We’ve made it across the Atlantic to Barbados, arriving just in time for celebrating New Year’s Eve. Two weeks later, Den (my Dutch friend) and I are still hard at it, every day, in a Bridgetown brothel. There’s not much privacy either, we work at the rear of the establishment, in an open shed, exposed to the derisive laughter and unasked for advise from the local Cajuns. Just what went wrong...?
(Caribbean music supplied by: http://www.freesfx.co.uk
‘Successful cruising is a matter of continual awareness’. This adage was not followed. Sitting at a beach bar, boasting about crossing oceans to the only people who care to listen, other cruisers, is not awareness. With my back firmly placed to the worrying scene of two dinghies porpoising in their attempts to ride the increasing swell, I figured the ‘Ostrich Theory’ would work. Could we not relax now, tonight of all nights, after all we have just crossed the Atlantic? We deserve a break, do we not? The result answers the questions. The concrete wharf rips the large, sturdy rib to shreds as if it is paper thin, its’ 15 hp outboard drags what remains of the planning hull into the depths of swelling sands and coral sea. Our beloved servant from Aussie, ‘Penguin Jack’ aka ‘PJ’ is shattered, the remnants float off in the moonlight.
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