Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I said to her; she was so innocent. She was also quite religious too and tried to encourage
us to attend their church meetings. We never did.
After a week or so in this little anchorage we became bored and decided to sail around to
the secluded and very exclusive little island of Malolo Lailai. It was still hurricane season,
and this island was a well known haven for sailors. As I recall, we had to sail about fifteen
miles south and head through a narrow little passage through the coral reef, making our
way around to the lee of this lush little tropical island. We spent three months here, apart
from a few ventures to outer lying islands.
The island appeared to have two holiday destinations onshore. There on the left as we
rowed ashore was Dick Smith's, several little self-contained thatch roof burras. Natural and
charming, they were cleaned every day inside and out by friendly local staff. There was
a communal restaurant bar where the guests could go and mingle. This was Gavin's and
my favorite spot in the evening. All day long we would lounge around their lovely little
pool rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, and in the evening we would row back
and listen to the resident unplugged Indian acoustic band, by far one of the most incredible
bands I have ever heard, before or after.
We were ever lower on money, and each evening we would slowly sip the one beer that
we shared the whole night. The waiters got to know us well, and, when we arrived for the
evening, one of them was always sure to come over with an opened bottle of Heineken and
two glasses. The one drawback about anchoring out here was the mudflats one had to try
to avoid between the boats and the shore. If it was low tide, one would have to drag the
dinghy through acres of slushy mud.
It was around this time that a powerful art force awoke in me. I saw poetry along the wild
beach on the windward shore where I took my constitutional ramble every morning. The
extremely tall coconut trees that looked so much like tropical green feather dusters waving
high above were almost sexy to me. I started making sketches of them in pencil. I would
then draw curvaceous mermaids with long flaxen hair sitting under them until I had perfec-
ted the concept.
One morning, as I sat in the cockpit drawing, a neighbor rowed over for a chat. She was
a young and rather attractive French lady whose husband owned a classy jewelry store at
the Plantation Hotel on the shore opposite the burras. She introduced herself as Cheri, and I
invited her up for a cup of tea. I think she was either lonely or bored or a bit of both; either
way, I was thrilled with such a lovely visitor.
She had noticed me drawing a couple of times and came by to see my sketches. I shyly
showed her my better ones, and she was sympathetically complimentary; I told her I had
just started drawing. She got around to telling me that she was a portrait artist and would
