Volcanic in origin, St. Lucia is more mountainous than most other Caribbean islands.  The island’s highest point stands 3000 feet above sea level at Mount Gimie; however, St. Lucia’s number one claim to fame is definitely the Pitons, which are two volcanic plugs standing majestically on the southwestern coast overlooking the spectacular Soufriere Bay.  Also a World Heritage Site, the Pitons make every list of things to see before you die from Conde Nast to Oprah Winfrey.  Emerging from lush tropical rainforest complete with huge ferns and banana orchards on one side, and incredible sparkling blue ocean on the other, the Gros Piton soars to 2619 feet and is slightly south of the 2461-foot-tall Petit Piton.  It’s difficult to adequately communicate the beauty of this area.

Like most Caribbean islands, St. Lucia’s colorful character is largely derived from the struggles between ancient indigenous populations, the slave trade, and conquering European forces.  Settled by Arawak Indians, a culture later eclipsed by the Caribs, St. Lucia was called “Hewanorra,” meaning “Island of the Iguanas,” since 800 A.D.  Erroneously thought discovered by Columbus in 1502, St. Lucia was more likely discovered by lesser known explorer and former Columbus navigator, Juan de la Cosa, in either 1499 or 1504.  The island’s first official European presence was established by Peg-Leg le Clerc‘s enclave on Pigeon Island used to pillage treasure-laden Spanish galleons.

The first legitimate European settlement was founded by the Dutch around 1600 at Vieux Fort.  In 1605, an English ship bound for Guyana (ironically called the Olive Branch) blew off course and went aground off the coast of St. Lucia.  The sixty-seven passengers safely waded to shore and found coexistence with the Caribs to be impossible.  In less than five weeks, only 19 of the original party remained due to violence, disease, and exposure.  Another English colony was also wiped out by the Caribs in 1639.

During the 1700′s, St. Lucia played an interesting role in the political and economic processes of the eastern Caribbean.  With the French headquartered on Martinique and the British headquartered on Barbados, the centrally located St. Lucia looked quite attractive to both parties, and both frequently worked to exert influence on its future, particularly the extremely lucrative sugar cane industry established in 1765.  After many violent battles, the British won out.  France permanently ceded control in 1815, and slavery was abolished in 1834.  St. Lucia was incorporated to the central government of the British West Indies, eventually achieving full independence in 1979 following a Constitution in 1924 and universal suffrage in 1951.

St. Lucia’s population is overwhelmingly of African descent due to the huge slave trade; however, the French influence is palpable right down to the Creole language.  The capital city, Castries, was founded by the French in 1650.  Originally called Carenage (or Safe Anchorage), the city was renamed Castries in 1756 after the commander of a French expeditionary force to Corsica.

Local chefs frequently combine fish dishes with the island’s abundant tropical fruits including mangoes, papayas, pineapples, soursops, passionfruit, guavas, and coconuts.  Another typical dish is callaloo soup made from a leafy green vegetable similar to spinach which, if not cooked appropriately, can be poisonous.  Beyond cuisine, St. Lucia’s cultural influence includes two Nobel Prize Winners:  Sir W. Arthur Lewis (Economics in 1979), and poet Derek Walcott (Literature in 1992).

We were really, really, really excited to reach Martinique.  There is no place in the first half-year of our trip that we more expected to fall in love with than Martinique.  As you can probably already ascertain, we have been extraordinarily disappointed by our experience.

But, in the interest of being well rounded, and frankly, charitable, I will discuss the things I liked first.  As mentioned, Martinique has beautiful natural scenery, as you can see on the Photos page.  Another highlight, the amazingly beautiful Rocher du Diamant rises sheer from the water to over 500 feet.  Martinique also has some of the best rum distilleries in the world.  As avid wine-tasters, we jumped at the chance to rum taste although it’s a little more difficult on the palate (on my palate, anyway…).  The people at Trois Rivieres were especially nice and the historical tour at Habitation Clement was splendid.  Even better than local rum straight up is Martinique’s local drink, Ti Punch, made with 4/5 white rum, 1/5 a special cane syrup, and small slice of lime.

The guidebook says:

Martinican food has a traditional French flair and is considered by many to be the best in the Caribbean. Here, you can make your holiday almost entirely gastronomic, as there are cafes and open-air restaurants to linger in at every turn. You will find traditional cuisine gastronomique, but also its Caribbean or Creole equivalent. Lovingly prepared, the dishes are often spiced, and of course, it is all in the sauces.

I must call my website host to increase our bandwidth to provide a proper and comprehensive rebuttal.

The food has been nothing short of terrible.  Excited to hit land after such a great sail and eager to love Martinique, we ordered the first croque monsieur possible.  It arrived on sliced generic white bread with an un-melted slice of jack cheese and a slice of cold grocery store ham.  Undaunted by strike one, we scoured the guidebooks and the Internet for the savory French goodness we’ve heard so much about.  After such a great experience in Grand Case, French Saint Martin, we were very excited to dive into Martinique cuisine, the crème de la crème of the French Caribbean.

Sadly, we never located a meal even in the same ballpark as Saint Martin.  We never even found a restaurant with an actual wine list or any thoughtful, skillful preparations.  We had a decent (but no better) Creole lunch at Restaurant Josephine in St. Pierre consisting of stewed curry chicken, but that’s about it.  We went to supposedly the best French restaurant in the best eating town of Martinique, and it was inedible and cost about 100 Euros.  We then had to leave to go eat again somewhere else (which was also pretty bad).

This food discussion is not an exaggeration, and sadly, it symbolizes what we feel is the problem with all of Martinique … a lack of effort and a “who cares” attitude derived from unconditional financial support.

Martinique tenuously enjoys its French-dom … and honestly, what’s not to like?  The economy is based primarily on French government subsidies (way more than even tourism, its second-biggest source of revenue).  It is more affluent, cleaner, and infrastructure-ready than almost all of the other Caribbean islands.  Yet, island purists yearn for total autonomy even while enjoying parliamentary seats and equal voting rights.  As such, the supported colonization model can go one of two ways:  the best of France and Caribbean, or the worst of France and Caribbean.

In our opinion, Saint Martin is absolutely the best of both worlds … French, Caribbean, Creole, no matter the culinary style, all food, from a roti on the street to foie gras and blanquette de veau in Grand Case, is prepared with care and pride.  The sophisticated style of Paris is totally evident, as is the friendly and carefree Caribbean attitude, both melding together into an exquisite vibe that translates into distinctly local architecture, customs, carnivals, and of course, food and wine and service.  The standards of French tradition stirred up with Caribbean flair makes for a marvelous combination.  Even the small things — like horn-free, courteous driving (in Peugots, and Citroens of course) and yielding to pedestrians — feel uniquely French Caribbean.

Martinique lacks this thoroughly enjoyable, best-of-both-worlds vibe.  There is vague sense of menace about the place.  Actually, that’s being too nice.  There is a palpable sense of menace about the place … wild and lawless and angry and resentful.  Indeed, we had our first back-alley “run in” here, which might have become fairly ugly had our would-be assailant not been so drunk.  Sure, an altercation with an obnoxious drunk could happen anywhere.  Unfortunately, it didn’t happen anywhere, it happened here in Martinique.  All over the island, you can feel the racial tension barely suppressed.

Fort-de-France could be really great, with its ocean-front promenade, the Canal Levassor, the Savane, and the roughly seven-block square “centre ville.”  Instead, it is a threatening and dumpy city that feels unsafe to walk around in broad daylight.  And even if it felt safe, there’s nothing to see or do.

So there you have it.  The wasted potential of Fort de France, the overall lousy food, the drunk guy looking for a fight, and Josephine’s headless statue … nobody cares.  No pride or effort on display in any aspect.  And really, why bother putting forth a little effort?  French subsidies aren’t going anywhere, and the most French-ness that Martinique embraces is being affected and obtrusive and arrogant.

We don’t need highfalutin cuisine, pristine beaches and umbrella drinks to have a good time.  Indeed, we like our destinations to be a little bit shabby and run down.  We loved the Dominican Republic (and not the touristy parts).  But we’re not “package tour”-type travelers, and Martinique is a package tour kind of place, a place for French (and I mean ONLY French) tourists to jet in on chartered flights from Paris and be whisked off to the various well-fenced all-inclusive resorts to soak up some sun, have a few planteurs, maybe take a distillery tour or go see Little Pompeii, and get back on the plane with a couple of bottles of rhum agricole.

Of the 16 teams in the tournament, there are only eight that have any chance at all of winning.   Pakistan is pretty clearly the 8th-best team in the tournament, but they are much closer to #1 than to #9.  They are 14-1 odds to win the tournament.  The #9 team (Bangladesh) is 300-1.  Accordingly, this was actually a very nice win for the “Windies.”

Much like Olympic basketball is the United States vs. Everyone Else (Everyone Else having done pretty well lately), the Cricket World Cup is Australia vs. Everyone Else.  After going nearly five years without losing a single game, the Australians have played terribly lately (getting beaten three games in a row by a New Zealand team that no one thought was any good, which, confirming those suspicions, subsequently lost to Bangla-frickin-desh).  As a result, Australia has gone from less than even-money to 9-4 as the favorites of the tournament.  Everyone knows their quality and expects them to sort things out in the tournament.  If I were a betting man, I’d take Australia at 9-4.  I’m heavily rooting against them (as I do in every sport in which Australia is involved), but they are clearly the most talented team.

Since I brought it up, here are the current approximate betting odds (all rounded off “to 1”):

(1) Australia – 2.25-1

(2) South Africa – 4.5-1

(t3) India – 7-1

(t3) Sri Lanka – 7-1

(t3) West Indies – 7-1

(t6) New Zealand – 9-1

(t6) England – 9-1

(8) Pakistan – 14-1

We’re thrilled to be in the right part of the world at the right time with a chance to see at least two games (and with good tickets to four) of the tournament.  Am I a big cricket fan?  No, but I almost completely understand and greatly appreciate the game, and I’ll be thrilled to be there in person to see it played at such a high level. 

This is one-day cricket, also known as pajama cricket (for the colorful uniforms), as opposed to test cricket (with white uniforms), which would be near-impossible to contest in a World Cup format despite it being “proper cricket.”  There will be Yorkers, doosras and googlies aplenty (but probably very few Chinamen) as we watch England play New Zealand on Friday, March 16 and then head to Trinidad for Sri Lanka vs. India on March 23.

Where do our loyalties lie?  We are rooting hard for Sri Lanka.  Not only are they a loveable team, but we have very close friends that are Sri Lankan, and we hope to be adopted Sri Lankans for the tournament and beyond.

Part of what makes the Sri Lankan team so likeable is the presence of two of the world’s best players, Muttiah Muralitharan and Sanath Jayasuriya.

It is easy to make baseball comparisons regarding Muralitharan (“Murali”) – he is the Greg Maddux of Cricket — simply the greatest off-speed bowler of all time.  Under the rules of one-day cricket, he will be limited to 60 balls (20%) of the pitches thrown by Sri Lanka each game, but he remains Sri Lanka’s big advantage – he is the odds-on favorite to win “Best Bowler” honors for the tournament (this is largely because Australia’s Shane Warne – for whom I’ve been mistaken more than once – retired before the tournament).

Jayasuriya was the MVP of the 1996 Cricket World Cup, won under controversial circumstances by Sri Lanka.  Now 37, he is the elder statesman of a team that is full of young players.  If he and Murali play well, Sri Lanka can beat anyone.

After parking the car, we opted against visiting Fort St. Louis as the walk to get there reminded us both of Frogger.  Across from the Fort, the Savane is Fort de France’s central park, and unfortunately, the whole area was cordoned off with chained-link fence during our tour day.  This park houses the statue of Josephine, who, as I mentioned previously, is Martinique’s famous, but not-so-favorite, daughter.  Under normal circumstances, the statue would face her beloved home of Trois-Ilets, located across the Fort de France bay to the south.  However, in 1992, the statue of Josephine was beheaded, her trunk splashed in red paint, and the accompanying signage either covered in angry Creole graffiti or all-out destroyed, in an obvious political statement.  Josephine’s head has never been recovered and, more relevant to one’s understanding of Fort de France’s vibe, the monument has never been repaired nor removed.  There she stands, Empress Josephine, wife of Napoleon Bonaparte the Great, cousin of Aimee Dubuc de Rivery (also known as Sultana Valide and adoptive mother of Emperor Mahmoud II), headless and symbolically bleeding and desecrated for more than a decade, and nobody seems to care.  More Pictures

Near the Savane lies the Schoelcher library, which was built in Paris in 1889 for the World’s Fair.   After the exhibition, the entire building, a baroque assortment of iron arches and fretwork, was dismantled, sent to Martinique, and reassembled to house Victor Schoelcher’s personal book collection.  The old part of this working library is quite beautiful with its floor-to-ceiling stacks of antique books, stained glass domed ceiling, and exhibits of local artists.  More Pictures

We then headed to the Palais de Justice, which is the Palais de Ugly, and Hotel de Ville, which is mildly interesting.  Rounding a corner to find the beginning of the famous, and supposedly haute couture, Rue Victor Hugo, we also stumbled onto a nice square with a nice statue of Schoelcher … and a port-a-potty.

The guidebook says:

Fort de France, the capital of Martinique, is the largest and liveliest city in the Windwards.  It is a great place for people-watching, and shops and restaurants abound.  The central Rue de la Republique has been turned into a delightful pedestrian street.

How much time do I get for rebuttal?

Andy and I stood in Martinique’s “center of the universe,” the intersection of Rue de la Republique and Rue Victor Hugo (just the names of the streets alone insinuate their importance), blinking and confused.  No bars anywhere.  No street musicians.  No sidewalk cafes.  No pushcarts selling baguettes and espresso shots.  Indeed no restaurants of any kind, except one … KFC.  Of the very few open shops at 3:30 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon, not one interested us.

  What the intersection does have is loiterers … locals, by the hundreds, doing nothing … many staring in an unfriendly way.

    As such, we got in the car and left … even though we knew it meant another crappy meal at Mango’s, the marina restaurant.  Not only was there nothing to do, Fort de France felt threatening, and I didn’t want to see it at night.  More Pictures

Alas, legend has it that as the European settlers murdered the last of the indigenous Caribs in 1658, they invoked the horrible curse of Mont Pele (known to them as “the mountain of fire”) to take revenge.  No one can be sure about the curse, but unbeknownst to the fancy Creole society women with their midday parasols, and multi-millionaire plantation owners of the inland plains, and the French sailors escaping the home land for Caribbean adventure and indulgence, Mont Pele was one of the most violent volcanoes in the Caribbean.

Quiet for the first 200 years of St. Pierre’s existence, Mont Pele rumbled in 1851 covering the town in ash and creating a lake in the crater.  Towards the end of April, 1902, Mont Pele demanded to be heard.  A research party investigated the peak and found that a cauldron of boiling mud had replaced the lake.  The surrounding rivers became sulphurous and poisonous, killing the fish.  Rumblings, plumes of smoke, and showers of ash continued.  On May 2, 1902, plantation owner Pierre Laveniere went to inspect his crops with a group of workers only to be swept away in an avalanche of boiling mud.  On May 5, 1902, an eruption of effluent mud and lava estimated to be one quarter mile wide and 100 feet high destroyed the Guerin Estate (one of the richest in the area).

Even with this clear warning, all but about 1000 Pierrotins opted not to evacuate.  St. Pierre’s mayor delivered reassuring proclamations despite the recent deaths.  The local newspaper, Les Colonies, publicly ridiculed evacuees as hysterical and panic-ridden.  Word came from St. Vincent that Mount Soufriere had blown which would “relieve Pele’s pressure.”  Additionally, the new Governor Louis Mouttet was thought to be overwhelmed by the idea of a mass evacuation and wished the whole situation would just go away.  Influential business owners further persuaded Mouttet against evacuation to avoid financial losses.

On May 8, 1902, Ascension Day, as Catholic residents sat in church to take Communion, the mountainside glowed red and Mont Pele split open releasing more energy than an atomic bomb.  The Mach 3 shockwave of fiery and poisonous gas was followed by pyroclastic molten flow traveling at a shocking 250 miles per hour.  In two minutes, St. Pierre was vaporized and approximately 30,000 people burned to death, carbonized where they lay.  With temperatures of 750 degrees Fahrenheit, the gas and lava proceeded into the ocean transforming the harbor into a smoldering cauldron with ships engulfed in flames and capsized by the resultant tidal waves.

Almost nothing was spared, and survival stories are sparse and freakish.  One of two survivors, Auguste Cybaris, was in the jailhouse which provided protection with thick stone walls and only a small, grilled window.  Cybaris was in jail for drunk and disorderly (or for murder — depending on the source), although the minimum security jail was typically used for short term sentences, so you can decide for yourself.  Cybaris made a career out of his ordeal by joining the Barnum Circus and appearing in a replica of his life-saving cell until his death in 1955.  Leon Leandre, a cobbler, survived the disaster by skipping Ascension Day church services and working in his cellar.  The one surviving ship, the HMS Roddam, limped into the harbor at Castries, St. Lucia, later that day with the Captain severely burned but still at the helm.  Much of the crew burned to death on deck or jumped ship to certain death before a tidal wave broke the ship’s mooring loose.

Mont Pele continued to rumble for several months, and in November of 1902, a glowing spindle of solidified lava emerged from the crater eventually reaching a height of 800 feet until it collapsed nine months later.

Needless to say, the 1902 eruption of Mont Pele was a cataclysmic disaster from which the glamorous city of St. Pierre never recovered.  Currently, only 5,000 people inhabit the city, and though the volcano has been quiet for a very long time, researchers and vulcanologists monitor the mountain carefully.

Many ruins still stand, with blackened walls, occasional modern add-ons, and climbing, flowered vines.  The skeletons of the old theater (a replica from Bordeaux which must have been spectacular) and the neighboring jailhouse (including Cybaris’ own cell in fact) are by far the best of the ruins.  Originally built in 1635 by the very first settlers, pieces of the fort still remain as well.  The small Musee Volcanique contains old pictures of the fabulous, pre-eruption St. Pierre as well as post-eruption artifacts including beautiful china cups and saucers fused together in stacks from the heat.

When avoiding cheesy things like the tram (just walk, it’s only like two miles), the hydraulic bumping low rider cars in the significant traffic congestion, and the inevitable T-shirt shops, St. Pierre is eerie and ghostlike.  Standing alone at the top of theater’s double staircase, looking out on the sparkling blue water of the strikingly beautiful bay, imagining the parties and high life and culture of St. Pierre, it’s impossible not to be affected by this very distant, but catastrophic, tragedy.  More Pictures

Columbus discovered Martinique in 1502 but did not establish a colony, leaving the indigenous Caribs temporarily undisturbed.  In 1635, a group of about 100 French colonizers came from St. Kitts, settling on the western coast in the area later known as St. Pierre.  The colony built a fort, planted crops, and after many violent skirmishes, struck a truce with the Caribs to peacefully coexist on opposite sides of the island.  The 1650’s were enormously profitable for the French colony based on the shipping of agricultural goods to Europe, most notably sugar cane to France.  The roots of Martinique’s unusual, love/hate relationship with France began with this early colony … especially when a governor unsuccessfully attempted to enforce the Exclusif, an unpopular law prohibiting trade from Martinique to anywhere but France.

Like most of the Caribbean islands, Martinique changed hands several times.  In the 1700’s, the British gained interest in the rich and strategically placed island causing a struggle nearly two centuries long.  Even so, Martinique enjoyed relative political stability (for more than 20 years under the British flag) and avoided much of the chaos experienced in Guadeloupe and St. Domingue (which would become Haiti after North America’s only successful slave rebellion establishing a black republic).

The French reacquired Martinique for good in 1815 under the Vienna Treaty; however, the return to French rule was bittersweet for islanders due to France’s continued endorsement of slavery.  Sadly, it was Martinique’s own favorite daughter, Marie-Rose Josephine Tascher de la Pagerie, better known as the Empress Bride of Napoleon Bonaparte, who was behind the reintroduction of slavery in Martinique.  After several slave riots, Victor Schoelcher mobilized the anti-slavery movement and abolition was declared in 1848.

Martinique is a spectacularly beautiful island.  The imposing rocky cliffs in the north soften to rolling hills of lush rainforest, endless acres of banana trees, and sugar cane swaying rhythmically in the ocean breeze.  The southern beaches enjoy crystal blue water and white sand beaches while the sand becomes increasingly darker and striking towards the more volcanic north.

As big fans of French culture and cuisine, we planned to make landfall on the French side.  Marigot, the main town on the French side, is hustling and bustling … not much late nightlife but plenty of restaurants and shops especially given the nearby ferry dock. 

Built in 1767, Fort Louis was named after the famous and ill-fated French king, Louis XVI, and was established to protect Marigot from foreign invaders, particularly the British.  At the end of Rue de la Republique and in the shadow of Fort Louis, the Fort Louis Marina is definitely a landmark in Marigot and a great central point for island travel.  We quickly adopted a local café, the Deli Spoon, befriending the jack of all trades wait person, Carole, and taking advantage of its great food and coffee, high speed internet connection, and friendly regular clientele. 

The main drag in Grand Case (about 5 miles northeast of Marigot) hosts the French side’s cuisine trophies, and we spent many a long, wine-swilling, cheese-tasting, multi-course-enjoying evening there.  We visited the infamous Orient Beach with its beautiful views and white sand beach like talcum powder, oh and, naked sun worshippers everywhere.  And of course, we hit the infamous Sunset Beach Bar in all its glory, complete with 747s skimming the roof of the bar on their final descent, best bikini body contests, and shots.  We were mightily impressed.

We ventured to the Dutch side of the island several times … the Sunset Beach Bar, an expensive trip to Budget Marine (now renamed “Break-Your-Budget” Marine), and Kim Sha beach for the marquee event closing the Heineken Regatta.  Against our better judgment, we also made a trip to Philipsburg.

Most of the travel guides describe Saint Martin as a crassly over-developed island ruthlessly pursuing the tourist dollar.  Throughout our stay, we found this synopsis to be totally silly as we experienced nothing but happy-go-lucky, as well as happy-to-help, locals.  No hustling, no pan-handling, no aggressive sales tactics, no thinly-veiled street scams, no “special” pricing, no shamelessly tacky crap stores, nothing.  Frankly, French Saint Martin has been our stand-out favorite Caribbean island thus far.

Sadly, Philipsburg is a whole different ball of wax.  With terrible traffic and little parking, the entire town is quite commercial and charm-free except for the areas easily walked by cruise ship tourists in a 3-to-4-hour shore excursion.  The beach boardwalk is somewhat picturesque with a nice anchorage, millions of beach chairs, and generic bars and restaurants.  The huge shopping street is jampacked with cruise ship patrons walking in circles and methodically muttering the words “duty free” under their breath.  The retail competition, especially among jewelry  stores, is ferocious and palpably desperate.  We bought some consumer goods, mistakenly ate at a French restaurant (on the Dutch side? Hello!), and high-tailed it back to France in soul-crushing traffic.

In lieu of a specific event, a mandatory trip to the island’s best chandlery, a flight, or a jaunt to the Sunset Beach Bar, there’s little reason to cross the border.  The picture to the right sums up our thoughts on Philipsburg.   

 

The Heineken Regatta is arguably the biggest sail-racing “meet” in the Caribbean each year.  It is inarguably one of the three biggest – alongside similar events in Antigua and Tortola.

There are big boats here – boats like ABN-AMRO I.  When you’ve won the Volvo Ocean Race, this is a piece of cake (even with the handicap).  There are also small boats competing here, plenty of them smaller than Spectacle.  Indeed, most of the racing is done on rented charter boats, mostly Beneteau and Dufour bareboats rented from Sunsail and The Moorings.  This sounds comparatively tame – it isn’t.  These folks have lots of training, lots of intensity, lots of crew and lots of competition.  There are at least 15 different classes (probably more), every single one of which is hotly contested (except, funnily enough, maybe the very biggest boats – I didn’t get the sense that ABN-AMRO I had much trouble).  The most competitive classes are boats just about Spectacle’s size.

It also is a notoriously big four-night party, one that moves around the island to various locations.

Truth be told, they don’t do the best job of advertising where everything is and when, so it was only on Day 3 that we really joined in the fun.  That day, the race was scheduled to end in Marigot, where Spectacle is currently moored.

That morning, Melissa began walking up the dock to the bathrooms.  We’re moored quite some way from them, so she had plenty of time to notice that the marina had gone from 70% full to about 20% full overnight.  On the way, she passed Etienne, the Belgian-fabulous director of the Marina.

“Everyone left,” she commented cheerfully.

“You stay here zehn, today?”  He queried, in his thick Belgian accent.  “You are not afraid?”

“Afraid? Of course not,” she replied, a bit confused.

“You will see,” he deadpanned, walking off.

At that point, Melissa noticed that every single free space in the marina had a “RESERVED” sign on it.  She returned to the boat and reported, “I think we’re going to have an eventful afternoon.”

Sure enough, around 1:30 p.m., boats began pouring into the marina – it was a borderline traffic jam.  We stood on deck, boat hook in hand, fenders at the ready, waiting to see who was going to try to moor next to us and fend them off if necessary.  The high winds greatly increased the chances of disaster.

Thankfully, we emerged unscathed.  Some did not.  We saw one Dufour that had been T-boned during the race and had four bashed-in stanchions and a giant (big enough to crawl through) hole in its deck.  Surrounding the hole was blue paint.  Not flag-blue hull paint, but light-blue BOTTOM paint.  Someone had ridden up and over them.  Ouch.  Some poor sucker (who was surely not involved in the race) owns that boat and leased it out for the Regatta.  I’m sure he won’t be very happy even after the charter company “fixes” it.  By the way, I can’t speak well for the quality of Dufour decks (which involve plywood in inappropriate spots) now that I’ve seen a cross section.

As the day wore on and cocktail hour began, we noticed that the boat that seemed to be having the most fun at the whole marina was about four slips down from us.  They had a Belgian flag flying and were partying up a storm.

  This was Team Papillon, indeed from Belgium, aboard a Beneteau 505.  Among Team Papillon’s sponsors was Laurent-Perrier, the champagne house.  Not too shabby.  I was told that part of the sponsorship arrangement was that the team was given one magnum per crew member (there were nine of them) per day to drink.  I have absolutely no doubt that they finished it all and more.

These guys were hilarious.  We partied up a storm with them.  Champagne and good cheer were flowing to such an extent that, eventually, the party moved into the water, and Melissa dutifully joined them, drinking out of a shared magnum while floating around the marina.  Needless to say, they liked her better than they liked me.

Part of their good cheer might have been owing to their performance.  They had won both of their races to that point, making them odds-on favorites to win their class (“Bareboat 4”) of about 15-20 boats.

At this point, I decided that I needed to become an honorary member of Team Papillon.  I pulled the navigator, Guido, aside and recounted how Red Auerbach used to light up a victory cigar every time he knew the Celtics had the game won.

“I have a box of Cuban Romeo y Julieta Churchills on my boat,” I said.  “I’m going to go get nine of them and, once you know you have the race won, I want all nine of you to light one up.  It’s the American way.”

“We’ll do it,” he promised.

That night went VERY late.  The next day, we spent too much time in the sun, but, worn out as we were, we still managed to show up for the final Regatta party and awards presentation down on the Dutch side.  Sure enough, Papillon had won.  Still, I wondered about the cigars, but we were so tired we ended up heading back to Marigot at 9:30 before tracking any of them down.  I joked that, “Tonight we’re going to party like we’re 99.”  When do we ever “hang it up” at 9:30?

Two days later, I awoke to the following e-mail, sent from Belgium:

Hi there,

As we promised, we did light the 9 cigars before getting up to the podium!  We did succeed in winning all 3 races in Bareboat 4.  Last race, we started from the worst possible position, the last one ! – everybody tried to push us out.  On top, another boat hit us during the race, what made us loosing at least 1 min.  However we finished 2nd – 9 seconds after the Sinner team, but they got disqualified as they crossed the starting line to early (before starting shot). 

So Andy, I kept my promise .  Thx for the support & nice smoking stuff !

Best regards from the complete team,

Guido

Navigator, Papillon Team.

It is nice to be in a place where the streets are clean; the cars are new, small and functional; the weather is agreeable; the beaches are gorgeous; the bread is fresh; the cheese is unpasteurized; the wine is inexpensive and of generally moderate or better quality; and the people are a seemingly happy mix of the best parts of French, Dutch and Caribbean who really seem to want to be here.  This, mind you, is the French side.  I’m not so sure how we’ll feel about the Dutch side.  I’m told there is quite a difference.

This marina – Marina Fort Louis – is outstanding.  Melissa is already deeply in love with the kid that helped us med-moor the boat today.  His name is Ian.  By the way, he’s 19.

Yeah, we’re going to like it here just fine.