63 Parks Traveler started with a simple goal: to visit every U.S. national park. Avid backpacker and public-lands nerd saved up, built out a tiny van to travel and live in, and hit the road, practicing COVID-19 best safety protocols along the way. The parks as we know them are rapidly changing, and she wanted to see them before it鈥檚 too late. Virgin Islands National Park is her 56th park visit.

After navigating the bustling Miami airport, sweating in a KN95 mask for a packed three-hour flight, swerving through the traffic of St. Thomas in a taxi, and zipping across the seas on a breezy 20-minute ferry ride, I arrived on St. John, exhausted and dizzy from a year of near constant travel.

The Caribbean island is home to one of the country鈥檚 rare tropical national parks, . Once part of the Danish West Indies and a hub for cotton and sugar plantations, most of the land on St. John was donated to the U.S. government by Laurance Rockefeller in 1954, with the express interest that it be preserved in perpetuity as a park. It has been a popular destination for Americans ever since but was severely affected by Hurricanes Irma and Maria in 2017, leaving many lodging options shuttered, not to mention locals homeless. However, the Virgin Islands have bounced back considerably, and I was excited to see St. John听firsthand, as soon as I pushed through the mental fog that had set in from a lack of sleep and my disorientation at having arrived in yet another new place.

Sensing that this park would be my last chance at anything resembling a respite before a mad dash to see the final seven parks on my quest to visit them all, I allowed myself to touch down slowly with a . Instantly befriending the bartender, who wasted no time in serving me a locally brewed , I milled about the boat and watched the sun sink and the clouds light up in a hundred shades of honey and pink.

Ever the Type A traveler, I decided to challenge myself to unwind and go with the flow on my three-day visit to the Virgin Islands, a far cry from the maxed-out calendar of dates, deadlines, and park destinations I鈥檇 subjected myself to over the past year. On day two, I woke up and lounged in my twin-size hostel bed for over an hour before lazily making a bowl of granola, heading outside into the humid air, and sauntering up a random trail near the National Park Service visitor center. I passed cacti and West Indian as I ascended to a spectacular view of Cruz Bay, freckled with tourist boats. Moments later, a sign marked a turnoff for and, with nothing on my agenda, I hung a left and continued down a path rutted with gnarled roots, nearly tripping over a hermit crab as I neared the beach.

It looked like one of those cheesy postcards you鈥檇 buy on vacation to make your friends back home jealous鈥攁 thin strip of sugar-soft, white sand framed by sea grape鈥攂ut in my travel delirium, this beach seemed a perfect opportunity to check my desire to constantly do more, to instead simply bask in the sunshine and salt water. I laid out my towel and pulled out my Kindle.

I鈥檝e never been a beach person, but something about the metronomic whooshing of the waves lulled me into a state of bliss, and I passed the entire day reading and plunging into the ocean to cool off. My planning-addicted mind began to loosen its grip, thanks to my surroundings, and time began to dilate wildly.

Have I been out here an hour? I wondered. Five? Hands on a clock didn鈥檛 seem to matter much at the moment. Sure, I had a snorkeling trip the next morning, but that was for future Emily to worry about. Right now all I had to do was breathe and enjoy.

It was a mental shift I would carry with me for the remainder of the trip, soul food in the best possible way.

63 Parks Traveler Virgin Islands Info

Size: 15,052 acres

Location: St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands

Created In: 1956 (national park)

Best For: Snorkeling, scuba diving, boating, fishing, hiking, relaxing on the beach

When to Go: Winter (66 to 79 degrees) and spring (67 to 83 degrees) are the driest months and considered high tourist season for this park. Summer (72 to 86 degrees) and fall (69 to 85 degrees) bring fewer crowds and more affordable lodging, due to the Atlantic hurricane season, when more frequent and severe storms hit the region that can result in torrential rain, flooding, heavy winds, and canceled flights, not to mention damage to coral reefs in extreme cases.

Where to Stay: I enjoyed a private, hostel-style twin room in town at , just a short walk from the Cruz Bay ferry dock. It had clean bathrooms, a mini fridge for groceries, and, best of all, afforded easy access to everything in that central area. If you鈥檙e jonesing for a more rustic experience, offers tent and glamping sites inside the national park.

Where to Eat: , full of funky street-art vibes (courtesy of artist ), serves up delicious Sonoran-style Mexican food, with a few epic options for vegetarians. The restaurant is committed to helping reduce single-use plastic, and all take-out orders are served in recycled, biodegradable materials.

Mini 国产吃瓜黑料: Hike to . Picturesque and chock-full of the silky white sand visitors expect in the Caribbean, their beaches are worth exploring, and this 2.5-mile hike to both is a mellow way to spend an afternoon. At Salomon, you鈥檒l get a chance to explore and revel in a bit of solitude, while Honeymoon features more creature comforts, like hammocks, , and live music.

Mega 国产吃瓜黑料: Go for an all-day snorkeling trip. offers a plethora of different options, from five-hour trips with a floating lunch stop to half-day swims in secluded coves. I opted for the daylong trip on my visit and tripped out on the colorful coral reefs, sea turtles, and my first-ever restaurant-boat experience.

The post Virgin Islands National Park Is Often Forgotten. It Shouldn鈥檛 Be. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

As a kid, you can鈥檛 control where you grow up. To land somewhere like St. John, in the U.S. Virgin Islands, takes luck鈥攁nd in my case an adventurous mother.

My fraternal twin brother, Sean, and I were five years old when our mom decided that she was tired of commuting from Westport, Connecticut, to New York City. So in December 1985, she and her boyfriend bought a 41-foot sailboat named Yahoo, we packed everything we owned into 19 duffel bags, and we headed south.

St. John, half of which is covered by , offered singular beauty鈥攁nd plenty of places to anchor our new floating home. Mom took a job as a landscaper in Fish Bay and eventually got her real estate license. Sean and I fell in with a rat pack of kids who congregated after school to play tackle football, catch tarantulas and lizards, and crawl under barroom floors in search of quarters. We grew up boogie boarding and surfing on the south shore. One day we took turns reeling in a 350-pound shark off the west end of Jost Van Dyke, next door in the British Virgin Islands.

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After two years on the boat, Mom bought a house. A house that, on September 6, 2017, was completely destroyed by Hurricane Irma. At the time, my mother was on the mainland for a wedding and a visit with Sean and me in Colorado, where we both live with our families. Four days after the storm, we found a YouTube video with aerial footage of our neighborhood. It was annihilated; I didn鈥檛 recognize our home, a modest two-story structure that had survived hurricanes for 30 years. It looked like someone had shot a missile into it. So did our neighbors鈥� houses. I watched the video five times. Despite studying the footage, which covered at least a quarter mile in all directions, I could not locate our roof.

It had been more than 15 years since I鈥檇 lived on St. John, but I still considered it home. It鈥檚 where I learned about the world, everything from fishing to race. When we were nine, my brother and I spent an entire spring glued to a chain-link fence watching St. John鈥檚 all-black Little League team practice. The West Indian coaches, former pro prospects Orville 鈥淐hopper鈥� Brown and Terry 鈥淐hino鈥� Chinnery, asked if we鈥檇 like to join the team the following year. We did. On September 16, 1989, while practicing in the island鈥檚 main town of Cruz Bay, I got hit by a pitch and broke my elbow. As the doctor wrapped it in a cast, he said, 鈥淗ave you heard about the storm coming?鈥�

He said it was called Hugo and that the territory was in line for a direct strike. The Virgin Islands have a long, fatal history with tropical cyclones. The first recorded major hurricane hit the island in 1697. Devastating storms followed in 1772, 1819, 1867, and 1916. It had been decades since a legitimate threat had materialized.

By then we were in our new house a half mile above Cruz Bay; other residents live in small communities scattered above bays and beaches. We were oblivious to the storm鈥檚 power. Instead of installing hurricane shutters or armor screens, like people do now, we duct-taped an X over each of the six sliding glass doors and sat on our living room couch as Hugo roared through with 150-mile-per-hour sustained winds. We watched a neighbor鈥檚 roof peel off, a shed get picked up by a tornado, and a restaurant鈥檚 roof slam into our yard like a kite. When the glass started to bow, Mom told us to hide under the bed.

In 1995, Hurricane Marilyn landed another roundhouse. Sean and I were in Connecticut when it hit; Mom rode out the storm on a boat in Hurricane Hole, a sheltered bay that offers some protection from the wind. Though the boat held its position, people who hunkered down in more vulnerable locations on shore still insist that the winds were substantially stronger than the 115-mile-per-hour forecast.

I recall images from those storms, but the damage I saw on the Irma video was in a class by itself鈥攖hree or four times as bad as Hugo and Marilyn combined, locals estimated. 鈥淭he forces were just incomprehensible compared with previous storms,鈥� says Rafe Boulon, a St. John native and retired scientist whose great-grandfather opened the U.S. Weather Bureau office on Puerto Rico in the early 1900s. 鈥淪ome places lost probably 10,000 years of sand and vegetation in a matter of three hours.鈥�

As soon as Irma听formed as a tropical storm off the west coast of Africa on August 30, it grabbed scientists鈥� attention. Weak upper-level winds over the Atlantic and sea-surface temperatures that were two degrees warmer than average made for an ominous mix as the storm moved toward the Caribbean.

鈥淚t鈥檚 amazing how much difference just one or two degrees can make at that water temperature in terms of how strong a hurricane can get,鈥� says Jay Hobgood, an associate professor of atmospheric science at Ohio State University who tracked Irma and has been studying hurricanes since the 1970s.

Despite a roughly 400-mile diameter, Irma had to thread a needle to inflict catastrophic damage on populated places. Most destruction occurs in a hurricane鈥檚 eyewall, a band of brutally violent wind spinning counterclockwise around the eye; beyond that, winds drop off quickly. This creates a 40-to-60-mile-wide path where you don鈥檛 want to be. Almost all hurricanes pass between Trinidad, just north of South America, and Bermuda. But most of them track north of the U.S. Virgin Islands, which have only a 3 percent chance of being hit by a hurricane that鈥檚 Category 3 or stronger.

Irma soon grew to Category 5, with maximum sustained winds of 185 miles per hour鈥攖he second-highest speed on record for an Atlantic hurricane. The day before it hit, Chopper got a call from his son, 颅Okyeame, who works in intelligence for the U.S. Navy and is Sean鈥檚 and my godson. At 61, Chopper is built like a defensive end and remains as imposing as when he served as the island鈥檚 unofficial patriarch, someone who mothers would bring their sons to for discipline and direction. Okyeame told his father that he had researched the storm and it was a monster鈥攏othing like it had hit St. John in generations, if ever. Chopper felt a wave of fear wash over him.

The same day, I called my closest friend from childhood, Galen Stamford, who was living in the one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of my mom鈥檚 house with his wife and six-year-old daughter. Sean and I met Galen our first week in the Virgin Islands. He grew up to be one of the top surfers in the region and a beloved island figure. Like everyone else, he had been watching Irma鈥檚 advance with dread. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think your mom鈥檚 house is going to survive this one,鈥� he said. He had decided to stay at a friend鈥檚 concrete house in Peter Bay, on the north side of the island, where the windows and doors would be protected by a large armor screen. They had stocked enough food and water to last three months.

Across the 20-square-mile island, the 4,000 residents finalized preparations of their own. In Rendezvous Bay, on the island鈥檚 south side, Carlos Di Blasi, a 53-year-old restaurant owner, had decided to ride out the storm in the house that he and his wife, Maria, had built 16 years earlier. It had one-foot-thick concrete walls and a roof made of corrugated tin, three-quarter-inch plywood, and half-inch cedar.

Sailors in the area frantically rushed to secure their boats. Longtime skipper Richard Benson, 66, buzzed around in his dinghy helping other people get ready, including his son, Daniel. Benson owned one of St. John鈥檚 iconic charter boats, the all-black, 84-foot 鈥減irate ship鈥� Goddess Athena. He had a long blond beard and gold teeth, and he was known for his stern temperament and reliability. He and Daniel had five boats to prep between them, but as they worked, Daniel was fighting a stomach bug that left him barely able to speak. 鈥淚 felt terrible,鈥� recalls Daniel, a 26-year-old artist and surfer. 鈥淎ll I wanted was to be with my dad and help him.鈥�

Before Benson steered the Goddess Athena to Coral Bay on September 5, he did something that was rare for him: he admitted regret. 鈥淲e should鈥檝e sailed south two days ago,鈥� he told a friend.

Benson didn鈥檛 have as many options as smaller-boat owners did for where to seek shelter. In Hurricane Hole, the National Park Service allots 105 spots across four bays where captains can clip onto a one-inch-thick chain strung across the ocean bottom. But boats longer than 60 feet aren鈥檛 allowed to use the chain, so Benson positioned the Goddess Athena in the shallower water and mud of Sanders Bay, across the harbor.

Just north of where Benson anchored, a 50-year-old lifelong sailor named Adam Hudson tied off his 27-foot Bristol, Solstice, in roughly the same spot he always did: in front of the old customhouse on the east side of the bay. The first time he rode out a major hurricane on the water鈥擧ugo, when he was in his early twenties鈥擧udson escaped a pileup of boats by jumping into chest-deep water and wading to shore as raindrops shelled his skin. He and his dad watched their boat get pounded for the next eight hours, irreparably damaged. This time he figured he鈥檇 be fine, if for no other reason than he鈥檇 always been fine in this spot鈥攖he same rationale Benson seemed to be using.

The night before Irma struck St. John, it mowed down Barbuda鈥攁n island three times the size of St. John鈥攍eaving 95 percent of its buildings uninhabitable. St. John颅ians who watched the radar that night were forced to accept a grim reality.

鈥淚magine you鈥檙e skydiving, and you pull the rip cord and nothing happens,鈥� Daniel Benson says. 鈥淵ou look at the ground, and the glance that you and the ground exchange, that moment of imminence鈥攖hat鈥檚 what it felt like.鈥�

On the morning of September 6, the storm ramped up at different times in different places, but it happened quickly every颅where. In Peter Bay, Galen and his storm mates鈥攕even people and six dogs鈥攐bserved an almost instantaneous change when the eyewall arrived at around 11:15 A.M. 鈥淚t was like a snap of your fingers,鈥� he said. 鈥淭here was no warning. We went from 70- to 160-mile-per-hour winds like that. The bronze railings started to whistle. You could hear ceramic roof tiles getting ripped off one by one.鈥�

Five miles south, Carlos Di Blasi and his family lounged in a bedroom watching a movie, wondering why it was so quiet. Their house faced east and was tucked against a mountain, sheltered from the west winds. Until 12:30 P.M., you could have heard a quarter hit the floor. Then a big gust shook the house, and Di Blasi decided that they should move downstairs to a more secure room. He walked to the closet to get his shoes as Maria and their 11-year-old son, Alejo, looked out the window.

Bang! A deafening explosion rang out鈥攕uddenly the dark room was light. Di Blasi looked at his 15-year-old son, Mateo. A long two-by-six beam had pierced the roof like a javelin and missed his son鈥檚 head by inches, spraying his hair with wood chips.

Bang! A second beam landed on the other side of Mateo. He stood there, frozen, as water gushed through the ceiling holes.

Bang! A third beam came through. Maria started screaming. The four of them raced downstairs to a bathroom under a concrete ceiling and listened as 11 more beams鈥攔ipped from another house by a tornado鈥斅璸enetrated their roof.

At the other end of the island, in Coral Bay, six-foot waves crashed down on Hudson鈥檚 boat, breaking its mast. At 1 P.M., he felt an anchor line snap, and the boat started taking on water. He knew it was only a matter of minutes until it sank, so he grabbed his savings鈥�$5,000 in cash that he kept in a drawer鈥攃rawled onto the bow, and waited until the pulpit disappeared into the water. Then he began to swim for his life, greenbacks in one hand, ball cap in the other.

He estimates that he swallowed a gallon of saltwater during the swim. He reached the shoreline, crawled up to a rock, and clung to it for five hours in the fetal position, shivering and slurping rainwater.

Several islanders say they felt an earthquake at the height of the hurricane. Water rose through sink and shower drains, then disappeared. Walls expanded and contracted. 鈥淚 thought 10 percent of the people on island were going to die,鈥� Daniel Benson told me. 鈥淚 honestly thought that.鈥�

Across most of St. John, the storm simmered down between 5 and 6 P.M. The eyewall had passed, and a hurricane鈥檚 outer bands usually bring more rain than wind. But high on Bordeaux Mountain, the island鈥檚 pinnacle at 1,283 feet, the fury was just 颅beginning.

Debby Roberts-Liburd, a grandmother whose family lives on a remote plot above southern Lameshur Bay, counted seven tornadoes between 5:30 P.M. and 1 A.M. She had already watched three relatives鈥� houses get blown apart when her own roof flew away at 10:30 P.M. Then the wind sucked the toilet straight up and out of the bathroom.

鈥淢a,鈥� yelled her son, L.J., 鈥渨e cannot stay in this room, because we all will be sucked out.鈥� As Debby hurried outside to take shelter on the lower floor, L.J. saw a tornado coming and knew she wouldn鈥檛 make it back inside before it arrived. He ran and grabbed her around the waist as she clung to a water drum. 鈥淒on鈥檛 look up,鈥� he said.

The wind lifted Debby鈥檚 legs off the ground and shook her like a fish. 鈥淛ust hold on, Ma!鈥� L.J. said. 鈥淒on鈥檛 loose off, 鈥檆ause if you loose off, two of us gone!鈥�

When she felt her grip slipping, Debby prayed. Please, Lord, don鈥檛 let anything cut off my hands. Almost instantly, she heard a ssssssip, and the air went still. She ran inside.

The morning after felt apocalyptic. Not a leaf remained; the islands were so brown that the color even showed up in images from NASA satellites. Bizarre sights filled the landscape. Chopper came out of his house to find his dog eating his cat. Boats were stacked on shore like sticks in a campfire. Desperation set in. Looters ripped out ATMs. My mom worried that her belongings would be ransacked before she got home. Galen heard stories of people getting robbed at gunpoint, and he began sleeping with a spear.

At first, some 2,700 residents were unaccounted for鈥攎ore than half the population. 鈥淚 was getting two to four messages a minute for a while,鈥� says Jon Shames, president of St. John Rescue, a volunteer organization.

In the sailing community, boaters shared news of who they鈥檇 seen and who they hadn鈥檛, in what is known as the Coconut Telegraph. It soon became evident that nobody could find Richard Benson or the Goddess Athena. Daniel Benson spent days using a jury-rigged VHF radio to try and hail his dad. He got no response, but he heard the Coast Guard trying, too, which gave him hope.

Unfortunately, the Atlantic hurricane season was far from over. Two weeks after Irma passed, Maria walloped St. Croix and Puerto Rico鈥攎ajor hubs for the relief effort on St. John. Even though St. John dodged a direct strike, its supply chain was broken.

Richard Benson鈥檚 fate remained a mystery for 19 days, until someone saw a British news story about an unidentified man who was found nine miles northeast of Coral Bay, on Tortola鈥檚 coast, the day after Irma. 鈥淐aucasian, between the ages of 60 and 70, medium build, 5'7 to 5'8 and 160 lbs,鈥� read the description. 鈥淗e had a long blond beard and hair and was wearing blue coveralls like that of a marine engineer when he was found.鈥� Daniel took a helicopter to identify his father at the morgue. He was, remarkably, the only St. John resident to die during the storm.

Not long afterward, Daniel located the Goddess Athena鈥攐r at least the remaining 20 feet of her. The stern, one of 546 shipwrecks left by Irma in the U.S. Virgin Islands, had washed up inside the barrier reef at Johnson Bay, just southwest of Coral Bay. It was a skeleton. The steering wheel and helm were gone, and the interior was gutted except for a light bulb and a speaker. The only thing that Daniel found of his dad鈥檚 was his old underwater camera.

My mother arrived on St. John three weeks after Irma, the day the St. Thomas airport reopened. She spent long hours picking things out of the rubble, which she stored in her car, and doing laundry at a friend鈥檚 house where she was staying. She applied for FEMA aid. She got exhausted quickly and often.

Everyone kept asking what she was going to do, and she didn鈥檛 have an answer. Rebuilding at age 68 with a FEMA loan sounded daunting, but so did the alternative: leaving the island she loved.

I got my first view of St. John two months after Irma, on November 6. Sean and I joined Galen, two friends from Colorado, and my father-in-law to tear down our house to the foundation. Part of me feared the job, not for physical reasons but for emotional ones. Still, the rubble had sat long enough, and we knew Mom would need it gone if she decided to sell the land. (Before she paid off her mortgage five years ago, the bank required her to have hurricane insurance, which cost $18,000 a year. She got rid of the coverage once she settled the debt.)

It鈥檚 strange to take a sledgehammer to your childhood home鈥攄emolishing the kitchen counter and what鈥檚 left of your bedroom walls. But that was better than cleaning out the freezer, which had sat unopened for two months in 85-degree heat. Thousands of rotting maggots combined with shrimp scampi make a strong case for the world鈥檚 foulest smell.

As I broke down walls snared in vines, I couldn鈥檛 help but imagine how the house had come apart. Assuming that the roof went first, the west-facing wall must have been flattened by 200-mile-per-hour winds. The remaining walls likely collapsed after that, then the south deck and railings, everything swept into the bush.

Iguanas watched from the treetops as we shoveled soggy debris into buckets and piled it eight feet high in the driveway. In one shovelful, I collected a remote control, part of the kitchen table, a phone book, chunks of moldy drywall, and a bottle of vinegar. In the next, my high school ID, more moldy drywall, 听 on DVD, and a Christmas card to 鈥淕ram鈥� from Sean鈥檚 kids.

I dug a box out of the mud that contained our grandparents鈥� Kodachrome slides from the 1950s. Mom found her Woodstock ticket stubs. We discovered a plastic bin full of a hundred framed photos from our childhood and hers, somehow sitting dry next to three bins full of water.

On the third day, a neighbor surveyed our work from his still standing deck. 鈥淪ee!鈥� Mom shouted up to him. 鈥淚 told you they鈥檇 come rescue me.鈥� For the first time in weeks, she sounded hopeful.

Despite spending that week on St. John, I knew I had seen only a portion of Irma鈥檚 impact on the region. So in late November I returned, joining local photographer Steve Simonsen on his boat. We motored all over the British Virgin Islands, which neighbor St. John, visiting people who had survived the eye and were now left to rebuild.

One of our first stops was the world-颅renowned Bitter End Yacht Club on the east side of Virgin Gorda, a 64-acre resort spread across a mile of sandy coastline. Sixty of its buildings鈥攊ncluding 40 rental villas鈥攚ere destroyed. 鈥淚t has to be totally reimagined,鈥� John Glynn, a marketing executive, told me.

We pulled up to the dock and met Henry Prince, a 20-year employee and Virgin Gorda native who guessed that it would take at least three years for Bitter End to look anything like it did before the storm. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e not going to rebuild it the way it was. You have to rebuild it for the new type of hurricane,鈥� he said.

We headed across North Sound past Necker Island, where Sir Richard Branson has weathered every hurricane for the past 40 years. He told me that 300 of his private island鈥檚 600 flamingos survived winds that broke his anemometer when they hit 210 miles per hour. We stopped for lunch at Leverick Bay, one of the most devastated communities, where four out of every five buildings had been blown apart. Marina manager Nick Willis was sipping a beer on his deck when I found him. He told me about the damage but also how Irma had brought out the best in people. Like the rich Czech guy from Nail Bay who had paid hundreds of locals $10 an hour to work on their homes after the storm. Or the man who had boated up to the marina and handed Willis $100, asking only that he give it to someone who needed it. 鈥淚t just brings you to tears,鈥� Willis said.

We drove around Tortola with Chino, my old baseball coach, who mentors island kids and lives in Cane Garden Bay, a port famous for its beachfront restaurants, all of which were destroyed. We saw where the ocean had ripped graves out of the earth in Carrot Bay and flipped a 99-ton ferry upside down on Jost Van Dyke. We gaped at a battered airplane fuselage鈥攚ithout its wings or tail鈥攂alanced atop a ruined hangar at the Beef Island airport. I heard rumors that the British military measured gusts up to 285 miles per hour. (The unofficial wind speed record is 318 miles per hour, set by a 1999 tornado in Oklahoma City.)

None of the sights, however, compared with what we found on Cooper Island, a tiny cay off the south shore of Tortola. As we neared a concrete dock, an old West Indian woman walked toward us holding a knife above her head. I got off the boat and approached her slowly, introducing myself and asking if I could talk to her about Irma. 鈥淥f course. Come in!鈥� she said. She led me and Simonsen toward a makeshift white tent鈥攁ctually a sail draped over some coconut trees. A frail-looking man limped along the beach to meet us.

Jean and John Leonard explained that they weathered Irma right here at sea level. Jean, 84, came from Trinidad so long ago that she鈥檇 forgotten the year. John, 90, was born on Cooper Island and had lived here all his life. Before Irma they had eight boats and 15 fish pots just offshore. Like many Virgin Islanders, they鈥檇 seen their share of hurricanes and did not fear them, so when a boat arrived to take them to Tortola, they declined.

Their son, who lives on Tortola, sent his 15-year-old boy to stay with them during the storm, in case they needed some muscle. Soon after the deluge began, a sea grape tree fell on their roof, followed by a coconut palm. The house began to break apart. Ten-foot waves combined with the fast-rising surge almost pinned the Leonards to the bed they were hiding under. Their grandson kicked down the door, and they ran outside. As the wind and ocean raged, John turned to his wife of 54 years. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 make it anymore,鈥� he said. He lay down in the water. Jean grabbed a pile of dry clothes she鈥檇 stored in a drum and propped them under his head to keep him from drowning.

The next day, when their son came to check on them, he was stunned. 鈥淗e say he didn鈥檛 expect to see we alive,鈥� Jean told me in her Trinidadian accent. 鈥淗e didn鈥檛 expect to see we at all.鈥�

Two dogs and hundreds of ducks, many still limping from Irma, scurried around in the sand next to an outboard motor and various buoys. Bags of corn for their animals鈥攖hey also have more than 80 goats, which they sell to a butcher on Tortola鈥攚ere stacked on the dock. I couldn鈥檛 help but notice a second sail fashioned into an A-frame, 50 feet down the beach. I walked over and peeked inside, seeing two old mattresses on rickety frames under the sail. This was where the Leonards were sleeping. Before the Royal Marines brought them sails, they鈥檇 slept in the open.

The Virgin Islands听face an uncertain future. The first three months after Irma were focused on solving basic problems and getting electricity restored. It helped that, in addition to local organizations, longtime St. John second-home owners Tom Secunda鈥攁 billionaire cofounder of Bloomberg鈥攁nd country-music star Kenny Chesney launched extensive relief and evacuation assistance. (By the end of the exodus, most believed that St John鈥檚 population had been cut in half.) FEMA had contributed nearly $300 million to the islands by mid-颅December, including loans, and at one point Virgin Islands National Park requested $68 million in hopes of catalyzing economic progress on St. John. 鈥淭he challenge is keeping this place on the radar for the American public and also for Congress,鈥� acting park superintendent Darrell Echols told me.

The long-term environmental fallout is unknowable. It took more than three months for the dangerously high levels of bacteria, possibly from runoff tainted by septic backups, to clear up on two popular north-shore beaches, Maho and Oppenheimer. The coral reefs have been stressed by the same runoff. One scientist told me that it could take decades for the red mangroves to recover.

As for reconstruction, David Rosa, an engineer who lives and works on St. John, said that he expects a change in building codes because of Irma. Currently, everything must be constructed to withstand 165-mile-per-hour winds. 鈥淚t wouldn鈥檛 surprise me if they went up to 180 or even higher,鈥� Rosa said. Still, stronger buildings are more expensive: one-inch rebar, for example, costs six times as much as half-inch.

The most important question is how and when tourism will rebound. Five of the resorts on St. John were still closed in early February, and the two biggest, Caneel Bay and the Westin, don鈥檛 expect to reopen until 2019. Arthur Jones, owner of Arawak Expeditions, said that he expects to lose two-thirds of his business over the next year. 鈥淲e are a tourism-based economy, and when tourists don鈥檛 come, we are going to be hurting,鈥� Jones said.

鈥淭hings are going to change here,鈥� said Miles Stair, an old friend who has lived on St. John for 46 years. 鈥淧eople will go, people will come. Are we going to have fewer restaurants? Are we going to see fewer tourist dollars? Is that good, bad, somewhere in between? I think it鈥檒l be years before we really gain a perspective.鈥�

Richard Branson, who likened Irma鈥檚 damage to a nuclear strike, is leading an effort to unite the region so it will be less vulnerable to future storms. It鈥檚 called the Caribbean Climate-Smart Coalition, and he views it as a sort of Marshall Plan for the region. The goal: get the Caribbean islands鈥攊ncluding the U.S. and British Virgin Islands鈥斅璻ecategorized as a bloc, so they can receive lower-interest loans faster and better insurance terms. 鈥淚t鈥檚 much easier for, say, the World Bank to deal with all the islands at once instead of lots of individual islands,鈥� says Branson, who was forced to cancel bookings at his Necker 颅

Island resort through September 2018.

As for the likelihood of more megastorms hitting the Virgin Islands, it鈥檚 one aspect of climate change that scientists disagree about. In general, most believe鈥攁nd the models agree鈥攖hat we will see fewer Atlantic cyclones. But when conditions align, they could bring monsters.

Infrastructure aside, Irma鈥檚 remaining wounds are personal. Galen鈥檚 wife and daughter left St. John four weeks after the storm and will probably remain off island through the school year. They鈥檙e far from the only family living a fractured existence.

鈥淟ife is hard all over again,鈥� said Adam Hudson, the sailor who lost his boat in Hugo and then another in Irma, over a beer on the Coral Bay waterfront.

Daniel Benson was still processing his father鈥檚 fate when I met him one afternoon at Hart Bay. We walked out to the rocky point and sat next to the break where Sean and I had learned to surf. With his blond dreadlocks tucked under a bandana and tattoos honoring his roots鈥擴-S-V-I across his left fingers and Love City, Cruz Bay鈥檚 nickname, on his thigh鈥擠aniel pondered what happened to his dad.

Benson was believed to have had ten large anchors securing the roughly 40-ton Goddess Athena, so the fact that his boat was found elsewhere means he must have cut his lines. But why? Though friends have differing opinions, Daniel believes his dad lost his dinghy and couldn鈥檛 get to shore as the storm picked up. And if his anchors then started dragging, he may have decided to fire up the 200-horsepower diesel engine and roll the dice in the open ocean rather than be smashed on the rocks in the bay.

鈥淚 think he made it pretty far south, then a wave took him,鈥� Daniel said. 鈥淚 can only imagine hanging on to a steering wheel while duck-颅diving 20 feet of solid water. I just wonder how many waves he dove through before he finally said fuck it. Or maybe he didn鈥檛. Maybe the waves just broke the helm right off.鈥�

In late November, a St. John Rescue truck carrying Benson鈥檚 remains led a procession through Cruz Bay. People lined the streets to say goodbye. 鈥淚 know everybody says my situation is maybe heavier than what they went through,鈥� Daniel said, 鈥渂ut from my perspective, the woman who crawled out from underneath her collapsed house in the middle of the storm, who barely had enough room to breathe, I think she went through something heavier than me in the storm. The girl who had to run out of her house because it exploded and got into a car, then had to go to another car because the first one exploded鈥︹�� He trailed off. 鈥淓verybody has experienced a whole different kind of crazy with this hurricane.鈥�

Sean and I have tried our best to support our mom after Irma. She put her property up for sale in early December, and she鈥檚 spending the winter near us in Colorado. In her bedroom, a sign reads Don鈥檛 look back. You鈥檙e not going that way.

It was hard for her to admit to people that she was leaving. So much of her identity is tied to St. John and enduring life on a volcanic rock in the middle of the ocean. I tried to remind her that the results were out of her control. As Galen said, 鈥淲e鈥檙e like the fleas on a dog, and we got hit by the paw.鈥�

A handful of friends whose homes survived told me that they feel ashamed when people ask how they fared. Mom understands, despite landing on the opposite side of that fate. 鈥淚n some ways, I鈥檓 sad that I wasn鈥檛 actually here for the storms. I鈥檝e thought of that a lot,鈥� she said one night at dinner. 鈥溾�夆�楳issed out鈥� isn鈥檛 the right phrase, but I鈥檝e imagined what it must鈥檝e been like, even though it鈥檚 unimaginable.鈥�

It鈥檚 a weird feeling to know that I can鈥檛 go home anymore. I think about sitting on our deck and watching the sunset, picking ripe passion fruit off our vine, hearing the roosters crow each morning. But I remind myself that the island will always be there.

One afternoon in late November, on our way back from the British Virgin Islands, Simonsen and I stopped at the Baths, a famous boulder-strewn beach on Virgin Gorda where you can swim in caves and jump off rocks and nap on soft white sand. Like most beaches in the wake of Irma, it was empty and stunning. I did some bouldering and squeezed through a couple of caves, then jumped into the water to cool off. A family of four, including two boys under ten, snorkeled by. I asked the father where they were from. 鈥淥riginally the UK,鈥� he said, before gesturing toward the lone sailboat in the bay. 鈥淩ight now we鈥檙e living aboard.鈥�

I smiled to myself and told him they were lucky boys.

国产吃瓜黑料 correspondent Devon O鈥橬eil wrote about mountaineer and photographer Cory Richards in August 2017.

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St. John is the jewel of the Caribbean. While most of the other Virgin Islands were corrupted long ago, has preserved St. John鈥檚 integrity: 7,259 acres above sea level and 5,650 below, 26 miles of hiking trails, and 30 beaches Photoshopped by God. Alas, this is hardly a secret. With no remote camping allowed, and fleets of taxis delivering day-trippers to the same famous north-shore spots, the beaches can get downright bougie.

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Yet the charts show scads of remote coves accessible only by long hike, dubious jeep trail, or water. Scheming from the deck of my eco-tent on a December morn, I came up with a plan: What better way to gather intel than by circumnavigating the island by sail, then revisiting the gems with a paddleboard and a towel?

My visions of a solo journey were scuttled when I proposed to the watersports kiosk at Cinnamon Bay Campground that they hand over a Hobie Cat so I could round the island in one spectacular day of derring-do. Savannah, the tanned girl in the booth, was a veteran at deflating the egos of middle-aged, sunburned men. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 let the boats go beyond the safety area,鈥� she said. Besides, she pointed out, it would be impossible on such a short December day鈥攕he鈥檇 tried. Something wistful flickered across her face.

I thought fast. It was a slow day at Cinnamon Bay, I pointed out. She agreed. A beautiful day, I added.

A waiver form and $500 later, I was captain of the 14-foot Hobie Cat Rockefeller, which I鈥檇 temporarily christened for Laurence R., the man who scooped up half the island in the early fifties, built a five-star resort, and donated the rest to the U.S. government, which created the park in 1956. Savannah and I raced the Rockefeller out of Cinnamon Bay and into the trade winds that howl nonstop from the east all winter long.

The good news: the winds were honking so hard that a one-day circumnavigation was not absurd. The bad news: the winds were honking. We skittered past 40-foot catamarans like a 14-foot water strider. We were stripped down and built for speed: snorkel gear, water bottle, granola bars, and a GoPro, plus a second, smaller sail in case things got gnarly. Savannah steered with her toes.

By midday the winds had grown so strong that we ducked behind Waterlemon Cay to change sails. St. John鈥檚 north shore is protected from the open ocean by the British Virgin Islands, but its south shore is exposed, and we knew the wind and waves would be huge.

We needed every minute of daylight鈥攂ut there were turtles and moray eels to snorkel with. And we had to hike up to the ruins of an 18th-century sugar plantation so Savannah could do headstands in the archways. She used to be a gymnast. Three years ago, for her 18th birthday, she got herself a koi tattoo and moved to St. John.

We swung around the jagged spire of Ram Head, which marks the island鈥檚 southeast corner, a couple of hours behind optimal and turned downwind in the open sea. Ten-foot terrors burst through the trampoline in a crash of foam. Every wave tried to surf us down into a trough, where we stood a good chance of pitchpoling, so for the next three hours we perched on the very back of the pontoons to keep the nose high, spilling wind from the sails to slow ourselves down. Our ship was basically two pieces of flotsam lashed together with a sail and a rudder, and I began to understand how the ancient Polynesians got around. When the seas are warm, you can be in them as much as on them.

Spectacular deserted bays and 200-foot-high cliffs slipped by to our right, white spray exploding up their faces. A helicopter came cruising low, perhaps to check on our sanity. Savannah flashed it a peace sign and it sped off.

In the coming days, I would revisit those deserted south-shore beaches with a Badfish Hole Shot鈥攁n inflatable paddleboard. Empty sand, deserted islets, and nonjaded fish were all mine.

But for now we鈥檇 lost the light. The last two hours we sailed in darkness; I peered ahead for the flash of warning buoys and strained my ears for the sound of reefs. Our twin rudders trailed phosphorescent sparks. At last we turned back into Cinnamon Bay, 11 hours after we鈥檇 left. As we dragged the Rockefeller up the beach, we left glowing footprints in the wet sand. They glittered for a moment, and then they, and the day, were gone.

Access + Resources

When: April to June, to avoid peak-season tourists and higher prices.

How: Fly to St. Thomas and 听($7) to St. John.

Play: You can rent Hobie Cats at the 听(from $70). 听rents sea kayaks and paddleboards and runs excursions.

Stay: 听has jaw-dropping views at the edge of the wildest section of coast (from $135).

Eat: Celebrate your return to civilization with a plate of curried goat and a soursop punch at 听in Cruz Bay.

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The ferry chugs out of Red Hook harbor on St. Thomas, and I settle into a bench on the top deck as the sun sinks below the jagged outline of Thatch Cay in the distance. As far as I鈥檓 concerned, a boat is the only way to arrive on an island, which is why I鈥檓 so intrigued by my destination. St. John has no airport鈥攁nd no golf courses, either.

听

What the 19-square-mile island does have is proximity鈥攖he flight from Miami to St. Thomas is less than three hours, and from there it鈥檚 a 20-minute ferry ride鈥攁nd unadulterated wilderness. Nearly two-thirds of the island (7,000 acres) is part of . Beyond the bustle of the ferry port in Cruz Bay, the coastline is a series of protected white-sand beaches linked by hiking trails over peaks that rise to 1,200 feet. Add in 5,600 acres of offshore national park and 12,708 underwater acres of Coral Reef National Monument and the island is almost too perfect for snorkelers, divers, kayakers, sailors, stand-up paddlers, and beach loungers.

鈥淗ellooooooo, lady!鈥� Kenneth Louis, my Dominican taxi driver, greets me in a deep, resonant bass. He hoists my bag into his truck, which has a bumper sticker that reads 鈥淧ositive Is How I Live鈥�.

Louis, a walking encyclopedia of facts about the island, swings by his house on the outskirts of Cruz Bay鈥攈ome to 2,700 of the island鈥檚 4,100 residents鈥攖o pick up his wife, Thelma, a Pentecostal preacher. She鈥檚 coming along for the 30-minute drive up steep switchbacks and past the low-key expat community of Coral Bay on the east coast, then south to the island鈥檚 unpeopled tip, where I鈥檓 staying.

They drop me off at , a collection of 42 tents and studios cantilevered onto 20 acres of hillside at the edge of the national park. It鈥檚 so arid here that both cactus and orchids grow. To the south is the sheltered harbor of Salt Pond Bay, to the east the rocky drama of Drunk Bay, and in between is Ram Head, a wind-worn natural bulwark at the end of a green peninsula with a sheer cliff that drops 200 feet into the Atlantic.

Laurance Rockefeller, who donated 5,000 acres to create Virgin Islands National Park in 1956, started the conservation craze on St. John. New York developer Stanley Selengut followed Rockefeller鈥檚 lead, building Concordia in 1990. The tents are equipped with solar showers, composting toilets, photovoltaic batteries that power the fans and lights, and 鈥淎C,鈥� which consists of heavy trade winds blowing through the screened siding. Concordia鈥檚 newest units have solid walls, flush toilets, hot showers, and kitchens鈥攁ll powered by grid-tied solar energy鈥攁nd generous decks. The view is seemingly endless ocean that stretches to Africa.

Not a bad vantage point from which to explore the wild side of St. John. I hit the trails, starting with the steep two-mile path to the cliffs of Cabrite Horn Point, a great place to watch humpback whales migrate from January to March. Early the next morning, I take off on a four-mile hike that winds past sugar plantation ruins, then spits out on the arced crescent of white sand at Salt Pond Bay, where a lone sailboat is anchored. At nearby Drunk Bay, the wind is howling off the Atlantic, and there鈥檚 an eerie stash of voodoo dolls fashioned out of rocks and detritus. Feeling alone on a deserted island, I head back to Salt Pond, where a half-dozen people are plopped on the beach, then shed my shoes and snorkel among sea turtles and manta rays.

By day three, I鈥檝e ventured farther northeast to kayak and snorkel at Hurricane Hole, the centerpiece of the national monument, which is off-limits to motorized boats. The water here is so vibrantly turquoise it looks dyed, which makes the jellyfish, parrot fish, and lobsters even more surreal.

Down in Coral Bay, a short ten-minute drive from Concordia, there鈥檚 a surprisingly lively food scene. At the , a yellow hut at the top of a steep incline before descending into Coral Bay on Route 107, I order pulled-pork tacos because the Texans sitting at the table next to me can鈥檛 stop raving about them. Owner Larry Grenier, who moved here from New Hampshire 21 years ago, is blending his famously potent Drink Right, Keep Left cocktail, containing six flavored rums. Later in the week, at , the owners whip up a spicy, golden West Indian coconut curry that goes well with the restaurant鈥檚 scarlet walls.

My last day is all about the water. Arthur Jones, a Nashville, Tennessee, native who moved here 24 years ago with a few college buddies and stayed to open , has arranged an ambitious paddleboarding journey downwind. It dawns on me that almost everyone I meet is an expat who caught St. John fever and has stuck around for decades.

鈥淭he reason I鈥檝e stayed so long is the national park,鈥� Jones says. 鈥淚t will remain pristine forever. If we didn鈥檛 have it, St. John would be just like any other overdeveloped Caribbean island.鈥�

Jones, his wife, Beth, a few friends, and I paddle from Haulover Bay, on the island鈥檚 northeast corner, ten miles through the chop along the north shore of the national park, past one immaculate white beach after another鈥擟innamon, Hawksnest, Maho, Trunk鈥攚hile barracuda and sea turtles swim under our boards. Three and a half hours later, we walk into , an open-air restaurant that welcomes sunburned, wind-blown customers. Some of them might just end up sticking around.

The Quick Guide to Seeing St. John

How to Get There: Six airlines offer direct flights to St. Thomas from cities including New York, Atlanta, and Miami. Ferries ($14 round-trip) leave from St. Thomas鈥檚 Red Hook Terminal every hour from 6:30 A.M. to midnight, seven days a week.

Where to Stay: has St. John鈥檚 southeast end to itself. Eco-tents start at $195 per night. A few miles north, family-owned over-looks Hurricane Hole in Coral Reef National Monument and has four cottages on the property and access to a private beach (from $190). Oceanfront is just north of Cruz Bay (from $459).

Eat and Drink: In Coral Bay, try a Pusser鈥檚 Original Painkiller and conch fritters beachside at Miss Lucy鈥檚, or drink beer and play horseshoes at . has spicy curry, and don鈥檛 miss the six-rum Drink Right, Keep Left at the .

What to Do: Pick up a copy of ($3), a detailed hiking map of the island. offers single- and multi-day kayaking and snorkeling adventures, SUP rentals and expeditions, and fly-fishing for bonefish and tarpon.

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