Island hopping

St. Barts. Anchor down. I hand the captain the bags of trash and then flip my legs over the lifelines, purse and flops in hand, and swing myself into the dinghy.

“You behave yourself!” I tease the guests as we rev the outboard and make our way towards Gustavia. The rocky cliffs and scrubrush hills are dotted with red roofed villas and extravagant mansions overlooking miles of frothy Caribbean Sea. We curve around with the land and find ourselves in the unmarked anchorage. There is no rhyme or reason; it seems the boats simply throw down an anchor unwitting of swing room or scope. “Wow, they sure pack em in here!” I yell over the outboard roar to the captain. “Yup. The French don’t care- they just put out more fenders,” he answers. I am slightly horrified but moreso full of admiration. I mean, they’re just boats right? So what if they bump a little? OK. So I would not be fine with this mentality on my own boat when a gouge in the gelcoat can be an expensive and time consuming fix. Nor do I want some guy with 20 feet of line out in 10 feet of water dragging into me in the middle of the night. Yet somehow here in St. Barts it seems to work. Once again it’s a reminder to chill out, drink some burgundy, eat some nice food, sleep on deck under the stars (closer to the fenders when that other boat hits (old habits die hard)), and don’t worry. Life is too short. Boats bump, wine glasses break, bread crumbs fall into cracks in the floor. C’est la vie.

When we get into town all the shops are closed and shuttered. Practically the only businesses open at late afternoon are a smattering of restaurants (the rest will open later in the evening) and a pharmacy. I pay an ungodly amount of $9 for a tiny tube of what I think is Neosporin like (“Yes, zhat es wot yuu want” says the French cashier as I show him my strangely dual infected ears) and scurry back to the dinghy dock to meet the captain as he finishes checking us into the country. I pass boulangeries and patisseries I to which I want to return in the morning and all sorts of shmancy stores I will have to forgo.

I have my big sunglasses and my yachting burn/suntan look going. All I need is a caftan like the leopard gauzy one I spied in one of those schmancy stores. Ok, I also need a black credit card and I may be able to pass for someone on vacation.

I jump back into the dinghy with the captain and we motor out into the outer harbor and back to our guests. At least I got to step onto land, take a quick tour of the town. Which is more than I can say about yesterday’s anchorage in Barbuda.

The sand on shore looked nice from my swim around the boat. But hey, the water was warm and clear, the moon bright overhead. Not a bad breaktime activity. It beats talking about LOST over the water cooler.