I’m not sure why, but I seem to attract such a plethora of Wonderful Waterfront Wackos and Colorful Caribbean Characters. Take the infamous Pirate Queen as an example: I was minding my own business at Le Select bar on St. Barts—when she fell out of the sky.
…well, that’s not exactly true. She fell out of an overhanging tree. And landed on my table. Without spilling my glass of wine.
…it was a most-excellent entrance into my suddenly-no-longer-bored life!
She was obviously drunk—yet she managed to retain the magnum of Veuve Clicquot champagne she periodically swigged from. She was all-French, half-naked, and glowing like a lioness. I fell in instantaneous lust. For some reason, her dirty bare foot ended up in front of my amazed face.
…drunkenly focusing on me for the first time, she commanded (in a very sexy growl), “…kiss it, Mister!”
I immediately sucked her leg into my mouth up to her bronze kneecap—and, as they say, the rest is history.
“…I likes this crazy sailor-guy!” she laughed aloud. “Super cheutt!” (meaning way-cool in French; literally, super-sweet).
She was the owner/skipper of the notorious Life’s a Beach—and living life to the hilt. Picture a female sailing George Clooney-pretending-to-be-a-horny-Errol Flynn—and you’ve got an accurate picture of the lusty Pirate Queen.
Simply put: she was the most beautiful sexual predator I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
“What do you do,” was the first thing I asked her.
“I am here in the Lesser Antilles aboard my yacht—searching for whales,” she said.
“Ah,” I said. “so you’re interested in Caribbean wildlife, eh?”
“Exactly,” she slurred. “I enjoy meeting men with 40 foot tongues who can breathe through the top of their head.”
It was, perhaps, the funniest pick-up line I have ever heard.
The Pirate Queen was a man’s man—trapped in the most delicious female body imaginable. She wasn’t a slut, she was just… well, hungry!
She didn’t allow clothes on her boat—if you wanted to come aboard, you had to disrobe in your dinghy.
She had many strange talents. If you balked at nudity, she’d bite your street clothes off with her teeth—a sensuous trick I’ve seen her perform a dozen times.
Needless to say, she was surrounded by her own erotic, sea-going entourage. Sailor Bill was her main man—but his best friend Tiny had been called in to assist. (The Pirate Queen was far too much woman for one man—or even a cockpit full).
No, the Pirate Queen wasn’t shy. “…hung like a horse,” she said as she introduced me to Tiny.
“…wait, that’s not right,” she corrected herself, “…like a bull!”
I remember a particularly ‘defining moment’ during Antigua Sailing Week. She was passed out on the hood of our rental jeep outside a rhum shop in English harbor. A group of drug-crazed rastas appeared, noticed her, and attempted to carry her off into the rainforest. I watched, and carefully noted they didn’t take her drink along with her—a pivotal mistake.
“Hey,” the yacht racers I was drinking with said, “aren’t you going to rescue your friend?”
“No need,” I said. “My only hope is she doesn’t hurt them too badly.”
A few minutes later we heard shouting from the woods—mostly surprised male screams—and the Pirate Queen came lurching out of the bush, readjusting what was left of her torn T-shirt.
“…what the hell?” she said—and I solicitously pointed to her drink on the hood of the jeep.
“…if they’d have carried off the drink as well, they might have had the time of their life,” I mused to my drinking buddies.
The Pirate Queen took a long gulp of rhum, burped, and shouted up to me, “Thanks. It’s hot. Now is, how-you-say-in-ING-grish, no time for sobriety?”
Tiny was an amazing guy—a sailing legend among the ladies. He was also a super nice guy—which was, perhaps, why he was so successful. Certainly, he was efficient and hardworking. And he really cared about his female friends—and always took the time to make each encounter memorable.
I helped—as sort of a floating Corinthian pimp.
He had a massive charter yacht, with three equal-sized cabins. He patterned his operation after a busy physician. During the height of his popularly—at such venues as Antigua Sailing Week, the Heineken Regatta, or the St. Barts Regatta—Tiny would accept appointments from the Lovely Lonely Ladies whose sailing boyfriends had abandoned them for the racecourse.
As a journalist, I often didn’t race—and, thus, could act as Tiny’s receptionist. I’d welcome the women aboard, reassure them that Tiny was expecting them, and eventually lead them to quiet cabin… to await Tiny’s imminent arrival.
Yes, fresh sheets, towels, and Trojans were provided.
Afterwards, I’d make sure they vacated their cabin (no matter how wobbly their knees might be) to make room for the next lucky lass.
Tiny, for his part, would always dive over the side for a quick swim between—and quickly shower on the transom. He was a true health and fitness nut—who had his own unique ideas on how to stay young and trim.
Occasionally the women I’d be serving drinks to in Cockpit Reception would applaud Tiny as he disappeared back belowdecks—like an eager prize-fighter between rounds.
It was a strange scene.
I’ll never forget one young chick gushing happily to me, “only a half an hour to wait!”
Obviously, this was before AIDS. Amazingly, it was also before Viagra as well! Yes, the Caribbean was a very libidinous, very salacious place in the early ‘80s.
The most unbelievable aspect of the Pirate Queen and entourage was that they were, mostly, nice people. Carolyn and I often had the Queen over for dinner aboard Carlotta and Wild Card. Our daughter Roma Orion remembers her with great fondness.
The Queen was also a sought-after helmsperson—who steered many of the finest racing yachts during the Bermuda race, etc. (She was, alas, the cause of the Great Bermudian Pillow Mutiny that is so lovingly recounted in Chasing the Horizon).
Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are currently refitting for their third circumnavigation.