8th
Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 2: Snapshots from St. Bart’s
Step 1 when adjusting to island paradise after harrowing journey: rose and hors d’oevres. Geniuses Alex and Claire had stocked my soon-to-be home-for-6-days with delicious rose, and I’d purchased a selection of artery-clogging cheeses and pates so upon our arrival at the boat, we cranked the awesome-meter up to 11.
Bikini donned, and snacks and rose consumed, we laze around the deck, lounging in the late afternoon sun and letting all cares fall away. Napping occurs. The only reminder that it is actually March back in the real world is that the sun suddenly dramatically sets behind a goonies-style rock at the entrance to the harbor at 6PM, and we muster up the energy to pretty ourselves up and start discussing drinks-and-dinner plans. We briefly consider rushing to the swanky Carl Gustav hotel for “sunset cocktails” yet the sun is too quick for us. I further sap away our impetus to actually “go anywhere” by quoting one of my favorite scenes from Boogie Nights, where Julianne Moore and Heather Graham have shut themselves in a bedroom for a days-long drug bender, all the while telling each other that their options are unlimited, they are both talented and deserving of great fame and fortune, when Heather Graham abruptly derails their ambition by the phrase “but I don’t really want to leave this room.” It works, energy sapped, we open another bottle of delicious delicious rose and gently bob up and down as waves lap against the dock.
Eventually hunger wins out, and suitably gussied up, we wander in to “town” - a picturesque main drag lined with bars filled with tourists, equally divided between families and eurotrash. We somehow find a local bar, which seems filled with actual island residents and cruise ship staff. This is the “real” St. Bart’s, we tell eachother, soon to find out that there is really no such thing. Drinks consumed, next stop is Eddies, an asian-fusion joint with the freshest seafood ever and picture perfect “island” decor. I gorge myself on unusual combinations of crabmeat and lobster and a perfect white wine. Stuffed to the gills, we sit complacently staring at the beautiful people, when our waiter brings us each a shot of rum, compliments of Eddy. S. tries to protest, saying there is really no need for MORE booze at this hour, at which point I typically seize control and insist we drink the rum, as I’ve read online that this is what “one does” here. This has the desired effect and we imbibe. Suitably relaxed and feeling little pain we wander the streets for a while and discuss whether it would be wrong to steal one of the hundreds of moter-scooters, vespas and ATVs which are scattered along the sides of the streets in clusters. I mean, how hard could it be to hot-wire a car, we say. The more the desire to steal something grips us, the more quickly we realize its time to return to the boat before one of us, crazed with vespa-covetousness actually ACTS on our musings. Safely back on the boat we listen to music and let the warm breeze lull us into a stupor. I fall asleep in my mid-ship bunk like a baby rocked in a cradle as the boat rolls gently back and forth.
The next morning, groggy from a sound night’s sleep, host-with-the-most Alex chefs us a substantial breakfast, as we have a long day ahead of us. Attired in our skimpiest most European swimwear, we taxi over to St Jean on the other side of the island for an afternoon of swimming, beaching, lunching and multiple bottles of Domaine Ott. Ensconced in our rented beach chairs with matching towels (costing somewhere around 300 Euros apiece) we while away an hour or so chatting, walking on the beach, and watching families with small children frolic in the water. Bottle one of Ott consumed, we drift up to the porch, a mere 6 feet away, but a world apart. No sooner have we ordered our rose, and our first courses, then the throbbing techno house music spun by an energetic DJ gets louder.
The table next to us fills with the oddest selection of characters imaginable, some of whom have clearly come straight from central casting for the previously mentioned Boogie Nights, or possibly extras from Striptease. These nubile ladies immediately begin to gyrate enthusiastically on the table top. Some older gentlemen of their party watch approvingly, while a gaggle of teenage boys and girls also at their table look bored. I take a large number of photographs, trying to capture the exact moment when the most arses are visible at once. Unable to eat properly, our table guzzles rose and gapes. The nubiles, who we’ve realized are not quite as young as initially thought, inspire other women around the restaurant to join in the fun. We are surrounded by women of various ages in various stages of undress, gyrating maniacally. The only option is to laugh, and laugh we do. At points some of us are crying, though for slightly varied reasons. Claire is nauseated by the display, Alex is laughing uncontrollably and narrating the ridiculousness, and S. is disappointed that the nubiles are not so attractive. I am irritated that they are moving too quickly for me to properly document the display. Leaving lunch half-eaten, we grab the wine and flee to our chairs.
At this point, Alex and I decide to swim a mile or so out to what is clearly a pirate vessel moored on the far side of the bay. We’ve noticed the pirate himself rowing his classic dory up to the beach, no motorized dinghies or tenders for him! This guy is LEGIT, we tell each other. Draining our glasses, and with no adults around to tell us to wait 20 minutes after eating, we head into the ocean, leaving Claire and S. at the mercy of the nubiles. After swimming for about half an hour, Alex and I realize that in fact the pirate ship is farther then perceived, and yet we are undaunted. We’re determined to see the phenomenon up close even if it means swimming 10 miles up-hill-both-ways in a snowstorm. We dodge the boats ferrying cruise ship guests to the beach and redouble our efforts. Though we are not rewarded with rum, or even grog, when we reach the ship, as the pirate is still somewhere up the beach, we swim around and around the boat marveling at the wonder of it all. It is painted black, of course, and proudly flies a jolly roger from the mast. There are numerous oddly placed chains, and the battered hull indicates that some serious weather has been experienced. The name of the boat escapes me, as the 40 or so bottles of wine we’d consumed had worked their magic, but it hailed from Key West, an impressive distance for a boat not more than 30 feet long with a crew of one lonesome pirate. There is a weatherbeaten figurehead, who is unfortunately more clothed than the beachside nubiles, but at least she is present, though desperately in need of a coat of paint.
Time to head back. On the way back to the beach, Alex and I agree that in the re-telling, we must explain that instead of rose, we’d actually been drinking RUM, and had each drunk a CASE, and the pirate ship was 20 miles away and there was a tsunami while we were swimming there. We wonder if Claire and S. will remember who we are when we return.
To be continued….
