It was a cold and frosty night in December for the rest of my comrades to the north, but in the Virgin Islands it was an ideal Saturday. Eighty-five degrees... not a cloud in the sky... and DC and I were on a ferry boating our way over to St. John for a night with Brent and Greg. The plan was simple: these gentlemen knew some ladies that happened to be in St. John for the night. They also happened to be at our favorite watering hole, the Tap Room. At first glance, this made sense. We were in for an incredible night.
The next morning I found myself sitting on a cooler in the back of a Jeep Wrangler, vomiting as it was speeding away, holding on to my mimosa and the car's frame for dear life. What follows is what happened in between.
We get off the ferry and we're in no rush, so we decide to stop for a drink at Larry's. Please mind you that Larry's is a "pour your own" establishment, and curse my heavy hand. So after a nice cocktail there we make our way over to the destination for the night: the Tap Room. One thing that Greg and Brent had properly informed us about turned out to be true; there were plenty of girls. One thing that they failed to properly inform us about was that it was an ugly sweater/best mustache Christmas party. Never one to let an awkward situation ruin the night, I called in my go-to signature move... drink heavily.
Minutes after arriving I was in no shape to try to talk to girls, and that's when I looked across the room and saw a familiar friend in the same situation: DC was drunk too. Now I have no way to confirm this, but I'm quite positive the ensuing conversation was held telepathically. I say this for two reasons: 1. We were across the room from each other and there was no way we could hear each other and 2. Neither of us could form words.
In our exquisite state of mind we decide its a beautiful night outside, and we should definitely go camping. We walk down the stairs, walk into the woods, find a nice patch of dirt and pass out. I awake 20 minutes later to the sound of a familiar voice - Greg was calling out for us. Apparently he saw us walking into the woods and decided it was someone else's responsibility to keep the iguanas company. I wake DC up and we reappear in the parking lot, much to Greg's delight. Deciding it was a good idea to get us as far away from the woods as possible, he suggested we move the whole group to the Beach Bar.
Same story, different venue. Minutes after getting to the beach bar, DC and I came to a realization: sleeping in the woods was a terrible idea. For so many reasons. Mostly because we could easily have just slept on the beach. We stumble off and find a nice fallen tree to lie under and once again pass out. Once again, about twenty minutes later, Greg comes by and wakes us up. We had tried the woods, we had tried the beach, but apparently the only place that was acceptable to sleep that night was on half of a couch at Brent's friend's place that was only like a 45 minute walk away. Its a good thing we didn't take the wrong street with a 45 degree incline like eight times, that would have taken a long time.
Morning comes, we wake up, we catch the ferry, and we're back in Red Hook. Molly Malone's for breakfast - possibly the best breakfast joint on island. I got bottomless mimosas and a breakfast burrito that used a pancake in place of the tortilla. It blew my mind. And so, we raised our glasses. We had survived another night of ridiculous debauchery. Greg drove us home, I puked, end of story. If at this point you're probably as tired of reading as I am of writing, so there's no clever last line to pull everything together. Don't worry you'll survive.
The next morning I found myself sitting on a cooler in the back of a Jeep Wrangler, vomiting as it was speeding away, holding on to my mimosa and the car's frame for dear life. What follows is what happened in between.
We get off the ferry and we're in no rush, so we decide to stop for a drink at Larry's. Please mind you that Larry's is a "pour your own" establishment, and curse my heavy hand. So after a nice cocktail there we make our way over to the destination for the night: the Tap Room. One thing that Greg and Brent had properly informed us about turned out to be true; there were plenty of girls. One thing that they failed to properly inform us about was that it was an ugly sweater/best mustache Christmas party. Never one to let an awkward situation ruin the night, I called in my go-to signature move... drink heavily.
Minutes after arriving I was in no shape to try to talk to girls, and that's when I looked across the room and saw a familiar friend in the same situation: DC was drunk too. Now I have no way to confirm this, but I'm quite positive the ensuing conversation was held telepathically. I say this for two reasons: 1. We were across the room from each other and there was no way we could hear each other and 2. Neither of us could form words.
In our exquisite state of mind we decide its a beautiful night outside, and we should definitely go camping. We walk down the stairs, walk into the woods, find a nice patch of dirt and pass out. I awake 20 minutes later to the sound of a familiar voice - Greg was calling out for us. Apparently he saw us walking into the woods and decided it was someone else's responsibility to keep the iguanas company. I wake DC up and we reappear in the parking lot, much to Greg's delight. Deciding it was a good idea to get us as far away from the woods as possible, he suggested we move the whole group to the Beach Bar.
Same story, different venue. Minutes after getting to the beach bar, DC and I came to a realization: sleeping in the woods was a terrible idea. For so many reasons. Mostly because we could easily have just slept on the beach. We stumble off and find a nice fallen tree to lie under and once again pass out. Once again, about twenty minutes later, Greg comes by and wakes us up. We had tried the woods, we had tried the beach, but apparently the only place that was acceptable to sleep that night was on half of a couch at Brent's friend's place that was only like a 45 minute walk away. Its a good thing we didn't take the wrong street with a 45 degree incline like eight times, that would have taken a long time.
Morning comes, we wake up, we catch the ferry, and we're back in Red Hook. Molly Malone's for breakfast - possibly the best breakfast joint on island. I got bottomless mimosas and a breakfast burrito that used a pancake in place of the tortilla. It blew my mind. And so, we raised our glasses. We had survived another night of ridiculous debauchery. Greg drove us home, I puked, end of story. If at this point you're probably as tired of reading as I am of writing, so there's no clever last line to pull everything together. Don't worry you'll survive.
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