In the evening, Oliver collected table scraps to chum the waters. Grunts, snappers, and remora seemed to hit any type of bait-bacon to bread. The water is so clear, of course, that aiming the beam of a small flashlight at the bait suspended six feet down catches the iridescent and darting shapes of fish making passes. All hooked fish were admired, photographed, recorded in our unofficial log and released.
Slowly, the three of us were sinking into tropical indolence. We had no computers to wake and rise to, no email, no telephone ringing. Anxiety over unfinished and awaiting tasks began to fade. Each day we sailed, ate, and snorkeled, sailed, ate and snorkeled....

The chef's culinary cleverness was a highlight of each day-perhaps grilled sea bass or shrimp pasta, asparagus, pumpkin and coconut soup, Mediterranean salad, fruit, fresh baked brownies, bananas flambé. Most evenings we dined in the cockpit, illuminated first by an inverted basket lamp hung from the bimini frames, later by the swelling moon. As the days passed, the profile of my stomach was waxing at the same rate as the moon, and by the end of the week, both were in the same state of fullness. Oliver said," There are three things that happen on de boat: You will be hungry all de time. You will be tired all de time. And you will be sleepy all de time.. That's what de salt air do" It was true. At home, Andra and I normally sleep six to seven hours.

Snorkeling off Treasure Point at Norman Island

Our first night on La Creole, we logged nine, which we attributed to the stress of the trip. But each succeeding night we fell asleep earlier and arose later, until it seemed we snoozed half of each day. The less we did, the less we did. Spoiled, somnolent, satiated, we were the childlike Eloi of H.G Wells' The Time Machine (starring Rod Taylor as the Time Traveler in the movie version), clothed and fed for consumption by the underground Morlocks. Perhaps my perspective was a little skewed, but as Morlocks was the way I now viewed practically everyone back home in the, you know, rat race.

Oliver proved to be a most amiable captain and companion, especially to Steve, who regarded his elder as if he were an oracle of the deep, the very voice of Poseidon. If Oliver said there were no manta rays in such a and such a bay, then there were none. If he said the fish wouldn't bite before dark, they wouldn't.
Oliver was happy to make conversation whenever we desired or when we fell silent, simply to drift off to some other part of the boat. [Read on..]

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