We have found the root cause of all our grief over the last 48 hours – a very clogged diesel intake pipe. Again most of the day was taken up with recovering from the sleepless two days of sailing from Emerald Bay Marina in The Exumas to Turks and Caicos, and cleaning up the mess caused by our bodge jobs on the diesel tank. We hope that now that the primary filter on the end of the diesel pipe is clean, that we will have no more troubles.
Once we were finally finished sorting out the mess, we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. It turned out to be a most…um…educational experience.
The restaurant is called Shark Bite. Larger than life shark-shaped decals and inflatable toys adorn the walls inside. I feel almost nervous as I step on an unavoidably large, open shark mouth painted with bright white teeth and gaudy pink gums on the varnished wooden floor of the bar area closest to the front entrance.
To our right as we enter the bar area is a dark corner with a door hiding in the shadows. Purple, green, and red neon light seeps out, reflecting in long shards across the shiny bar floor. A skinny man with dark skin and scraggy dredlocks scurries out, momentarily cutting off the neon reflection. He throws a sideways glance towards the bar as he brushes past us out of the main entrance. Must be the room for the slot machines.
We head straight on past the bar and the inflatable sharks to the wooden deck area out back. The deck is supported by wooden pylons out into the marina. Kids are leaning over the railing throwing fries to the small fish below, the fish sloshing about the surface to compete for the free feed. A skinny pale-skinned redhead boy chucks a handful of salad over. He wipes under his nose with a greasy finger and pulls at his loose shorts absently as he watches the fishs’ disinterest in the salad with intrigue. No doubt making note that fish do indeed prefer fries to salad.
We take our seats at a table next to the railing, far enough from the kids as to not be accidentally covered with flying fish-food.
We are greeted heartily by a middle-aged guy with a chest the size of a whiskey barrel. It appears that he must have drunk half a barrel of the said whiskey. His companions, a vivacious woman equally top heavy, and a balding man with a number one crew cut and large eyes and large gut, echo the greeting. It appears that they must have polished off the other half of the said whiskey. They are British. Steve and Ellie are British. The trio are from east London. Steve and Ellie are from east London. I deduce that this is going to get very loud, very quickly.
Wiskey Barrel tells stories of his various run ins with the law in England, and how he is now glad to be living in Switzerland – the only land that is truely free. As the night wears on it becomes clear that this is not your average family on a holiday. Welcome to the world of the ultra-rich.
Whiskey Barrel mentions in passing his buying a resort in the Bahamas for US$1.5 million, and selling it soon after for US$11 million. His wife, the top heavy blonde sex goddess (“Never get on a boat alone with this woman for three weeks. I did and was reduced to a ragged dog” he spouts) was owner of a prominent UK business. She expounds the merits of botox, willingly giving away the secrets of her 30 year-old-looking 50 year old body. All the while Whiskey Barrel’s hands and eyes devour her at any opportune moment – of which there are seemingly all too many. “See that?” he asks me, pointing at the clear definition of her hamstring muscles at the outside of her upper thigh. “Perfect!” He exudes, eyes rivited on her leg.
“Um. Yeah. Nice.” I stutter. I can’t say that I have been that particular about the outside of a woman’s upper thigh before.
Crew Cut is Wiskey Barrel’s brother. He is employed by Whiskey Barrel. In a moment of opportunity while his brother is at the loo, Crew Cut admits that his brother is out of his league. But he is enjoying the lifestyle along side his brother, beaming with pride as he mentions his 19 year old girlfriend (he looks at least 40).
I sit mostly mute for the four hours spent at the restaurant. Much of the conversation is about the state of England ( !@#$% ‘in health and safety, !@#$% coppers, !@#$% government). The language used is colourful, certain colours being used rather repeitivley and with very generous, loud brush strokes.
The other guests on the deck eat quickly and leave after sensing that their unapproving looks will not deter the Brits from their heated dialogues.
Most of our drinks have been shouted by the trio, and the final bill for them is at least four times what we paid for our meal. Steve and Ellie enjoyed the evening, reveling in like-minded east Londoners. I finished the night a little overwhelmed. Educated, you might say, on the drinking and social ways of the east Londoner.