Deep In the Heart of Georgetown

We’ve gone over to the dark side. Inclement weather and a festering laziness has delayed our departure. A salty mist surrounds our floating flavella where the wind has whipped the sea into foam, then blown it into the harbor. 
We now bounce restively across it. The merciless beat from “Chat and Chill” echoes off Monument Hill. It boogies by the powdery white beach and skips over the emerald green ripples, then dives through my open porthole window.
Last night was spent at a delightful little resort run by two hospitable South Africans. I asked them what caused them to leave such a lovely Country. 
“Politics” they replied. I quickly changed the subject to the upcoming World Cup. 
Their prominent deck afforded a picturesque view of the harbor. The well oiled bar glistened. The rest room was spotless. There wasn’t a local within a mile. So much for my cultural zealotry.
It was “Texas Hold ‘Em” poker night. Five dollars got you in the game with the entry fees split among the winners. It was the first bar I found in the Bahamas that served “Kalik Gold”, the “Colt-45” of Bahamian beers. Locals shun KG due to its wicked hangover. I’ve avoided that outcome by scrupulously restricting myself to one per night onboard, but this evening was special. We’d managed to leave the boat. Plus I was losing. Beer number three was in hand when the hostess, who was as tipsy as me, pawned a drunk with a mountain of chips onto our table. He refused to shuffle, called the ladies “whores” and vociferously raised every bet. My natural inclination was to fight the creep, tooth and nail if need be. Instead, I went all in on the next hand. That allowed me to escape to the veranda and gaze at the lights dancing off of the shoals. I checked the table a short while later. The obnoxious bastard was gone.  
“Who was that obnoxious bastard?” I asked the proprietor.
“He lives here. Married a local and runs a charter business. I think he’s American.”
“Figures” I replied. 
I stopped at four beers. Three Tylenol's this morning has reduced the pain in my upper left temple to a dull pressure; but I’ll be back tonight. Maybe I'll hold the line at two Kaliks.
We could’ve stayed near Fish Fry Beach, back in Jolly Hall Cove where we spent two glorious nights last weekend. But my last visit to Tino’s was a bit odd. I had hiked over on Saturday afternoon. (Stopping at the liquor store first for a cold Gold to ease the journey.) I was looking for a little company and conversation or at least some golf on ESPN. The TV was off. Mr. Roy was glaring at his two customers. One was a thirty-ish local girl. The other appeared to be her mother. I asked Roy how he was fairing.
“Just fine until they showed up” he seethed through clenched teeth.
“Why‘s that?”
“I’ll tell you later” he mumbled before sequestering himself in the kitchen.
He never did. There’s a high probability it involved Mother’s Day. My guess is a child was part of the equation, questionable parentage the likely topic. I finished my Kalik (regular strength) and got the hell out of there.
You have to tread lightly around these watering holes. Negativity can be lurking nearby, be it from frustrated charter boat captains or bar owners who can’t keep it in their pants.