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Check Out Time
My crew further
ensured I would not get in the way of boat check-out by escorting me
back to the protective custody of Utan, first thing in the morning.
They very diligently counted all inventory items, prepared
the dinghy and whatever else that was required to leave, while I
sampled Utan’s breakfast rum punch.
When I rolled down to the dock, we were ready to go.
I was extremely
impressed with how well the boat had been prepared by Barefoot.
Inside and out, it was spotless.
The hull had been polished and glowed bright white.
After nine months in charter, I could find no evidence of
wear and tear. In fact,
it was in better shape than when I purchased it, given that Barefoot
executed a number of refurbishments that we had planned over the
season. They had this
boat so well prepared that there were not even any “last-minute”
things they had to attend to that morning.
I was impressed.
Change of Name
The boat was
purchased through Sunsail and was called Travel With Tin Tin. It took nine months of my time and an entire legion of
Johnnie Cochranes to have the registration changed so that I could
effect a name change. It
was April 1st, the last form had been filed in
triplicate, the last lawyer paid, and I had new letters to apply to
the transom. An hour
and several broken fingernails later, the boat emerged as The
Usual Suspects.
 
Before . . . and after
Barefoot's New
Digs
After considerable
effort, Mary Barnard, owner of Barefoot Yacht Charters, had finally
succeeded in landing new waterfront property to house the base. Taxi
drivers on the island all cheered in unison when the deal closed,
relieved that they would no longer have to traverse that deadly
crater-filled road to the old location.
Construction of the
new charter base was near complete and a tour was in order. A quick hop across the Lagoon and we were looking at a great
property. Perched on
the hill overlooking the Blue Lagoon
with Bequia and Mustique
in the background, I concluded that this facility had the potential
to become a new regular stop on the Grenadines circuit.
Time will tell.
First Passage
With the last beer
packed in the cockpit cooler, we were ready to go.
Mustique was to be our first stop.
Guiding the boat off the dock, pulling anchor, motoring out
of the Lagoon, and unfurling the sails for the first time provided an incredible adrenaline rush.
I looked down and my feet did not appear to be touching the
cockpit floor. Those few moments were such a high that they more than made up
for all the grief I endured on my journey of boat
ownership.
 The euphoric moment
lasted seven minutes, as I handed the helm over to the Round Man and
proceeded to do what boat owners do best – absolutely nothing.
A morning nap on deck was in order, and after about an hour,
I was reminded that you should not lie in the sun without head
protection if you insist on haircuts using the Number 1 razor.
The top of my head had reached
“double lobster” status, and several days of pain and
peeling were now ahead of me.
Dinner With
The Rich and Famous - The Usual Suspects
Safely tied to a
mooring in Britannia Bay, Mustique, it was time to break out
the rummers. But first,
there was one small logistical matter to finish while I could still
operate my fingers – call up the Firefly on VHF and book
dinner reservations. They
only have 7 tables and you never know.
After a fine
cocktail hour, once we were all suited up and ready to go, I radioed
the Firefly to have Elizabeth pick us up at the dock with her
Jeep. It’s a healthy climb and we were really not interested in
conquering Everest before dinner.
Strangely, our communications were cut off right in the
middle of transmission. I
later learned that their VHF literally blew up, complete with sparks
and smoke. Tiny pointed
out that I should try to refrain from using the “Remote
Destruct” button on my VHF.
For some reason, the
place was empty, except for a couple sitting at the bar.
Laura and Fintan were from New Jersey and were enjoying the
week as guests at the Firefly.
They were outgoing and enjoyed having new people to play
with, especially the Canadian Olympic Bullshitting Team.
We decided to eat right at the bar, and Patrick, Mustique’s
Gold Medal bartender, was happy to do his thing.
I had learned that
this season was unusually quiet, and that tourism had completely
fallen off two weeks before. I
also learned that Stan (husband of Elizabeth, and co-proprietor) was
in Toronto, staying in a hotel literally 75 feet away from my
condominium. Funny I
didn’t run into him there.
Dinner was awesome
as usual, and after a few hours of storytelling, a staff member
named Michael invited us to join him at a local hangout called The
Hilltop (it’s not, it’s actually at the bottom of a ravine).
Six of us piled into the cargo compartment of his “Mule”
and we were off, travelers in hand, to begin our descent.
The Hilltop is an
outdoor establishment and there were about 20 patrons and 3 dogs
scattered around the property.
It was rather quiet and subdued until our arrival.
Sizing up the situation, I concluded that a little Soca music
was necessary to pick this crowd up.
Local knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I had plenty of
that. I
negotiated with the D.J. to play “Small Pin” (about the male
anatomy, you know…) by none other than St. Vincent’s own
Beckett. The locals
were impressed. Beckett
is God in these parts, and any visitor who knows this is OK with
them. I have
Beckett’s CD, so knowing the words was icing on the cake.
Beer and bullshit flowed freely.
By the time we requested Dalpin’s “Monica, Ah want to get
into yo party” (use your imagination), things were really hopping.
I knew it was time to leave when I spotted Tiny dancing with
one of the dogs.
Great party.
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