18 July 2011
Of course, what would a surprise week-long, six-person charter be without us having to ward off the lecherous advances of one former Soviet Intelligence officer?
Our charter consists of two families, with two 8-year-old kids fighting and screaming like Siberian banshees. They eat constantly, (the one young prince, Max, informed our chef his breakfast tasted like 'crew food'.) creating a never-ending stack of dirty dishes towering like a precarious Pisa over our tiny galley sink.
They predictably override our selection of mellow, beachy tunes in favor of blasting Russian techno at all hours
of the day, and in true Soviet form, they spend their days - pasty legs dangling off the stern - fishing and ripping shots of vodka.
The alpha male, also named Max, while
attempting - quite successfully - to decimate the local reef fish population (ciguaterra soup, anyone?), has made it clear on Day 1 that his primary objective is to ignore all marital and familial obligations in favor of courting two extremely reluctant crew members, with such winning lines as,
"Make me a drink, my sweet Mee-lisa; I need your spirit in my spirits."
...and a few 'spirits' deep:
"What size are your feet? Size six? I could just tell. I hate women with big feet, feet as big as mine. She could be the most beeyootiful woman, but big feet? Disgusting."
"Let me take picture of you. I think you are very photogenic."
"Are you going swimming? No? Are you afraid of sharks? But YOU are a shark! Sleek, like a shark. Do not be afraid of your own kind! Why aren't you smiling? Smile for me. Look at me. Answer me. Don't look at her - why do you keep looking at her instead of me? What, are you lesbians or something?"
...we informed our captain, and our grizzly-like chef, Chris, of Max's unwanted advances, and they both cornered him and his apologetic friend, and reassured us that was the end of the Commie Creeper.
Needless to say, our steward service has been less than obliging since.
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