Permission being granted, a sunburned face with a white nose (zinc oxide) appeared over the gunwales. The wet and burly stranger introduced himself as Larry Foley, New York correspondent for the Sydney Daily Telegraph, now on vacation in the West Indies. He had scented a story in the Phoenix and had swum out to interview us.
We became very friendly with Larry and on our departure from Barbados invited him to island-hop with us for a bit, so he could see how the other ten-thousandth of one per cent lives.
Early on the morning of the 30th we passed between St. Lucia and Martinique, an island of magnificent mountain peaks reminiscent of Hawaii and the high islands of the South Seas. By noon we had put Diamond Rock astern and rounded Cape Solomon. In midafternoon, less than twenty-four hours from Bridgetown, we dropped the anchor in the lee of an imposing gray stone fortress. Fort de France, the port city and capital of Martinique, spread out along the waterfront, looking very much like Papeete in the French Societies. A park along the shore was embellished with an edging of city dump and the buildings facing the harbor bore large signs, in English: “Buy your Perfume from us! Free Port Prices!”
We spent a couple of busy days in Martinique, some of us going overland to visit Saint-Pierre, the site of the tremendous volcanic eruption of 1902 in which some 40,000 lives were lost. Ted decided to spend the night ashore, to get the flavor of the place. What flavor he found, we didn’t learn, but he dragged himself aboard the next morning muttering something about walking all night, deserted roads, and a solitary fellow pedestrian, and spent his second day in Martinique sleeping.
I don’t always know how these things arrange themselves, but on our second afternoon we discovered that we had annexed, for a few hours, a French teen-ager of solid dimensions and stolid personality (and no English) whom we knew only as Mlle. Petite. The arrangements were Barbara’s and had something to do with an exchange visit, Mlle. Petite being traded for a couple of our men. I rowed them out to the Phoenix and had to shove her up the boarding ladder, as she was quite incapacitated by fright. We tumbled her onto the deck, where she promptly became sick from the motion at anchor. Each time she recovered slightly and attempted to go below, the mal de mer returned, which, combined with her embarrassment, reduced her to a state of mute despair. Barbara’s halting French was inadequate to reassure or comfort her, and at last it appeared that the only remedy was to get her back to shore.
Reversing ourselves, we tried to get her into the dinghy. The bay was choppy, and she again petrified, this time clinging desperately to the ladder even when her feet were in the dinghy. The edge of the dinghy caught under the bottom of the ladder and promptly swamped, swamping with it two rather irritated people—the Skipper and Ted, whom we had turned out of his bunk to help us. We clambered on deck, righted and bailed the dinghy, brought it around again, unclenched Mlle. Petite’s fists from the ladder, and dumped her with scant ceremony onto the center thwart. With firm instructions to “Restez la!” Barbara rowed her ashore, to await the exchange of hostages.
Four hours later Barbara returned to the ship, minus Mlle. Petite but with the rest of our crew.
“What did you do all that time?” I asked her.
“Walked!” she snapped, showing some very convincing blisters.
“Did you improve your French?”