Houston, Round Man is a Go for Liftoff

The snorkeling drill at Tobago Cays goes like this.  You motor your dinghy to the reef, tie up on a mooring, jump in, snorkel around for a while, climb back in your dinghy, and return to your boat.  This plan is great except for one problem; climbing back into the dinghy is a cinch unless your name happens to be Round Man.  We don’t come up with names like that for nothing.  The climbing in maneuver is just not possible.

The first time we encountered this problem several years ago, we were moored in about 7 feet of water.  I remembered something we did as kids in the swimming pool – crouch down under water and allow another kid to stand on your shoulders.  At just the right time, you would stand up quickly, launching the other kid into the deep end, preferable with a few flips thrown in.  I decided to try it.  Round Man stood on my shoulders as I crouched on the bottom.  I signaled him and pushed off.  First time, a false start and we were both still in the water.  The next time, we connected fully, launching him 3 or 4 feet in the air before he did a full face-plant on the floor of the dinghy.  He lay there in full turtle position for several minutes before he stopped laughing.

The Launch, as seen from Mission Control

We now have this maneuver so well rehearsed that you would not even be aware it was happening.

Episode V: The Boat Boys Strike Back

We had become complacent.  Our success the previous day with our Boat Boy Avoidance Strategy went straight to our heads.  The lubrication provided by numerous rummers probably helped, but we now had a new problem.  They were back in full force.

I surmised that they regrouped overnight and plotted new countermeasures to the BBAS.  They were not going to take this lying down.  Their very survival depended on retaliation.  If news of the BBAS success were to ever reach the masses, how would they live if they could not hustle tourists for dollars?  This was serious.

Believing we had slew the dragon, we stopped the vigilant use of our cooler.  We arrogantly reasoned that we should not waste beers on Boat Boys we didn’t know.  That was the Achilles Heel they were looking for.  Their counteroffensive involved sending an entirely new legion of Boat Boys to scour the anchorage.  Suddenly, we were being hustled every 5 minutes by Boat Boys we did not know and we were not offering beers. We were outflanked.

Episode VI: Return of the Suspects

After a brief meeting with the other Suspects, we concluded that our cooler could in fact support a return to the original BBAS, despite the damage we inflicted on it the previous night.  We immediately restored the beer offers, began making new friends, and to no surprise, the problem was solved.

Things were going so well at one point, I spotted Free Willy drifting by our boat, engine off, enjoying his lunch under the hot sun.  He looked parched, so I called him over and insisted that he take an ice-cold beer and a bottle of water.  I can still remember the look of appreciation on that young man’s face when I passed them to him.  I’m certain I won a friend for life in the Tobago Cays, and I felt pretty good about that.  Maybe he felt I had finally forgiven him for failing to pick up our garbage in November 1998.  Life was good again.

Quality, Defined

Mr. Quality made his customary appearance, and as usual, his merchandise was first-rate.  He always has a T-shirt design that I cannot resist, despite the fact that I have two dressers full of them that I cannot wear; obtained from several hundred J24 regattas I’ve attended over the years.  I had with me one of his shirts I purchased from a previous trip.  For fun, I told Mr. Quality that I had a major problem with the shirt, and wanted to know if he still honored his warranty.  He never flinched or even blinked, confident in his product.  I was forced to confess quickly that it was just a joke.  Mr. Quality, yes indeed.

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt!

Things had slowed to a snail’s pace by early afternoon, which was exactly the plan.  We decided to dinghy to the beach at Baradal and take in a volleyball game being played by the guests from the mega-luxury yacht Starship that was anchored nearby.  Perhaps we’d run into Elvis.

We landed the dinghy at no particular spot on the beach, and were assisted by a tall local fellow who looked just like Michael Jordan.  Last November in Marigot Bay St. Lucia, we enjoyed Happy Hour at Chateau Mygo several times with a guy who looked like M.J., a Moorings charters skipper named Benny Prince. Sure enough, it was Benny!

“Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt” (something he used to say to us), I shouted.  He damn near dropped on the spot when he recognized us.  What are the chances of running into him like that, given that I could have beached the dinghy just about anywhere missing him entirely?  It’s a small world, however this stuff seems to happen to us all the time.

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

On the Beach

Earlier in the afternoon, Mr. Plat came aboard to talk about old times.  I often use visiting time to make gentle suggestions to Boat Boys that might improve their business and customer relations.  They mean well, but most have not been on Wal-Mart Customer Service Training.  I suggested to Mr. Plat that he print a flyer and hand that out – I shared with him the fact that visitors would feel less threatened as a result.  This was the sum of my Missionary effort for the day.

I also suggested that one of them organize evening beach barbecues.  It’s something that people love to do but rarely get the opportunity.   Why not here in Paradise?  Just then, the lights came on for Mr. Plat, who timidly proclaimed that he in fact conducted beach barbecues, and that we should hire him to conduct one.  I was certain at that moment that we were his first customers, but decided to go for it.  Besides, I did not really want to spend an hour in the galley that evening, and this was a way out.

At 6:30 sharp, Mr. Plat swung by, picked us up, and delivered us to the beach at Jamesby Island where the barbecue pit was in full sizzle.  Mr. Plat’s cousin, using a cooler and a few pieces of flotsam, had set up a rickety bar right on the beach.  The campfire was actually a small brush fire, but we had it under control.  Two Molotov Cocktails provided light.  Additional flotsam and a vivid imagination provided dining furniture.  Gilligan was on hand to bus tables.  Enchanting – absolutely!!!

Guests from another boat were also invited, fresh ears to test out new stories; we had the makings of a real party.  Only problem was, one couple was from Italy and spoke no English at all.  Somehow, Winston managed to carry on a two-hour discussion with them, in Spanish.  About what, nobody will ever know, including Winston.

The other couple, Frank and Annie from Paris, put up with our terrible French for about two minutes before telling us it was OK, they would rather struggle through English than listen to us butcher their beloved language.  It was less painful for them.  The final guest from the other boat was their skipper, Eric Menager, from Star Voyage Charters of Martinique.  We quickly established a great rapport when it was learned that we enjoyed the same watering holes in the Caribbean.  By the end of the evening, I was convinced that he was the true King of Somewhere Hot.  When I grow up, I want to be just like him.

Much to our surprise, Mr. Plat cooked a mean fish!   It rocked.  He barbecued them in foil with a very hot spice, and they came out perfect.  Not only that, there were at least two each!  Add rice, vegetables, and bread and we had ourselves a terrific feast, new friends, on the beach of an uninhabited island in the Caribbean, with the Milky Way glowing brightly above.  It just doesn’t get any better than this.