sluts & suds

Three days ago, I ate a pain chocolat. It was a French pastry, and I know this because I ate it in France (my logic). This was the end of a two-week sailing journey that changed everything...I am finally no longer a virgin. In reality that is not true, but I do feel as though the world is a bigger place (or is it smaller?).

Several things happened on this journey de la Cote d'Azur. On a sailboat, you begin to commune with the water, just as a jellyfish might. The same jellyfish that stung my thigh. This happened as my friend Laura and I painstakingly scrubbed algae off the hull of our sailboat (Captain's Orders). I won't mention that these orders were the result of me taking a twenty-minute shower the night before, depleting the crew's water supply. Despite the jelly sting, Laura and I came up with a million dollar idea: Sluts & Suds boat cleaning service. We have registered all of our necessary corporate trademarks, so don't bother. This idea is based on the hot girl carwash model and really has no downside in any economy. S&S boat cleaning may be a tough job, but after surviving the monsoon, is clearly doable.

During a night sail, I was awakened at 3am to a large bang. The ship had clearly hit the bottom of the ocean. This was impossible and a pretty dumb notion overall (my brain is perpetually out to sea, as they say). Anyway, it was hitting big daddy waves. Enormous waves that collided with our vessel like some death bumper-car session where you're allowed to go 90 mph. I lay in my bed sliding back and forth as the room undulated and the teak walls moaned something that sounded slightly like, "Aw, Christ." I told myself to resume sleeping. This became comedically difficult as the bucket-sized amount of water splashed onto my bed from the open ceiling hatch. I ran into my friend's room, whimpering into her bosom about our impending watery graves. She told me to let the waves lull me to sleep and blissfully ignore the red blinking cabin lights and gentle "cyclonic conditions alert" on the sea radar grid.

After surviving the storm, we were crabby, sleepless, crab-bitches. After some sustenance (a stick of butter and some espresso), we continued on to St. Tropez where we observed curious creatures. Beached whales! Upon further inspection, we ascertained them to be large humans sunbathing nude. As everyone knows, this group is "never the one you want to see" unclothed (why do these men shave everything?). It seemed impossibly cruel that this section of beach was also the main snorkelling area. Not the sort of sea-life one wants to observe in detail.

We learned that Australians refer to red-heads as "gingers", pronounced "ghing-er". That sometimes guitarists can play better breathing through a snorkel. That the name for Sponge Bob in French is "Bob le Ponge" ("Squarepants" has no meaningful translation). Finally, Laura made the astute observation that "Wish You Were Here" postcards are best replaced by "Suck It" postcards. After all, you're in paradise. Screw everyone else.