Lagoonies, Cole Bay, Simpson Bay Lagoon. Where you meet people.
Lagoon Marina, St. Maarten
One of the interesting things about sailing is the people that you meet. And there all kinds. To give you an idea, here is a brief look at some of the characters we have had the um… pleasure to meet.
(Please note, the names below have been changed to protect the not so innocent.)
I drank a beer bought by the 1%
Philip Atkinson Smythe (pronounced Y-A-C-H-T), was a fine neighbour at the marina – approachable, relaxed and with a subtle, dry sense of humour that only comes from a life of immense privilege and utter boredom with the world.
Let’s face it, if you really could do anything you wanted, what are the things that would still excite you? Travel, perhaps. See the world. Drinking, and maybe gambling. Strippers and prostitutes. And spending money you haven’t earned while you divide your time between the rogues at happy hour and the truly jet set.
I believe our neighbour excelled in all these areas. And the lovely thing was that he made no bones about it. Upfront, straightforward without any shame or showing off.
You know that you are sitting opposite the truly entitled when none of the expected middle class morality codes apply. They are quite simply irrelevant.
Phil is a person of privilege, the black sheep in an aristocratic family perhaps, a character from a period piece — someone who might total one of Daddy’s Bentleys, and then sleep with the maid afterwards to forget about it.
And yet, throughout his stay, our neighbour remained a thoroughly likeable, agreeable person. We wish him fair winds and smooth sailing all the way to the Cote D’Azur. (Next time, though, we’ll ask for imported!).
Billy the Treasure Hunter
At the opposite end of the 1% scale is Billy, a quick talking salty type from Down Under. Billy lives with his wife and five kids aboard a little boat in the lagoon. Billy knows everyone, and everyone knows Billy. He repairs water makers and A/C units by day, and holds court at Happy Hour, sharing his plans for revolution with other like-minded conspiracy theorists.
Billy knows where to find gold, 15 tons of it, hidden in five different secret locations. He is going to take possession of this gold and deliver it to Haiti, Cuba, Venezuela, and some other of the world’s poorest nations, on the condition that they drop their current monetary systems and help revolutionize how money is made.
To his credit, all his children were born on the galley table. His eldest published her first novel at the age of 12, and her 10-year-old sister can skipper in a hurricane. All the children are fast-talking deal-makers in the making. And remember, whatever you have got, Billy’s way is better. Whatever you believe, it’s wrong, and Billy will tell you why. Even if you don’t want to know.
But Billy will also be there if you are in a jam. He’s a tough nut who looks out for this kin.
If you have the time, lend Billy a USB stick and he’ll be happy to educate you with the Five Most Important videos you will ever see in your life, mate.
The Racist Family
The apple never falls far from the tree. And why these particular apples (Schmidtberger Reinette, I believe) are sailing the Caribbean is beyond me. But it has provided our children with their first encounter with openly intolerant and small minded playmates.
The wife assures me that they are not ‘racists’, but this is somewhat contradicted by her husband’s reference to President Obama as an f’ing n-word (author’s abbreviations), and the immediate follow-up comment: “Yes, I’m a f’ing racist.”(Ibid)
Seems pretty clear.
One sunny afternoon, playing outside the marina, their 11-year-old son announced he didn’t want to share his skateboard with ‘those people.’ Our son didn’t understand and asked for clarification.
“What people?”
“THOSE people!”
“I don’t understand. You mean people who want to borrow your stuff?”
“No.”
“…Or who don’t give it back after? I hate that too.”
“No!”
“Well what people?”
“Those BLACK people,” he says pointing through his cupped hand towards some children playing nearby.
Pause.
“You know…,” Blake says slowly,” … some people might punch you in the nose for saying that.”
“Some people? Like who? Like you?”
“Yeah, like me.”
And at that point, the 11-year-old ran off in tears to his mother. Poor little bigot.
Threatening physical violence may not have been the most ideal response, but we are proud of Blake for standing up for his beliefs, and maybe even showing this boy that daddy’s views don’t fly with everyone.
Eric and Cathy
Eric is an ex-military marine expert who spent a brief time behind bars for his involvement in a grow op. His wife is a cop. Well, a retired cop. Together they are the toughest, most tattooed grand-parents I have ever met.
They are straight up and direct natural born sh*t disturbers. But don’t judge them, and they won’t judge you. They talk tough, but treat them well, and they will return it tenfold.
Now, people talk. As they do. And people say that Eric and Cathy have to avoid half the places down island because Cathy gets into too many bar fights. She is one mouthy broad (I choose the word carefully). And come to think of it, she did have a black eye the first time we met her. Eric had joked it was because she didn’t want to do the washing up (then he punched the air, ha ha!).
So maybe she is as tenacious as their very cute and friendly pit bull, Tiloo, with the studded collar (the dog, not Cathy). That’s okay. I’m guessing she didn’t make it as a female cop for being a push over.
Say what you will, this fiercely loyal, perpetually adolescent couple is a team. And they have many adventures to come.