Day 15 - Sunday December 23, 2001 - 1:30pm

Throat infection, bad cold, pneumonia, plague, Ebola - pick one! Fuck, have I been sick the last two days.

I went to see the nurse (Diana is her name - large jolly Fijian woman doling out chemicals faster than Elvis’ connection!). She took one look at me and gave me a box of Strepsils. No, no, no, I said - this is serious. It requires serious medicine. “Oh well,” she said, “then you need some of THIS!” She handed me a pudgy mitt full of amoxicillin antibiotic capsules and suggested I take two every eight hours. Let’s see… 250mg per capsule, times two equals 1500mg per day. Fine, you’re the doc.

HO-LEE FUCK! I haven’t been that stoned since Santana’s second set at Altamont!

Later

Most of Friday and all of Saturday is a blur. I slept and slept and then for a change of pace I slept some more. The first day I coughed and hacked so much I tore the muscles in my stomach. Gad I was sick!

But, I have to say, Diana was right. By this morning I was feeling about eighty percent better. Still coughing (OUCH!), still sniffling, still groggy. But I slept the sleep of the dead, as the dead often say (ergo, the phrase), and now I’m headed back to Musket Cove.

I am now officially two-thirds the way through my holiday.

Same Day - 4:20pm

At precisely twelve noon Dave and his ‘trusty’ Energizer launch arrived at the North Beach station of Castaway Island and liberated my luggage and me. After thirty minutes of extremely choppy seas my luggage and I were deposited at the Musket Cove Marina just in time for a Fiji Bitter at the “250” Bar - sorry, the “300” Bar.

I seem to be a bit of a celebrity around here. Everyone remembers me from last week and find it amazing, indeed a bit of a marketing coup that I left for another resort and then returned. Especially considering that the ‘other’ resort was Castaway Island. As I’ve said before, the competition in these islands for tourist dollars is cutthroat. I suppose as far as the management of Musket is concerned, to return here again and again is one thing - return customers and word-of-mouth are the name of the game. But to return after only a week, and after having stayed at the local competition, an upscale one at that is seen as quite a feather in their cap. Perhaps this is the real reason for the cheaper rate.

I wandered through the restaurant here and noticed that the dive tank has been fixed and filled and new decking has been added. Also, a large sturdy, telephone pole has been set in concrete on the edge of the beach to which ropes and guy-wires have been strung and attached to the restaurant roof. From this a ship’s sail has been suspended like an inverted kite over the pool providing a much-needed respite from the direct sun. Not bad for a week’s work. They’re serious about upgrading the facilities at this resort for sure.

While perusing the new pool, several staff approached me with big smiles and warmly welcomed me back, one even offering to buy me a drink - a strict no-no among staff, I might add. Fraternizing, and all that. I’m impressed.

It seems strange to move into a huge room next door to the one I had before (#104 was given up so now I’m in Bure #105) and find the air conditioning a little too much to take after a week with the mini-choppers.

Later

Just met the couple next door. He’s Martin from Holland, she’s Greta from Germany. They’re both studying at a university in Brisbane, he marine biology, she international business and marketing. Already this place is friendlier and more interesting than Castaway.

I’m ready to start having fun again.

Same Day - 8:15pm

I was made acutely aware of that old Steve Martin movie, The Lonely Guy, this evening.

I watched as a member of the wait staff set-up a table for two next to the pool, complete with napkin holders, lighted candle, wine glasses, cutlery - the usual. I decide, yeah, I’ll sit there, looks nice.

I moseyed over and took a chair. No sooner had my ever-widening Anglo-Saxon ass filled the plastic seat than the very same woman who had set the table, un-set it… well, the other half of it. Swept away like so much of life’s detritus were my invisible mate’s napkin holder, wine glass, cutlery - the usual. But what surprised me most was that she blew out the candle - she was a candle Nazi! (“No candlelight for you, single person! Next!”) Not even that she blew it out - the WAY she blew in out, looking at me as she did it. Daring me to stop her. (“You want candlelight, single person? Phhht! I think not!”)

With the matches I just happened to have (merely as an adjunct to the cigar I also just happened to have) I re-lit the candle and ordered the Red Pork Curry. It was good and quick - I remembered the curries from my last trip to Musket.

When I was ready to leave I chose my moment carefully. Ingrid Bergman made walking into a bar a fine art - I planned on leaving this establishment in the same manner.

I waited until the Nazi was almost upon me before I purposely moved my chair back and stood up, knowing she’d ask if there’d be anything else I might want, such as dessert. She did. I said, “No. Not this evening. Thank you.” I bent over slightly, looked her directly in the eye, and blew out the candle. Vengeance was mine!

Well, vengeance would have been mine had I not blown about an hour’s worth of candle wax all over her new Christmas sulu into the bargain. (Fuck, I’m smooth!)