It’s “H” season and I’m not where I want to be…

Got up this morning to this…

Now, as I’ve said many times before, the best place to be when”H” season comes around is sitting in a sidewalk cafe, self-medicating with a bottle of Ricard pastis and a pitcher of cold water. Failing that, one should be in some out-of-the-way place where “H” season is not a factor.

So, why am I still sitting in St Croix getting the boat ready to get the frelling fuck out of Dodge?

Well, for one is that having been up close and personal to far too many “H” seasons, I was working on the historical premise that one does not need to get overly nervous before July 14. In fact my thought process was to aim for getting to a French island where we could celebrate Bastille Day and get reacquainted with a sidewalk cafe and a bottle of Ricard.

Which, I’ll admit, is a few sandwiches short of a picnic considering the current ocean temperatures and the fact that, climatically we’re in “sliding to hell in a wicker basket” territory.

Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to sort out some ground tackle just in case.

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