Jet blast

We have a broken boom. A fitting failed where the vang attaches. So we had to take the boom off and go about repairs, and that meant moving from Marigot, on the French side, to Simpson Bay, on the Dutch side. Although it's 1.6nm between the two by way of the lagoon, we had to clear out of France before we could clear into Holland.
Course France was closed when we wanted to go, so we had to enter Holland illegally, keeping a low profile of course. Yesterday I dinghy'd back to France, cleared us out, and we then we entered formerly (a day late, but with a nice passport stamp) into the Netherlands Antilles. They didn't notice the discrepancy between the days (and the swing bridge who recorded our entrance)...but with so many forms and so much carbon copy paper -- true! the orignal CC! -- I'm hardly surprised.

It's meant we've been in St Martin perhaps a little longer than expected. Still, it's a lovely place. Each day it seems to rain for a few minutes (keeps the decks clean) and it's always hot and sunny. The water is pristine: we set the anchor by watching it fall to the white, sandy seafloor. You can see it lying on the bottom - is it set properly? Just have a look.

St Martin is also a free port. This means there is no duty. So a bottle of gin sets you back about US$8. Our water tanks hold 100 gallons. I also think we can run the engine on gin. I know Greg can run on vodka.

I still haven't told you about the giant dorado we caught.

In addition to doing boat maintenance, we also went to Sunset Beach. SB is at the end of the runway for Princess Juliana Airport. When I say it's at the end of the runway, I mean it's AT THE END OF THE RUNWAY. For starters (we're new at this) we stood on the beach and tried to stare down the little commuter planes; they come roaring in just over your head, and it really feels like you could swat them out of the air, or them you. Now you all know I am a tough guy, but I lost my nerve and had to duck a little bit (a very little bit if anybody asks).

K, so then we stepped it up a bit. You see, the two highlights of the day occur, first, at 1407 and then at 1700. The first is the arrival of the big fella: Air France's four engined A340. I thought it was pretty exciting standing on the beach as this bad-boy screams in over your head, and makes you smell like kerosene in its jet wash. But that's nothing. At 1700 it taxis out and lines up on the runway for its trip back to CDG. The pilots wave as they turn the corner. The thing is right in front of you, and you can feel the warmth of its engines blowing back at you. It's close. A reasonable underarm lob and you could hit it with a tennis ball.

Intelligently, at this moment you walk up to the fence at the very end of the runway, look the heat haze coming out of the engines in the eye, and hold on for dear life as the pilots in the cockpit push those four little levers forward. Thank heavens they have no rear vision mirrors on Air France, because that little wrist action pushes out a searing hot blast of 500 knot breeze; small stones tear at your skin, your hair - moments ago wet, is suddenly dry and coiffed a-la kerosene, your clothes whip and crackle, your cheeks vibrate, and you are really wondering if your legs are going to get whipped out from under you. And then, after just a moment, it's over, and the plane climbs up and over the peaks of St Martin, plumes of full-throttle smoke trailing from its engines. You smile nervously at each other and say, man, that was fun, and on weak legs swagger back to the beach as if you weren't indelibly altered forever by the experience. And what I love about it most is that it's simply so stupid. I mean, who really wants to stand in the jet blast of an A340? I kept thinking that this is the kind of thing that gives you an entry in one of those 'Darwin Award' emails. I certainly wouldn't have done it if Greg hadn't called me a name that would normally be associated with a small kitten.

In fact, I didn't do it at all the first time (don't tell anyone), but Greg did. And after that and more kitten calls I had a good go. An AA 757, couple of seven-sixes, laughed at a turbo-prop wash, big-pimped at a Gulfstream 3 and the new series 737, the ones with the super strong engines. After a while we were telling newcomers to take their sunglasses off if they wanted to keep them. But once a week there is a 747 that comes to town. Now that, dear friends, would be something. Expect an email showing raggedy-ann dolls (subject line: 2007 Darwin Awards), or at least a photo of Greg and I with our eyebrows seared off.

Richard took some great photos and encouraged our stupidity.