No after-dinner drinks, no casino, no disco tonight. Just some Dramamine, this entry and the shroud of sleep.
G.M.'S LOG, WEDNESDAY, DEC. 5, 1990.
WINDS MOVING OUT OF THE WEST.
SO I TRIED TO PUT A LITTLE FADE INTO THE SIX-IRON....
As we were walking back along the docks of Bridgetown to the Club Med 1 late this afternoon, we passed the Song of Norway, a gargantuan passenger ship, as it backed out of its slip. Over its loudspeakers came this announcement: "We are now leaving Barbados and entering...the Bingo Zone. Remember, the more cards you buy, the better your chances of winning." At that moment, we knew we were on the right boat.
Thanks to my bout with mal de mer, I had gotten a good night's sleep. At breakfast I found out I had slept through: 1) a great disco show in which the G.O.'s imitated rock stars (awww) and 2) a sea so rough that a giant wave washed over the bow (awww).
We felt a little silly, Olivier, Steve and I, carrying golf bags (provided by Club Med) off the ship, but we also noticed a few jealous stares. We took a cab to a nice little nine-hole course at the Rockley Resort and proceeded to bring the surrounding chalets to their knees. Modesty forbids me to go into detail about my round. Well, since you insist, I did have consecutive birdies, and the guys started calling me Seve.
My wife, meanwhile, was taking one of four excursions offered by the Club Med 1 today: the Villa Nova tour. Since the trip included not only a visit to the Villa Nova estate but also a stop at St. John's Church, she wondered if the excursion had a Big East connection. In the afternoon we were reunited for a helicopter tour of Barbados. I especially liked the part where the pilot headed the chopper for a cliff, pulled up suddenly, dived down and flew along the shore so close to the waves that you could feel the spray. Mal d'air.
We decided to have dinner with the Brooklyn couple at a restaurant called Carambola, on the Caribbean side of Barbados. The restaurant was suspended over the water, with breakers occasionally at our feet, and the food was almost as spectacular as the view. We actually had to hurry back to make the ship's 10:30 p.m. curfew. We entered the Blackjack Zone for a while, but we spent most of the rest of the evening on an aft deck, sipping something or other with our friends from Brooklyn and Berlin, talking theology under the stars. It was a good day. Good night.
G.M.'S LOG, THURSDAY, DEC. 6, 1990.
CURRENTS: 220 VOLTS FOR EUROPEANS, 110 FOR AMERICANS,
DEPENDING ON WHICH OUTLET SWITCH YOU FLICK.
This truly was a day at the beach. We dropped anchor off Mayreau and claimed the island in the name of a picnic. In the morning I went snorkeling with Ron from San Bernardino, and we discovered a graveyard of conch shells. I can still hear them clinking like muted bells as the waves washed up and down.
Again it was too rough to water-ski, so I drowned my sorrows in volleyball. Funny, nobody called me Karch.