Aussie Aussie Aussie...

Two Australians and a New Zealander walk into a bar. This is not the start of a joke.

The late check-in last night came around 10pm. Three dudes with thick accents and surf boards wanted to make sure the bar would still be open after they got settled. I told them it would be - half an hour later when they came down DC was closing up shop. He agreed to sell them some Heinekens as he was not completely closed out, and then followed that up with telling one of them he looked like Eric Bana. This slightly off-sexuality remark was surprisingly well received, and we got into a nice conversation about who they were (Dane, Emmanuel and Johnny) and where they were from (somewhere with strange, non-West-Indian accents).

These guys had led a pretty sweet life before making their way to our bar. They had met in Spain, working on a private yacht, but had each spent time on private yachts all over the world. Tomorrow they would be going to Tortolla or Jost Van Dyke to try to become dive masters at a scuba shop. Their spontaneity and zest for life struck a familiar chord with us, and so we told them if they wanted to keep drinking they could join us back at the apartment.

One hour and five drinks each later, we were taking a taxi east to Red Hook. Fat Boys was the name of the game, as it was karaoke Sunday. The bad news was that the gentleman who normally runs karaoke was sick, so we were out of luck. Instead we were able to negotiate our way onto one of the pool tables and had the first ever international pool competition between Australia and the US. This was no Miracle On Ice, but needless to say we represented and won.

Before all this (and the reason we decided on Red Hook) we met up with Todd, his sister Katie, and her friend Christina (I explain how we know them purely to clarify for those on the outside - these girls are definitely part of the family). Upon arrival, we saw them with an old foe of mine - a shark tank from Duffy's. Deciding I was going to have no part this memory destroying delicious temptation of a beverage, we went to Fat Boys and played the aforementioned game of pool. I looked back halfway through the game and saw Todd, Katie and Christina, each with straw in mouth, draining the goldfish tank that was their cup with relentless determination. It was not until morning, however, that the girls revealed they were faking it and leaving Todd to down the whole thing by himself. Upon hearing the news, I said a little prayer for his liver.

We then moved onto the Caribbean Saloon because it was happy hour (10pm to close... wait who what?!) And had our fair share of the horse racing game, Jageroos and $2 beers before DC challenged Dane to a walk-off, Zoolander style. They claimed to have seen this movie, and that they had intimate knowledge of how a walk-off works. They did not.

From David Bowie's mouth to God's ear, the correct way to walk-off is "First model walks; second model duplicates, then elaborates." The incorrect way to walk-off is to do whatever the heck you want at any point during the song. That's called dancing, Dane, look it up. I don't think I need to tell you that DC won the walk-off (due to Dane's DQ) but he also won the impromptu dance-off that transpired.

The night ended(-ish) and we went back to the apartment. DC fired up one of his power hours and Emmanuel managed to name every movie in the first three seconds of the clip. It was incredible. The man was like a movie encyclopedia. It goes without saying that these guys were varsity drinkers and therefore a welcome part of our life down here in the islands.