WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART SEVEN

DAY 10

Our host at Dennis's Hideaway, Dennis (!), is an interesting character. It's off season at the moment and as we are the only guests, apart from the occasional stray from the village, we have his undivided attention. Unfortunately. Denis means well. He's got a business to run and its a great place he has. An oasis of calm in a noisy Mayreau village, the nearest thing to Rosehall, Trish's mum's village, that we can experience before we actually get there the day after tomorrow.

But what of Dennis? He's born here but he went to sea at 13, a captain of a shrimper at 19, the youngest ever. He's a right Uncle Albert. He has countless stories of his seafaring days.

He's in his early fifties, short of stature with a round affable face. He has a wicked smile and an infectious laugh. his eyes glitter but are melancholic. For those of you have seen the odd Bond movie, he is always dressed in white. A white jacket and trousers of the kind worn by doctors in the USA and dentists in Sweden and........ Bond villains. The trend was started in Dr. No and from then on through a number of the films, with the addition of a white cat for good measure. Dennis is always to be seen around the property which is festooned with tropical vegetation. He appears from between the vegetation at regular intervals. I fully expect to see him with a silver automatic pistol in his hand. When we first arrived and needed a shower there was no hot water. There still isn't. Water is precious on Mayreau. Rainwater is caught in huge buts and pumped to taps and toilets. The water temperature is that of the outside air which on average has been about 36 degrees. I asked Denis what happened when anyone complained about this. He told me a story. One American tourist came to the bar as he was serving other guests.

    'Do you expect us to shower in this cold water?' The American asked interrupting. To which Dennis replied,
   ' No I expect you to use this kettle.'

Denis as I have mentioned is a one time sea captain. The tall tales abound. Interesting at first but on day two,  we three succumbed to the temptation to lay bets as to how soon after beginning a conversation with him he would mention his seafaring days. Double money if he also mentions his favourite English town...Newcastle where his heart was broken and has never recovered. No prompting allowed folks. It doesn't take long.....
   'When I was first on a shrimping boat I was just 13 (ching), I was a Captain by 19 (ching ching), I was a tug Captain after that (ching, ching, ching), then I Captained a luxury yacht around the Grenadines, Mick Jagger, David Bowie and Viscount Lindlay were my guests, I know them all.' (ching, ching, ching JACKPOT!) We are cruel I know. Denis is a decent bloke but only talks about himself, his life, his loves and his boken hearted love of Newcastle (ching).

Merlin has sent me snorkelling. The 'road' that runs past The Hideaway goes right, up to the church past Rastareggaecafé or left down to the beach. He wants a conch. He won't go himself. Our last snorkelling expedition saw us burn ourselves to buggery. You would think a couple of adults would be more than capable of avoiding this discomfort. But no. On arrival at Tobago Cays a few days ago, so eager were we to get into the sparkly turquoise sea that we omitted to apply ANY sun cream at all. An hour's snorkelling later and we are screaming in the shower. I have recovered quickly although dead skin is coming off my back like the plastic wrapping from a cucumber. Idiots for sure. Go to the top of the idiot class. So I am designated conch diver.

Trish has an aversion to sea water more desperate than that of Dracula to a crucifix in direct sunlight but she agrees to accompany me complete with sun brolly, MP3 player and book, happy for me to do my poor impression of Jaques Cousteau. Merlin stays home and limes. I find a conch pretty quickly but as usual the tropical water world is incredibly beguiling. I stay out for a bit more fun after depositing Merlin's conch on the shore.

We are the only ones here. We have the whole beach, some half a mile of it, to ourselves. Nevertheless I surface every now and then to make sure Trish is OK making sure that I'm OK. Suddenly I see her waving, beckoning me in. She is smiling all over her face. I consider ignoring her. She is clearly not in any danger, isn't suddenly ill and my trunks haven't fallen down. Wading ashore I see she is holding something in her hand. As I get closer I see its a small plastic bag tied at the top with a knot. Inside is something that looks like..............surely not......it looks like......Well Trish certainly isn't the kind of girl to score a wrap off a passing stranger, even if there were any. But this is what she is holding in her hand. I remember the story of  'The Duffies' Rob Jones told me. Duffle Bags stuffed with dope, washed up on the beach in front of his house when he worked on Cat Island in The Bahamas. He was told by his boss never to touch them for their owners would come looking for them and handing them in at Cat Island Cop Shop was not a sensible option. But this is hardly in the same league. What to do now? We discuss a plan.

We are back at The Hideaway. Merlin is on his way down to look at his conch. The conch that bears a strange gift inside.