The second shuttle had made its way back to Mantaray while we tucked into the cold collation, which wasn't anything spectacular but did what it was supposed to do perfectly well, and I'd just finished my plate when a bloke with an indeterminate but Continental accent inquired whether there was room at the table for him and his girlfriend.
I figured there was, provided I didn't reclaim my own seat before the other couple made their way back.
So this pair duly grab a spot, eat and then, when it was an obvious case of clean up after yourself by scraping leftovers into the bin down there and placing cutlery and plates in the receptacles provided, left their plates for someone else to look after.
I thought of identifying the nationality involved with a view to a hypothesis that all (insert nationality here) nationals are ignorant and thoughtless bastards who expect someone else to clean up after them, but decided to be diplomatic.
End of rant.
After lunch it was a case of heading north to the designated dive location, another hour's cruising at the tip of Hook Island. The transit provided the opportunity for scuba divers to kit up, instructors to deliver final instructions and tips to novices, and Hughesy to decide that the state of the neck precluded anything in the aquatic department.
Once we'd anchored, the scuba crews were the first to go (understandable, some were down for two dives), followed by the snorkelers, in stages that were determined by the capacity of the tender. That ensured Captain Cookie was kept busy zipping to and fro, and he was, by all appearances, out to ensure everyone was having a good time.
Part of that, of course, was keeping up the support vibe for nervous novices, and when he sighted Hughesy left on board, along with a Chinese woman and her son, we were offered the opportunity to zip around on the tender.
While the other two went for it (Chinese Boy took a bit of persuasion but succumbed eventually) I was quite happy to remain where I was, eyes moving between boat and horizon with the possibility of a whale sighting in mind.
The currents swung the vessel backwards and forwards through what must have been around ninety degrees and the sense of tranquility was rather pleasant, though the tender continued to run back and forth so it wasn't total peace and quiet.
All in all, a restful couple of hours and probably just what the doctor ordered in the neck department. Eventually, with everyone back on board, when it came time to move again heading back past Hayman gave me something to focus on as we headed home.
It took until North Molle for the neck issue to return to prominence, given the natural inquisitiveness associated with where the hell are we?
Back in port the shuttle dropped us at Martinique, and showers all round before we hoofed it down the hill to Mr Bones for a rather decent go at the tapas-style bill of fare. Four reasonably hungry people, platters of mackerel spring rolls, Thai chicken skewers and stuffed baby squid that just happened to have four of each and a rather decent pizza meant no one was complaining on the way home.
At least, not as far as the food quotient was concerned. It's a fair hike up a rather steep slope, and by the time we were back on the front door there were four folks who were close to out of breath, and one wondering how the neck was going to behave itself on the morrow.
Having ascertained that Pup had won the toss at Old Trafford and elected to bat I managed five or six overs before the mind succumbed to tiredness and I opted to turn in.