I went to the Bahamas. It was awesome, and I know you’re all just dying to hear about how much better my Christmas vacation was than yours. But first, I think I’ll do a little bitching. Currently, I am nursing the worst hangover I’ve had in quite awhile [I wrote this last week]. I could expect nothing less after consuming an entire fifth of Barbarossa. Literally looking at the word “Barbarossa” typed out on this page is perpetuating my nausea. I don’t remember much of the night, but I distinctly recall puking excessive amounts of a mysterious multi-colored liquid. My dad actually videotaped me when I got back to the apartment to dissuade any doubts about my pitiful situation. I just got up and took a piss and I’m pretty sure my urine was at least 30 proof. It smelled like rum and burned like a motherfucker. This isn’t the first time I’ve had that much to drink, but I usually space it out a lot more, and eat more in preparation. Note: Sushi is not a good pre-boozing food. Should have payed a bit more attention to Tucker Max’s Sushi Pants Story.
Speaking of T Max…just finished his masterpiece, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. Read it
on The Bahamas trip. It’s quite the novel. A couple of people have compared my writing style to Max’s, and while I’m really flattered, I think it’s a bit inaccurate. For one thing, the guy is a complete asshole, and I think my writing’s a bit more tasteful than his. Don’t get me wrong, I was dying the whole time as he (for instance) recounted his first experience with anal, his drunken porking of two-stars, and his fondness for smashing slutty Chapel Hill sorority girls. In reference to the latter, I quote: “At one point I am pretty sure she had my cock and balls in her mouth at once. I didn’t even think that was possible until little Miss Sorority Python came along and unhinged her jaw.”
Okay, moving right along to The much-anticipated Bahamas follies.
Day 1: December 26
It’s the day after Christmas, and I am throw my shit in the car, including my newly-acquired waterproof camera, and head down to Chapel Hill, NC. There, I meet up with the crew: My boy from the Dub, CWoods, his brother, his brother’s friend, and Runyon, Colie’s dad (Sidenote: The guy is a baller who drives the dankest Porsche I’ve seen). From Chapel Hill, the five of us set off for Beaufort, NC where their boat is kept. As soon as we get there and I see it I’m stoked. The thing is dank. Fifty feet long, luxurious, a lot bigger than I expected.
We start setting shit up, and I’m immediately lost. There’s a whole different sailing terminology. It catches you off guard if someone asks you to ease their Jenny and you aren’t used to hearing it. I start realizing that there’s a bit more to this sailing business than
I thought. But I’m encouraged when we go to the grocery store and get a ton of junk, known in the sailing world as “provisions.” One of the crew, Colie’s brother’s friend Steven, bitches that something we get has “MSG” and “HFCS.” We laugh. I laugh inwardly at the fact that I had the same concern.
I’m sleeping on the boat. No seasickness yet, but we haven’t set sail yet so I still have my doubts. I’m lying there drifting off when I hear this voice: “Uhhhh, Runyon, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to go on this trip.” I stop and think for a second. Is this me talking right now? No, it’s Colie’s bro’s friend. The dude was pussying out. Honestly, I could sit here and rip him, but I found out that he had had a rough couple of months, so I definitely can’t hold it against him. So Steven was out. Our crew was now reduced to four.
Day 2: December 27
We set sail. Immediately after leaving the dock, I realize how much of a dumbass I am on a boat. I’m requested to “blow off” one of the ropes, so I untie it and throw it onto the dock. Nope, that was wrong. Colie’s brother jumps off the boat and rushes to grab it. Good
shit, Chad. Dumbass.
Land starts getting smaller and smaller. I snap a quick picture of what will amount
to the last piece of solid ground I will see in five days. The feeling quickly passes, and I begin to start feeling more confident. I think that I’m going to be just fine. I stash my Dramamine in the cabinet below. Fuck seasickness, it must just be some urban legend that sailors use to scare n00bs! Nah, son.
I end up falling asleep at around 8. The boat kind of rocks me to sleep. It’s actually really damn relaxing…for about an hour. I wake up at 9:30 and I feel this odd cold feeling creeping up my stomach and into my throat. Could this be?.....no. I will not be getting seasick. I decide to climb up to the cockpit for good measure.
It’s storming, and the boat’s rocking hard. I look out at the horizon, and everything starts spinning. I lean over the side and…burp. I’m fine. I’m fucking fine! No, I’m not fine. Five minutes later, my stomach’s coughed up pounds of food it’s been hiding in there over the past couple days. I’ve got Brunswick stew in my nose, and the unmistakable taste of potato chips mixed with bile in the back of my throat. This will become the norm for the next three days.
Day 3: December 28
This day was consumed in shittyness. At this point, we were more than 100 miles away from the nearest land mass, and I was continually heaving up any and all contents in my stomach. I’d describe the feeling as such: Your skin and hair feel as though someone drunkenly pissed on you and you’ve yet to take a shower. Your mouth tastes like a pair of hairy balls have been shoved in and out of your mouth violently, producing a froth of nut-sweat and pubes that can’t be cleansed out. Your head is in a state of the world’s worst hangover, coupled with still being drunk as fuck because the boat is rocking back and forth and nothing is steady. You’re freezing…or are you burning up? It’s impossible to say, so you’re stripping and clothing and repeating this process at alarming rates. You have to piss (and shit) really bad but you don’t want to go down below to do so because you know you’ll yack as soon as you do.
It wasn’t a fun day, but it did produce a slogan that would be used for the duration of the trip: “bragger-fuck.” Colie was bragging about some shit, I’m not exactly what exactly. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know at the time, I just knew that he was running his mouth and I wasn’t in the mood to hear it so in between yackings I just groaned, “Shut up, ya bragger fuck.” Runyon liked it so much that it became a regular phrase on the boat.
Day 4: December 29
I was still getting sick on this day, and it was really becoming a problem because I hadn’t eaten anything in two days. My inner ear kept telling my stomach that I had to throw up, and my stomach was following the order like a little bitch, but unfortunately there was no substance to be yacked. Well, of course there’s always bile, but I’d rather not get into the taste of that. Eventually, everything changed to dry heaving, and finally, late in the afternoon, I was completely over it. However, my appetite wasn’t back in the least, which pissed me off greatly. I had probably shed about ten pounds at this point, and while I’m always looking for a good way to trim the ol beer gut, I wished there had been a better way.
We had been having watches during the night, where each guy stays up for a couple hours and makes sure that nothing too bad goes on and no sails have to be pulled in or anything. Seasickness had exempted me from these for the first two nights, but finally I was deemed in good enough shape to take my watch. I had the 10-12 shift and the 6-8 shift. I’m not gonna lie, they were rough as hell. Fortunately I had Runyon to keep me company, and the guy is one of the funniest I’ve met, so it wasn’t all that bad. And you really can’t beat the view of the stars out in the middle of the Atlantic at 1 am. The only bitch of it was having to do a ton of shit to the sails. It’s a lot harder than you’d think, especially if you aren’t used to it whatsoever.
Day 5: December 30
I came to a painful realization in the morning: I will never eat a Hostess Sweet 16 Donut ever again. As Colie and Runyon stuffed their face full of what I had previously considered powdery, sugary goodness, I felt like I was about to start throwing up again. I guess that was just one of the effects of the seasickness. So far, I haven’t found any other food item that I have completely lost the taste for from that trip, although last week’s consumption of a fifth after Sushi Night has me boycotting that food item indefinitely.
But my appetite, other than the Sweet 16s, was returning. I ate hefty lunches and dinners, and I was able to meander down below and take a nap during the day. It was good shit. I could even read some pages of I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell without getting queasy. As I ride through Max’s many trials and tribulations with women of all sorts, I began to realize that my nut hadn’t been released in approximately 6 days. I began to panic a bit. I took a few deep breaths, thought of sweaty JCC men naked in the locker room, and it passed.
Day 6: December 31
As I started feeling better, I started getting really desperate to be on land. Despite the fact that sailing was growing on me and I was becoming a seasoned veteran of the High Seas, I was really ready to get to The Bahamas and get all boozed up. Fortunately, I was in such a state that I deemed my stomach in good enough condition for alcohol consumption while on the boat. It was hard enough watching everyone drink throughout the trip and knowing that I couldn’t do it because it would come right back up in about ten seconds, and it was also New Year’s Eve. It was time that Chad Thomas had some drink. And the alcohol of choice (wine and good beer, UniBroue (if you aren’t familiar, get on that shit, tis dank)) certainly beat out the Natty Lite I had become accustomed to down at The Dub.
New Year’s itself passed unacknowledged. I had a midnight shift, and looked at the clock on the GPS to see that it was 12:05 am on January 1st, 2009. I made a quick resolution and moved on. New Year’s is a bit overrated if you ask me. It’s an excuse for people with weak wills to wait until the end of the year to change things, stick with it for about a week, and then say “Well, I tried.” Yes, I’m one of those people.
Day 7: January 1
Around 11 am we sighted land. I just about broke down and cried. Almost immediately the water began to become really shallow and blue, and I knew that our destination had almost been reached. I began to flip my shit with glee, running back and forth as best I could on the boat deck without falling into the water. Preparations were being made by Colie and Russell to dock the boat. I stood there with my thumb up my ass. Nobody seemed to mind.
We dock, and of course the first thing Colie and I do (once all of the necessary stowings and organizings and checking-ins have been made) is hit up the bar which is located a convenient 50 yards from the boat. We pick up a couple Pina Coladas and start things off right. I think we started to explore a little bit after that, but of course we made our way back to the bar, where we truly belonged. Colie went back to the boat to finish up some work and I became the designated “drink-fetcher.” I ordered four more Pina Coladas and, sloshing them onto my pants and shirt, drank all the rum off the tops of each before handing them over to my comrades on the boat.
Still more work to be done on the boat, but finally we were released from the throes of Runyon to officially get our drink on. Russell, Colie, and I settled in at the bar for the night. We struck up a good conversation with one if the bartenders. I think his name was Tomiko or something along those lines. I didn’t catch the female’s name, but she kept hooking Colie and I up with drink after drink.
Later, perhaps around 10 pm, I had some forty-year-old woman all over me at the bar. It was a little bit ridiculous, especially when her kid came up and said “Mom, can I get some chicken fingers??” and she introduced me to the squirt. At that point, I excused myself and went back to the boat. Colie and I shared a quick smoke, and I guess some time after that I passed out on the boat. When I woke up, I had my legs inside the arms of my jacket, I guess for warmth. Colie questioned me on it. I couldn’t give him an answer. Mission to get drunk the first night in The Bahamas? Achieved.
Day 8: January 2
We all wake up late and hung over. Russell tells us the tale of what he did the previous night. He had been trying to get with some girl at the bar, and realized that she was actually there with some guy, but had still gone and hung out with all of them afterward. They smoked him up and gave him some really dank beer. I was pissed I had passed out so early. They let him know of some sick night club there on the island, so we had a good plan going for the night.
At around 2pm, we’re chillin with some Kalik Golds (The Budweiser equivalent to The Bahamas) and some Conch burgers (if you haven’t had them, you haven’t lived) when Runyon informs us that he thinks we should probably depart for a second destination, Leonard Cay, a day early, meaning today. I’m a little skeptical of the decision but I decide to go along with it, as do Colie and Russell. So, after finishing up lunch, we head off.
Sidenote: Runyon’s obviously in very good spirits, attributed to the fact that he has flown his girlfriend, Yu-Yee (positive I butchered that spelling), down to join us for the duration of the trip. I love seeing an old man in love, and give a silent prayer to the big guy up there that my dad will find the same one day.
We check out of the hotel. Runyon gets the nose that we dropped nearly a grand the night before at the bar. He’s no longer in such a great mood.
We get to Leonard Cay around 4:30. Colie and I are stoked because we’re finally going to be able to do some swimming. I’m swinging my sunglasses around over the side of the deck and like a FUCKING DUMBASS I drop them. Sorry for the blantant caps-locked cursing, but it still really pisses me off that I did this shit. So they go over the edge and I’m thinking about jumping overboard to get them but then I hear Runyon yell “Don’t jump!” So I stop and watch as they sink deep into the abyss. But I’m optimistic. The water’s clear as hell.
Colie and I jump in and are surprised at how cold the water is. Granted, it’s in the shade, but we thought it’d be a little better than this. We do a quick search on the bottom for the glasses, and I actually think I’ve spotted them. Colie goes down with the net, and sure enough, it’s…no, it’s just a damn sea cucumber. We look for a little while longer, and finally I come to the realization that we aren’t going to find them. It sucks ass, and definitely puts a damper on my day.
My spirits are lifted with a few good glasses of wine at dinner and a really nice night. We’re tied into a mooring, which basically means that we’re out in the middle of the water, not tied into a dock or anything. It’s pretty damn cool, and I decide to let my spirits rise a bit despite the fact that I just dropped $120 sunglasses into the toilet bowl of the world.
Day 9: January 3
You might have been reading this blog and thinking “God damn this trip sounds boring as shit, I mean yes they are drinking and in The Bahamas and shit but god this things sux lololol@!” Well, you’re in luck, because this is where shit starts to get interesting.
I’ll skip over the sail to Spanish Wells, and just tell you about the time we spent there. We got there around 3 pm, and started to explore the town. Something’s off. Really off. Everyone here is…white…what the hell? One of Runyon’s friends had said something about it being unsafe for black people to be on Spanish Wells after dark. Shit…Russell’s got dreads…you think they’d…nah, it’ll be straight. But it’s pretty fucked up.
So yeah, we’re walking around and at almost every house, there’s a little sign at the door that says “Welcome to The Pinder’s” or “Pinder Residence” or “Home of the Pinder’s” or just “Pinder.” We walk around some more. “Pinder’s Supermarket” and “Pinder’s Gas” and “Pinder Graveyard.” Fittingly, most of the stones say “Pinder.” I decide this is quite possibly the strangest place I have been to. I think Colie put it best: “It’s almost like they carved up a piece of rural West Virginia, painted all the buildings in flamboyant colors, and put it in The Bahamas.” And yes, it does seem like there are many aspects of West Virginia in this place, among them incestuous actions. Hey, I’m not making any accusations, but there are WAY too many Pinders in this town.
We go to dinner. At the first restaurant, they’re “All booked up.” Second restaurant, same deal. Finally, we get a table at the third place. Our waitress, Deanne, is banging. I temporarily put the thought that she was probably conceived through first cousins out of my mind for the moment. The girl’s quite attractive, and she’s got the cutest accent. Runyon, being the lady’s man that he is, starts flirting with her innocently right away: “What ya havin?” “What do you suggest??” “Ehhh, Ham’s good.” “Ham it is wink.” I try to take a card out of his book, but I’m pretty sure I sounded like a dumbass.
I ordered (and I’m still a bit ashamed about this) Turtle for dinner, as did Colie and Russell. To be honest, it really wasn’t that great. All I could really taste was the breading. We concluded that the turtles were probably captured as bi-catch, and that they weren’t actually killing them on purpose, but rather just because they were there.
I looked around at dinner. I didn’t know if I was just imagining this, but it seemed like over half the people around us had the exact same facial features: Huge forehead, beady eyes. There were also a few people in wheelchairs with obvious birth defects. I asked my comrades whether they had noticed any of this, and they said they had indeed. It began to feel like some sort of big family reunion, except…it was a town. My appetite decreased slightly.
Runyon hooked Deanne up with an exorbitant tip at the end of the meal, and I marveled at his game. I gave Deanne a bit of a wink at the end of the meal and she giggled a bit. Layin a base, layin a base.
Night falls, and we simply refuse to spend it on the boat listening to the love sounds of Runyon and Yu Yee. We grab a sixer of Coronas and take the dinghy over to the mainland to see what a Saturday night in Spanish Wells consists of. Our answer? Everyone just….drives around. Literally everyone in the town just gets in their cars and circles the island, which happens to be two miles long and half a mile wide. It is one of the strangest things I have ever witnessed. One particular car, a group of three girls seemingly around our ages, goes by us again and again. You can tell that they’re taking shortcuts to keep passing us. Each time, they honk their horn and yell. I like the attention they’re giving us, and begin to think of myself as a celebrity in some foreign country. I ride this ego trip for the rest of the night.
We finally flag down the girls. I ask them what they’re up to tonight. “Ehh, probly jus drive around a bit moh,” says one of them. I stare at her as if she were bleeding from her eyes. She just looks at me and says “Uhhh, what?” I snap myself back to reality. Russell asks them if they know of any parties. They claim there’s one at the end of the island, so we hop in and the chauffer us there.
It’s a tight squeeze in the car, and I strike up a conversation with the girl to my left. She isn’t very cute, and upon further inquiry, she’s fifteen. I’ve only had two beers. No thanks, sweetheart. She turns to Colie, who’s face is being smashed by Russell’s ass. “You don’t talk much,” she says. He gives a muffled response of “Uhh, look.” We ask them how they get weed, or even alcohol (it’s illegal on the island). They say, if WE’RE into that, there are ways to get it. We start to think these girls may not be our style.
They drop as at the party but stay in the car. “Aren’t you guys comin in?” I ask. “Nahhh….we’re just gonna….drive around a bit more.” “Hmmmm….okay.” They drive off, and we head toward the party. I see it from a distance. Visions of locals stabbing me with bootknifes pop into my head. I think the other two got similar ones. Without saying a word, we turn around and start to head back.
As we’re going, a Jeep passes, and they yell something along the lines of “Rastah, yahhhhhhhhh man!!!!” obviously referring to Russell’s dreads. Russ doesn’t stand for that shit, and yells at them to come back. They pop it in reverse, and what I thought was going to be a terse confrontation turns into friendly conversation.
Russ “Hey guys, what’s up, what are you guys doin tonight?”
Guys “Ah, get ya mind right, smoke weed, ya?” (Holds up a freshly-rolled blunt)
Russ “Ha, yeah man, I feel ya on that.”
Guys “Ya…” Okay I’m not going to dwell on this conversation because it led to nowhere. The next one, however, would define our night. As we were talking to the guys in the Jeep, a guy in a tricked out golf cart (common here) rolled up behind them and started forcing them to move. Once they had pulled off, the golf cart guy pulls up to us.
Guy “Ay guys, wat ya doin?”
Us “Not much, just lookin for something to do. Heading back to our boat now I think.
Guy “Ah well ya guys came in today right? I give ya a ride.”
We hop on to the cart. In a last-ditch effort, Russell inquires about any more parties to be had. “Parties?” says the guy, “Hell fuckin yeah I know a party!” With that, our night got turned upside down.
We pull up to this house. There are tons of cars and golf carts parked outside, and there are people everywhere. There’s loud music inside. The guy takes us in and starts introducing us to everyone. Russell, with the dreads, is an instant hit. Everyone wants to smoke weed with him. Colie and I are deemed “pretty boys” initially, and about ten minutes later everyone thinks that we are fucking Jonas Brothers. I love this shit. We’re just going with it. Everyone adores us.
The house owner walks up to us. “Here is your rum,” and he hands us a handle of some dank Bacardi Anejo. He points to the Coca Cola. We fix ourselves some strong drinks and let the night come to us.
I don’t think I had less than ten people around me at all times. Apparently it’s this one middle-aged woman’s birthday and she keeps coming up to me and Colie and grabbing our asses. The rum’s going back fast and I could care less. Colie strikes up a conversation with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Victoria Beckham. I’m instantly jealous, and begin chanting “I want a girl! I want a girl!” One of the guys pulls me aside and says “Dude, she’s dying to talk to you.” He points to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Perfect body, gorgeous blonde hair, and perhaps….fifty years old. I don’t give a fuck, I’m loving this shit. “Yeah man, let’s do it!!!”
He leads me over and introduces me. I have no idea what her name was, but I know that she was by far the hottest fifty-year-old I had ever seen. My first instinct is to somehow set her up with my dad but then I realize, Dad’s not here…..this is for me!
We get to talking, and she asks me how old I am. “Twenty” I casually say. She laughs. “I’ve got a son older than you.” I grin sheepishly, “Oh man!” She looks at me with surprise. “I didn’t say that was a bad thing.” This is ridiculous. This fifty-year-old woman is into me. I guess living on an island where half the people are Pinders really could drive you crazy.
I was schwasted at this point, so I couldn’t tell you what our conversation consisted of. I know I said something about my waitress at dinner, Deanne, and she guaranteed that if we stayed tomorrow she could set us up on a date. I considered the notion for a moment, and then realized that it probably was not the brightest idea to get involved with a girl from Spanish Wells, or I myself might get roped in and ultimately become a Pinder myself. I shuddered at the thought. It only made sense in my drunken mind.
At this party, there are all these people who apparently used to be married to eachother and are now divorced and engaged to other people at the party, so that’s awkward. The two resident gay guys of the island are there, so that’s awkward. I’m in The Bahamas surrounded by white people, so that’s really awkward. I ask one of the guys what the deal is with race on the island. I get the least straightforward answer I’ve ever received. “Eh…it’s like…it’s just like…it comes to a point where…ya just, ya know, ya gotta just have the separation.” I sit there, jaw open. Okay, blatantly racist white people in The Bahamas. I see why these people never leave their island. Their asses would get shot.
While all this is happening there are these little girls that are circling me and trying to catch my eye. I wave at a couple of them and give them a little grin and a wink. They scream and giggle. They really fucking think I am a Jonas Brother! I’m not sure how I feel about that…or about how there are little kids, people my age, middle-aged, and even old people all at the same party. Everything is one of those things that’s on the border of cool and creepy. As I said, I’m drunk, so I’ll definitely place it on the cool side. In the morning, I might change my mind, but for now, it’s all working.
This night is just clicking. I’m drinking and I’m smoking (a bit, just a weebit) and I’m talking to this cougar and I’m looking around at my boys and seeing that they’re destined for good nights as well. All of a sudden, the bomb that would shatter our night is dropped. Skipper Runyon Woods calls Russell and demands that we head back to the boat immediately. It’s around 2 am and we hadn’t called to tell him that we were staying out for this long, and he is freaking the fuck out. Rightfully so, I’d say. We make the long walk back to the dinghy and get to the boat. He’s calmed down a lot by then, thanks to Yu Yee. Nothing like a good woman to calm a man down. Fortunately, we’re allowed to just go to sleep instead of bearing Runyon’s wrath.
I’m sure Russell and Colie are pissed about missing out on what could have been. I am, for about a second. And then, I sober up slightly, and realize that, although I would have bragging rights for life for hooking up with a fifty year old…I would also have to go through life knowing that I hooked up with a fifty year old. I don’t think I’m ready to bear that burden.
Days 10 and 11: January 4 and 5
I won’t dwell on these two days because nothing too eventful occurred on them. I was a bit depressed that the trip was coming to an end. Of note on these two days:
· Went to Hatchett Bay. Place kinda sucks
· Got some Cuban cigars. If you’re interested, let me know, I got you!
· Skipped out on a beer tab at the Nassau airport
· The airline lost Colie’s bag when we got to Raleigh; He was pissed as fuck.
So yeah, that was The Bahamas. Next up, the story of my nutsack, which has currently swelled to the size of a miniature basketball!
to highschool with a kid who actually said that, as seen on the graphic at right. I wonder if either of those guys went to community college…)? I used to say that to myself about Michael Cera. But now, I’m just not so sure. I think this guy is almost TOO awkward to be me, and what’s more, his role never changes. Superbad. Juno. This most recent number, Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. All The damn same, and I’m getting a little tired of it. Maybe I’m more like Jim Halpert… 
