9th
Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 3: More snapshots from St. Bart’s
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s your turn to drive.” I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark towards the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.
OMG SORRY you guys! I TOTALLY got “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas” confused with MY life again. I hate it when that happens. Getting ahold of self now. Resuming correct narrative.
OK so…yes, Alex and I survive our 30 mile swim through shark-infested waters back from the pirate ship to the relative safety of Nikki Beach, uh, beach. After rewarding ourselves as well as the faithful Claire and S. for waiting for us so loyally, with another delicious bottle of Ott, we head back to the boat to nap. This does not go as planned, as only Claire naps, while I sit on the deck with the boys, smoking cigarettes and telling lies. More rose. Things start to get a little hazy after that.
Sunburn and blisters from previous night’s fancy footwear prevent me from wearing shoes to our friendly neighborhood bar/restaurant Le Wall House where we have a drink while waiting for the cab to take us to Le Ti, where we have a dinner resy. Thursday nights at Le Ti are “Sexy Fashion Show” night (every night has a different theme apparently). The taxi over the hill to Pointe Milou is like a rollercoaster. I’m happily bouncing around the cab as it veers around hairpin turns, still barefoot. Things are really great. Stuff is exciting.
At dinner I enjoy a mouthwateringly perfect steak and polish off most of the dessert we ordered for “the table.” My conversation is mostly limited to Homer Simpson-style fragments such as “cant talk, eating.” I am fairly sure I had a LOT of opinions about the “Sexy Fashion Show” (which to the best of my recollection was neither Sexy nor Fashionable, though certainly a show…) but they escape me now. The one brilliant idea (possibly of many) that I have during the course of the evening is to join forces with a table of attractive locals (transplants from Spain) sitting near us. This proves prescient when they turn out to be friends of the owner, and henceforth we drink free beer far past closing time. Conversation consists mostly of comparing swear-words in foreign languages. My only contribution (in French!) is the subject of much debate as no one believes that it means what I think it means. Undeterred, I repeat it until everyone agrees with me. Repetition works FABULOUSLY in such circumstances.
The Spaniards offer to drive us home, an offer we politely decline in a belated attempt at grown-up “responsible” decision-making. Back at the boat, sweet Claire plays me my new favorite cheesy pop song, and I accidentally drink a ginger ale instead of a beer. Bedtime too late to reveal.
We all survive the night, and the next morning have baguettes avec jambon AND croissants for petit dejeuner at a boulangerie-patisserie. I acquire a beautiful bright red sunburn while napping on the deck and then it’s time to provision the boat for our 100 mile/16 hour sail to the BVIs. This proves to be a bit of a challenge when we discover that it’s Good Friday, and we’re technically in a Catholic country. All the adorable churches we pass while wandering through town are empty, but all the shops are closed. The harbor-master tells us we have to be out of the harbor by 3:30. We politely ask for a delay until 4; he pretends to no longer speak English. French A-hole we mutter to each other and go for bacon-cheeseburgers and freedom fries. Best bacon-cheeseburger EVER and totally worth remaining in France illegally for. Finally we locate the only shop open, where we purchase 14 EUR frisee and 25 EUR saucisson.
Back at the boat we are remarkably organized. Claire and I move various foodstuffs around the galley, while Alex fiddles with essential sailing-type-stuff, and S. wanders a few feet down the dock to assist the boat next to us with their bow and stern lines, which they have thoroughly tangled. No sooner does he help them free themselves, then they collide amidships with a Catamaran which is floating toward them at a snails pace under neither sail nor power. It was a slow-motion mess. S. returns to the boat, and we ask him what the hell happened. I have no idea, he says, I think they’re Italian.
Time to get outta Dodge. The harbor-master harangues us over the radio because it is now 4:15, but what can he do? The sails are up and we’re heading out to sea.
