Making Waves, Fowl Cay Resort the Bahamas

For many years I have recommended those considering buying and developing a private island to read "Don't Stop the Carnival" by Herman Wouk. Now there is a new book out that easily compares to that but ends with success after all the dramas.

Making Waves
By Libby Brown
www.makingwavesbook.com/index.htm *
Publication Date: November 2006
ISBN: 978-0-9791431-0-6
Dimensions: 6-1/4" x 9-1/4"
Length: 340 text pages and
55 color photos

* When ordering please state you found the book through this blog!

Written by the co-founder of the phenomenally successful This End Up crate furniture store, author Libby Brown describes transforming $500 and a hole-in-the-wall shop into a 253-store mega-chain. This is the story of one woman's journey from a desk job to living on her own private island. But, as one might expect, there was plenty of turmoil along the way.

Included are the terrifying events endured while cruising aboard a 70-foot motor yacht from Florida to Venezuela - an act of piracy following a dazzling sunset, a terrifying accident and a deadly storm out of a clear blue sky - and the decision to remain at sea.

Then there was the private island for sale in the most beautiful part of the Caribbean. But unable to envision the harsh terms of development on a remote cay in a foreign country, the co-founder of Fowl Cay Resort describes her struggle to make her dream of an island paradise come true.

More than the true story of an abundantly successful entrepreneur, "Making Waves" may inspire you to take a chance on yourself. What would you do if you weren't afraid to fail?

Excerpt from Chapter Three, Making Waves, Fowl Cay

2006 by Libby Brown, All rights reserved.

Crew chief Harry, Stewart and I were at the partially-built clubhouse and restaurant, trying to sort out a disagreement about the width of a concrete bench that topped the curving wall around the patio. Had the bench's interior side been built according to plan, it would shelter the tiny down-lights attached underneath it, and they would have cast a warm glow at night on the face of the supporting wall and onto the floor of the Hill House terrace. Instead, the depth of the bench had been so curtailed that the rope lights would simply have to be eliminated or placed on the face of the wall where all the bulbs would glare into our guests' faces.

Harry stood firmly on the side that I had OK'd that arrangement, and I was positive I never would have done such a thing. At a stalemate for the time being, Harry called timeout to give some good news about the marble and granite that was six weeks late arriving. The delay had caused an island-wide work stoppage on all kitchens and bathrooms.

"By the way, the marble and granite are in Nassau being loaded onto a barge today. It should be here midmorning tomorrow," he said. "Great news," we agreed.

As the day drew to a close, Harry's cellphone rang. He turned away to answer, and Stewart and I heard him say, "No. No. NO. Keep me informed."

"What? What?" we asked.

"They put so much granite and marble on the barge that it sank." I was speechless, but, sadly, not particularly shocked.

Harry said, "The barge was still at the dock when it went down, so they will send in divers to retrieve the materials and try reloading tomorrow."

"Pretty lucky it's something saltwater can't hurt," said Stewart.

He was right, of course, and nothing could change the situation now, but we just seemed to lurch from crisis to crisis. The difference was that Stewart never considered them to be crises. If he ever decided to get a tattoo, instead of choosing "I Love Libby," he would have to be branded, "What is, is." Stewart was turning Bahamian as the months marched on. I was turning tail.

Island Ways Rule on Resort

Publication: Richmond Times-Dispatch
Byline: Libby Brown
Date: 05-05-2002
Edition: City
Section: Editorial & Op/Ed

Do you know the wonderful book Don't Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk? It's the story of Norman Paperman, an American businessman who falls in love with a tropical island resort, buys it, and finds more problems than will fit on every page. It's very entertaining fiction, and we've been asked many times if we've read it. Yes, we have, because we, too, are American business people who own a tropical island resort. Paperman's fiction is our reality.

We really are a bit old to be doing this, my husband Stewart and I. In some ways youth would have served us better, but "right time, right place" doesn't always drop hints. It seems as if we awoke one day and were in the middle of an irreversible, life- changing place. It's not the first time, and, along with other people, we often wonder at the ultimate fortune of our choices. After turning a funky idea into an early business success ("Who would buy crate furniture?"), we retired early to cruise the Caribbean in a boat ("What in the world do you do all day?"). When arthritis set in and wanderlust abated, we bought a lovely 50-acre island in the central Bahamas in order to be land-based with advancing age ("What will you do if you have a heart attack?"). Fowl Cay ("You live in a place named Foul?") became our home and all manner of people had opinions ("You two lead such an interesting [weird] life"). Not usually ones to be deterred by perceived innuendo regarding our lifestyle decisions, we pushed forward.
Oh, boy, did we push forward. But that somehow implies we were in control of the direction, so let me correct that. After a year of "this island is not for sale," Stewart's tenacious Chinese water- drop technique of "just checking back" finally wore the previous owner down to submission. At last we owned Fowl Cay . That was 4 1/2 years ago. It took two years after the purchase agreement to get title, building, and environmental permits ("Oh, yes, Mr. Brown, we're very anxious for foreign investment.")

During that time we crystallized our resort's building plans - three rental houses, our house, a clubhouse, and the manager's house. We were bubbling with American know-how and the enthusiasm of the unindoctrinated. But Fowl Cay is an out-island, 70 miles southeast of Nassau, plunked in the middle of massive Exuma Sound. No Home Depot, UPS, phone line, computer, fax, electricity, or potable water. No roads, cars, trucks, septic system, laundry, lumber, cement, or nails. No hospital, post office, drugstore, grocery store, bank, airport, TV, or movie. We were trying to build a small but self-sufficient city - not just any city but a wonderful resort. Our vision was to create luxury in the wilderness, but so often the wilderness seemed to be in control.

Now three years into it, we knew our dream lived and breathed only with the success of regular barge runs. But regular barge runs depended on fair winds, calm seas, working generators, sober captains, accurate directions, high-tide levels, and well-secured loads - just to name a few factors. The barge carrying the backhoe we needed to dig our first foundations was two frustrating months late, and I had returned to Virginia for a few weeks. Stewart called home saying he had "good news, bad news, and good news." What? I asked anxiously. "The good news is the barge arrived!" Fabulous! What's the bad news? "The bad news is the backhoe that was loaded on it rolled off into 3,000 feet of water." #!*@*#*! Then what in the world can the other good news be? "The good news is they loaded the wrong backhoe - it was for someone else's job." Oh, whew! And that's what we had come to - thankful for a mistake, hardly even focusing on the fact that we really still had bad news. My vaunted ability to get resolution had tucked tail and run, and Stewart's well-known patience and optimistic outlook had elbowed their way into the driver's seat. And what's left of our sanity probably can be credited to that.

On one of my occasional times home, I met an acquaintance at the grocery store where I stood in the wide-eyed wonder of a refugee as she glibly picked from 87 choices of cereal. "How's your island coming along?" Well, we're getting there but we really underestimated the degree of difficulty. Every item comes by barge and if something gets left off, it's weeks before the workers you're paying can do their job. I ventured this hoping for a modicum of sympathy. "We're re-doing our house at Virginia Beach, and I just told a carpenter if he had to leave one more time to go to Home Depot to pick something up in the middle of the job that I would just get somebody else. So I know exactly what you're going through." Well, maybe not exactly.

Now we were close to the four-year mark of our project, but we were much more than four years older! Stewart lost 20 pounds, our confidence cracked, we argued, banded together, cried, and almost gave up. About 2 a.m. one night, we were both awake and restless - it had become our normal state. "What are you thinking about?" I asked. "How the hell did we get here?" he said. This momentary slip in Stewart's previously described sanguinity came after a day so chock-full of problems that all 45 members of the construction crew, who lived on Fowl (Foul?) Cay for two years, seemed to have conspired to drive us over the edge.

The crowning blow? A custom-made, arched doorway, designed to match an opposing one, was shown on the architectural drawings as 3'0" wide. It was dutifully built, barged in, and installed at 30" wide while we were home meeting our first grandchild. Upon our return, we noted the mistake with dollar signs running through our minds and asked for it to be corrected. Weeks later, we were proudly marched to the previously offending site. The width of the new door was a perfect 36" . . . the shape of the new door, however, was rectangular. The order for door #3 was put in. One door in one house in a small city. How did we get here?

Synopsis of a line from Don't Stop the Carnival: Ah, Mr. Paperman! Forget everything you learned in schools, down here you'll live by island rules.

In spite of innumerable setbacks and fractured budgets, deadlines, tempers, and trust, the building of our resort generally moved forward like the hummingbirds that populate Fowl Cay - with the frenzied beating of our wings, sometimes just to stay aloft. But you know what? The houses were finished, and the furniture arrived - by barge, of course. The mosaic starfish on the pool seats turned out to be the right color after all. The bougainvillea blooms in a cascade of fuchsia down the stone wall. The water-maker machines make their product in sparkling clear purity. The food does mostly arrive on time at a nearby airstrip. The local beer is plentiful and cold. The local lobster is plentiful and divine. The music delights your soul. And the sun shines most all the time.
The days are still laced with challenging opportunities. I don't think that will go away, but our own personal tide has recently stopped ebbing and even seems occasionally to be reversing its direction. I expect it to fill us back up some day. There were many days when that seemed an utter impossibility. There were even a few days when we wished for a potential buyer. (Hey, Mr. Paperman, want to add to your real-estate holdings?) And there were lots of times we fell into bed exhausted just as day was done.

So why would two relatively regular, 60-ish people from Richmond take on an endeavor of such enormous difficulty? That is the question we are asked most often, and we still cannot adequately answer it. We wanted a family compound, a place where three generations could love and laugh for as long as we have left. We wanted a small resort, a place where interesting travelers would tell tales of their lives, thereby keeping our minds growing. We wanted to be around people who are happy, who are high on acceptance and low on judgment of others, and that is the mantra of the Bahamian culture.

We wanted to live near the water in a place of such enormous physical beauty that we wouldn't dare sleep past sunrise because every second of the view fills us with peace and joy. And we wanted to do one last project together because keeping on keeping on is not work to us. It's life.

Fowl Cay - A Bit of Paradise
Publication: St. Christopher's News
Byline: N/A
Date: January, 2002

To Libby and Stewart Brown, Fowl Cay is a bit of paradise, but the road to paradise has been an incredible adventure. After finding one of the few places avaibable for sale and getting all the necessary permits (which took more than two years), the real adventure was just starting. Everything had to be imported, from materials and labor to food. For four years, the Browns collected everything to furnish the island homes: queen-size beds, CDs, the works!

The contents of their rented warehouse in Richmond were packed onto six 40-foot-long tractor-trailers to go first to Jacksonville, Florida, and then by barge to Fowl Cay. If this sounds exhausting, it's a labor of love for the Browns who say they're in it for the memories.

"For instance," said Libby Brown, "when the barge pulled up to the island with 75 palm trees, everybody's waiting to see what barge it is. You pull up the binoculars. 'It's the palm trees!' People from the neighboring islands are following it on dinghies and it's loaded down with fronds. There are wide red ribbons typing them down and all the people are flapping in the breeze, honking horns, digging holes. It's just wild," she said, "but moments like these are why we're there."

Although their first thought was to build houses for just their two children and themselves, the Browns decided to share the island and turn it into a mini-resort, so that others could experience a piece of paradise. Only five homes are on the island, plus a clubhouse with tennis court, a swimming pool and an exercise room. Each home is fully stocked with food and beverage preferences for the week, and gourmet dinners are served nightly at the clubhouse. No cars are allowed on the island, so lucky vacationers get around by golf cart and their own 17-foot boat. Fowl Cay's first official season opens this sprint but friends of St. Christopher's have the opportunity to be among the first to enjoy this paradise because the Browns generously gave a week on Fowl Cay to the St. Christopher's Auction held February 9th.

The Owner's House on Fowl Cay.

Fowl Cay Resort, Bahamas
http://www.fowlcay.com/

Fowl Cay is a 50-acre island owned entirely by one family. The cay generates its own electricity and makes its own excellent water from the sea, just to mention a few of the primary infrastructure items that make it self-sustaining with the exception of food.

Located only 70 mi. SE of Nassau and 200 mi. SE of Miami, Fowl Cay is approximately midway down the Exuma Island chain, yet remains unspoiled. It provides a venue for those who want a unique getaway in the incredible Bahamian Out-Islands.