Captain No-Beard and his crew of less than ten merry men got on board of the, smaller than I hoped for, fishing boat at the crack of pre-dawn. We were ready to embark on a day of fishing in the warm, deep, blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Our anxious faces couldn’t hide the hope of a fruitful day without puking. Which is why we have been popping pills like The Desperate Housewives of Everywhere.
If you willingly accept a swig of the skipper’s concoction from hell, which he lovingly calls Neptune-juice, at five in the morning, then you’re either an alcoholic or a pirate. We choose to associate ourselves with the skull-and-bone-black-flag type.
Shortly after getting on board we were cruising out of the harbor, catching the first rays of the sun as it peeked over the water. Continue reading