TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2010—Today we circled Sweet Cay aboard WILD HAIR and anchored in a lovely harbour on the east side of the island. We just happened to anchor off the shore of the Beach Club Bar, yesterday’s conch restaurant. Taking Dinghy for her first beach walk-about, we met a handful of American ex-patriots residing on the island. When it is not raining, they gather at cocktail hour for a game of Petanque, the French version of Bocce Ball. Before we knew it, we were drafted onto teams and found ourselves in the middle of a Noel Coward play—a farce.
Each of the ex-patriots had a comically eccentric personality. Dave and I were the fresh audience for their long-standing riffs and follies. There was the bossy, know-it-all, board to death, self-appointed hostess who became progressively soused as we played; the Nostradamus-preaching poet that laughed like a hyena and spontaneously spouted his published poetry (while the hostess blurted, “Of all your poems, I hate this one the most”); the his-and-her authors in the throws of writing their next motivational book; and the silent couple that we spotted earlier watching Judge Judy at the bar. When the silent woman—a dead ringer for Cruella DeVille—arched her eyebrows and deftly knocked others out of play, her husband snarled, “the bitch is back.”
Like all Noel Coward plays, we had a delightful time and were home in a few hours.
Each of the ex-patriots had a comically eccentric personality. Dave and I were the fresh audience for their long-standing riffs and follies. There was the bossy, know-it-all, board to death, self-appointed hostess who became progressively soused as we played; the Nostradamus-preaching poet that laughed like a hyena and spontaneously spouted his published poetry (while the hostess blurted, “Of all your poems, I hate this one the most”); the his-and-her authors in the throws of writing their next motivational book; and the silent couple that we spotted earlier watching Judge Judy at the bar. When the silent woman—a dead ringer for Cruella DeVille—arched her eyebrows and deftly knocked others out of play, her husband snarled, “the bitch is back.”
Like all Noel Coward plays, we had a delightful time and were home in a few hours.
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