A wetback in Martinique

The sail to Martinique is more exciting than I thought, though we are reefed. They say the big rollng waves come all the way from Africa.

Vern will not let me touch the boat. Not a line, not a winch, not a thing. I find out later that Vern has let others help him sail. Linda thinks it is because I am female, with no other male crew on the boat. I think it is because I'm female and A CON ARTIST.

I offered to hold the sail tie-downs. Just as you would expect from a Mr. Crankypants, he rasped, "Don't touch anything."

I also find out that he was an engineering professor and probably has Aspergers, which is hard to tell from an old guy who only bark orders in a whispy yet stern monotone.

Don't make me tell you about how I scuttle out of the cockpit right after we eat, when Vern massages Linda's feet in his... lap... and groans. Don't make me tell you.

Anyway, we finally get to Martinique. Anchoring. Anchoring involves us motoring for 20 minutes around and around the anchorage with the two of them SHOUTING THE ENTIRE TIME!!! He is a FUCKING IDIOT RETARD! Doesn't SHE HAVE EARS! WHERE IS HER BRAIN! VERN THERE'S A SWIMMER IN FRONT OF US! LINDA I SAID TO GO RIGHT! VERN THERE'S A SWIMMER IN THE WAY! GO RIGHT! GO RIGHT! BACK UP BACK UP DO YOU NOT SEE THE SWIMMER!?

People who have been lazily reading or sunning on deck sit up and gape. Every single boat in the anchorage sees these J Friends who are not jolly and not friends.

Anchoring takes four or five tries, always. We're slipping. We're too close. The bottom's not right. There's a better spot over there. We raise anchor. We start from scratch.

Martinique looks so... French. Shabby Chic French. The boats around us are all French.

Vern flies the Martinique flag and the yellow flag. Yellow: No one can visit us, and we can visit no one. We cannot leave the boat. We are not checked into the country. We are quarantined.

But Linda and I simply jump in the water and swim to shore.

Silly, silly rules.

I'm a wetback in Martinique!

We look awful. We are in ratty wet sandy clothes among all the chic French tourists. We yearn for a drink or a snack. All businesses are closed between 2 pm and 6 pm -- some until 10 pm. The American and the Canadian; what a joke we are.

If we're caught... will it still be a joke?

Women sell peanuts rolled up in paper cones, but I can't figure out a way to get them back to the boat.