Greece Overboard

On board S/Y Puritan—I’m sailing off the charred eastern coast of Athens where so many died last week, and I remain suspicious as hell. Fifteen or so fires starting simultaneously smells of arson to me, and arson stinks of Albanian. Yes, I know, I know, it’s racist and all that, but I don’t give a shit. Mostly Albanians are committing violent crimes in Greece. Scum who murder for a TV set, or set fires in order to loot. Political correctness partly protects them from being rounded up and identified, so sometime soon we Greeks will have to take matters in our own hands. Frontier justice will prevail and it will all be PC’s fault.

Mind you, the community of Mati, where most of the dead lived, was illegally built forty-some years ago, and was only issued building permits after the fact. It was mostly a middle-class community of retired doctors and lawyers, but it lay in a gully that funneled the flames all the way to the sea. Extremely high winds did not help. The authorities talked a good game but will do nothing. If I were in charge, I’d arrest every Albanian in Greece and deport them. Violent crime would disappear overnight, but then I’m not in charge and PC is. Not that the U.K. is doing any better. Who would believe that Sarah Champion, a member of Parliament who pointed out the simple fact that the young white girls who were abused—all 1,400 underage and abused by Asian men—would need police protection for uttering the truth? If this isn’t sick, I don’t know what is. The bad guys have PC protection, the good ones nada. Not to mention the publicity-starved Diane Abbotts of this world defending the two bloodthirsty ISIS monsters that our American friends know what to do with once they get their hands on them. Amazon.com Gift Card i... Buy New $25.00 (as of 04:00 EDT - Details)

A 55-year-old acquaintance of mine, a father of three young men, is attacked in his house by two known Albanian criminals; he almost kills one of them with a punch to the head, and is then slain by the other with a blow to the head with a steel pipe. The Albanians get away and we are fed the usual bullshit that not all migrants are murderers. Despite the loss of cultural coherence, however, life does go on and I’m sailing around the Aegean on Puritan, one of Alden’s greatest designs: a 1929-built, 38-meter schooner that I sail on every summer whose crew is mostly Brits and South Africans and whose Italian captain is the best since Captain Blood. However embarrassing it sounds, without good-time ladies on board, I’m quite content to sail with my son and daughter, my son-in-law, my two grandchildren, and Grandma. Who knew I would end up like this? I certainly didn’t. In Kimolos and Milos, the white clay rocks turned the sea into a diaphanous marvel, but the nightlife in both places made me yearn for a shithole like Monte Carlo.

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