July 1st, 2011 5:38pm - San Blas=Drunken Paradise

Throughout our stay on Tony's Island, Jack Sparrow blasted music powered by his generator. I enjoy music as much as I do food. I was ecstatic that we didn't have to try and rig up some speakers with our supplies. Between us, we had a battery, a paperclip, and twelve bottles of rum. I delighted in the luxury of constant music. The other backpackers regarded the music with crushing devastation. For them, it was on the same disappointment level as their parents eating all of their Halloween candy.
Jack Sparrow only played his three favorite songs. On repeat. The first day, he played the same song thirteen times in a row.
"This song is a cunt bag! I can't take it anymore," Seanog yelled and skipped to the next song.
Jack Sparrow noticed and swerved towards us, a bottle of rum in one hand and the baby in the other. He started the song over and lectured us not to touch his music. For the next three days, we listened to the same three songs. It was a good run if we'd get three different songs in a row. That happened once.

Day one, Jack Sparrow stumbled around the island screaming obscenities, smoking joints, and wobbling between Israeli supermodel breasts and drunken backpackers. 
Day two, Jack Sparrow was awesome, and the leprechaun on steroids had burnt the shit out of his body. It looked like his giant leprechaun body had been dipped in red paint.
We awoke in our bamboo tents, washed off in the ocean, and congregated in the feeding area at 9am. Jack Sparrow immediately distributed beer, and we began playing drinking games. After three rounds of Fuck the Dealer, Jack Sparrow introduced us to his game. He piled a pack of cards on the top of a beer bottle. The first person held the beer, removed the top card, and passed the bottle to the next person in the circle without knocking off any cards. Whenever a card fell off, whoever had failed at life shotgunned a beer.

After a few rounds, drunken logic and invented rules prevailed. Blowing on the cards and smashing the table with fists were allowed. Chants were involved. A pink laundry clip was introduced. Whoever had the clip attached it to someone else, waited a few minutes, and then screamed, "where's the clip?!" Everyone frantically searched their backs, heads, and shoulders. You could only search yourself. If the clip wasn't located within six seconds, whoever lost chugged a beer.

Whenever someone was responsible for a card falling off, they shotgunned a beer and then everyone else agreed on another activity they had to do. Jack Sparrow climbed a palm tree, I pole danced, and one of the Canadians went under the table until we decided it was time for someone else to be the troll. 

Jack Sparrow told us that the baby's parents had died in the Kuna wars, and he adopted him. Jack Sparrow then erected a bottle of rum and chugged five sips.

That night, we sat in a circle in the sand, listened to the same three songs on repeat, and played drinking games. Drinking games are a more effective bonding method than being born siblings. As I sat on the sand, I realized how much I adore skinny dipping, especially in developing countries. As long as the locals aren't sitting on your clothes when you emerge out of the water, skinny-dipping is a sick-ass thing to do.

I walked around the island in six minutes. Israelis were everywhere, and I preferred not to display my tiny little breasts and naked body in front of the people I'd been traveling with for a week.

I stripped and dove into the water in the only spot without people sitting on the beach. I landed in coral. It was in my hands and stomach. I internally debated with the rum talking in my head. The rum won, and I swam out farther. I floated on my back away from the shore for five minutes before trying to step down. I smashed my foot in coral. Coral was everywhere. And I was naked. I floated on my back again to return to shore. When I crawled onto the sand, coral was in my arms, legs, feet, hands, stomach, and ass. A minuscule amount had imbedded itself in my face. Four days later, my ass still hurt.
One of the Canadians, we'll call him Crazy, went a little nuts on the rum. He dominated as the troll under the table, he guzzled rum like an alcoholic, he passed out on his bed with one foot on the floor, and he felt like death during the Jeep ride back to Panama City.