Last night we went to happy hour again (I had soda, just fyi). We talked to Ash and Charlie for a while, sitting outside on the The Dinghy Bar's uncomfortable plastic seats. My mom asked where George and Ollie were and Ash said that they were probably out in town with a yacht owner. "The rule is," he said, "If you go to town with a rich yacht owner, your usually treated." I got an Orengina (French Fanta) and tried to get comfortable. The chair was too high for me to put my feet on the ground and I couldn't comfortably lean back because the backing was curved outward, leaving me, the unfortunate victim, in a hunch. I think that they put those horrible plastic wicker monstrosities there to make you realize that you didn't buy enough to go in the comfortably-chaired restaurant; therefore you should be incredibly uncomfortable.

I looked over at four small children that were playing by a big tank of propane. That doesn't look good, I said. The big tank was connected to a torch and the little kids were jumping around it. A little boy started touching the knob and his mom grabbed him. Just then, the head waiter, a VERY wound up Frenchmen, came marching to the propane tank. He was too short to light the torch from the ground so he stood on top of the propane tank. A little girl asked him something inaudibly. "Oui kids, is very dangerous. Do not touch" he said.

Soon George and Ollie showed up. They were walking with, not a rich yacht owner, but a cook on a yacht. The cook, Joust, was Belgian and looked so much like a cook that it boggled my mind. He had a large, round body, rosy cheeks, and short black hair. All that was missing was the little white chef's hat. George introduced us to him and then left for a few minutes. He came back with two mugs of beer and handed one to the cook.
"Oh!" Said Joust, "you bought me a beer, thank you my friend."

George isn't exactly a rich guy. "No, actually you bought you a beer. I just carried it over."

"Mmm..." Said the Cook, "I should have known!"
George cried "Cheers" in Belgian.
All of a sudden, Jeffrey, crew on Ogopogo showed up. On either side of him were the two guys that no one knew but always seemed to follow Jeffrey wherever he went. They never talked, just nodded when Jeffrey made a statement. I think that he pays them but I'm not sure yet. "Hey guys!" Cried Jeffrey - his hands in a hang loose pose. His posse stood beside him with their arms crossed. I sighed and sat back in my uncomfortable wicker plastic seat. For some reason, whenever Jeffery came by, the subject of the conversation was always a tiresome lament about how Walt Disney was a racist.

I walked over and joined my parents, Joust, and George. George looked over at me, "Hey Tara, do you know any French?" I shook my head. The extent of my knowledge of French was "good day", "good night", "thank you". You'd think I could've learned more. George used to take French and he, being a teacher, was desperate to teach something. "Well, I teach you some." He whispered, "all right, repeat after me: 'Je bocoup la piosson crux.'" I did. "Now," he said, "remember that and I'll show you how to use it in a second." Ok, easy enough, I thought.
All of a sudden George said out of the blue, "Hey Joust, do you like Poisson crux."
"I love piosson Crux." The cook replied, with a quizzical expression.
Before he could ask why George the turned to me "Tara, do you like piosson crux?"
"Je bocoup la piosson crux." I replied.
"Ah!" Cried Joust, "You know French!"
George looked over at me with an amused smile. I laughed.
That warm night in Tahiti, under the light of the propane-powered torch we all talked for a long time, laughed, and learned many more mindless French phrases.