We were anchored off White Bay at Peter Island, BVI a few years ago and ran the dink up on the beach to scout for a dinner location (no dice, the place is pretty exclusive). Standing at the waterline in shorts and sandals, a launch appeared with a crew of 6 and two well dressed old-timers, man and woman seated in matching lounge chairs. Those kind of lounge chairs you see in old colonial British movies where the Pasha of Wherever is carried by the palace slaves. I nudged my mate and said ‘we gotta see this’. They beached the launch and two guys in crisp summer whites jumped into knee-deep water to steady the boat. Then with the precision of an honor guard the other crew in similar summer whites stepped into the water, hoisted the chairs by their handles and carried the Lord and Lady to the beach. Both were nicely dressed in their resort wear. She looked to have 400 sq. feet of silk blowing in the warm trade winds. Both gave us a glance, nod and warm smile. We mustered an embarrassed smile, clearly underdressed for the parade. Think that was as close as I ever got to royalty. The crew loaded back into the launch, soggy summer whites, soggy white shoes along with their gilded lounges and returned to ship. The rich really are different.