Chapter 29

A problem extant with a catamaran with a professional crew: passersby tend to view the guests as that ... guests. Lazy layabouts waited on hand and foot, their every need and want catered to by the bevy of beauties seen tanning nude on the foredeck ... Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two and One ... two men and five women. They were the layabouts and not the entertainment.

For the past six or so months the essential work has been done by we five ... Flintkotes and spouses, those of us who had ‘em, and our three disciples, the Ph.D, our spy and the politician’s kid.

We don’t let the crew do much more than assist. They didn’t seem to mind ... they were paid by the year by the other guy. Seven was right ... we need a vacation. Sailing is a lot of work. I’ve heard it said, ‘Brain work is exhausting.’

Engine fans clearing the engine spaces we kept way on while the glow plugs warmed the compression chambers. Starting the engines we checked both sides for exhaust and cooling water flow.

“Water on the left!”

“Water on the right!”

“Proceeding,” Cyn hollered. “JW, Billy! Strike sail. Cassie! Hoist the Q flag. Mel, collect the passports and ship’s papers.”

As an after thought she hollered, “You gods ... get dressed.”

Striking sail, Cyn maneuvered us between the mega-yachts and into the crowded mooring field as we acceded to her orders.

Everyone collected, displayed or stored as ordered.

We’re big ... the field had three balls for big. Drifting up to a mooring ball, we retrieved the the chain, hooked on, bridled and shut down.

“Crew! Wash down. Set harbor routine. All ashore that’s going ashore.”

“Getting pretty bossy, Cyn,” I said. “Good job.”

“Thanks Mel. We had good teachers.”

Everybody that wanted to go helped lower the pair of inflatable rigid bottomed dinghies and collected trash, water jugs and diesel jerrycans to take ashore for disposal or filling.

Uniform of the day? Bikinis and wraps ... short and tees. Flip-flops or sandals. First things first, the laundry had an old steam locomotive’s boiler ... water ... fresh ... hot water. Showers were five bucks ... each ... and not a single one of us complained. Oh god ... clean hair ... really clean ... so clean it squeaked. The last hot fresh water was Odessa ... that was two weeks ago ... and another planet.

Sure we had watermakers, one for each hull. Good ones ... with the charcoal filter and fresh water flush. Three hundred fifty gallons per day (gpd). They came with the boat... 10 grand each. They used a bunch of electricity, so we only used them at need.

Clean, we found the port authority closed. Of course, it was Saturday.

We found the customs officer at the bar along with the harbor master, and immigration official. We paid ... good for 180 days ... the paper work done we settled into spicy and refreshing island brewed beers ... Cassie and Krys included. They were legal in the Islands.

Cassie sipped, made a face and set the bottle down. “What do you guys see in this swill?”

We chuckled and sipped. We ordered what they cooked and sipped.

Dinner was served ... there was a lot ... and WE didn’t have to cook it or wash up afterwards.

The band. A wood box drum, a ‘cigar box’ guitar, a ‘squeeze box’ and a bass kalimba that the player was using as a stool. The singer had the only microphone. He sang through a five watt amp with an 8 inch speaker ... the five-some was as good as any reggae band ever recorded.

The bar was crowded with boat people ... many of them in the islands for the season.

Soon, Cassie was on the floor dancing, Krys went out next. Our physicist was asked. Our crew were dancing.

“I couldn’t help watching you beating your feet,” he said, “Care to dance?”

He wasn’t tall or thin or darkly handsome. He had long ginger hair, a beard and mustache. He was unkempt but his eyes looked in my soul. I couldn’t stay in my seat.

“Yes,” I said.

We danced. Every once in a while we went back to my table and hydrated and then back out on the floor. I didn’t understand. This man was absolutely Not the man of my dreams ... not my type ... no ... not even close.

One thing about this bar ... it was open to the outdoors. A tin roof ... posts to hold it up, a wood floor, rough hewn tables and rickety chairs. The bar itself must have had 6 bartenders and they stayed busy ... the place was jumping. Several times, while I was airing out, Cassie came back, chugged an island brew and was back on the floor. I don’t believe she even noticed what she was drinking. It was moist. Moist counted.

I’ll drink to that.

Morning came ... this wasn’t my boat.