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Anegada has the sole distinction of being the only island in the BVI’s with no mountain. It’s a flat little spit of sand and palm trees surrounded by the world’s second biggest reef. Who knew?

Not to mention it’s the loneliest and most forlorn place I’ve ever seen.

We awoke in The Bitter End to pretty much the same weather we’d had the day before so I got my hopes up briefly that we’d head downwind and, you know, have fun?

Everyone, including Captain Mo was thinking we’d head south. But The Queen Princess Cruise Director had other ideas and, of course, THE SCHEDULE clasped firmly to her bosom. We were fucked.

She called the charter company and got the go-ahead to sail to Anegada. We’re goin’ to Anegada she hissed through her cigarette smoke, cold blue eyes narrowed to slits.

Hennifer chirped that Anegada was supposed to be really pretty.

Captain Ron announced that his cold was probably viral.

Captain Mo mumbled and messed with the GPS.

And I thought, oh goody. Another day of bashing into heavy seas. I felt beat down as I unhooked us and we headed out, keeping time with destiny. Vacation is FUN I told myself over and over again.

Captain Mo had spent hours that morning and the previous evening trying to program the channel marker coordinates for Anegada into his GPS, all the while self-deprecatingly telling us that he hadn’t used it in years and had forgotten the manual and honestly wasn’t sure if he could make it work. I prayed that the earth was round and we wouldn’t sail off the edge following Captain Mo’s coordinates for Mars.

Normally, navigation in the BVI’s is pretty straight forward- you just aim the pointy end of your boat at the next big island you want to visit. Anegada is different- since it’s over the horizon and can’t be seen, it requires either GPS or traditional navigation skills. We lacked both so I opened another beer and thought happy thoughts about how if we got lost at sea I wouldn’t have to fly on any more commercial flights.

But ya know what?

It wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was fun. The seas and wind weren’t as rough as the day before and our heading was more northerly and we were able to sail so the wind pressure pushed the boat down in the water minimizing the bouncy.

And the GPS? Go figure. Somehow, some kinda way, the planets aligned and the angels smiled on Captain Mo. Strangely enough, between the Painkillers and Bloody Marys and beers,  he managed to clumsily push enough buttons on his GPS that someway it put us right on the marker leading us through the channel and into Anegada.

Gotta love him.

So there we were, at the end of the world. Hennifer, Miss Carol and me, and The Queen Princess Cruise Director dinghied ashore to see what was what. Captain Mo wanted to play with his GPS some more and Captain Ron’s cold was becoming alarmingly fatal.

We walked through the one “restaurant” advertising $50 lobster on the specials board, went out onto the broken down little street littered with unfinished construction stuff and rusty abandoned vehicles, boats on cinder blocks, the obligatory barking dog.

We crossed the street and went into something posing as a “market” and that’s where Miss Carol lost her mind. Without a single word to The Queen Princess Cruise Director she’d decided she was making dinner on the boat that night with whatever she could find in the “market”.

Oh boy.

The “market” was a sad little sullen cluster of tired canned goods and warm beer sitting on broken pallets carefully watched over by the sad little sullen owner. Miss Carol and me walked back and forth wondering and trying to think of a way to make a meal for six out of Spam and canned beans and maybe rice?

We were still wandering when The Queen Princess Cruise Director strode in wondering what the hell we were doing. Miss Carol told her and the sky darkened. She looked around briefly, sneered, and stomped out.

What the hell were we thinking?

Miss Carol found some frozen pork chops in the sullen freezer at the back of the “market”. Get this- they were only 10 bucks. Normally that much freezer burnt meat would’a cost  two or three times that. We snagged ’em. There was Ragu sauce and noodles on the sullen shelves and some warm Red Stripe beer on the sullen floor. Dinner, baby.

We collected Hennifer and The Queen Princess Cruise Director and headed back to the boat. And everything seemed fine, but the damage was done and we’d crossed the line.

How dare we?

But hey? the sauteed pork and noodles with red sauce were excellent and the Red Stripe didn’t suck either.

No. no. not that bitter end.

Not the bitter end of our journey. Not the bitter end of our friendship, not the bitter end where we all throw down and punch each other ’till our hands hurt.

Not that bitter end.

I’m talkin’ about the Bitter End that’s the place where most of the boats have to turn around and head south or west ’cause most of the charter companies don’t allow un-captained boats to sail to Anegada. It’s off limits to most.

But not to us.

Captains MoRon had made the trip once before so we had been given the green light- weather permitting. That morning when we left Cooper Island we were told by the folks at Bare Kat Charters to get to where we were going by late morning and hunker down because there was a fast moving front headed our way and we could expect 6-8 foot seas and 30 knot winds from the NE, building as the day progressed.

So what did we do? Did we leave Cooper Island and take a comfortable, downwind sail southwest to the mountainous green islands and gin clear turquoise waters that looked pretty much like the mountainous green islands and gin clear turquoise waters to the north? Nope. No indeedy. We headed NE because we had to get to The Bitter End so that we could be sure to get to Anegada the following day.

Did I mention there was A SCHEDULE? I think I did.

Anyway, we spent the day slowly motoring, slamming into the big seas and steadily strengthening wind. Both Captain Ron and Hennifer had to take suppositories, she because she was getting seasick and he because we convinced him it would cure his cold and stop his whining.

By afternoon as we were closing with the channel into The Bitter End a squall hit us with 40 knot winds, thunder and lightning, and sheets of blinding horizontal rain. Captains MoRon and me stood out in the cockpit getting drenched in the howling wind and rain trying to pick out the day markers. Fortunately, God was a male that day and understood the importance of unrelenting SCHEDULES governing happy little vacations and the squall lightened up just enough to spot the channel before we ran aground on the reef and wrecked the boat and died a watery death wondering why vacations have to be this hard.

We got in, picked up a mooring ball and cracked a beer right before the REAL storms hit. We all decided, or at least some of us did, that if the weather didn’t improve we would bypass Anegada and head southwest to some other mountainous green island with gin clear turquoise water.

I should have noticed that the Queen Princess Cruise Director wasn’t saying anything, that she was just sitting and smoking.

But I didn’t.

Norman Island and Cooper Island.

Don’t get tired of the lush green mountains and the deep blue sea. You’re gonna be seein’ a LOT of them. Trust me.

So anyway.

The Queen Princess and the Captains MoRon and Hennifer picked us up at the marina at Nanny Cay. Miss Carol and me had been sipping cocktails and watching the men’s final at Wimbledon and honestly? hoping that maybe they’d go snorkeling or something and pick us up later on.

But it was cool.

As soon as they pulled in the Cruise Director was yellin’ sayin’ that they’d only been able to provision one case of beer because Bobby had been shot. This was going to be an ongoing oft repeated story. Bobby is the owner of the local market and seemingly the provider or owner of every single market in the BVI’s. Every time we pulled into somewhere and the market was either closed or unstocked The Queen Princess reminded us that Bobby had been shot five times but he wasn’t dead and the islands were still reeling from the impact.

Whatever.

Captain Ron snuffled and told us he was sick and that it sucked to have a cold on vacation.

Captain Mo stared dreamily at a horizon only he was seeing.

So while Miss Carol and the Cruise Director and Hennifer went and bought more beer and stuff from the Bobby’s at Nanny Cay which was surprisingly unaffected by Bobby’s bullets we sat and drank looking out over the world that was gonna be our world for the next week or so. Sitting on a boat in a marina is nice.

We loaded up and motored over to Norman’s Island and snorkeled for awhile and then went to Cooper’s Island and grabbed a mooring ball and settled in for the night.

We went ashore for dinner at Cooper Island’s restaurant. (A quick aside- every little island in the BVI’s seems to have one little restaurant catering to  and waiting for the boating crowd ’cause there’s no other way for anybody to get there and I wonder what they do in the off season?)

Anyway.

The food was really good, but what sticks in my mind is this- I ordered a beer and a shot. She brought me a huge, like 24oz, Red Stripe and a martini glass full of whiskey.

I don’t remember much else.

Wait! Except that there was this older, obviously very wealthy, woman dining with a very young man at a table near ours. We were all betting on whether he was her son or her boy-toy.

After a couple of drinks the soul kissing and fondling started and we knew-

Boy-Toy.

I’m guessin’ its fun to be rich.

Okay.

I’m feeling much more better, much more like myself and much less cadaverous so I gotta crank this up. In the immortal words of Captain Ron “Let’s light the fires and kick the tires”

First some back story on the crew of our happy little boat:

THE SCHEDULE- this is an inviolate foregone conclusion guaranteeing the relentless pursuit of the sameness that is the cornerstone, the bedrock of the good vacation. Don’t fuck with it.

Queen Princess Cruise Director– she is the wife of Captain Mo and she makes all decisions regarding everything about our vacation. Her vacation vision is all-knowing, all-encompassing, unforgivable. To cross her is to incur sizzling wrath. We kinda knew this going in, but the sheer scope of her reign isn’t realized until we are aboard and far out to sea. The SCHEDULE is her personal bible. Did I mention don’t fuck with it? I think I did.

Captain Mo– husband of the Queen, he’s the most laid back, self-deprecating person I’ve ever met. The problem is that his self-deprecation doesn’t stop him from taking the helm.

Captain Ron– best friend of Captain Mo (together they’re referred to as Captains MoRon- not my nickname for them). Captain Ron this time around is kinda whiny and sickly. He’s old- empathize, okay?

Hennifer– one time girlfriend of Captain Ron, this is her first trip to the BVI’s. She is chirpy and sweet and just wants everybody to get along and have fun- a noble task.

Miss Carol and Me– as galley and deck niggers, we’re relegated to cooking when told to and pulling whatever lines need to be pulled. It’s Ok and expected. Honest.

DAY ONE.

Miss Carol and me fly into Tortola. On the way to the hotel our taxi driver takes us to a market for beer and vodka and proudly points out its newness. In typical island fashion it’s incomplete- rusty rebar shooting out every whichaway, optimistically heralding completeness that probably won’t ever happen.

The rest of the crew has picked up the boat and sailed to Willy T’s where they’ll party. Miss Carol and me check into a hotel in Nanny Cay for the night and get nekkid and have a blast.

Vacations could, and can be, fun.

At least at first.

Against all the odds, the playful travel gods, and my own personal predilection for vacation disaster we somehow, some kinda way, made it home late last night.

During the innumerable flights home yesterday I had high hopes of writing about our adventures. Hell, I even made some notes. But sadly, that ain’t gonna happen. It’s gonna have to wait a coupla days.

I’m strung out.

The countless beers I drank are sitting in my bloated belly waiting patiently to be churned out by my overworked kidneys, my liver feels like a wet towel, and my last sober brain cell is flickering and glowing uncertainly.

I haven’t shaved or showered in eight days so I’m prickly like Brett Favre, itchy from the saltwater, and smell like a three dollar hooker on dollar night.

I’m totally wiped.

But ya know what?- it’s sooooo nice to be home.

So.

That’s it- time has spooled out faster than I could grab it and hold onto it and now I gotta go.

Whether I want to or not, vacation is upon me.

Bright blue sky and wildly gin clear sea have converged and are pulling at me, tugging relentlessly and mercilessly so I’m headin’ off to become some kinda lame  Pirate of the BVI’s.

But, and yet.

i know in the deepest core of me that soon, too soon, I’ll be the drunk guy hangin’ out, bein’ the turd tourist.

I know it. I know where I’m goin’ and I wish it was different, but it’s not.

So as I strap myself in, I gotta wonder why I EVER go on vacation. I mean, I love my little life, I love our little home, and I love our little beach. So why go? Why ever leave?

Oh, wait.

I remember.

It’s ’cause Miss Carol makes me.

Later.

It’s gotta suck to be Stieg Larsson.

Here you do all the work writing a crime thriller trilogy. You put in all the long hours draining your creativity, writing your fingers to the bone. You somehow find an agent who believes in you and gets your book sold to a publisher, you go through re-write after re-write honing what you’ve wrought to a fine edge, you go through all the rigamarole necessary to get a book published (which I know nothing about, but, I assume it’s a pain in the ass), and a few weeks before your first book is published you drop dead.

Shit.

I feel for him. I do.

Anyway.

The Girl Who Played With Fire is Steig’s second book in the Lisbeth Salander series and it’s great fun. Lisbeth Salander is more heroine and more dark recluse and more morally right in everything she does in this book.

It’s way cool until the very end.

Without giving anything away, there’s a six or ten page scene right at the end of the book that could’a, should’a just been tossed. The story wouldn’t have suffered and Mr. Credibility could’ve lived to fight for another day.

Whatever dude.

It’s fun and it’s fast and I can’t wait for The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest.

Just sucks to be Stieg.

So, get this- the ever lingeringly, tantalizingly, just out of reachingly song that I’ve been scraping my mind about and making myself psycho about for the last week bobbed back to the surface on Saturday, grinning up at me.

Only this time I recognized it and having recognized it, shuddered.

Sadly and amazingly, the song that’s been tormenting me for the last week or so, the tune thats played it’s self out over and over again in my mind with maddeningly almost clarity is/was- get this- Missundaztood by Pink.

I kid you not.

When I heard it I was, like, whoops.

How’d that happen? Here I’d thought I’m, like, Mr. Really Cool Rock Guy- I don’t listen to that shit.

I found it while scrolling through my iPod. I’d like to say I heard on a radio station or in a bar or blaring from the speakers of a daytripper’s car cruising by, but I can’t. It was on one of my playlists.

Dammit.

So. I ran upstairs and put on my panties and squealed like a little girl, and then I listened to it and it wasn’t nearly as good as my fragmented memory and I kept cutting it with REAL rock-and-roll so’s not to become a total pussy.

But, yeah. Missundaztood. Pink.

Jesus.

What’s happening to me?

She is cute, though.

Okay, let me try this again.

I realize now that I sounded pretty whiney in my last post about going on vacation and that maybe I hadn’t made myself and my thoughts clear.

If I see one more Waaah e-mail I’m gonna do what Dooce does, or used to do, and print it out and run it over with MR.GREENE.

I mean it.

Deep breath.

Ok. I’m lucky. I’ll be the first to admit it. Miss Carol and me aren’t rich, but we’re not poor either. We work hard and try and save and sometimes we can afford a vacation.

This is one of those years. We haven’t done a trip like this in seven years. We’ve been making payments for the last eight months leading up to vacation time. It’s not taken lightly.

But.

Unfortunately for Miss Carol, who loves travel, I’m really happy in our little life here at home. Sure, I bitch and moan about stuff, but overall?, I’m lucky to be living the life I live and I know it and I don’t mind just stayin’ put. I’m perfectly happy to watch Anthony Bourdain visit places I’ll never visit and eat foods I’ll never eat.

Hey. Living vicariously ain’t  but so bad.

And as vacation looms over me, it’s dark wings gently enveloping, I can’t help but already yearn for the things I’ll miss while we’re gone- ya know- like the twice daily walks with Cutter and Tug yanking me every which-a-way, and the endless work in the endlessly stifling heat, and maybe even, the Tourons.

So, ok, maybe I’m a retard.

But I’m a really happy and happy-to-stay-at-home retard and really, that was the only point I was trying to make.

OK?

Don’t make me run over your e-mail, bitches.

Miss Carol’s talked me into another vacation.

We’re gonna be going to the BVI’s and bareboat charter a big ‘ole catamaran and sail around and tan and drink and try not to be touron turds.

I’m sure it’ll be fun. I’m pretty sure I need a vacation. I’m sure it’s gonna be lots of stuff.

But.

I’m also sure I don’t want to go.

There. I said it.

I don’t want to go. It’s not the trip. It’s not the friends we’re goin’ with. It’s not like I won’t love the sun and the bikini’s.

It’s me.

I hate leaving.

I’m convinced each time we fly out that this time will be the last. That there ain’t no way I’m coming back. That the dog’sll just sit and wait, staring out the window and endlessly wonder where we went and why we didn’t come back.

So.

In the lead up, not that it helps, while I walk ’em I talk to ’em and tell ’em we’ll be back, that it’s just a week and don’t worry and then I’ll kiss Cutter and Tug goodbye and gaze up at our house wistfully and wonder why I have to leave.

And then I’ll head out.