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The English Channel	[Oct. 18th, 2008\|09:48 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|france, sailing, travel] [Current Mood	wistful]Camaret. A little town in the northern tip of France. Like many French towns, it preserves its own life and identity: a flourishing local community of restaurants and small businesses. They're drowsily idle now, since they mostly cater to the summer influx of local holidaymakers and visiting yachts: in one bar we walked past, the proprietor was contentedly snoozing at one of the outside tables, his moustache drooping ever lower over his striped sweater.We left yesterday morning, bravely setting sail from St Mawes in Cornwall, only to find ourselves drifting through an ever more languid calm. Towards evening the sky cleared and a vivid gibbous moon hove over the horizon, lighting a glittering silver trail from the horizon to the white water burbling under Morvargh's forefoot. The brighter stars gleamed forth and for a while we sailed in their company, numbering our watches by their wheel around the Pole. Then the wind dropped away altogether. Knowing that worse weather was on the way, we traded peace for expediency and fired up the engine.Camaret is a village with echoes of the mediaeval, and more than a whiff of its fishing and farming past. Tiny winding streets, miniscule shops, sturdy off-kilter homes with weathered small-paned windows. In other ways it's modern. A few fishermen still ply from its harbour in open boats, but the inner harbour is filled with a marina and the town's night sky suffers the modern blight of sodium lamps.Still it remains France. The tiny population still supports two boulangeries, and the little supermarket has an entire section of wines (all French) and a hefty preponderance of cheeses and preserved meats. We couldn't resist a couple of euros' worth of paté de sanglier aux châtaignes (did I remember that word right?) and a couple of baguettes to help it down, and we dined on that and salad and leftover stew from the crossing. Oh, and red wine of course."How can people bear to live in England?" I asked plaintively as we headed back towards the dinghy. Why indeed?—when just over the English Channel, France seems like such an oasis of calm, contentment, bonhomie, and delicious things to eat? Not all is perfect in paradise, but Camaret is surely a place to be content. At least it beats the hell out of Chipping Sodbury.Then, as I'm slinking through the half-deserted town, I find myself passing loitering youths listening to bad French rap in a car-park, and an "Irish" pub on the corner with music thumping out of it. And, ah yes, this too is France, and it's a delusion to imagine than Camaret's charms are all of the past.
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[Oct. 18th, 2008|09:48 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|france, sailing, travel] [Current Mood**

wistful]Camaret. A little town in the northern tip of France. Like many French towns, it preserves its own life and identity: a flourishing local community of restaurants and small businesses. They're drowsily idle now, since they mostly cater to the summer influx of local holidaymakers and visiting yachts: in one bar we walked past, the proprietor was contentedly snoozing at one of the outside tables, his moustache drooping ever lower over his striped sweater.We left yesterday morning, bravely setting sail from St Mawes in Cornwall, only to find ourselves drifting through an ever more languid calm. Towards evening the sky cleared and a vivid gibbous moon hove over the horizon, lighting a glittering silver trail from the horizon to the white water burbling under Morvargh's forefoot. The brighter stars gleamed forth and for a while we sailed in their company, numbering our watches by their wheel around the Pole. Then the wind dropped away altogether. Knowing that worse weather was on the way, we traded peace for expediency and fired up the engine.Camaret is a village with echoes of the mediaeval, and more than a whiff of its fishing and farming past. Tiny winding streets, miniscule shops, sturdy off-kilter homes with weathered small-paned windows. In other ways it's modern. A few fishermen still ply from its harbour in open boats, but the inner harbour is filled with a marina and the town's night sky suffers the modern blight of sodium lamps.Still it remains France. The tiny population still supports two boulangeries, and the little supermarket has an entire section of wines (all French) and a hefty preponderance of cheeses and preserved meats. We couldn't resist a couple of euros' worth of paté de sanglier aux châtaignes (did I remember that word right?) and a couple of baguettes to help it down, and we dined on that and salad and leftover stew from the crossing. Oh, and red wine of course."How can people bear to live in England?" I asked plaintively as we headed back towards the dinghy. Why indeed?—when just over the English Channel, France seems like such an oasis of calm, contentment, bonhomie, and delicious things to eat? Not all is perfect in paradise, but Camaret is surely a place to be content. At least it beats the hell out of Chipping Sodbury.Then, as I'm slinking through the half-deserted town, I find myself passing loitering youths listening to bad French rap in a car-park, and an "Irish" pub on the corner with music thumping out of it. And, ah yes, this too is France, and it's a delusion to imagine than Camaret's charms are all of the past.

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Dark horizon	[Jul. 7th, 2008\|06:31 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|family, life, sailing, travel] [Current Mood	steady]I am in England. For the last few days my family has been having a Grand Tribal Reunion, thirty-odd people of all ages milling around my aunt's house, talking and eating and drinking and catching up. Especially with my granny who, somewhere in her ninth decade of life, is very slowly beginning to lose her tenacity to that life. Each time we part, our goodbyes sound a little more like farewell.My oldest nephews and nieces are all grown up into lean youths and pretty young women having boisterous sexual relationships with their spotty peers. I find it disorienting. When was I ever so callow? And why didn't I get all that sex? I feel jealous.I was planning to proceed down to Cornwall to see my old friends there, but my twin sister's man made plaintive noises about needing a crew to deliver a boat down to Falmouth. He's employed as the captain of some multi-millionaire's yacht, and basically gets paid to live on board, run everything, and sail to whichever part of the world the owner next feels like holidaying in. "So," he said, "if you do decide you fancy a bit of sailing..." And, "I've decided," I said, and started packing my bag.For all my alacrity, we're still in Lymington, gale-bound by the train of ugly depressions sweeping in off the Atlantic. The boat is a 65-foot Swan, twenty-five years old, solidly and sleekly built, like a distinguished thoroughbred among the razor-edged and vaguely tacky craft that populate the rest of marina. "A Mercedes of boats," as my father puts it: quality without ostentation, comfort without pampering, solidity without stolidity. Although, some of the fittings do seem a bit sybaritic—a refrigerator? a DVD player? But also mismatched cutlery, scruffy well-used pilots, a battered anchor: this is a boat that was made and used for travel. If I had a spare half-million, I'd like a boat like this.If the ship inspires confidence, so does the skipper. He's thoughtful and methodical, carefully planning the route, checking the rigging, laying down a minimum of safety guidelines (safety gear for all deck work, carry light-sticks at night, get on deck now if you hear the air horn). I trust him. My sister has learned good taste in men.We're planning to leave at dawn tomorrow, to let the outgoing tide bear us westward on its rush towards the grey uneasy sea. It's going to be rough, maybe even a test of self. I'm almost looking forward to it. Life goes better when spiced with a little trepidation.
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Dark horizon

[Jul. 7th, 2008|06:31 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|family, life, sailing, travel] [Current Mood**

steady]I am in England. For the last few days my family has been having a Grand Tribal Reunion, thirty-odd people of all ages milling around my aunt's house, talking and eating and drinking and catching up. Especially with my granny who, somewhere in her ninth decade of life, is very slowly beginning to lose her tenacity to that life. Each time we part, our goodbyes sound a little more like farewell.My oldest nephews and nieces are all grown up into lean youths and pretty young women having boisterous sexual relationships with their spotty peers. I find it disorienting. When was I ever so callow? And why didn't I get all that sex? I feel jealous.I was planning to proceed down to Cornwall to see my old friends there, but my twin sister's man made plaintive noises about needing a crew to deliver a boat down to Falmouth. He's employed as the captain of some multi-millionaire's yacht, and basically gets paid to live on board, run everything, and sail to whichever part of the world the owner next feels like holidaying in. "So," he said, "if you do decide you fancy a bit of sailing..." And, "I've decided," I said, and started packing my bag.For all my alacrity, we're still in Lymington, gale-bound by the train of ugly depressions sweeping in off the Atlantic. The boat is a 65-foot Swan, twenty-five years old, solidly and sleekly built, like a distinguished thoroughbred among the razor-edged and vaguely tacky craft that populate the rest of marina. "A Mercedes of boats," as my father puts it: quality without ostentation, comfort without pampering, solidity without stolidity. Although, some of the fittings do seem a bit sybaritic—a refrigerator? a DVD player? But also mismatched cutlery, scruffy well-used pilots, a battered anchor: this is a boat that was made and used for travel. If I had a spare half-million, I'd like a boat like this.If the ship inspires confidence, so does the skipper. He's thoughtful and methodical, carefully planning the route, checking the rigging, laying down a minimum of safety guidelines (safety gear for all deck work, carry light-sticks at night, get on deck now if you hear the air horn). I trust him. My sister has learned good taste in men.We're planning to leave at dawn tomorrow, to let the outgoing tide bear us westward on its rush towards the grey uneasy sea. It's going to be rough, maybe even a test of self. I'm almost looking forward to it. Life goes better when spiced with a little trepidation.

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Backdated entries	[Apr. 11th, 2008\|06:36 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|memories, meta, sailing, travel] [Current Mood	pensive]Five weeks' worth of backdated entries that I found in an old handwritten sailing-journal from 1995. It was a six- or eight-month journey, all told, but I only recorded about five weeks of it. Three weeks' cruising from Cornwall, England to the Algarve, Portugal; then a couple of weeks in St Martin, Caribbean. I eventually jumped ship in the Bahamas and flew back to England. I wasn't really into it: a sort of ennui which has been all too common in the post-Scientology years. So this isn't a journal of sailing so much as the journal of a confused teenager who should have been paying more attention.Story of my life. :)So these entries miss the most exotic bits of the journey. Climbing mountains in the Canaries, the taste of fresh papaya in the morning, the magic of passing from the North Atlantic into the radiant blue of tropical seas, the Atlantic crossing itself. Landfall in the Windward Islands, sundry crises, the hellish effulgence of the Puerto Rican coast at night. Strange days cruising with my uncle in the Bahamas. The magic-realism and twisted Communism of back-country Cuba. The endless energy of the trade-winds, towering cloudscapes at dawn. Flying-fish and tropic-birds.Memories now, and fading into tatters as the years go by. All memories fade. But they fade faster if you don't have something to recall them by. That's what my journal is to me: a link to memories. Even reading my childishly vague journal entries from twenty years ago, I can often dimly recall being there—the smell of rain, the shape of a coastline, the kindness of strangers. Without those scribbled notes to recall them, those memories would be nothing but occasional flashes of déja vu.That's why I try to write my journal evocatively. The more senses I can weave into text, the more today's memories will still be alive to me in many decades to come. Or so I hope.Of course there's the whole blog-as-performance-art thing. I love it when people enjoy my blog, and it's a nice vehicle for social commentary and silly "memes", but mainly it's for me. I mostly try to avoid this.I love reading back through my blog occasionally and remembering stuff. Oh yeah, that, with an internal smile or wince. I'm just wary of starting to live on my memories, as though the present is no longer tenable or interesting. Usually it means that I should be out doing something else memorable. Like going for a run with the dog. Mischa, _komm!_Entries for October 1994 (15 entries), November 1994 (8 entries), February 1995 (7 entries), March 1995 (5 entries).
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Backdated entries

[Apr. 11th, 2008|06:36 pm]Footpad

[Tags**|memories, meta, sailing, travel] [Current Mood**

pensive]Five weeks' worth of backdated entries that I found in an old handwritten sailing-journal from 1995. It was a six- or eight-month journey, all told, but I only recorded about five weeks of it. Three weeks' cruising from Cornwall, England to the Algarve, Portugal; then a couple of weeks in St Martin, Caribbean. I eventually jumped ship in the Bahamas and flew back to England. I wasn't really into it: a sort of ennui which has been all too common in the post-Scientology years. So this isn't a journal of sailing so much as the journal of a confused teenager who should have been paying more attention.Story of my life. :)So these entries miss the most exotic bits of the journey. Climbing mountains in the Canaries, the taste of fresh papaya in the morning, the magic of passing from the North Atlantic into the radiant blue of tropical seas, the Atlantic crossing itself. Landfall in the Windward Islands, sundry crises, the hellish effulgence of the Puerto Rican coast at night. Strange days cruising with my uncle in the Bahamas. The magic-realism and twisted Communism of back-country Cuba. The endless energy of the trade-winds, towering cloudscapes at dawn. Flying-fish and tropic-birds.Memories now, and fading into tatters as the years go by. All memories fade. But they fade faster if you don't have something to recall them by. That's what my journal is to me: a link to memories. Even reading my childishly vague journal entries from twenty years ago, I can often dimly recall being there—the smell of rain, the shape of a coastline, the kindness of strangers. Without those scribbled notes to recall them, those memories would be nothing but occasional flashes of déja vu.That's why I try to write my journal evocatively. The more senses I can weave into text, the more today's memories will still be alive to me in many decades to come. Or so I hope.Of course there's the whole blog-as-performance-art thing. I love it when people enjoy my blog, and it's a nice vehicle for social commentary and silly "memes", but mainly it's for me. I mostly try to avoid this.I love reading back through my blog occasionally and remembering stuff. Oh yeah, that, with an internal smile or wince. I'm just wary of starting to live on my memories, as though the present is no longer tenable or interesting. Usually it means that I should be out doing something else memorable. Like going for a run with the dog. Mischa, _komm!_Entries for October 1994 (15 entries), November 1994 (8 entries), February 1995 (7 entries), March 1995 (5 entries).

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St Martin, Caribbean	[Mar. 5th, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]I gotta job!This morning I went to the scuba place and arranged to start the four-day (roughly) Open Water Diver I course tomorrow morning. In fact I went with Roo; she checked out parasailing again (too much wind) and then we went for a swim.When we returned, two people I didn't know were aboard Zealander with their child, talking to Mum. Dennis, Caroline and—Alexia? I don't remember exactly, although she was a nice kid. Dennis mentioned that he knew someone who was looking for a charter crew, and gave me details.Interesting, thought I.Mum and I went ashore, for her to phone Phy. Lagoon Marina was all locked up; eventually we found our way into opulent Port de Plaisance, where we were unable to find a phone we could phone Phy phrom.Hot and bothered, we returned. Mum and Roo and Dad promptly set off to the beach at Pelican Point, but I saddled up the sailing-dinghy and set off towards the part of Simson's Lagoon near Marigot, where Bandaloop was.Bandaloop was... a 65' Bermudan cat, rather white and gleaming. I sailed round her and got a good look, then came near to the starboard quarter and hailed. Some blond children hailed back, followed by their dad.He showed me the boat, and asked me something about my experience, and a few more peculiar questions."Addicted to anything?""Chocolate," I replied, to cover the sort of embarrassment I feel going through Customs—the unfounded variety.And, when we talked about scuba diving, suddenly—"Are you lazy?"Similar reaction from me."I'm congenitally lazy, but I've been known to work damned hard."He explained that lazy scuba divers were often the best: they don't waste energy.And, some time later, to my surprise, I was employed."Nine a.m. Wednesday morning OK?"It was.Fifty dollars a day, plus (usually substantial) tips, plus food and a bunk. General skivvying/deckhand work—washing up, hoisting sails, making beds... Apparently the last guy, whose plane we saw leaving, was good but lacked some initiative. Dad has said that I have the same fault, to a degree; this I better watch.Might be fun. It'll certainly be damned hard work, for ten days.The last guys got $750 in tips, but I can't expect so much.Incidentally, this charter (which runs Saturday—Saturday) is a nudist cruise. (!)There's a big party ashore tonight: it's the end of the Heineken regatta. Lots of cheap beer. I had agreed to go with Roo, but I got knackered. Mum and Dad agreed to go ashore with Roo; Roo got discouraged. So Mum and Dad went ashore while Roo and I remain aboard feeling discouraged. Out of misplaced compassion, Mum did my washing-up, so now I feel guilty as hell.Mum and Dad got back in time for the firework display, which was OK, but could have been so much better. It went on for 20 minutes of sporadic action. A Spaniard would have send the whole damn lot up in under five minutes and it would have been a display to remember.footpad's Law of Fireworks: Viewers' Pleasure ∝ Duration-1A few fireworks were observed to explode very close to the ground; shortly afterwards blue lights moved in on the scene and then went away over the hill towards Philipsburg.
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St Martin, Caribbean

[Mar. 5th, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]I gotta job!This morning I went to the scuba place and arranged to start the four-day (roughly) Open Water Diver I course tomorrow morning. In fact I went with Roo; she checked out parasailing again (too much wind) and then we went for a swim.When we returned, two people I didn't know were aboard Zealander with their child, talking to Mum. Dennis, Caroline and—Alexia? I don't remember exactly, although she was a nice kid. Dennis mentioned that he knew someone who was looking for a charter crew, and gave me details.Interesting, thought I.Mum and I went ashore, for her to phone Phy. Lagoon Marina was all locked up; eventually we found our way into opulent Port de Plaisance, where we were unable to find a phone we could phone Phy phrom.Hot and bothered, we returned. Mum and Roo and Dad promptly set off to the beach at Pelican Point, but I saddled up the sailing-dinghy and set off towards the part of Simson's Lagoon near Marigot, where Bandaloop was.Bandaloop was... a 65' Bermudan cat, rather white and gleaming. I sailed round her and got a good look, then came near to the starboard quarter and hailed. Some blond children hailed back, followed by their dad.He showed me the boat, and asked me something about my experience, and a few more peculiar questions."Addicted to anything?""Chocolate," I replied, to cover the sort of embarrassment I feel going through Customs—the unfounded variety.And, when we talked about scuba diving, suddenly—"Are you lazy?"Similar reaction from me."I'm congenitally lazy, but I've been known to work damned hard."He explained that lazy scuba divers were often the best: they don't waste energy.And, some time later, to my surprise, I was employed."Nine a.m. Wednesday morning OK?"It was.Fifty dollars a day, plus (usually substantial) tips, plus food and a bunk. General skivvying/deckhand work—washing up, hoisting sails, making beds... Apparently the last guy, whose plane we saw leaving, was good but lacked some initiative. Dad has said that I have the same fault, to a degree; this I better watch.Might be fun. It'll certainly be damned hard work, for ten days.The last guys got $750 in tips, but I can't expect so much.Incidentally, this charter (which runs Saturday—Saturday) is a nudist cruise. (!)There's a big party ashore tonight: it's the end of the Heineken regatta. Lots of cheap beer. I had agreed to go with Roo, but I got knackered. Mum and Dad agreed to go ashore with Roo; Roo got discouraged. So Mum and Dad went ashore while Roo and I remain aboard feeling discouraged. Out of misplaced compassion, Mum did my washing-up, so now I feel guilty as hell.Mum and Dad got back in time for the firework display, which was OK, but could have been so much better. It went on for 20 minutes of sporadic action. A Spaniard would have send the whole damn lot up in under five minutes and it would have been a display to remember.

footpad's Law of Fireworks: Viewers' Pleasure ∝ Duration-1A few fireworks were observed to explode very close to the ground; shortly afterwards blue lights moved in on the scene and then went away over the hill towards Philipsburg.

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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean	[Mar. 4th, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]Went shopping in the morning. Big fat hairy deal.Went swimmmming [2008: sic] with Mum at Pelican Point in the afternoon. That was cool. On the way we checked out another dive shop. They had a more comprehensive price list than the other place I favour, which list showed that diving tuition actually gets cheaper as you do more of it. I immediately came over all enthusiastic and started to day-dream about doing all the available courses.Went to a barbecue in the evening at Lagoon Marina. Lamb chunks were nice.Went to sleep.
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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean

[Mar. 4th, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]Went shopping in the morning. Big fat hairy deal.Went swimmmming [2008: sic] with Mum at Pelican Point in the afternoon. That was cool. On the way we checked out another dive shop. They had a more comprehensive price list than the other place I favour, which list showed that diving tuition actually gets cheaper as you do more of it. I immediately came over all enthusiastic and started to day-dream about doing all the available courses.Went to a barbecue in the evening at Lagoon Marina. Lamb chunks were nice.Went to sleep.

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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean	[Mar. 3rd, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]I had a rather uneventful day. Mum and I went ashore early on, like 11, to post letters and phone Phy and buy bread. The post-office was shut and Phy was out, but we got the bread. Then I inspected my looking-for-work notice (no joy) and we returned to the boat.Oh yes—we had a highly successful book-swap (inasmuch as we returned with better books than we took).Later, Roo, Mum and I went across to a beach not too far from the Royal Palm Beach Club. On the way, I asked at two dive shopes about PADI dive courses. There seems to be a standard $350 price for the Open Water Diver's ticket, which is yer bog-standard "competent diver" label. I would very much like to do this: it's useful, for a start. It qualifies you to hire tanks etc from people, and is the jumping-off point for more extensive and/or specialised qualifications, of which there are a bewildering variety.Also it might just be fun.We went to see the "Das Lieds" in the evening. Quite unexpectedly, they fed us pasta, and very good it was too. What nice people they are, and what a nice boat they have. She's a "Venus" class and they're planning to sell her to Carl Soper. Good luck to 'em all.
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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean

[Mar. 3rd, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]I had a rather uneventful day. Mum and I went ashore early on, like 11, to post letters and phone Phy and buy bread. The post-office was shut and Phy was out, but we got the bread. Then I inspected my looking-for-work notice (no joy) and we returned to the boat.Oh yes—we had a highly successful book-swap (inasmuch as we returned with better books than we took).Later, Roo, Mum and I went across to a beach not too far from the Royal Palm Beach Club. On the way, I asked at two dive shopes about PADI dive courses. There seems to be a standard $350 price for the Open Water Diver's ticket, which is yer bog-standard "competent diver" label. I would very much like to do this: it's useful, for a start. It qualifies you to hire tanks etc from people, and is the jumping-off point for more extensive and/or specialised qualifications, of which there are a bewildering variety.Also it might just be fun.We went to see the "Das Lieds" in the evening. Quite unexpectedly, they fed us pasta, and very good it was too. What nice people they are, and what a nice boat they have. She's a "Venus" class and they're planning to sell her to Carl Soper. Good luck to 'em all.

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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean	[Mar. 2nd, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]Around mid-afternoon I took it into my head to go looking for this scuba "resort course" for 75downinSimpson′sLagoon.Idon′trememberwhatIdidinthemorning;Idaresayitwasn′tveryinteresting.Idoremember:IwentshoppingwithDad.IgotthefilmdevelopedthatRooopenedthebackofthecameraon.Printswereabsurdlyexpensive(75 down in Simpson's Lagoon. I don't remember what I did in the morning; I dare say it wasn't very interesting.I do remember: I went shopping with Dad. I got the film developed that Roo opened the back of the camera on. Prints were absurdly expensive (75downinSimpson′sLagoon.Idon′trememberwhatIdidinthemorning;Idaresayitwasn′tveryinteresting.Idoremember:IwentshoppingwithDad.IgotthefilmdevelopedthatRooopenedthebackofthecameraon.Printswereabsurdlyexpensive(40 for 2 films, 24 & 36 exp.) so I just got the negatives processed to stabilize it and to show Roo that only the last 8 frames were damaged.I sailed into Simpson's Lagoon. (Actually, I've found out, it's Simson's Lagoon.) After going under the bridge, I still had a hundred yards of channel to navigate; rather than row it, I decided to try and sail it into the wind, for kicks. I managed... just. It took me about twenty minutes. The subsequent sail to the scuba place was downwind and relaxing. On arriving at the scuba place, there was this rather high-class hotel and a chap with a video camera on the beach. Desperately wanting not to screw up for posterity, I headed into the beach and ran aground. It wasn't too ignominious, though: I yanked up the centre-board and made the last few yards with a little residual dignity.The information on the resort course was discouraging. $75 for forty minutes in the water and a maximum depth of 25 feet? Hell, I can practically snorkel that depth. (I didn't say that out loud; I was talking to a blonde French-speaking girl.) So I turned around and had a nice sail past Grand Key to Port de Plaisance (almost), keeping an eye out for Zealander on the way.No _Zealander._Dusk was falling; I cast around for Das Lied von der Erde, Darren/Linda/Robyn's boat. They heard my tail of woe, that I'd lost my family, and after trying to contact Zealander on the VHF, without success, Darren took me towards Marigot with the dinghy in tow. We saw Zealander's lights coming the other way; they'd run aground for an hour and a half.
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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean

[Mar. 2nd, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]Around mid-afternoon I took it into my head to go looking for this scuba "resort course" for 75downinSimpson′sLagoon.Idon′trememberwhatIdidinthemorning;Idaresayitwasn′tveryinteresting.Idoremember:IwentshoppingwithDad.IgotthefilmdevelopedthatRooopenedthebackofthecameraon.Printswereabsurdlyexpensive(75 down in Simpson's Lagoon. I don't remember what I did in the morning; I dare say it wasn't very interesting.I do remember: I went shopping with Dad. I got the film developed that Roo opened the back of the camera on. Prints were absurdly expensive (75downinSimpson′sLagoon.Idon′trememberwhatIdidinthemorning;Idaresayitwasn′tveryinteresting.Idoremember:IwentshoppingwithDad.IgotthefilmdevelopedthatRooopenedthebackofthecameraon.Printswereabsurdlyexpensive(40 for 2 films, 24 & 36 exp.) so I just got the negatives processed to stabilize it and to show Roo that only the last 8 frames were damaged.I sailed into Simpson's Lagoon. (Actually, I've found out, it's Simson's Lagoon.) After going under the bridge, I still had a hundred yards of channel to navigate; rather than row it, I decided to try and sail it into the wind, for kicks. I managed... just. It took me about twenty minutes. The subsequent sail to the scuba place was downwind and relaxing. On arriving at the scuba place, there was this rather high-class hotel and a chap with a video camera on the beach. Desperately wanting not to screw up for posterity, I headed into the beach and ran aground. It wasn't too ignominious, though: I yanked up the centre-board and made the last few yards with a little residual dignity.The information on the resort course was discouraging. $75 for forty minutes in the water and a maximum depth of 25 feet? Hell, I can practically snorkel that depth. (I didn't say that out loud; I was talking to a blonde French-speaking girl.) So I turned around and had a nice sail past Grand Key to Port de Plaisance (almost), keeping an eye out for Zealander on the way.No _Zealander._Dusk was falling; I cast around for Das Lied von der Erde, Darren/Linda/Robyn's boat. They heard my tail of woe, that I'd lost my family, and after trying to contact Zealander on the VHF, without success, Darren took me towards Marigot with the dinghy in tow. We saw Zealander's lights coming the other way; they'd run aground for an hour and a half.

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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean	[Mar. 1st, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]Mum woke me up by asking me if I wanted to go for a walk. "No," I said; I would rather go to sleep. But I was so thoroughly woken up by then that there was no point in trying to sleep again. So I got up and, when I got over the early-morning bout of grottiness, cooked myself 11 pancakes for breakfast.Dad got me to scrub the port topsides on the grounds that I wasn't doing anything else (reasonable enough). It took hours and hours; halfway through it I cooked myself another 14 pancakes and ate those too. Having scored a quarter-century, I was not too enthusiastic about supper, which was a stew with tinned meat. Roo thrashed me at backgammon.
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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean

[Mar. 1st, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]Mum woke me up by asking me if I wanted to go for a walk. "No," I said; I would rather go to sleep. But I was so thoroughly woken up by then that there was no point in trying to sleep again. So I got up and, when I got over the early-morning bout of grottiness, cooked myself 11 pancakes for breakfast.Dad got me to scrub the port topsides on the grounds that I wasn't doing anything else (reasonable enough). It took hours and hours; halfway through it I cooked myself another 14 pancakes and ate those too. Having scored a quarter-century, I was not too enthusiastic about supper, which was a stew with tinned meat. Roo thrashed me at backgammon.

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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean	[Feb. 28th, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]I woke up, thoroughly refreshed, at 6:15 this morning. The sky was blue and full of clouds in varied and interesting shapes, the sun was just coming up, and a band or something on shore was going _wumpa-wumpa-wumpa._It was Mardi Gras, and the party had already begun.I decided to look for work. After hours of prevarication, I finally set off in the dinghy, sailing, towards Simpson's Lagoon. I was armed with a notice to pin to the notice-board in the Lagoon Marina which, in due course and after a pretty pleasant sail, I did. Then I sailed to Port de Plaisance, the absolute sommet of elegance and expense in St Martin marinas, where I had been planning to ask around for work. In the end, though, I felt so much like a bumpkin that I dared not approach the sleek, gleaming machines with so mundane a request. So, feeling pusillanimous, I re-crossed Simpson's Lagoon to Marigot Bay, discovering on the way a conch graveyard—a huge heap of hundreds and hundreds of old conch shells, bleached and slightly malodorous.By the time I returned I was feeling depressed and hot and hungry. Mum was still aboard; Roo and Dad had headed ashore to catch the Mardi Gras parade. Cramming sandwiches into myself, I got into the dinghy and we followed them.The parade was good, but not that good. What a parade should be about (Mum says) is costumed people dancing in the streets and whooping it up, and other people in the streets cheering them on and whooping it up and knocking back intoxicating fluids and generally tagging onto the carnival. Not so: people, especially white people, seemed more interested in photographing it to take it away and file it as an "experience". Roo did a bit of that, burning 36 exposures. Had I a camera I would surely have been worse still.Roo and I returned home. Roo opened a camera before winding the film back and was heart-broken. I think that there will be a few good shots at the beginning of the reel. Roo says that the best ones were at the end; they are gone for sure.When I went back to drop off some particularly disgusting garbage, three hours later, the parade was still going strong.Roo cooked amazing spuddy soup for supper.
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Marigot, St Martin, Caribbean

[Feb. 28th, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]I woke up, thoroughly refreshed, at 6:15 this morning. The sky was blue and full of clouds in varied and interesting shapes, the sun was just coming up, and a band or something on shore was going _wumpa-wumpa-wumpa._It was Mardi Gras, and the party had already begun.I decided to look for work. After hours of prevarication, I finally set off in the dinghy, sailing, towards Simpson's Lagoon. I was armed with a notice to pin to the notice-board in the Lagoon Marina which, in due course and after a pretty pleasant sail, I did. Then I sailed to Port de Plaisance, the absolute sommet of elegance and expense in St Martin marinas, where I had been planning to ask around for work. In the end, though, I felt so much like a bumpkin that I dared not approach the sleek, gleaming machines with so mundane a request. So, feeling pusillanimous, I re-crossed Simpson's Lagoon to Marigot Bay, discovering on the way a conch graveyard—a huge heap of hundreds and hundreds of old conch shells, bleached and slightly malodorous.By the time I returned I was feeling depressed and hot and hungry. Mum was still aboard; Roo and Dad had headed ashore to catch the Mardi Gras parade. Cramming sandwiches into myself, I got into the dinghy and we followed them.The parade was good, but not that good. What a parade should be about (Mum says) is costumed people dancing in the streets and whooping it up, and other people in the streets cheering them on and whooping it up and knocking back intoxicating fluids and generally tagging onto the carnival. Not so: people, especially white people, seemed more interested in photographing it to take it away and file it as an "experience". Roo did a bit of that, burning 36 exposures. Had I a camera I would surely have been worse still.Roo and I returned home. Roo opened a camera before winding the film back and was heart-broken. I think that there will be a few good shots at the beginning of the reel. Roo says that the best ones were at the end; they are gone for sure.When I went back to drop off some particularly disgusting garbage, three hours later, the parade was still going strong.Roo cooked amazing spuddy soup for supper.

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St Martin, Caribbean	[Feb. 27th, 1995\|07:00 pm]Footpad
[Tags\|backdated, sailing]I woke up today and jumped into the water, which made things swim into focus a little.I know I ought to be getting a job. St Martin being a duty-free island, cameras are cheaper here (I think) than elsewhere. Since my camera died on the operating table a couple of weeks ago, I've been contemplating getting a new one. For this I need money. BUT the amount of procrastinating I'm doing to avoid getting up and looking for work is remarkable. This morning I washed up, cleaned and tidied, TLC'd Dad's tools and did a few other things—all to avoid the prospect of looking for work. I changed the gas cylinder too, because it ran out—what a job. Sweat was pouring off me by the end of it.At three o'clock-ish we all (except Dad, who was at work) went into town. Roo and I did a supermarket run; Mum did other things at a much slower pace. She's really mangled her foot; it's slightly swollen and very tender. She suspects a broken bone.I cooked curry for supper. Well-received, except by Roo, who refused to wake up for it. There's lots left over: breakfast!After three weeks' Danger-formula, I've gone out-ethics on the 2D again. [2008: this is Scientologese for "I started masturbating over something I had a teenage guilt-complex about."] Don't know what to do about it: lack of moral strength/confront? [More Scientologese.]
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St Martin, Caribbean

[Feb. 27th, 1995|07:00 pm]Footpad

[**Tags**|backdated, sailing]I woke up today and jumped into the water, which made things swim into focus a little.I know I ought to be getting a job. St Martin being a duty-free island, cameras are cheaper here (I think) than elsewhere. Since my camera died on the operating table a couple of weeks ago, I've been contemplating getting a new one. For this I need money. BUT the amount of procrastinating I'm doing to avoid getting up and looking for work is remarkable. This morning I washed up, cleaned and tidied, TLC'd Dad's tools and did a few other things—all to avoid the prospect of looking for work. I changed the gas cylinder too, because it ran out—what a job. Sweat was pouring off me by the end of it.At three o'clock-ish we all (except Dad, who was at work) went into town. Roo and I did a supermarket run; Mum did other things at a much slower pace. She's really mangled her foot; it's slightly swollen and very tender. She suspects a broken bone.I cooked curry for supper. Well-received, except by Roo, who refused to wake up for it. There's lots left over: breakfast!After three weeks' Danger-formula, I've gone out-ethics on the 2D again. [2008: this is Scientologese for "I started masturbating over something I had a teenage guilt-complex about."] Don't know what to do about it: lack of moral strength/confront? [More Scientologese.]

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