I live on a Caribbean island where the sun shines nearly all year round and if we need a little excitement then there’s the occasional hurricane to liven things up. True, the Caribbean is a bit Third World but we get by and do it rather harmoniously. There is a divide between rich and poor and corruption in high places, but that’s not much different to England, the US and most other countries. What we struggle to find are good sports facilities for youngsters. We have a yacht club with a successful and progressive youth sailing program that is often seen as a tad elitist, although it is not. The island has a cricket pitch and a baseball park and what passes as a sports stadium and many parents do their best to get youngster into sport using the limited facilities available.

The youngsters who take up sport and stick at it obviously want to do well. A place at the Olympics is the ultimate goal and islands like Jamaica have sent some wonderful athletes to the games.

What a shame that we have allowed extremists and governments to betray the spirit of the games and sully them almost beyond hope.

It’s taken a while to get to this low point. The terror attack of Munich in 1972 and the strange incident of the pipe-bomb during the Atlanta Games of 1996 shook the Olympic movement to the core and although governments stood back in horror, many realized that sport was a useful political weapon.

Not giving a toss for the aspirations of their own people, countries have withdrawn their athletes from the Summer and Winter Olympic Games. Iran are said to have blocked the 2012 Olympic website and no doubt there will be high-profile boycotts before they light the Olympic Flame in London on July 27.

While governments parry and thrust, coaches, parents and fundraisers in poor countries do their best to teach the young the benefit of sport and the sporting tradition. Should a lucky few make it to the Olympic Games; this is what they will find: Snipers and surface-to-air missiles on the roofs of apartment blocks. Armed response teams wearing hoods and carrying assault rifles. Bomb disposal teams hiding down back streets. Take out a camera and the chances are you will undergo ‘stop and search’ by a heavily armed police officer in a flack jacket. Criticizing the London Olympics could lead to arrest.

Put into twisted perspective, kids today caught playing football on a street in England face prosecution and their parents risk a visit from social services.

It is becoming harder for youngsters everywhere to understand the meaning of sport, never mind the pain and effort they must put in to achieve greatness.

Turning the Olympics into a video game hasn’t helped.

Island 92 91.9fm, St. Maarten
To celebrate Poetry Month (April), we are asking you to write a short love poem. It doesn’t have to be about a person, it can be about anything that you love. The poem should be original, your own work, and you must be willing to have your poem read out on Island 92 and published on the station’s Facebook page and this website.

A panel of judges will pick what they think is the best poem and award the prize, a hardback copy of The Poems of Dylan Thomas, to the winner.   Competition is open to listeners in St. Maarten and online listeners in the US and UK only. Poems should be emailed to me using the contacts page on this website or posted on Island 92s Facebook page. Competition closes April 30. The judges’ decision is final.

Yesterday I was on the boat that towed the tiny oceangoing raft An-Tiki out of Sint Maarten’s Simpson Bay Lagoon and cast it adrift north of the island.

On board the raft were Captain Anthony Smith and a crew of two men and two women, Smith the only person amongst them who had experience of sailing a raft.

The voyage of the An-Tiki is already the stuff of legends. Boy’s Own stuff, ripping yarns with perhaps a touch of Monty Python thrown in.

Smith is 86-years old and as one observer put it “on boarding the raft, he looked ten years younger.”

Many have questioned the sagacity of this voyage, especially by one as advanced in years as Smith. It’s not a question you would ask of him in person for fear of having it shoved where the sun don’t shine, albeit in a gentlemanly way.

I am a sailor and have taken risks at sea while crossing oceans both alone and with crew. A raft voyage is risky and, although Smith, sailing with a different crew, safely crossed the Atlantic last year, I think they will find the final stages of the voyage, from St. Maarten to Eluethera in the Bahamas, more testing.

During the Atlantic crossing, the raft made world headlines, the BBC reported on the voyage along with other major news outlets.  Britain’s Daily Telegraph dedicated many column inches to the story and even sent someone to St. Maarten to meet them. Why then has interest in this remarkable story cooled?

It seems the answer lies in the fact that when the raft left the Canary Islands last year it was bound for Eluethera but arrived in St. Maarten (a deliberate decision made at sea). In the eyes of some in the media, that amounts to failure. The idiots are missing the point.

When An-Tiki dropped the tow off St. Maarten and hauled up her square-sail and headed north, they waved two fingers at a society gone soft. They made a statement for individual freedom. For Smith and his eclectic crew, there is no such thing as failure.

We need Smith and people like him to remind us “it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.”

News that the government of St. Maarten is to give every resident a dinghy or half-track is most welcome.

I’m lucky in that I travel a lot by boat but recently my trusty old outboard coughed up an impeller and had to see the doctor, who issued a sick note and told it to rest.  Having no boat meant I had to drive more that I do usually. I love my Jeep but am seriously put out by the government’s attempt to kill it.

The drive from Marigot through the Terres Basses to the border is one of the most scenic and enjoyable on the island. Trees are in bloom, roadside flowers abound and the hedgerows are so green.

And the road surface is … ah, très bien.

Then you hit the border. The first section of road, past the White Elephant … sorry, Blue Mall, is okay and it stays that way until you reach the golf course. Then you hit the combat zone and there are better roads through the Khyber Pass.

I drive a Jeep because the government killed my little red car. It did, however, take them a couple of attempts. The first attack ripped all the fuel pipes from the underside of the chassis. That was repairable, and at least it didn’t explode.  The coup de grace came when my little car fell into a water-filled pothole and couldn’t climb out. Fortunately, I was wearing a life jacket and managed to swim to the surface. As far as I know, the car is still down there.

Another car-breaking stretch of road runs past one of the island’s most popular restaurants, Pineapple Pete’s, on Welfare Road. A pothole there is so deep that the athletic folks at Tri-sports are applying for a lease and starting St. Maarten’s first caving club.

And these are the main roads, folks! Don’t mention the roads in the outlying areas and what residents there suffer. Those folks would top the list for a government-issued half-track, a dinghy being rather more difficult to maneuver in their area unless it’s been raining.

Still, I shouldn’t complain because soon there’s to be a multi-million dollar bridge spanning the lagoon, smooth and shiny, with new tarmac; a dream road leading to … Er, other roads that are falling apart.

I wonder if one lane will be reserved for half-tracks.

Life in the islands is wonderful but even for longtime residents it still comes up with surprises. Recently I visited Marigot, the capital town of French St. Martin, my home. I had made appointments to visit certain offices, confirmed the visits by email, and turned up on time. That’s when I found out it was Mi-Careme, the Feast of Laundresses, an ancient holiday celebrated, well, hardly anywhere. In honor of the day, I would have bought my wife a new mangle but the shops were closed.

Such an unusual holiday piqued my interest and I wondered what other strange Feast Days might be lurking. Off I went to Google only to find they hadn’t honored laundresses with a banner. Merde!  Someone at Google will be washing their own grundies.

If French St. Martin is searching for more holidays or Feast Days to celebrate, I suggest the following:

Pig-Face Day

England, as one expects from a country of nutters, has some grand Feast Days, for instance Pig-Face Day (aka Holy Cross Day). On Pig Face Day, villagers feast in the village hall after attending evensong at the Church of the Holy Cross, at Avening, and a medieval fair takes place. Celebrations of Pig-Face Day are said to be more muted now than in the past. Why? Because at the end of the 17th century a local cleric tried to suppress the event claiming it led to abuses and excesses in the village …

No worries about that happening on an island with so many different churches and denominations. They can’t agree on anything.

The Baby Jumping Festival (El Colacho)

Castrillo de Murcia, Spain

First staged in 1620, this strange event celebrating Corpus Christi sees grown men dressed as the Devil leaping over a row of babies lying in the street …

Substitute naked sunbathers for babies and the island is on to a winner!

Wife carrying championships

Sonkajärvi, Finland

Participants in the wife carrying championships aim to win a relay race while carrying their wives. The winner receives his wife's weight in beer. Similar events have now sprung up around the world …

Having been carried home by my wife a few times; a slight change in the rules would make this a popular island event.

The Testicle Festival

Clinton, Montana, USA

Over 21’s only

Around 7,000 people attend the annual Testicle Festival at Rock Creek Lodge in Montana. This is a strictly adults-only affair, as although the festivities revolve around the theme of eating bull’s testicles, or ‘Rocky Mountain Oysters', visitors can expect oil wrestling, wet t-shirt competitions and lots of public nudity; 'No Panty Wednesday' sees punters receive a free drink in exchange for their underwear …

This is a shoe-in for Dutch St. Maarten and I wonder what is taking them so long!

The Radish Festival

Oaxaca, Mexico

In the 16th century, after radishes were brought to the Americas, vegetable sellers used to make sculptures of radishes to advertise in the markets. Since 1897 the custom has been celebrated with an annual festival, with the best sculptors awarded cash prizes …

Here’s one that would mesh perfectly with the Dutch Side Testicle Festival and offer local artists a chance to create and sell exotic/erotic sculptures to tourists, labeled: A Present from St. Maarten. T-shirts saying: 'My dad went to The Friendly Island and all I got was a Radish’, would follow.

If you have an idea for a new holiday or Feast Day that would promote St. Martin/St.Maarten and give us more time off, then please lobby your government officials. Their phone numbers are in the book.

I remember a song by cruising sailor singer/songwriter Eileen Quinn titled ‘Gotta Regatta’, and I couldn’t get the tune out of my head during the St. Maarten Heineken Regatta last week. Not that I was racing, no, but I was as close to the sailing as you could be, sometimes a little too close. I viewed the regatta from the press boat, an open, go fast launch with twin 225hp outboards. The boat was manned by a terrific group, skipper and mate, and a film crew from On Air Media. Between us we had more fun than should be allowed on the water.

Not all the journalists were as lucky. One team spent most of their time hanging over the side throwing up while being photographed and jeered at by journos in the other boats. The same team reportedly lost $25,000 of hi-tech video equipment when the plastic bin-liner protecting the camera blew away. An expensive and embarrassing moment for newcomers to learn that sheets of flying spray and electronics don’t mix!

The weather was boisterous, rough and windy, with the occasional rain-squall thrown in. I wore several hats including that of radio reporter broadcasting live from the courses for Island 92, 91.9fm, taking photos and writing for All At Sea Magazine, playing host on the VIP boat, and co-hosting the awards ceremony. Long days and long nights, all doused with salt water and cold beer.

This year’s regatta will go down as one of the best of recent years, but it wasn’t without drama. On the second day a mark went walkabout and a race had to be abandoned. The same day a catamaran capsized and was only prevented from going right over when her mast hit the bottom. One yacht also lost the top of its rig. As always, a big thank you goes to the sea rescue services.

While we were out chasing the boats—video cameras whirling, digital SLRs clicking—a humpback whale surfaced amongst the fleet causing one of the CSA 1 boats (the big boys), to alter course. The whale also brought a pod of dolphins to the party. How can you not love Mother Ocean?

Something for Everyone

Over two hundred boats took part this year’s regatta, the 32nd, including around 75 bareboats. Some boats raced while raising money for charity. The boat, Something Hot, with an all girl crew, successfully defended the title they lifted last year by again winning the Goldendog Cup—a trophy awarded to the most successful boat campaigning in support of a good cause.

The ‘Good’ crew

Every year we see more and more professional sailors on the Caribbean racing circuit. Paid to win, they are charged with giving owners and sponsors a good return on their investment. For some owners, winning is all and to hell with expense. Many of the professionals leave the partying until the last day and, even then, can be rather modest in the knees-up department. Pros push hard and are never late for the start.

The ‘Not so Bad’ crew

These sailors strike a balance between racing and imbibing, taking just enough drink at the end of each day to celebrate a good performance or forget about a disaster and a blazing row in the cockpit. A hardy bunch, most are bright(ish) and bushy-tailed on the start line the following day.

The ‘We don’t give a Shit let’s PARTY’' crew

Here are sailors who don’t intend to let a bit of yachting get in the way of their favorite sport. Our heroes and heroines are still partying and whooping it up at dawn yet always make the start, even if they are late and sail the wrong course.

In my life, I have sailed in each group, pros, semi pros, partiers and lunatic fringe and enjoyed every one, equally.

Long may we regatta!