Upon arrival in Puerto Rico.
We traded in some frequent flyer miles and headed to Puerto Rico for the day, immediately started drinking limitless Tom Collins's, stretched out on a nudist-black sand beach for a time listening to the constant cast and retrieval of pebbles in the waves, then retreated to a game of darts with Governor Fortuno at his hill-top estate. We were fed peeled grapes by concubines, and fanned by eunuchs. That was tiresome and boring so we set sail in a 55-foot sailboat rented from a grizzled man (one leg and as many teeth) to the tune of Ryan's loafers, which he hadn't been wearing since we de-boarded the plane anyway. Thusly we set out, three men, with two bottles of Grey Goose, one bucket of oysters, and one can of beluga caviar, to the lesser Isla Vieques 8 miles off-shore in search of the legendary Bioluminescent Bay. Upon our arrival the water fulminated into a dalliance light all around us, a glowing gossamer gown in the wind of our presence. And this is how we fell asleep, rocked gently by the cool Atlantic, under a cloudless, moonless night sky, shucking and shooting our oysters, disturbing the ice in our vodkas, staring at the tip of our mast and beyond the tip of our mast, thinking of much but saying little as thin blades of cigar smoke drifted slowly upward toward infinity.
1 comment:
That was a good one.
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