Several months ago when the Southerner asked me if I would like to go on a trip with his family to the British Virgin Islands on a private sailboat with a captain and chef my initial answer was “not really.” I know I am highly regarded as well on my way to crazy-town already, and any other person would have interpreted the words ” islands, captain, and chef” as a no-brainer. Me, I like to complicate things in my head. Visions of living on a boat with the 7 members of his family for six straight days made my anxiety level just shoot through the roof. What if they didn’t like me? What if they noticed how hairy I am in a bikini? What if I got sea-sick and puked on his dad? Or the more likely scenario, what if I got drunk and made a total ass of myself?
However, when I called my mom and told her that I had been invited and still hadn’t made up my mind she made it for me with these simple words, “When are you going to stop being so fucking crazy?” (Note: Just in case my mother ever reads this, my mother does not really use the F-word in English. She uses it in Spanish. Which doesn’t count.)
So last Saturday me and the Southerner’s family landed in Tortola and made our way to the boat and shocker of shockers, I had one of the most amazing and relaxing vacations of my life. I didn’t throw up on anyone, even though I had my fair share of sea-sickness. I did get drunk and make an ass of myself, but it turns out that this is totally acceptable in his family. At least on vacation anyway. I even earned a new nickname from his dad which I totally love, Latin Pepper. This nickname may or may not have something to do with the me getting drunk and making an ass of myself part.
For 6 awesome days we sailed to several different islands, did some incredible snorkeling, ate lobster, danced, played Cranium, and drank. I genuinely was made to feel like one of the family and have never had so much fun or felt more comfortable with another family other than my own.
Thanks to our thoughtful captain, we got to watch the US World Cup match against Slovenia in a bar and even though the referees were so obviously high on crack I could see the pipe coming out of their a-holes, I will never forget the memory of the seven of us in a British-owned bar screaming our asses off each time the US scored.