One day one of the cutest of the little kids who helped tie up the dinghies was given a small tip—and immediately bought out all the candy at the little supermarket tacked onto the side of Pasta Rasta’s growing mall.
More and more bareboaters showed up—after all, this was an authentic Caribbean happening, for gosh sake! Cap’n Fatty aboard Carlotta dropped the hook. Fritz Seyfarth of Tumbleweed. David Wegman of Afrig’n Queen. My god, the word was out! Barefoot Davis and his band started opening on Friday nights. Was that drunken cowboy lassoing the local lasses really Kenny Chesney?
…but the more bareboaters that showed up, the more anchorage problems there were—mostly with boats dragging at night during squalls. So the Nirvana Bay Marine Association (NBMA) put in some stout, ecologically-installed moorings. These were immediately occupied, so more were ordered. Another organization called Bahn Heres put in some moorings, too, but in deeper water. Individuals, both local and yachties, immediately tossed down moorings—and one Aussie guy put in four of ‘em and supported his Mount Gay habit on the proceeds. Damn! There was money to be made! Soon even more moorings were hastily installed—now amid the coral.
A giant catamaran pulled in and spent three days drinking at Pasta’s—and at the end, dropped off six giant garbage bags on the dock. “Hey, mon,” said one of the local guys, “you can’t do dat, mon!”
The guy at the helm of the large center console inflatable wasn’t going to take any shit from a local lay-about. “We paid $22,000 US to charter that 97-footer out there—and we spent a fortune at Pasta’s. You can, at the very least, deal with our empties!”
“But,” said the local kid—but too late, the rich guy had roared off.
Now, the local bad boys used to not be too bad. Sure, they’d smoke ganja all day long—but they had to grow it to smoke it. And, there was no money in it—until now. So a grinning kid named Whiffy Spliffy now greeted every boat coming into the harbor with some pre-measured baggies of commercial grade ganja—and, on occasion, a couple of grams of coke.
During the annual fishing tournament, all the sport fishing vessels from Puerto Rico came—and complained about the stench from the fishing boats off-loading. Oh, the irony!
By this point, the thrice-expanded dock was so cheek-to-jowl crowded that its management team was forced to ban the dinghies—that weren’t paying anyway.
