I know I know, 

I was coming to hit you with the misery of yachting. Before we get to the disaster side of Cuba as promised dear friends, allow me to introduce some of the cogs and grease that allows basic trade in a communistic setting. Where a system with a population of a million means two million police, one needs to tread softly. At any point one random individual can collapse weeks of preparation. Causing $7000 worth of food to sit and rot at the customs office. Add to this the retard comprehensive abilities of a soap dish intellect in the form of our Bouffe headed Capt Boo Boo and the improbable fast becomes the impossible. 

There are two simple sides to this weathered coin of trade in such an economic setting. One side black as death in the form of illegal evil capitalism. The other side blood red in the form of Castro's communism and the thin white line side holding the two together in the form of bureaucracy. The grease than can lubricate and sway decision making of either side. When it comes to getting something done in Cuba one has no choice but to toss this obtuse coin of trade high and mighty to the air, watching as it spins end over end, giving equal chance to which ever transaction you will need to openly and willing accepted when it lands.

                                                                                  

In the red corner weighing in at 140lb, The master of paper shuffling word play and social standing. A man that demands respect, Yachting Pages champion of choice... Our white light and persistent person of Mega yacht power,.... Placido!

Yaaaaaaayyyy!!!

aaaand in the black corner weighing in at 220lb. The knight of darkness, with a finger in every pie,. A master who's name you forget as soon as its spoken. The shadow of shadows. All roads of commerce lead to the one and only go getter. The great....Guerrilla!

Yaaaaaaaayyy!!!

On the red side of the coin, working in our favor with bleeding fingers to bring about a successful conclusion to all our whims. May I introduce  Placido. Placido is your above board man in Cuba. Also the only man of use I might add!  An obvious open respect follows him where ever he goes, offered from policing officials right across the board. At one stage he snuck Cloggie, Supa stew our cuban driver and myself into a sold out open air jazz festival finale past armed guards, under the pretense of VIP's. He would stand at customs for hours, usually days wielding his sword of paper work, arguing, bargaining, pressuring officials until our provisions cleared. A process that took up to four days often.

 If you are a captain heading to Cuba, don't be a "Capt Boo Boo". Embrace the man and all he has to offer. With out him the success of our plastic wedding cake monstrosity of a yacht being the first in Cuban history to pull off a provisioning import, twice, (i might add) would not have been a reality.

Yes dear friends, thats right, Captain Bouffe headed Boo Boo goes and gets involved. You see people my beloved Captain Boo Boo blocked my relationship with this man from the get go, before we even left Key West infact. Claiming he wasn't the man in Cuba. (Like the fool would know)

"Please, oh please Master Boo Boo, may I still have his contact details regardless. As a back up plan, a reference, a source of information above and beyond your tiny brains reckoning" (not an accurate quote but you get my drift)....but no.

What would the only Cuban yachting agency know about the requirements of say..... yachts in Cuba!? 

(I refrained from pointing out the obvious to Boo Boo with a range of crayon colored diagrams and sunny day pictures, but oh how I wish I had) 

No, he claims.  We shall use people of his choosing regardless of what UK suppliers, the Yachting Pages and his own chef say on the topic of provisioning. 

(I smell a Boo Boo coming on, mmm hmmm, don't you) 

After struggling with capt Boo Boo for two weeks and a dozen dead ends, I finally get hold of Placido's contact details, not from King Boo Boo himself but from a supplier in the UK and finally begin the process of importing into a communist country for our 6 week stay. Long story short Placido became our man, our light, our savour.

 He saves our arse and with no help from us.

 Regardless captain Boo Boo refused to use him for all the reasons one might use a yachting agent for say, guest drivers, crew cars, entry to Havana hotspots, all out of obvious pride and all resulting in their own mini ramifications, gradually building on each other. Placido saves our arse but capt Boo Boo's social retardation prevents us from throwing him a bone! I will not go into dull details now, but at a later date (if  dull details is what you care for) So for now lets just say it leaves me frustrated, embarrassed and the knock on effect of bouffe head pride leads to  an aggressive stand off between a towering six foot three Boo Boo and myself on shore in front of Cuban authorities All as a result of failed to arrive guest taxi's and the lack of his creative ability for him to correct the problem. It signifies the beginning of the end for us. 

As you can see to play above board wasn't always a successful option. On occasion one slinks to the shadows where deals are made under the cloak of darkness. When all else fails, Guerrilla is your soldier of the night. Every person we asked about getting this done or that done directed us in one direction.... 

All roads lead to Guerrilla. 

Apprehensive at first, we soon found Guerrilla resourceful and a useful tool. Don't get me wrong, Guerrilla will talk it up to milk a better price, why wouldn't he. So be shrewd, even though it isn't your money. How it works in Cuba is every item grown, delivered and passed on to the people is, in its way, accounted for. What Guerrilla is, is a seasoned social butterfly. He knows everybody. The Farmers, the workers, the delivery truck drivers, the five star hotel staff and unloaders right through to the chefs. You want something, all he needs is one contact in his chain of supply to cough up the goods on its way to the five start hotels and then its yours.

Respect to da bruvvar... No! 

Cunningly resourceful...yes!

" No problem my friend, I get you what ebvar you need. Pish, cigar, good quality, fresh. You buy in town you get bad deal. No good. You know, I know everybody, I give good price. You want cigar from Castro’s private stash, this I can do. No problem, what ebvar you want my friend” 

Regardless of the fact that Castro quit smoking in 1985 most of Guerrilla's claims rang true. Shhhh though, I promised to him not to say a word, its his balls on the line and the balls of his family, this is real, this is his reality, respect that!!! You go to Cuba, you keep quiet. Guerrilla will find you and when he does...

 tell him I said hi, would you!?

So in between the sides of this coin of red and black is the white line of beaocracy that everyone crosses to get by and get a little extra out of life. Its also the white line that can take you down. People have been jailed for less in Cuba. As they say one million people and two million police, one must regard every set of eyes as a reason to implement caution. It is a system once you step back and see the enormity of Communism, you can see it for the grand achievement it is. Its only failure being to keep up with the system of capitalism. A system no less corrupt, confining but at least offering a thin democratic fine print of choice, though often it doesn't seem the case. 

So these are our pieces in play sweet people. Details you need to know before I drag you down into the nightmare that is the weeks to follow. Stray dogs, a string of resignations, cigars, rhum and salsa. An Island paradise and no day off on the horizon to be seen. So for now allow me to leave you before  the string of misery I promised in the last blogg begins.

So go put the kettle on, put your feet up and settle back into your favorite chair. I'll be back soon enough to drag my fingernails down the blackboard of "Super Yachting". Faster than you can say...

"Our Polish chief stewie Zuzia is making a pass at the captain for crew political immunity"

 until then

Ciao, Tschüse, Doei 

"There are some moments in life when the only possible option is to lose control"

Brida

Well hello there, hello.

Oh so much to tell, so much. Dead ship at sea, Communistic Cuban live shows, black market Gorilla cigars, import trailblazing, provisioning nightmares, stolen cameras, live music, jazz festivals, dirty girls, quality rum. Throw in a stray dog named Sheila, a stand off between Captain Boo Boo and my self and all finished off with Supa Stew jumping ship and a Gillybean/Cloggie hook up and your well on the way to getting your head around the last 3 hellish weeks. Before all that let us wiz back to the beginning. I believe we were leaving Key West down a 1st mate, a generator and a good dose of sanity.

So we steam away leaving the glorious Key West and what would seem the love of my life in our wake, bound for Cuba……….

Actually. Whoa up a damn minute! You really need to get this before we move much further.

As mention a blog or two ago I found myself enraptured with a yummy girl in “The Smallest Bar” in Key West. Two souls entwined for a moment, an evening, seemingly all eternity. It was a magical, struck by lightning kind of a moment. Alas, taken was this gorgeous girl, and rightly so. A band of gold chastising her finger, weighed down by a rock (that would feed the average developing nation for a year I might add) A chastising band of gold voicing a claim that had been staked, though not yet etched in stone. Band of gold or not we shared two nights, each leaving me intoxicated on her every word, my cheek pink as her every movement, gesture and smile slapped me to a realization. This yummy girl was more than any other. Never have I felt such an over whelming sense of clarity, humility, admiration……

and low and behold, there isn’t, One... Bloody... F-ing...Thing, I could do about it.

Cue and enter- "bull in a china shop" scene one, as Capt Boo Boo’s arrives, and simply goes about being himself, simply deflating the positive energy of an entire room and the evening in play. As is his mild super power, ill have you know....its a gift. He is the wolverine of social retardation! Lets face facts, you cant fit a Bouffe head into a tiny crowded bar without forcing a few hasty exits, and so exit we did! Anyone who knows the "Smallest Bar" knows the grand disappearing act one must perform to slip four persons out un-noticed. That being Gillybean, the newly discovered Yummy girl, her fiancé and myself. Gillybean's curiosity to see the crusty eastern European vag we sported nights earlier simply results in a bored quartet, staring blankly in a dark strip club, (with out the seething mollusk impression this time, which actually was a disappointment). The combination of Bouffe heads Bull/China shop impersonation and Gillybeans choice of seedy venue basically kills the romanticism of mine and yummy girls evening leaving us to do little more than stand in the street, eating pizza off paper plates before saying our premature goodbyes.

No! Not fair!

Its not supposed to end like this.....

there is more to be said, not like this, not so soon...



but no.

I hold Yummy girl longer than I should and she plants a delayed kiss on my cheek, turning to walk away, we both chance a seeming last glance back, like some bitter sweet film, (next time we meet you'll be married) I think to myself and we disappear into our separate nights.

It is at this moment I promise myself to say something. Not to sway her, not to have her want me, just to let her know that on a random evening, in a random bar some random guy found her absolutely extraordinary for no other reason than she was all that is herself. If she could carry the knowledge of this privately in her heart, giving reason for her to smile during times that she felt blue, than that, was good enough, for me….

In short, our two nights shared conversation and my e-mail of confession and she calls off her wedding, leaving her fiance and mirrors my words and sentiments. It is a surreal moment in two very different and separate lives. Giving life to what seems impossible, crazy leaving us assuming this is the beginning of something special, we cling to hope and begin a relationship 4000 miles apart.

Soooooooo, as stories go, not terribly bloody funny huh, so back to our passage to Cuba if you would. It was Shite!! Like real shite!! Like super dooper pooper scooper shite!! Allow me to explain.

The ship is rolling around like a marble in a soda can tumbling down a flight of stairs end over end. Alarms blare, the ship blacks out, then flickers back to life as she re-boots herself, generally followed by Cloggie running past the Galley full of apologies en-route for the engine room, hitting with a hammer what ever faulty piece of equipment Cloggie prays needs hitting. Things climb to a crescendo when at 3am we loose all steering gear, stabilizers, radar and lights and turn beam on to a 30 knot wind in a short and sharp sea. Ahhh its almost like being on a sailing yacht again. I wedge myself into the corner of my bunk to find enough purchase to prevent me being thrown out of my bunk and across my cabin. It is the shittest night at sea I have had in years and the bridge is close to making a decision of about face and dash back to Key West. Captain Bouffe head Boo Boo strikes again. Alas Cloggie saves the day!! Despite the boat being in disarray, broken down and uninsured (lack of legal ticket holders on board) Morning comes and crippled, we crawl into Havana, Cuba. “It was a bit rough last night ja” the lady of the boat claims. Knowingly we wonder what spin Capt Boo Boo will have spun to cloud this new cluster fekk.

So here we are Cuba, the last strong hold of Communism. Now get your arses down here before it changes. Ok! Got it! Write it down cause I mean it! Oh to have seen this country in her “Hey Day” Italians suits, beautiful architecture, classic cars , Jazz and cigars. All washed down with a "daiquiri original" made with the finest rhum. This place would have screamed cool, stamped style and cried class with a double dash of damn dirty fun for good measure. I want to slap you with details of crumbling colonial architecture, paint with words the spirit, the color, the soul of Havana, but I would be rambling for pages. It is a giant of a place laying dormant, waiting, quietly to spring back to life and shout to the world with the soul she once had.

It is the opening of the Jazz festival and our owners see fit to drag us along to opening night on them, oh bless their short armed, deep pocketed selves.

Well in short, it fekking bloody, rocked!

A room full of old school heavyweights. No one on the stage was younger than 60 years and they banged the shit out of the theater. It was Buena Vista Social Club, high on the ultimate drug, known as living the shite out of life! This was our first night, this was our first taste of Cuba and we liked it. We liked very much, we want more of Cuba, we want more! So we dash for the club scene and get a glorious iron curtain awakening. Simply put, every evening begins with a floor show before the band and night of salsa and dancing kicks off in earnest. It is the most hilarious display of B-grade circus acts ever and entirely wonderful for its sincerity. I saw salsa show dramatizations, balancing acts, heck one guy came out in puffy sleeves and on a road bike and proceeded to entertain us by cycling backward on a stage the size of a napkin. Then upside down. Stopping on the spot for what seemed like an eternity, dismantling the bike as he rode, until a uni cycle was all that remained. Then the grand finally. To cycling a tiny winy bike doubling a beautiful Cuban lass on his shoulders through a ring of fire. A Homer/Krusty scene flashes through my mind....

Oh how we laughed….

Oh how we cried....

Ahhh "good-a-one” we cheered,

“give us another one” if you would, we prayed.

With circus acts put to rest then there is the dancing and always one more majito, and lets face it, Cubans know how to do both. You find such a scene at Casta La Musica. You'll have no need to ask directions, you’ll simply end up there in time, you wont have a choice. Rest assured once you do fun, shall be had, I promise you that. As long as you know how to have it, that is......

So do you?????

Do you know how to have fun, my friends. Ain't no room for your prudish self if you don't!

Alas, my job here is not to act as some lonely planet guide book holding your hand as you plan your next travel itinerary, but is to ram the misery of yachting down your throat. As for the glory of Cuba….well you can go Google that shite my dear friend!

So back to the truth of it shall we. The misery of yachting and oh how there was a many heaped spoonful of saline misery swallowed during this seemingly wondrous time in Cuba.


Well it pains me to bring you down while we seem to be having such fun, how about I leave you on this note before I bludgeon you with the reality of Captin Boo Boos intervention, as he goes about fixing all that functions efficiently.



Oh but shhhhh, hush now and worry not, I promise to bring the pain.....

and to bring it very soon :)




Ciao, Tschüse, Doei



"On my way I met strong currents, winds and storms, but I kept rowing. Exhausted, knowing that I had drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach was no longer on the horizon.

I can't turn back though"

The Zahir

I’m awoken to the clickity clack of Compete and Freight train pulling anchor at 6am-ish. The sound of each link in the chain hauled with a click and dropped with a clack over a rotating windlasses. It is a quiet and soothing sound enhanced by the rocking of the boat. Soothing that is until power to the bow thruster is flicked by Capt Boo Boo to ON! This thing sounds like a screaming child thrusting a fist full of heirloom silver wear in to a sink macerator to the screaming horror of a soon to be unemployed nanny. The sound of this trio’s location of which just so happens to be under your bunk, up the pillow end, I might add. It quite simply is not my favorite way to wake up, but ill take anything that breaks the monotony of this dulcet routine.

Usually it is my phone alarm, vibrating and squealing like a Catholic school girl with an electric toothbrush that drags me out of slumber. A shrill I am normally quick to extinguish so its cry’s wont awaken Freight train in the bunk above, but no need today. My cabin is black as death but I know the sun is hours warm. I begrudgingly begin my routine as the yacht beings to make way. Today is a day cooking at sea. Quite possible shite, depending on the sea state. Information of which captn Boo Boo will never consider sharing, instead assuming once everything slides off my bench, pots of boiling water hit the deck and knives enpail themselves on adjacent walls I will know we are out of an islands lee and to expect it to be rough from that point on. Sigh. Here we go again.

I stumble into the Galley earlier than usual, due to the guests having an early dive expedition organized, 2 hours steaming. It has been 28 days since my last non cooking day or day off, 8 days since I was last off the boat and quite possibly three days since I last bothered to drag my arse out side into the sunshine. I’m at low ebb and in now mood to be screwed with.

Alas, I have spoken too soon as I round the corner, I lock looks with Darren.

Morning Darren, you prick, I say confidently and directly…… no response. Just a blank stare. (Which is about normal for Darren) gawd he’s such a wanker. Darren rarely functions with out one constantly pushing his buttons. Which I am forced to do daily. The bitter irony being that, I am nothing with out Darren at this time of the morning and the prick knows it. With a bit more pushing and a little think time on his lazy arse part, Darren finally and literally groans into action and double spits into my cup. -Enter Supa Stew-. Morning Chef………. Morning Supa Stew. Good morning Darren……........you wanker.

Ahhhhh, the day has begun, like clock work.

May I introduce Darren, our fully automated, push button, self cleaning, self grinding, self packing, self pouring, and self absorbed espresso machine. Whom every one loathes wholly and equally I might add. Every thing about Darren is great, including his coffee, how ever when you get “Darren-ed you get “Darren-ed” royally. (and you thought being Boo Booed was bad) Fill water container, Fill Bean container, Empty waste container, Empty drip tray, please close the door, Initiating Rinse cycle, Going into hibernation, You have selected "ON". Heating phase initiated….. FEKK DARREN! just make me a fekking coffee!!!

If your name out there is Darren, I apologise, but you most likely have whats coming to you. Darren's generally do. So I rest my back against cold tiles eating a crème brulee left from the night before as a breakfast substitute, sip at my double espresso and contemplate what the hell I am doing here. Supa Stew catches me mid brulee shovel and it dawns on me, from her perspective there is something inherently wrong with this picture.

I think shes got a point.


Enough, this double espresso has kicked in and I'm feeling much better!

See you in Havana kids.

Promise I’ll save you a rum and cigar, and Cloggie says he'll spare you a lady of the night.
Oh, dear, oh dear indeed.



Until then.

Ciao, Tschüse, Doei

"God in his infinite wisdom hid hell in paradise, just to keep us on our toes"

By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

Welcome back to monotony kids. A debaucherous week and a half of steaming, debating, crushed fingers, written warnings, hula hoops, self dismissal, naked women, midnight masturbation, Avon ladies and all washed down with “just one more shot of Jager” It has been emotional my friends, it has been a heart break. Full of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly as it were. Hang on now. Wait one damn moment, I’m getting way ahead of myself, let us begin were we left off.

Puerto Rico.


It rocks! Enough said, ja!


We are threatened to be held captive by Capt Boo Boo, but some how several of us break our bonds and flee to celebrate hours of freedom and for me Australia day. Some bar hopping and strolling sees us in the midst’s of some hip hopping Quebecian bankers. Oh how impressed they were when I took my poor French vocabulary and sprinkled it through out conversation. Eating out of the palms of our hands had Supa Stew and I. The night is also Cloggie's first successful conquest and last one of quality. It being with a wonderful Lebanese princess. “did you know Leban means tit or milk”…………… (Yes it does and Oh yes he did!.... Smooth huh), but English is his 2nd language, so kudos to him!.

Ok B-line to Key West. Sure we stopped along the way and did some of that swimming in the stars concentrate luminescence malarkey, scuba diving, trekking blah blah blah, but enough of the hippy nature crap. Not when Key West is full of lovely architecture, vagabonds, strippers and homosexuals, a simple concoction which equals good dirty fun, and oh how we all love a little of that hot sauce splashed on our chili dog, don’t we!

We have a horrendous time tying up our floating wedding cake in a stiff 30 knots blowing the snot out of the tremendously tight marina. A hundred onlookers watching our cluster fekk ungracefully unfold before them and all praying for it to get just a little worse (Oh please hit something, please hit something) all for their entertainment, and to breifly stick it to the rich. Imagine if you can reversing a semi trailer/big rig into a field of land mines and then needing to do a 360 turn to save your arse. Crew scramble to gather all lines and fenders from one side to the other, with stewies working as fender bitches ensuring our piece of floating plastic stays just that. Bouncing us off angry concrete waiting to take a bite. Its like a giant game of operation, except with Mr Milton Bradley himself standing over you waiting to deliver a donkey punch to the back of your head if you faux pas! (Mnneaaaaant flash flash) "punch" GAME OVER dickhead. However The Bouffe head succeeded diligently, thanks to the fender bitches. So to celebrate I went about the boat to find a good door to slam my finger in, so as to deliver myself stitches five. Which I am proud to say, I succeeded in.

Ok now let the fun begin. Stitches fives seems to prove a saving grace for me and crew alike as guilty owners leave us to it and choose to eat off the boat for the next week. Oh I love these guys, I could kiss their high grade wax shined balding heads.

THE UGLY: Sloppy Joe's is our first stop for some Sloppy Ritas and to watch a fantastically skinny blond girl Gwen Stephani her butt off to some Twisted Sisters “we’re not gunna take it” with fist punching to the air. It was hilarious.
Cloggie, Supa Stew and I at some stage find our selves in a strip club, unsure as to how we had arrived, and thinking very little of the experience. That is until some lovely Eastern European lass dropped her scant draws and did an exotic impression of a mollusk seething its way across polished floor boards. Needless to say, we were a gob smacked trio. Even Cloggie’s jaw is dropped at this display and lets face it, Cloggie has seen, taken and shagged it all. Twice, in fact. In shock we scramble for something a little more “low key” at Zü Bar. WRONG!
Into our second drink, an empty bar. When two girls stumble in off the street with friends, dance around a bit then, strip bare, molest the buggery out of a “gawd knows when was the last time that thing was washed” copper shined pole, then leave……
Welcome to what is night ONE of Key West. You Get Picture! Oh but the night does not end here. I will not bore you with all details but lets just say Cloggie found his first 250lb American girl and had his morally questionable way with her. Only dragging his arse back on board around 9am, right past the owners having breakfast, smelling of rum and cellulite “guten morgen”…………. thus begins day two.

THE BAD: This is emotionally horrendous. The bull shite of Capt Boo Boo and his Boo Boo’s all day every day has the crew on the verge of serious mutiny. No one has had luck in penetrating the thick Neanderthal skull of The Bouffe head. Unknowingly the gauntlet is accidentally thrown down, and by myself no less. Fekk Fekk Fekk. (last chef was sacked this way) A one on one controlled debate develops between Capt Boo Boo and myself in the crew mess. One by one crew sit down to listen, the result is the first crew meeting in five weeks and crew, one by one addresses their misery and the cause. It lasts for hours and leaves all exhausted, yet hopeful. A hope we find is to last about 12 hours. In short this leads to a follow up meeting the next morning which results in crew loosing the little time off they have, rosters are torn to pieces and 1st mate is handed a written warning resulting in his polite “go fukk yourself” resignation. The Crew hits a new, lowest ebb. There is only one thing left for it. Jagermiester!

THE GOOD: We begin our 1st Mate farewell night at a different haunt once we discover the skinny blond girl in Sloppy Joe's repeats the same songs, lines and jokes night after night. There is only so long however one can resist her charm and so we leave the Rum Barrel enroute to her "not gunna take it" self and ol' Sloppy’s. In passing the Smallest Bar in Key West, drinks in hand we have no choice to stop if just for the novelty and just one more shot of Jager…….............
subsequently we never left. Take a phone booth, if you would, push it on its side, fill it with as many drunk people as possible, a grey parrot, two hula hoops, a three piece band and an Avon lady and voila. You have the smallest bar in Key West. It was AWESOME! Night after night. Incredibly social, you had no choice but to introduce yourself to the person next to you. The only place where I could buy the entire bar a round. It was here we hit the highs and lows of our stay. Super Stew was approached by a balding knob of a man named Kev who some how found it acceptable to compliment Supa Stew with her likeness to Tom Hanks, which is ridiculous. Mr Hanks is much taller. We chatted with ex-heroin addicts come writers, travelers, locals. Twirled with hula hoops, Pocket Rocket dancing on the tiny bar and Jagermeister, always just one more shot of Jager. I was set upon at one stage by a large black woman thrusting Avon products in my face and making biting attempts at my neck. Never have I been so happy to see Cloggie arrive on the scene and destract her lovely self appropriately. Then there was the moment. You know the ones. When there is bright light of wonderful energy pulsing from one person in the room. Your paralysed, mesmerised, hypnotised and ultimately begin to fantasise. Stunning she is and fekking engaged. Two personalities entwined as one just for a moment, a minute an evening. To be blown away and fall for a complete unavailable stranger for a single evening is a terribly refreshing and frustrating experience and one I thoroughly recommend! A jewel in the crown of a simple yachties romantic dreariness.

Anyway our final day starts out in the normal way, I sneak off the yacht at 10am to sneak Cloggie his uniform which he transforms into on the steps of what is the winner of the best historical site in Key West 3 years running. No really!
Then I slap the back of his head for selling himself to the Avon lady. He is ashamed at how low he has sunk and it is enough to send Cloggie into a run of sobriety. Before his dick drops off. So we stow ourselves and latch down the hatches on route for Cuba, but with only one generator and an itchy to get moving Bouffe head, one can only prepare for the worst. Oh but how I hear you whisper, how could things possibly go bad from here…………….

Oh silly you......




Just wait,




Just you wait and see!





Ciao, tschüse, doei

Hello my little cherubs,

So here we are, but where have we been? Two weeks away and much has happened since my last entry. Life can be a roller coaster and I haven't always the stomach for it. First things first, yes, the BVI’s is the most painful way to spend a new years eve, full of bored American adults disgruntled with their life choices and their children oblivious to their pain. There wasn’t even a count down, no kisses, no happy new years smiles and hand shakes and shoulder slaps. At one stage I watched a tumble weed roll across the crowded space to every ones delight……..very strange. The highlight however was to have a San Franciscan talent scout claim “I had what it takes”. I have no doubt she’s right of course. Unfortunately her being a very plain, aging woman (which is fine, really it’s fine!) I took her statement “you got what it takes” to quite simply mean cock. Alas I am saving myself for that special kinda Mrs. Robinson and so this Benjamin was forced grudgingly to decline her offer of super stardom.

We are barely a week into our 3 month charter and Capt Boo Boo has begun to throw his toys. As the crew, one by one is collectively “Boo Booed” (as it has come to be known among us). This is the ancient Germanic way of “The Bouffe Head” handed down from generation to generation along with that extra chromosome. That being, to stumble into an organized, smooth running situation and fix it. We always knew it would come to this. Let us face facts when German pride is prickled by 1st Mates well rounded English accented digs, “hmn-nny-yes. but our tiny fleet did sink your entire German navel war machine during the war, making us far better sea farers, wouldn’t you agree? Hmn-nny-ya. I am of that stock at the end of the day, no need for me to state the obvious then hmm-mnn-nya?” Feathers are destined to be ruffled and Boo Boo’s bound to be made. Regardless “floggings shall continue until moral Improves”!!!( Also for the record 1st Mate is the only person on earth, I’m sure, whom has the ability to take one of the English languages shortest, most straight forward words - “yes” - and add two extra syllables(hmm-mnn-nya) amazing chap really!

So we have cruised up and down with stops In St Barts, a French island and I do ever so love French islands. For a similar experience might I suggest you go to your local French restaurant, waltz up to the maitre d’, drop your pants and ask to be fisted for a wee period, sil vous plait (always say please to the French, they are funny like that!). Swiftly palm the man 200 euro for his trouble and be on your way. Now I’ve have just saved your self an airfare, a crap American Airline giant cookie masquerading as food experience and hotel expenses…..truly I am only here to help. Ostentatious prices aside I do love the French Islands and a stop at the original Nikki Beach for a paddle and sour cocktail perfection as well as to hob-nob and rub shoulders with society’s elite, commonly known as “Wankers” is terribly refreshing. Seeing as we hardly ever deal with “wankers” in the yachting world (HA!) and so we drank, swam, rubbed and hob-nobbed, oh and how!!!! Additional stops include Dominica, Ilse de Saint and Guadalupe, all fabulous and beautiful in there own right, then on to everyone’s favorite stop……Antigua.

Antigua is a great opportunity to chill, catch up with long lost crewmates and soak up the atmosphere and just get righteously splattered to be honest. Cramming another “awake for 3 days and 3 nights” binges into your week, seeing as you haven’t experienced one since St Maarten. This along with a couple of espresso martinis and a boogie at Abras, perfectly good, dirty fun. It is a lovely spot and crew old and new considers it home in the Caribbean. It is an old haunt for 1st Mate, Supa Stew and myself and first timers Gillybean and Cloggie took to embracing her, while Pocket Rocket, Compete and Freight train(whom Id like to rename Seagull) did their usual exercise cramming regime. By this stage the crew has completely ostracized Capt Boo Boo and he is at a loss as to how to come to terms with being the token bouffe head on board. Alas, on a yacht there is always one. In truth it helps bond the rest of us. Much in the same way as George W. has united the world in a common dislike for stupidity and dribbling during press conferences.

As brightly as it shines a dark cloud can settle. We left Antigua with multiple yacht crews (not ours) robbed at gun point including a captain who was gunned down in front of his wife and son. This all very out of the ordinary for Antigua and the industry is furious at authorities. Yachting is a close community and any word of murder, suicide or death at sea, shocks and rocks through the industry. Face book only shrinking what is already a tiny close knit family. Even though I did not know the captain, many of my friends did and you feel for everyone involved. I’d like to blame someone - M.TV. American gun touting or the new crap breed of gangster hip hop -, anyone, anything. At the end of the day this is just the way of the world and we are all to blame I guess.

Moving on towards the shit hole known as St Thomas of the USVI’s with crew in shock and a little disgruntled. 1st Mate works diligently to ensure Capt Boo Boo has his ducks in a row before he attempts to clear our “visa less” boss into the visa- requiring US. It is a cluster fekk of grotesquely satanic proportions, only out weighed in "grossosity" (Made up word but I like it!) by the Disney Cruise liner on or port side. Finished with big screen Mickey TV. A two story Goofey figurine painting the finishing touches to her stern and Donald Duck as a figure head. The high pitch squeak of “lets go Pluto” 24/7. It is a horrendous concept. I can only imagine with a shudder what the on board casino must look like?
But no, our guests get “Boo Booed” by our Bouffe Head and we are begrudgingly beat out into big blue waters by belligerent authorities. A dash for the friendlier BVI’s with out officially clearing in carries potentially for our owners arrest, that being immigrants of an illegal nature and all. It doesn't come to this but twas a close call for what one might call being “Double Boo Booed” and all in a matter of minutes and miles.

The lack off thought, the extent of the Capt Boo Boo’s selective memory has lead to great speculation by Supa Stew and myself that Capt Boo Boo may very well be wrestling with a chronic bout of cephalous! Yes cephalous. We may very well be witnessing his slow spiral into madness? Oh how terribly novel for us!! Our very own Henry the eight, crossed with alien as it were. Rantings and be-headings and all out in a vacuum where no one can hear you scream. Let us hope if it comes to that, it’s one of the sacrificial underlings. (me being the most important man on the ship an’ all, you understand)

Anyway enough sulking and woe is me. Moving on to the Spanish Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico, which is a refreshing wind of change by any ones standards. Your one stop Jesus action figure shop……but let us speak of that.

Some other time.



Oh but please, lets make it soon!





Ciao Tschüse Doei


* Tuna Tatiki on Thai Salsa Verde Potatoes, Aioli and Truffle marinated Tomato.

*Beetroot Chocolate Cake, with a Beetroot Port wine Syrup and Vanilla Yogurt Anglaise.