I Blame Peter

We are anchored in the Tot Club Corner of English Harbour. To port are Rush (from S. Africa), Cormorant (Arnold and Gay) and Antilia (Graeme), to starboard are Sanctuary (Roger) and Kuma (Peter). So, we are nestled among friends. But that last boat? That Peter? It's all Peter's fault.

Peter lives a hand-to-mouth existence, scrabbling for pennies wherever he can find them. He does deliveries (sails ships from, say, here to Spain), works charters, polishes boats (he did ours), will do any odd job that presents. Very handy, very entrepreneurial in a "don't wake me before 10" sort of way

We met Peter shortly before we headed back north for the summer. He loves to play guitar, sing and hang with friends. When we came back and moved out of the mangroves, there he was off our starboard bow in his lovely little yawl. We hailed back and forth and, eventually, Peter appeared with his latest Great Idea. He'd talked to the manager of Nelson's Dockyard and she was delighted with the plan: Get all dressed up in period costumes (she would provide) and entertain the hundreds of cruise ship visitors who get trucked, bused, taxied and carried here.

Sounds like a lark, right?

Dress and hat for me, piratical shirt and trousers for himself. Grand.

Day One: 9 a.m. start. Not good. Peter doesn't really do 9 a.m. Oh, and we're going to sing. I don't know any of the songs he knows, he knows none of mine. Rehearse?? That's for wusses. Still and all, the punters threw the odd dollar in our battered hat and begged to take pictures of us. They get a free rum punch out of the trip to the Dockyard. "So do we," said Peter. "Is 11:15 too early?"

Apparently not...

Busking is bloody hard work. We tip our hats to all you buskers out there. By early afternoon, I'd worked out a smooth line in patter. Stuff about capstans and sea shanties and jigs. Honestly, if you just stand there and sing, they walk away, but stand there and tell them something they didn't know, you'll earn a dollar here or there.



Day Two: Rain. Does this mean we can give it a pass?

No, it doesn't.

We found places to shelter. We did the strolling minstrels thing. I finally got my curtsy right. "Good day, missus," smile curtsy. Peter all "Aaaar, matey" and "The best ones is the dead ones" (he's from Poole and can pull it off).

Meanwhile, back on the boat, WW has discovered the head overflowing, the bilge pump is dead. Works on that all day only to find our 220v system seems not to be grounded. No one sure of the implications. Finally digs through his workshop to ensure there are no rats in there. Well, only one mummified one. Manages to get the fridge working. Clears out a bunch of rubbish. Works like a slave while his bride is...singing.

Thank the sweet Lord there are no ships till Monday.