Chapter 15
`It` was by far the largest one to drop in on me to date, and `It` of course was an aeroplane. Phase II, the air-side refurbishment was going extremely well, so much so that I was now open for business for the big boys. `It` was about to take me and my little gang of intrepid adventurers all the way to the Caribbean in one hop, and `it` was an Airbus A318 elite. There was only room to transport eighteen passengers in it, but oh boy in what luxury. Even Bonnie and Clyde had their own little area, complete with a plug in air freshener type gadget that told them that this indeed was their place to ‘go’. My one big dread about the flight had been that with one cock of his leg, Clyde could send us all plummeting to an untimely demise. The A318 elite looked very similar to any of the Airbus A320’s plying their wares around the skies, unless you have a good eye for detail. It was 6 metres shorter, 80 centimetres higher, 14 tonnes lighter, and one heck of a lot plusher on the inside than your average A320, and as I climbed the steps to board this shining piece of opulent technology I reflected on my recent past. A year ago I had been a very happily married man, completely content with my lot, and now, as I reached the top of the steps, and was about to step inside one of the most luxurious aircraft on the Planet (and surrounded by an amazing amount of people whose only purpose in life, at this moment in time, seemed to be to please me); I felt so totally alone. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that dogs have but Bonnie scratched at my leg for a cuddle. I picked her up and she nuzzled into my neck, she was missing Sheila just as much as I was.
We arrived at Pole Caraïbes Airport on the Island of Guadeloupe, in what is called either the French Caribbean or the French West Indies, depending on which map you are looking at, in glorious sunshine. Whilst the weather in Spain wasn’t bad it was still winter time, and this was serious wall to wall sunshine. When Sheila and I had started our ‘cruise of a lifetime’ we’d had to walk across the gangway to be greeted by smiling members of the crew. Today I didn’t even have to make it to the seaside. After saying goodbye to the flight and cabin staff I disembarked from the A318, only to be greeted by what must have been a substantial part of the crew of the Sea Sprite. We had cleared Customs on board the aircraft so as the crewmembers loaded our cases into the bowels of a nearby coach, I was greeted on behalf of the Master, Captain Hill by Chief Officer Webb; I suppose that someone had to be left behind on board to make sure that no one stole the boat. Not so the stiff formality of the senior officers on board the larger cruise liners, his was a relaxed informality that said ‘welcome’, we are the best, and you WILL be enjoying your stay with us’. Although Maria, David, Caroline and Charlie were my staff, to these people they were still guests, and were being treated as such by First Officer Carol Carter. Even Bonnie and Clyde had a new best friend; a friendly stewardess called Laura, who it appeared, had been assigned to them for the duration. The short trip to the Bas-du-Font Marina was of course different. I couldn’t just be transported there in a taxi, or even anything as mundane as a bus. No, apparently this particularly heavily customised coach had once been the personal transport of Kylie on one of her World tours. The Sea Sprite was riding majestically at anchor just outside the Marina, but fortunately we weren’t expected to swim out to her, there just happened to be a gleaming 1970’s era Riva Aquarama ‘runabout’ tied up at the pontoon, just waiting to give me a heart attack, and after donning our life jackets (they even had special jackets for Bonnie and Clyde) Maria and First Officer Carter slid into the rear seat with Bonnie, and Clyde and I took up residence on the plush front passenger seat. After casting off the driver, coxswain, pilot, madman then asked us very politely too ‘hold on’ – and then rammed the throttles forward to their stops. Fortunately we weren’t too far from the Marina’s exit into the Caribbean, so we were only doing about twice the legal speed limit as we broke out into the mirror smooth sea, and what the delinquent driver had failed to clarify was what we had to ‘hold on’ too? Was it our stomachs, the seats, the dogs, or a combination of all three at once, and we went hurtling past my ‘new home for the next three weeks’ doing at least 40 knots, with absolutely no indication from the driver that he was going to be slowing down any time soon, and the twin Cadillac engines seemed to be only just getting into their stride. At first I thought this might just be an elaborate kidnap plot, but then we started to weave in and out among the rest of the anchored boats, and then we went in circles, first one way, and then the other, then figure of eights and I finally realised that this was FUN - Caribbean style. Just as I was about to argue this point with the steering person, Clyde put his front paws on the beautiful Honduras cedar wood dashboard, stuck his head over the top of the windscreen, and into the blast of warm air. With eyes just tiny slits he started to ‘sail’ his ears in the slipstream, then he let the wind enter into his mouth - puffing out his cheeks, then his stub of a tail started thrashing about - he was having serious fun, so if it was good enough for him then it was good enough for the rest of us. It was not for the Borne Line to just ‘transfer’ me from shore to ship, it had to be an experience, although Maria might disagree - she seemed to be hanging onto First Officer Carters arm for dear life! After swopping places with the coxswain I then had twenty minutes of reverting back to a ten year old (I have seriously got to get myself one of these little beauties), but finally ‘all good things etc etc’, and we slid alongside the Sea Sprites accommodation ladder, where two very petite sea-persons, complete with shiny boat hooks held the Riva steady whilst we disembarked and climbing up to the main deck, where I was greeted by a beaming Captain Hill, obviously that experience was only a sample of what was to come. David, Caroline, Charlie and the luggage were already on board as they had embarked by means of the usual ‘Tupperware’ boat, while I had been ‘reverting’. For me twenty coats of maritime varnish on mahogany, for them fresh anti-fouling on plastic. Perhaps we weren’t all going to be treated as ‘equals’ after all. Laura took the hounds off for their conducted tour, the First Officer took a shaky Maria off to her new cabin, and the Captain showed me to my suite (obviously he had nothing better to do), and oh boy was it something, even more opulent than the glossy photos and on-line videos, and just in case the Captain ever got lost, I had a panoramic view of where we were going, that is if I could be bothered to get off my very own personal sun lounger, on my very own sun deck - no rolled up beach towels at dawn for me. The suite was out of this world, and it was huge, where the rest of the passengers would sleep I had no idea, there couldn’t possibly have been any more room left on the ship for their cabins, and I even had my own stewardess to point me in the right direction if I got lost. After a brief conducted tour, just to make sure that everything was to my liking, Captain Hill then asked me if it would be alright for him to slip anchor???, he was the driver - shouldn’t he know, so I quietly explained to him that all I was after was a cabin up-grade; I had no grandiose scheme to become Captain Blackbeard, but we would have a little chat later, if that was alright with him, but until then ‘business as usual please’. Sara, my stewardess efficiently unpacked my cases. There had been none of the ‘ten kilos of hand baggage and twenty kilos in the hold Sir’ when we embarked on the Elite, I could have taken my entire wardrobe, in their wardrobes, up the steps and no one would have batted an eyelid; although watching Sara unpack case after case I wondered if Caroline had left anything of mine behind, but first things first, watch the Sea Sprite slip anchor; after all I had my very own sun deck, which just happened to be conveniently situated one deck below the ships bridge, it was the second best view in the house; and then after that perhaps a bath, or maybe a shower, or a Jacuzzi, or a steam bath, or a sauna, or a massage or a …….., yet more decisions, decisions, decisions.
Over dinner that evening Captain Hill and I had our ‘little chat’, and we came to an agreement, he would drive the ship and I would sleep; well for the first week anyway. I was still recuperating from all my surgery, and according to Caroline (and a few others) I had been ‘slightly’ overdoing things for the past month or so, s
o I slept for England (and Spain) in a huge bed with Egyptian linen sheets, on the sun lounger with hot and cold running drinks, on a massage table with rough and smooth pummelling hands, and in the bath, much to the consternation of Sara, but after a week I felt like a new man and started to take an interest in my own personal itinerary, although whilst I had slept Bonnie and Clyde, with Charlie and Laura in tow had apparently been hard at work having fun, fun, fun; with loads of new and exotic sniffs.
Before we had left Spain Maria and Caroline had taken on new roles, Tour Organisers to the boss and we sat down together and compiled my very own personal itinerary. We of course used the ships itinerary as a base as I didn’t quite have enough shares in the Line to tell the Captain where to go, but I certainly didn’t want to re-visit any old haunts, too many fond memories of Sheila, so we crossed those off and substituted lazy days, sailing days, and beach BBQ days for them. Unfortunately though, starting on the eighth day of my cruise there was a block of five ‘no–no’ days all together, so I came up with the solution, a holiday from the holiday, or to be more precise a flying visit to see Itza, and then on to Palm Beach, Florida for a few days - just to see how I was now supposed to live. After surprisingly few mutterings of discontent from Maria and Charlie they agreed to remain on board and dog sit (it’s a tough job - but someone’s got to do it) whilst David, Caroline and I flew by a commercial airline to Nassau in the Bahamas, and it made a nice change from chartering my own aircraft; I got to speak to real people and hold my own passport. Itza had casually invited me to visit him and his family in Nassau ‘any time I was passing’ on one of his flying visits to see me, so as I was now ‘passing’, Maria gave him a call and it was fixed. She gave him the date, but no time - he didn’t want one, we were just instructed to hop onto any flight into Lynden Pindling International Airport, on New Providence Island - ‘and be as early as possible please’, so we arrived at just before ten o’clock in the morning and were greeted by a ‘taxi driver’ holding up a plaque for David and Caroline; I suppose someone might just have recognised my name. I didn’t have a clue what time he started holding up that plaque but I bet his arm was aching by now. We all clambered into his taxi, Nassau is famous for its stretched limo taxis, but this was a monster, and after he closed the passenger door behind me I’m sure that it would have been quicker for him to catch a bus up to his door. It turned out that it was not a real taxi; it just looked like one, and Itza’s chauffeur then took us on a wonderful two hour tour of the Island, just to get a ‘feel’ for the place. He pointed out all the places of interest (over the intercom of course) and gave us ample opportunity to visit some of the sights if we wished, then at twelve thirty sharp we turned into a beautiful tree lined street, where every house was well kept and had masses of brightly coloured flowers outside, either in hanging baskets, or if the owners were lucky, in small gardens. There was the occasional sixties era motorcar parked at the side of the road but we were in the only moving vehicle, and we had just gone through a very large NO ENTRY sign. That apparently was not a problem as pedestrians and jay walkers alike gave us friendly waves as we passed. We drew up outside what looked to me like a very old wooden boarding house, complete with large veranda, and there was Itza sitting in a swinging chair, sipping a long drink and occasionally glancing at a laptop that was lying on the coffee table beside him. As we disembarked from the limo he stood, came down a couple of wooden steps and did the ‘meet and greet’ bit perfectly, welcoming us to his beautiful Island. I casually mentioned to him that his driver had come through a no entry sign on entering the street and hoped that he wouldn’t be in too much trouble, but all Itza did was laugh, and told me that he would have been in more trouble if he hadn’t gone through it; there was one at either end of the street, to keep out the uninvited. It turned out that he owned the street, all the houses and also the vintage cars. He also employed all the pedestrians and the veranda was actually his office - welcome to his world. Itza had been born and brought up on this street, and his ambition was to make sure that it remained just the same as it had been in his happy childhood. He went on to explain that he had known George and Millie for a considerably long period of time, and as he had watched the master at work he became a very good student. He didn’t ‘need’ to be my Manager in the Caribbean; he ‘wanted’ to be, and all the monies that he now earned went directly into a ‘Charitable Trust’ that he had set up for disadvantaged local children.
After freshening up in one of the houses, which turned out to be superbly appointed guests quarters, complete with maid service, Itza took responsibility for me and sent David and Caroline off for some quality time together, and after wrapping myself around a very large rum punch (in a real coconut shell) we settled down for a quiet chat, he had wanted one for a while so this was his chance. We talked at length about financial matters in general (which I hadn’t a clue about), my portfolio in particular (which I had even less of a clue about), and his Charitable Trust - now ‘that’ I was interested in, and I hinted that perhaps I might just go along that road myself at a later date. He quickly offered to send Vicente the latest up to date details on setting one up, plus a few of his ideas on suitably categories of beneficiaries, well it would give Vicente something else to get his teeth into.
Time flew by and finally my stomach reminded me that it was time to think about dinner, and after the usual preparations everyone congregated on the veranda, where he introduced us to his wife Delight and his six boys. Unlike his mother he had wanted a daughter but after six attempts Delight had put her foot down, enough was enough. The ‘boys’ then went off to dine with their own wives and children but Delight, who was definitely delightful to be around, fortunately remained with us, and we quickly clambered into the limo, I wasn’t the only one that was ravenous, but not for us a plush five star restaurant, it turned out that we had a table reserved at Goldie’s Restaurant and bar. Apparently when it had been time to re-decorate the wooden exterior the owner couldn’t make up his mind what colour to paint it, so short listing about twenty contrasting colours he had each plank painted a different colour, and when they ran out of colours they started over again, and again; no chance of missing this place on a dark night! Battling our way into the noisy and informal ‘restaurant’ we found our table and started by tucking into Conch, a local delicacy. Then I had ‘whatever it was’ as deep fried fritters in a spicy and garlicky sauce, accompanied by peas and rice then plantain bananas, coming up every now and then for a breath and a quick chat. It was of course all washed down by yet more rum punches – I was certainly getting a taste for those things. What a night, but I was glad that Bonnie and Clyde were safely on board the Sea Sprite, with all that garlic they wouldn’t have gotten within six feet of me (nearly 2 meters for the ‘converted’).
The next morning we were off, fortunately at a civilised hour, on another boat trip, but not just any old boat though, it was a Mega Yacht, and the owner was actually richer than me; he was number five or six I think. He, and his ‘trophy wife (number three), to be, welcomed us as if we were the only guests on board, in fact they were the consummate professional ‘hosts with the mosts’, and warmly invited us to make ourselves at home, then went off to greet the other fifty or sixty guests; and we never saw them again. The ‘Yacht’ was definitely in the top ten when it came to size, and it had all the requisite add on extras, submarines, helicopters, speed boats and every conceivable electronic gizmo and gadgetry - but it certainly didn’t rock my boat. I might as well have been on the Sea Sprite or any other medium sized Cruise Liner; I will definitely have to rethink my choice of boats. Don’t get me wrong, I had a very pleasant day; Itza and Delight were the perfect surrogate hosts as they had been on board as guests several times before, so they knew their way around, and David and Caroline thoroughly enjoyed themselves as well, finding out what made this monster yacht tick (besides its four very large engines), but I personally had expected much more bang for the bucks (as my colonial cousins would say).
&n
bsp; On return from our yachting experience Itza and I had a long chat, way into the early hours. It seemed like ages ago that he had told me to go and ‘live the fantasy’ when I finally got out of hospital, but now he was qualifying it by saying that sometimes the reality of a fantasy is not all that it’s cracked up to be (I assure you that it made perfect sense to me in the early hours, and after four or five rum punch’s). One of my all-time favourite sayings has always been be careful what you wish for – it might just come true. I was definitely in need of a reality check – enter Palm Beach!
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