Perhaps it was because I was the 'oldest" that the Police Commissioner took a personal dislike to me? Perhaps it was because I wasn't listening to him when he arrested me? I was doing an interview for Associated Press, explaining that we had brought a thousand cardboard whale tails to StKitts, each bearing th eintials RIP - Rest in Peace -- to plant in the beach of the Marriot hotel where a horde of diplomats and a couple of grandstanding politicians had singularly failed to save any whales at the annual meeting of the International whaling Commission. They had prevented a take over by the Japanese Fisheries Agency and the whalers, perhaps, but they didn't propose a single resolution condemning the annual hunt by the Fisheries Agency of Japan in the IWC designated Southern Ocean Whale Sanctuary, which last killed 852 minke whales and ten endangered and in December will see the same again. Nor did they pass any resolutions on the fact that next year 50 threatened humpback whales while be killed. As the man from IFAW (the International Fund for Animal Welfare) put it succinctly: "we may have won the vote count in the meeting but we were losing the body count in the high seas!"

Or, perhaps, as we say in Scotland, I've just got the kind of face that the authorities never tire of smacking.

Perhaps it was because when I was arrested I chose to sit in the sand with the others?

We were not resisting arrest we were just sitting on the sand in a single silent line, trying to deescalate the situation as the armed island 'strike force' hit the beach, all rippling muscle and take no shit attitude. I was the only one charged in the end with both obstructing the police and resisting arrest. For the record I plead not guilty to resisting arrest, check the video, I was not guilty. As for obstructing, it is all a matter of perspective. One man's resistance is another man's peaceful protest, our collective Ghandi moment. The others were charged by immigration for entering the island at an unauthorized entry point and with taking part in an unlawful demonstration.

As I was lifted and carried off, I did not resist but walked. Admittedly the man from "Strike Force" had a pretty firm grip on my arm and was giving me the "wedgie from hell" as he gripped and lifted the back of my trousers and propelled me though the bush towards the waiting police van. When I say waiting, its island time, and the police van actually took about another 20 minutes to show. I tired to engage my new dancing partner in a little friendly banter (conversation): "Hi, I'm mike, what's your name?" Nothing! "Hi can you ease of on the back of my trousers its starting to get a little uncomfortable. And, again, I'd forgot to pack my action pants. Eventually, he broke his vow of silence, "Police Force, that mean FORCE" was all he would say. Ok, I'm good with that, but never one to miss an opportunity: "Greenpeace, that mean PEACE" I grinned. And, it may have been a trick of the by now blinding sun, but I could swear as quick smile made a break for freedom across his otherwise impressively and slightly scary stony face. And the wedgie eased just a little.

Soon the ten of us were cuffed and bundled into the back of the police van, and driven at break speed across the island to Basseterre and the main police station or 'Smack Down' as it is affectionately known by all of those who work on both sides of the St Kitts crime business. Not exactly the guided tour that I had been dreaming of since arriving at the hideously anonymity of the Marriott Hotel for the 58th annual meeting of the IWC, but for a moment it was nice to have the wind in our hair, it would be another 38 hours or so before we would enjoy the sensation again.

Processed and escorted into Smack Down's police recreation area we then awaited to hear our fate, the police initially wary of this rag tag bundle of miscellaneous foreigners were already starting to 'chill' and fall victim to the charm of my mostly Latin compatriots, especially the Latin girls (Barbera, Veroniqua and Ana). We'd even started to watch the football.

Just when everything was looking pretty, except for the obvious anticipation, the not knowing and the loss of liberty, along came the Police Commissioner, other wise known as the chief of police (or the Grumpy one, and not just by us). Immune to our charm and the fact that we were peaceful protesters, not violent criminals, who had 'allegedly' broken some pretty low level laws he set about barking orders and calling for the TV to be switched off and the prisoners to be treated with the disdain they deserved.

Looking straight at me, with a look I remember from my father, a look of pure hatred born of an inexplicable anger inside him that little or nothing to do with me. "Take him! Take Townsley to the punishment cells! Lock this one up!" he spat. So began a 24 hour, or so, stay in the 'stinky cell': Smack Down punishment cell on rations. A stale cheese half baguette and some hideous kids fruit drink in bag twice a day. Some of the guys in there had been getting this treatment for a week now, and were starting to get a bit weird. Up and down they pace manic, and a little unnerving.

The smell, the smell!

Like nothing you can imagine, over powering it invaded and infected my nose and pores in an instant. Even now, 14 hours later it hasn't quite faded. Toilet trips were random, but when you have got to go you've go to go and when you can't anywhere you go where you are! If that makes any sense, and if not, we were pissing in the cell, no need for anything else because we simply weren't being fed enough. Although every now and then one of the charmers in the recreation room would convince a police man to bring me water and a wafer biscuits which I shared with my six new friends.

"I and I say you safe. No worry, you safe" said one of my new friends. "If you want to sleep on da bunk, then you must pay. I and I have this bunk here. You must pay, twenty dollars." Twenty dollars, now I could get an en suite bathroom down town for that. "I don't think so," I replied, trying to sound tough. "I will sleep here at the end of this bunk, if you want to make an issue out of it then ok, but I don't want any trouble." His lips parted, and I wondered would it be a sneer, a prelude to violence? Did I give the wrong answer? Was I about to find out why they called it "Smack Down". The enigma lasted only a few fractions of a second, but honestly it felt like longer, a perfect smile pierced the musty shadows of the 4 square meter cell, "I and I, like you. Respect!" Smack Down averted, I was going to be fine!