We moved on up to Bahia Candeleros today where we had promised the kids the most awesome kid pool ever. Silly stupid parents—never promise anything to kids.

After anchoring the dinghy in the shallows we waded ashore in front of the all-inclusive resort that had welcomed all cruisers with open arms last year. Up the stairs we went on a beeline for the pool. At the top of the stairs a security guard walked towards us and I got that sinking feeling.

“Hola. Have you been here before?” he asked.

Taken aback—happily—I replied, “Yes, last year.”

“Bienvenidos.” Welcome.

With seven more boats, this picture would have been complete

Hallelujah, the Vega Carina was approaching Barbados from Trinidad as of late Wednesday, presumably with The Container aboard and its contents of seven 5O5s, masts and sails for another dozen or more boats, and international juror Vicki Gilmour’s rule book.

All right, so this was a little awkward.

The family we offered the clothes to came out in their boat this afternoon. We invited them aboard and we all sat up front and played with the car and some toys for a little bit.

Cool. Nice little boy, friendly mother and I had a nice chat with the dad and a friend of theirs. We gave them the bag of clothes and as they were pulling away the dad asked me again, “Langostas?”

Sure, we’ll take some lobster.

“We’ll be back in three hours.”

As a parent, there is precious little upside to being right.  Saying, "I told you so," is cold comfort as young Jimmy is writhing on the ground at your feet, suffering from a broken arm after climbing too high in the tree out back.  Most of the time, you wish your dire predictions were wrong.  That darting out in the street without looking first would always turn out okay.  That eating food found on the dirty ground wouldn't give you worms.  And that taking your most special toys out for the day didn't carry a certain amount of risk of losing them.

Indulge your notsalgia for a day when the racing was dramatic, and the crews were sailing for their countries.

Is there any chance the next edition will match this?

Another America's Cup summer looms on the horizon, raising again that perennial insuperable question that so tortures racing sailors: how the heck do we get laypeople interested in our sport? These days the default answer is super-fast boats and TV-friendly race formats, which certainly are attractive to sailors, even slowpoke cruisers like myself. But this sort of excitement, I fear, flies over the heads of most people who are not inherently interested in sailing. A much more successful formula is to focus instead on personalities. Look back at those moments in America's Cup history that have truly bubbled up into the mass consciousness, and you'll note they have all revolved around interesting people--Dennis Conner fighting to redeem himself after losing the Cup in 1983; Ted Turner talking trash back in the 1970s; Sir Thomas Lipton playing the lovable loser throughout the early 20th century.

We motored north on a flat sea bound for Agua Verde just three hours away. Another in a string of rather uneventful days—days we are always thankful for. Nothing broke, nobody got hurt, Lowe got his nap in, and we arrived in what is one of my favorite bays.

After settling in we headed to town. Unlike most places along the coast the homes of Agua Verde are set back a couple hundred yards from the beach behind a thick tangle of shrub and trees that completely negates any ocean breeze and leaves the homes gasping for breath in the heat. Every time we’ve ever walked around here I’ve felt like passing out of heat exhaustion. I’ve no idea how the locals deal with it other than to sit inside in the shade all day with a fan blowing on your face and a television blaring at full volume.