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9:48 a.m. - 2004-04-21
Floppin' weanies and everything.
I want to go back to St. Martin and stay in a bungalow on Orient Beach. No, not to peek at the nudies you creaps! But to be able to float and play in that beautiful water, on that powder white sand for hours and hours without having to worry about sitting around in my wet bathing suit on an air conditioned bus for the ride home. There is nothing worse than a wet bathing suit, especially when you have to pee. I wear tankinis which cut down on the eew factor, but still.

St. Martin is the place to be when you want to relax and hang loose. Don't go there for excitement or tourist-mania. You won't do it justice. If that's what you're looking for, head to Nassau. St. Martin is more heaven on earth.

On our trip to Orient Beach, we had the most fantastic tour guide Teri. Teri is a British ex-pat doing the "Beach Rendezvous" tours to Orient Beach on French St. Martin. Did you know that calling from French to Dutch St. Martin is an international call, whereas calling to France is national? Also, the French side is devoid of cable TV. And the beaches are NEKID.

Yeah, your girls went to the NEKID beach. Boobies abobbin', willies awadin'. Or afloppin' if on land. Yeah, we were there. But we had the sense to cover our bobbers which had seen nary a ray all trip. Brown bodies with fire engine red boobies is a very bad thing, even if it makes you feel all cool and French to bare it all. Ladies, ladies, ladies!

Anyway, Teri gave us a great tour, loads of helpful shopping tips and hawker avoidance training. She really took care of us well. I hope she's happily toasting her bare ass today on Orient Beach.

St. Thomas is really the place in between, with enough activity to keep you stimulated, but enough raw beauty and nature to keep you soulful. OH, and there is the Dubloon. A big sailboat with a crew to remember. The girls were all a-twitter over the sea diving mate. He was a thing of beauty, a symbol of freedom, and a damn fine bar tender. He fed us so many "Banana Slammers" on the way back to the ship we had to practically crawl. Or at least I did.

Now, for those concerned, Batten and I had every intention of going to Easter Service on the boat. But in weighing the sins of going to church drunk off my ass, or skipping Easter Service all together, I chose abstinence. Then Father made me to play bingo as penance.

I lost. Go figure?

There was no man-wine consumed that night (go see Sixweasels for the man-wine account). And boy do we love man-wine. Makes me giddy as hell.

I'll wait to catch up to Six for the rest of the story, because she has a better memory than I. I think the rum did it.


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