It was fantastic, thanks for asking. What's that? You didn't ask? You'd rather pluck out your eyeballs with a rusty fork than hear about my 10 days of sailing in the Caribbean? Sure, I understand, no, that's fine. Yeah, I'm sure you need to get back to that TPS report and the rest of the work on your desk. I'll just... nevermind.
For those of you reading from California, Hawaii, or other locations not enshrouded in the dank, grey winter, please read on. Otherwise, proceed at your own risk. I cannot be held responsible for fits of envy or attempts to claw off one's own pallid skin.
Anyway. We connected with Sway, the 70-foot yacht, in Antigua, three days after Christmas. We swam, sunned, and snorkeled while waiting for a few pieces of misdirected luggage to catch up to us. Then we did our first bit of sailing (and I did my first--and, let's face it, second--bit of barfing) in the Caribbean Sea, heading south toward Guadalupe. Turns out that Guadalupe closes up shop days in advance of New Years. Only the drug dealers, stray dogs, and uninformed tourists roamed the streets. We poked around, searched in vain for lobster, devoured a few French pastry, and eventually set sail for Iles des Saintes, a tiny cluster of islands off Gaudaloupe's southern coast.
We arrived after dark on New Year's Eve, not knowing what to expect from a place that looked no bigger than a speck on the map. But the harbor was filled with boats, a sign we'd picked a good spot. The lights on the top of the masts were swooping back and forth with the waves, a sign that the night would be rockin. And how. The swells never let up, and neither did the band that got started after midnight. Maybe it wasn't the best night of sleep--between the nauseating swells and the band that wouldn't quit--but damn, it was good.