This is a "story" written by a cruising friend, Ed Collins on Avatar, about a night out we all had in St Martin (Ed, his wife Val, daughter Sarah, and Louis and I) It may be a bit hard to follow if you weren't there, but it had us in tears so we thought we'd share it:

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Well...

Here I am, it is 04.00 and I'm at the machine, in the old days it would be a pencil and a pad next to the bed, haven't we moved on?

The day started much as any other on this our second try at the 'cruising lifestyle'.... Sarah banging her head on the table as an aid du-memiour'... her own idea. I prefer her to write the times tables several times but she seems to have a flair for the dramatic...

Val and I had retired to the aft cabin to recover from the morning's torture/math's lessons... no sooner was I stood at the condom counter with Michelle Pfeiffer than a knock on the hull announced a cessation of any, indeed the very last of my chances there...

Val and I ran around, shortly followed by a naked Sarah as if looking for gas masks during a nighttime gas attack in blackout with the power off.

We were looking for any nether regions garments, Val with a cynical look to her face removed her knickers from my head (How else can you guarantee a 'Michelle Pfeiffer' dream?) this sudden access to vision allowed me to find my thingy covering things..... Ahh hello?

A rhumbustious double espresso American Accent bounced back, 'that you Ed?'

'Yep!' I bellowed, the English competitor in me not to be out done in a casual conversation with an American.

We launched into the standard conversation when visitors arrive at ones aquatic home.... They cling to the bucking beast with their fingertips like it was their last moment hanging from the Eiger. Me leaning over the side trying to look down the generously cut 'T' shirt of his newly wed, with enough success that I try to keep them enthralled in conversation, them being American this means listening intently***. (see below)

For a while this works a treat, they then invite us for a meal, now not wanting to harp on about this English / American thing but the last time they said this it cost us 12.68 days of food money, mind you his Mrs has a great collection of clingy dresses so, naturally I said yes, Cautiously looking at Val to see if I had over stepped my role as master of the house and captain she allows me occasionally to assume in public, she was staring down his even more liberal 'T' shirt, what is it with women and handsome men who work out?

The time and the place was agreed, little did I know the horror and pain this decision was going to envelope me in.......

We found ourselves sitting on the concrete dock watching the day market being packed away by rotund black ladies, we have occasionally given in to Sarah and bought a string of shells tied up with twine for ten bucks, I have always assumed these guys got rich from fleecing us tourists, not by the cars they drive, mini vans of no discernable make, badges long rotted off, windows held in with straps and pop rivets. I vowed not to ask for bulk discount next time.

I was staring at my watch and mentioning how I despise tardiness and they were six minutes late when a tap on my shoulder heralded their arrival, great start to the night, seems they though I knew they were there and me having a rep as trying to be a joker..... Phew, winged that one again....

We set off, much like last time we had a destination, where as last time we arrived to see a petulant Saudi prince being turned away with the words 'next time make a reservation Asshole!' Hoping the matrade was a racist with a twelve cylinder car to run we jauntily approached the door.... We were invisible, he stepped from side to side and even approaching in pairs, he blocked our ingress with consummate ease... We didn't have the social standing to even warrant being called Assholes.

We had wandered to another place (In Curacao) and had the best meal I'd eaten ever, (apart from my mum's egg and chips'....)

The portions were tiny with the inverse square law fully applied, the smaller it was the more expensive it became, I guess ultimately no one could afford an empty plate.

Great meal done with we drove back to the yard in their hire car, you can get great shoe mileage knowing American folk.

OK so cut to the dock.....

Sarah stuffs her collection of ring pulls sticks and feathers into Val's bag, freeing her hands for more gathering during the walk to the fort.

Almost immediately she picks up a cut glass pendant and holds it out for appraisal.... We all smile, 'how can you tell it's not real?' she innocently asks...

"Because you still have it" I respond...

After the American ladies sock putting on ceremony we begin our assent, carefully placing myself behind the female of our dinner party I set too enjoying the climb, at least now I have reason to pump my legs... Dam! She turned around and caught me ogling her left foot, I was going for the bum but by now exhaustion had set in and that was the best I could do.... I hate that, in all my years I have evolved a sixth sense when it comes to ogling, I sense when they are to turn and quickly stare at an interesting building or in their absence a fascinating cloud, this time my cover was blown good, I almost felt her using her decapitated leg hairs to raise the socks another half millimeter... Strange how inches go out of the door when you are in France.

Cover blown I decided to ease back in the pack, like a doped race horse I lost steam until her husband took the rightful place as bum guardian. Order established we ascended to the summit.

When Chris Brown had been here we had wanted to replace the French tricolor with the union jack but the one time we were sober enough to seriously contemplate the operation we couldn't decide who was to buy the flag....

The fort was built by some one with a French sounding name who I forget, apparently he beat off an attack by a British herring boat in '16 using six soldiers and a bent spoon, I am going to research this and find the truth, though it does seem there might have been one battle the French won....

At the base of the hill the de-socking occurred, bum crack cleverly gripping the lamp post as she chatted to her ring of admirers. I wondered what damage I had unwittingly done to my precious feet by dragging them up that dam hill with out my high altitude socks on, my eyes wandered to Sarah, lost under the pile of sticks feathers and unscrewed information decals... her little feet stuck out, Val looked at me and I could instinctively read her mind.... 'We could at least afford some Himalayan climbing socks for the child.... ' She seemed to be saying....

Sarah's load now transferred to her personal sherpa we once again set off.....

Now how's this for clever........ The lady (We had all been introduced to each other six months or so ago, ample time for the cells with their names in to rot in my head, I knew their faces and could do a reasonable image plot of the curves her breasts would take whilst on a jogging machine set at '6'... The names though eluded me..... (Given the choice I know which ability I would like to keep!)

Any how 'clever'.... The guys had been eating out, for a change.... and had had the foresight to ask the waiter where 'he' eats..... Instead of saying 'table twelve' as I would he, being French takes the question about food very seriously, besides the more he talks the more data he acquires, perhaps he can imagine the machine set at '9' with his younger, more nimble brain?

He proceeds to tell her about the f-a-b-u-l-a-r-s-e place, just opened, all the locals go there, near the police station in Margot.

We walk and go deep into the hood here might I say, almost everyone is out side of their tiny un A/c'ed homes, chatting across the street with their fellow man, a local dialect is used, kind of French but with African syntax, this gives it a see sawing between the rough and the soft languages. A bit like vomiting poetry. Altogether it's bit of an alien universe, I find myself with a half smile as if I understand the jokes, I wipe it off as it feels condescending. Sarah takes my hand, the street narrows

Easy one would think, can't be many cop shops over here... Now Val is the only one who speaks French, she's had her share of brain cells abandoning the main camp and striking out for pastures new, (don't they get a shock some were near the colon entrance...!)

Turning that most lovely of languages into what perhaps a gay Geordie might say whilst looking for a Police station (to throw a brick at), she confronts what looks like a mother and daughter.

Words are exchanged and the main one they pick out is Police station, This causes them to erupt in masses of data exchange, I can imagine the content... if we takes 'em mad Jacque the gay axe man will give us big reward and horribly kill them all and rape the tall good looking guy, I bend my knees instinctively and pass my title to the American bloke.

After a couple of screams the old lady launches off down the street beckoning us to mad Jacks.... In desperation I say to the girl... 'le manger', apart from 'you want how much for your sister?' it is the only French I know. She calls her mum who is waving her arm around, is she beckoning or is she just imagining wearing my watch, glinting in the remaining street lamp?

The young lady grasps that we need food.... Not Mad Jacks all thoughts of the police station gone she exchanges place with mum, who decides to abandon us to her daughter, with one last glance at my watch she's gone....

The daughter now sets off, I take the second lead as a good captain should, first into danger, mad Jack look pout (typo or the hand of god?) Besides she has a great bum.

It becomes evident she is taking us back to the dinghies, there are a million point five restaurants there set up around the marina selling traditional French fare like burgers on spaghetti. She stops at the epicenter of this tourist abomination and says 'voila', her slender hand gracefully sweeps the vista of fake 'down island ness'. We all smile our gratitude Val steps forwards muttering something about biscuits on Mars por favoir.... She is put in a hammerlock and dragged back by the American, strangely enough she isn't struggling. I have carefully taken out five bucks and taking the lady by her hand I press it into her reluctant palm, along with my e-mail address and a copy of a fake passport that states I'm 26...... The five bucks these days wouldn't pay for the sweat it takes to clench her fist in the act of receiving them, they are all we have though, what else can we do, maybe she can throw them at mad Jacque and flee, I might get an em ail from him one day....

So we tried a different tack.... We asked in places where they spoke French and English... it is a delight, a lady elegantly attired in her late forties explained how to get there. Lots of arm movements, like a little dance, and the sounds out of her mouth, I could have stayed all night, fortunately Val had brought her tire levers (either that or Sarah had found some) and she prized me away.... She might have well been telling her cat how the culling cooking and canning process brings food to its bowl, I retained a similar amount of information that the cat would.

Val set off, I knew that walk, someone had pissed her off, I looked side ways at our American host.... Guilty as sin.... Nothing to do with me ogling French ladies then. Phew....

Now the houses started to look familiar, then I saw the young lady, I could distinctly hear her telling her mum about mad Jacque and the five bucks... we crept past studiously looking away from her door, trouble is that put you looking into another door across the 10 foot street, for a moment we looked like a gang of those animals seen on the back windows of cars, heads bouncing around looking for a safe staring spot. 'A petrol station' I exclaimed, news to no one but it made me feel more in control, It had been the one thing I had discerned from the gesticulations and mewings of the shop lady.... Then, there it was.... Nu veux place of nosh.....

The meal was fantastic, the decal true to its French origins, the menu as French as Frog legs.....

We filled our gullets for about 14 days worth of shopping and departed, the nameless ones are great company and we joked as we wandered the dark sinister streets, me telling of; ol' 'Brownie almost got mugged near here, until an old lady stuck her head out of the window and told the mugger off...! Luis (Val's awake) told his tale of a friend's wife shot in Costa Rica....

The five of us back to back to back to back to back, like a Roman turtle formation we half ran into the tourist area...

The good nights said we parted and set off in our respective dinghies.

Cut to the bedroom, I had nailed the sheet down with the customary 4-point nailing scheme, with a couple of beers and a Beef Bourguignon it promised to be a windy night. With a double pegged nose Val nasally said "Noit Noit dear...."

I awoke at 3.30 with a feeling of immense pressure in my abdomen, as if in preparation for some key hole surgery my distended midsection was as taut as a drum.

I kneeled and kneaded the offending area, I laid in more positions than Karma Sutra, I considered praying. 'Dear god please make me fart' seemed inappropriate after all these years without a word...

This went on for some time, kneed, twist kneed, sit up lie down, a definite blockage, then a burp! Luxury! Special equipment would have been able to measure the ounces per square yard of pressure removed form my drum skin, to me it was a huge weight, still some way to go, but with promise.

Half an hour and some 6 burps later it was obvious the burps were losing to the little bacteria farts now accumulating deep inside.

Ten minutes later saw me on the toilet.... Tears of hope in my eyes.

All at once the pressure found release.

Sarah and Val went 'fetal' curled up like the victims of the blast in pyroclastic Pompeii. Sarah seemed convinced a mythical Kraken had roared prior to swallowing the boat, in a distant part of the anchorage a German guy screamed 'Donder and Blitzen, mine bulkheaden!!!'.

His wife later regaling the story at the therapy center set up on the docks explaining her husband was dreaming of his days on in the submarines, he thought he'd been hit and the bulkheads were collapsing...

The toilet bowl cracked and I stood, shaky but victorious..... my tummy once again the svelte slim six pack it always has been....

I went to bed but thoughts kept coming about the night and the fight with the gas, when I thought of the German guy having nightmares I couldn't stop laughing andI decided to write some of it down. And there is was...

***Liberties have been taken with Louis and Janet in the holy name of humour presenting them as more of a characterization of the generally depicted USA resident, they are in fact self effacing polite funny and quiet charming people.

(I'll keep this on the one I send to them!)