St. John's

“Guys, pack your bags because next week we’re going on an overdue family vacation to St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands!” my dad announced after a lengthy discussion with my mom about whether or not the four of us kids could miss a week of classes. . Just two weeks before on November 2, 2004, my dad, Justice Paul Martin Newby, was elected to an eight-year term on the North Carolina Supreme Court after a long and arduous campaign against seven other candidates. Now, finally, our family was getting away from the hustle and bustle of political life to enjoy a week of relaxation and family time on a tropical island.

After a long flight with a layover in Miami, my family landed in St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands ready for a weeklong vacation with our close family friends the Wilsons. The sun began to set as we rode the ferry from St. Thomas to St. John. The Wilsons, who had arrived a couple days earlier, met us at the ferry-stop with our rental car for the week, which was also the standard island taxi— a small white Ford pick-up with benches in the back and a blue canopy-cover to protect passengers in case of rain. All ten of us piled on and headed to the villa that we rented for the week. The neighborhood was full of beautiful villas of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and the streets were lined with rhododendrons and other tropical flowers in full bloom.

Inside, much to the relief of everyone’s on-edge emotions, the villa was beyond spacious. In addition to the large community area, kitchen, and dining room upstairs, there were three large bedrooms—one for each set of parents and another for the three boys to share. “You girls get a room all to yourselves downstairs!” Dr. Wilson announced as he led his daughter Stacey, my sister Sarah, and me out the back door and down a set of stone stairs to the heated pool. A set of double glass doors on the other side of the pool and surrounding patio opened into our room. It was huge—nearly the size of the community area in the floor above it. The two queen-sized beds were neatly made, and the curtains drawn back from the sliding glass doors that enclosed three sides of the bedroom. As the last rays of sun slowly faded from the horizon, everyone convened on the upstairs back porch that overlooked a magnificent bay to plan our week’s activities after moving our things in.

For the rest of the week, we spent our days in the sunshine and water, enjoying the sights and the aquatic activities. “Don’t you want to put on some higher SPF sunscreen?” my mom asked me everyday. “No thanks,” I always replied as I slathered on dark tanning oil, determined to return to my high school for that last week of November with a tan as dark as I usually had in the summer.

Although I was too young to fully appreciate all that surrounded me during our vacation, two elements of the island culture have stuck in my mind to this day. First, the kitchen of our villa was stocked with all varieties of complementary rums, liquors, and beers. It looked like the whole alcoholic beverages aisle from Kroger along with parts of the liquor store had been misplaced in our cupboard. Apparently this was commonplace hospitality on the island. My parents, the upstanding Southern Baptists that they are, do not drink. One night, they called us children into the kitchen where they proceeded to open a particularly potent bottle of rum and require us each to taste it. They presumed that when you are fourteen, sixteen, twelve and eight, and rum alone is your first drink you are going to hate it. “See, it doesn’t even taste good at all!” I remember my mom emphasizing. “Now when people offer you alcohol you can say you’ve tried it and therefore have plausible deniability that you do not like it,” my dad chimed in his most judicial sounding voice. It seemed like they went on for an hour talking about the evils of such drinks.

In addition to the drinking culture, were the hand-crocheted tams that all of the island men wore over their long dreadlocks. They even made imitation headpieces with fake dreadlocks attached to the tams. My dad bought one as a joke. It was striped red, yellow, black, and green. Although many of the islanders could have passes for Bob Marley, even with the tam-wig apparatus, my balding father had no chance at such a disguise.

The salt water was clear as glass and warm enough to snorkel as long as you kept moving. Coral reefs dyed the ocean floor in many areas a vibrant crimson and provided excellent hiding spots for a wide variety of sea life. In the shallower areas were all sorts of Angelfish and other smaller, bright-colored and uniquely shaped fish. Although we had several underwater cameras, they could not capture the beauty of the place. One afternoon, my dad, brothers and I swam out quite far into one bay. All of a sudden, my dad grabbed my arm and silently pointed off to the right. Not far off was a school of nearly twenty squid. Their translucent bodies left inky-smudges in the glassy water as their slender tentacles propelled them along to a nearby outcropping of coral.

The next day, we drove for nearly an hour to the other side of the island to another bay that a native had recommended to us for snorkeling. It had stormed the night before, and so the surf was up, the wind was blowing, and the waves were crashing. It was difficult to get past the breakers, but after fighting our way out, we realized that the bottom dropped of sharply. With a few kicks of our flippered feet we were in water twenty to fifty feet deep depending on the exact location where you were. It was incredible. My siblings and I learned to swim practically as soon as we could walk so the depth was not frightening; however, when some fish that seemed larger than we were swam past several feet below us, my heart raced a bit. Several stingrays glided past, fascinating me to no end with their wingspans that seemed larger than my own. That was before Steve Urwin, the Crocodile Hunter, was killed when one of their barbs pierced his heart. Because of the cool wind blowing off the ocean and the cooler temperatures of the deeper what that the sun had not yet fully warned, I became chilled and decided to swim to shore, a decision I later very much regretted. My dad and brothers stayed out for at least an hour more and were able to see two sea turtles and a nurse shark with her offspring.

Sadly, at the end of the week, we were forced to pack our bags, say goodbye to our lovely villa, and return home. We almost missed the ferry back to St. Thomas to catch the plane home. I kept my fingers crossed as we sped to the ferry landing, much to my parents chagrin. I never have understood why they were in such a hurry to return to the harsh world of reality of political life.