days anyway. Foxy’s monkey sprang out of his tree and bit me on the
ear. I remember that. My how things change. Jost Van Dyke is nowadays one of the most
popular destinations for ringing in the New Year and people flock there from around the
world. Thankfully, Anderson Cooper wasn’t there. Somebody estimated the crowd at ten
thousand, but that seems like a lot. The beach at Great Harbour was like a New York
sidewalk by midnight with people streaming from one end to the other. There were more
masthead lights in the bay than stars in the sky. How much fun was it? I asked Les Anderson
if he was having a good time and despite suffering a complete dis masting of his beloved
Penelope that afternoon, he said he was.

The mood from beach to bar was predominately peaceful, thanks in large part to BVI
officialdom. The balcony of the Police Station was lined with Security and Immigration
personnel all bopping in time to the music. It looked like a Monty Python skit. Customs stayed
open the whole night, raking in the greenbacks.

We left around two in the morning and it was black as pitch and still choppy. I was thankful to
be sober as I piloted my little runabout home. Speaking of small boat handling: Virgin Verve
publisher, Richard Dominguez has proven to be as responsible a boatman as he is a
journalist. He swamped and sank his overloaded speedboat on the way over, forcing his
passengers to swim for a passing vessel. One can only imagine what combination of drugs
and alcohol makes a person so thoughtless. The V.I. Olympic Team already has one
champion in Alexa Putnam, who helped keep at least one poor swimmer afloat. Fathers,
place an indulgent arm around your daughters in 2006.

And so we look to the year ahead. Keep an eye out for the new wacko in town. He looks like
Johnny Depp’s demented brother. Just remember the rule: if they’re smiling and laughing
while they smoke cigarettes rolled in newspaper, they’re relatively harmless. If they glower un
communicatively at the ground while sitting on a bench in crusty jeans and work boots, they
might bite.

I hope that the tension and anger of last year have turned to compassion and
understanding. We occupy a special home on St. John. By sharing the benefits and the
burdens of life here, we ensure a peaceful and happy new year.

- Jeff Smith

Christmastime and the turning of the New Year is traditionally an opportunity to reflect
on events of the past, to make plans and resolutions for the future and indulge in
contemplation of the here and now. Everybody’s got at least one relative who synopsizes the
year’s milestones in a mass mailing complete with photographic evidence of how big the
kiddies are getting. You may even be that relative. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just as
there’s nothing wrong with eschewing the overly politically correct “Holiday Season” and
using the word “Christmastime”. Six PM is “dinnertime”. If you’re not hungry, don’t eat.

On December 31st I boarded my little speedboat with the first friend I had on St. John and
set off for Jost Van Dyke for the notorious Olde Year’s Night Celebration. I met Whistler
Doug while I was living on Jost in 1978 and once I’d moved here we became buddies.
Whistler unabashedly embodies the old days as much as anybody can. He am what he am
and what he was that night was the perfect companion for a New Year’s ramble to Paradise
City. The passage was rough as a cob and we were soaked to the skin by the time we got to
White Bay. A sudden rain squall rinsed the salt off.