Within the many square miles that make up the realm of the British Virgin Islands, there are some fabulous islands. We would be seeing quite a few on this trip. When we had first started talking about taking a vacation together, I happened to mention that the BVI would offer us a wide breath of experiences - from down and at-'em island bars with sandy floors to the most exotic, exclusive island retreats.

Yeah, I've spent a fair amount of time sailing these waters and frolicking on some of these islands. So, I was asked for suggestions - and from there came our itinerary. One of the requests I'd been given was to find an island or part of an island where we might have a private beach party. Hah. I knew just the place.

It's not on any landlubber's chart, so don't bother looking. But if you ever sail around the islands and get to know some of the ex-pats who spend their days slopping out a living and praying they never have to go home, they may tell you about a speck called Goat Island.

Goat Island is a place no one in their right mind would live on. But some fun ex-pat, British of course, had managed to build this personable bar / restaurant on the only beach on the island. It faced a lagoon of sorts that was sheltered by a sharp, shallow reef. Sailboats could only anchor outside the reef's treachery; there was only one slight break in the reef and little dinghies from the larger boats could manage to pluck their way through it to shuttle you in to the beach.

Other than this immediate area around the beach, everything else on the island was feral and nearly impenetrable. But the guy who owned this island only ever wanted to tame the part of it he did. He generally kept the bar / restaurant open only during the day; and then simply if he really felt like it. And, okay, I'm the first to admit. It wasn't the prettiest looking place we'd stop at on this trip. But it was funky and I had always had a blast there.

Everyone but Stephen gave this kind of mass "ugh" as we anchored off shore. Goat Island didn't look so promising to them. 

"Have faith. Have I led you wrong yet?" I told them when they asked me if, perhaps, Jack had steered us to the wrong island. "Goat Island is a gem of a place."

The owner is a sea-weathered guy from some dank city in England where they make people bitter and cold, he told me the first time I was ever there. Manchester, I think he told me. I didn't tell Uma - figured she'd scope out the accent before long.

Anyway, Bibbie Bean, as he's known in the BVI, greeted our arrival with the wicked boom of this relic of a cannon that made Jack, Killick and Stephen smile. And then he cranked up this old recording he always played when happy hour started. Recorded bagpipes played "Amazing Grace" and I felt charmed again. I loved this island. It was made to waste the hours in indulgent lassitude.

I'd written Bibbie Bean when we first started planning the trip. He'd emailed me back and it had cracked me up to think of that old tankard of a coot knowing what a computer was, much less having access to email. When I asked him about that, he reminded me that he lived on nearby Norman Island, which actually had permanent structures and modern conveniences, including Internet access.

Every morning he felt like working, he and his three dogs of indeterminate origins made the trip over to Goat Island to fill the coolers and sweep away the detritus of the day before. His helpers, who were his family and whatever friends needed money, would show up a few hours later. In the summer, the group passed the days quietly, having few visitors since it was the low season. They cooked whatever Bibbie Bean felt like cooking for whoever might stop by to waste time. But they always had Red Stripe and Guinness on ice. What boaters who came generally knew what to expect so the Bean and his people had a nice life.

I asked Bibbie Bean, the first time I was there, why he served Guinness and not a British beer. I got an expletive-laden diatribe on the vagaries of importing British beers and how some day the day would come when he'd have the right number of good, honest beer drinkers visiting to justify the expense of getting Courage fresh and on draft.

When he'd said it to me, everybody in the bar hooted at that. Seems the Bean had been saying that "some day" bit for a good many days. And I realized something about that - the Bean no more wanted that day to come than any of his regulars did.

For this trip, I talked Bibbie Bean into letting us pay whatever it took to simply rent out the island. I wanted us to have the afternoon there to relax and swim; then, I wanted us to have the night to have an honest-to-goodness pig roast as only the Bean and his clan could do it. We negotiated a price and the Bean put out the word to his regulars - the island was closed that day despite what it might have looked like.

Dino had not blinked an eye at the cost of the day and evening. Then again, it was cheap compared to some of the other things we were doing. However, he gave me a long look as we waded ashore from the dinghy.

"Come have a drink with me," I told him as Killick took the dinghy back to get anyone else ready to come to shore. I drew Dino into the coolness of the Bean's place. One Guinness later and Dino was chilling out a bit. We walked around with Bibbie Bean and saw where his son was watching over the buried pig that was already roasting slowly under the sand, covered in hoary sea grape leaves that separated the spices and meat from the hot coals that cooked them into something truly divine. By the time we dug it out that evening, the meat would be so succulent and tender that we'd not need knives to cut it.

Another Guinness and Dino was beginning to see this place's charms. At the time, we were standing nearly knee deep in the sheltered water, soft white sand beneath our toes, and drinking our beer.

"Sit," I ordered him.

He plopped in the water and looked up at me. I waited. Sipped. Breathed in the air. Sipped. Waited. And then I heard him sigh and looked down to find him sliding down to rest on his elbows. About all that was out of the water was his beer and his face. I giggled at him and walked off. He was finally in the right mood to enjoy Goat Island. A place you went to when you wanted to do nothing more taxing that hold your beer out of the little waves that oozed in toward the shore.

By the time I got back from talking with the Bean about music, games and food, we were both feeling like we'd done way more work than should have been necessary on this little speck of rock.

Bibbie Bean pointed out to where I'd left Dino. We looked at each other and shook our heads. There were about a dozen heads out there bobbing with Dino's and most of those people had a hand holding some kind of drink out of the water.

"Your pals needed a break today," Bibbie Bean said with a smirk.

"Yeah, because we've been hard at it for a week," I said with the right trace of sarcasm. But I didn't say hard at what. Or what had been hard. Christ - did I really think that out loud?

About an hour later, I snugged on my mask, snorkel and fins. Took off around the western part of the sheltered area and began exploring the closest reef, which was just off the little abandoned jetty. I'd talked a few of the others into coming with me on this easy snorkel trip. Among those who came, Stephen stuck right with me and it was a contest to see which of us stopped to pick up more stuff to look at and show the other.

By the time we returned, a spirited beach volleyball tourney had begun. Max and Bou were taking on Hando and Teener. Waiting to take on the winner were Paul and Jeff. Others were still relaxing with Dino.

Someone asked if Terry and Uma, who were swaying together in one of the half-dozen hammocks set up under some sheltering sea grapes, had perhaps already been eliminated from the volleyball tourney. One of the other women made a snide crack about Uma and how she'd probably refused to hit the ball for fear she would break a nail. And then she imitated how that must have gone over with Uma's partner.

By the time Bibbie Bean and his crew were dishing up the roast pork, jerked lobster, conch firtters, grilled fish and assorted other morsels for dinner, we had all worked up decent appetites. We took our plates and plopped down in the sand around the huge bonfire that had been lit to give us light as the sun disappeared. Most of the other light on the island was provided by an odd menagerie of torches. They outlined the paths to the Bean's bar so we could find the other essentials of the night: more to drink and the bathrooms. There were also torches that lit the volleyball court, and more that provided the light that would be needed around this wide area where a limbo pole was set up.

Jack and Killick had spent the afternoon restoring the Bean's ancient gas-powered generator so we'd have reliable power for the stereo system as well as for some indoor lighting inside the bar.

When night really began clamping in on us, Bibbie Bean and his group bid us goodbye and took off in their dinghy. About fifteen minutes later, we heard the throaty roar of the Bean's huge motorboat as it came to life and then the sound receded into the darkness as they left us alone. And that was it. We had this deserted island to ourselves.

It seemed the perfect setting for some mayhem and games. Or not.

"How about we have our own version of Survivor?" someone asked.

"This would be a good time for us to slip away," I whispered to Jack as I rose to my feet ... but we didn't move quickly enough.

"Let's just start with the limbo and ..." another voice not too far from us said.

In what passes for a whisper for him, Jack said he wouldn't mind a bit of "how low can you go" with me once we got away from the others l... but we weren't moving fast in the sand... and then we heard it.

Cranked full up ... Jeff had already started the music. And I just couldn't leave at that point. I grabbed Jack's hand and pulled hard but he was pouting that I was pulling him back toward the fire rather than away from it ... so he wasn't about to dance with me . So I started grooving by myself to what has to be one of my favorite dancing songs of all time - The Love Shack.

I like to say it in the way it should be ... you know? With feeling. Like this: Tha Luuuuuuv Shak.

There's a band in New Orleans that plays this song as its anthem - Vince Vance and the Valiants. If you ever get the chance to see their show and see them do this one song, you'll never be able to sit still when you hear it play again. Suffice it to say, I know the words by heart and I have all the Valiantettes' (pronounced, in true Nawlins style, by slurring some syllables so it sounds like this: val-yun-ettes) moves down pat. The Vivacious, Voluptuous Vixens of Rock n' Roll, the Valuable, yet Vulnerable, Valiantettes! Um ... maybe you have to see them in action to get that spiel of intro material Vince patters out when the three women come va-va-vooming on stage.

I got a round of applause after the first round of moves and then Teener jumped up to join me. I'm not sure when the two of us remembered there were others with us. We segued easily into the next Vince numbers: "I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans" and "Tamale Wagon." By then, Teener at least was catching on that this just might have been a bit of Mardi Gras mambo madness transported to the tropics. Music made to lose whatever inhibitions you might have come into the night with. Hey, if they were going to put me in charge of the music, well, then they got what they got.

And with a suddenness no one but me was expecting, we switched the mood. Swamp rock. Down and very dirty with the Mamou Boys. This was when Jack came into his own. Over our months together, I'd spent a lot of time teaching him the Cajun two-step with all its intricate whirls, swirls, twists, turns and swings. He didn't stop spinning me until Boudreaux funked us into the first Cajun waltz number. You can do just about any waltz step to that particular beat, so before long, most couples were up dancing at least a semblance of a waltz.

When the first CD was over, Jeff came running back out to us to announce ...the limbo contest was starting!

Yeah, that's right. Jeff, my sweet mate, had agreed to be the evening's master of ceremonies. He had a few tricks up his sleeve. To begin with ... the limbo contest was women only. But ... for all us female perves, there was to be another contest in which only the men would compete ... the arm wrestling championship. Fair's fair, eh?

After the first round of the limbo contest, the bar was lowered and ... I disqualified myself after listening to Uma bitch once too often about my unfair height advantage - how all I'd ever have to do was walk under the pole while everyone else would have to bend over backwards.

So I threw her a finger, went to sit with the men and watch. Okay, well, I nestled with Jack and tried to ignore his eager anticipation of what the other women were doing to get under the bar as it lowered.

And as it got down to the last two women, it was suggested that we up the ante. It was suggested that whoever won the limbo contest should get to spend the night with the winner of the arm wrestling contest.

Okay, well, that was all the incentive one little Miss Teener needed. She shut everyone down with the next round.

Jeff skipped back to the bar and we heard the sounds of Soca music light the night. Time for a merengue contest, he yelled at us. Cort dragged me out to dance barefoot in the sand with him and all else fled my mind.

Next contest ... oh, wait ... who won the merengue contest? You know ... I honestly don't remember ... oh, fuck. Okay. It was Terry and Uma. Of course. Shut up!

So, next contest ... hula hoop. Only we had to do it to the reggae beat pulsing from the speakers. Winner? Hips down ... 'twas me. Kid you not. But then, I have been a hula hoop girl from way back. Got the hips for it, as my Mom has said too many times.

We did a conga line to calypso music ... led by Paul and Jeff. I had Jack's hands on my ass and my hands were on the ass in front of me and it belonged to ... oh my ... Max!

Next, we watched as Paul put on a demonstration that I would never ever have thought him capable of ... but we all hooted and cried out as he put on this really cool fire eating show.

Uma chirped out something crude about Paul's "talented throat." We all groaned.

And then it was time. The arm wrestling contests. Jeff and Paul had set it up in flights. The single eliminations began this way: Max vs. Jeff; Jack vs. Cort; Bud vs. John; Terry vs. Hando. Next round: Max vs. Bud and Jack vs. Terry.

We were screaming for our favorites. I was hoarse by the time it came to the final round: Max vs. Jack.

I was plotting with Dino. We really wanted Jack to win and we weren't really above some shenanigans to give him whatever advantage we could.

"One of the women could flash her knockers at Max and he'd lose concentration and ..." I suggested.

Dino rolled his eyes. "Max? Lose concentration? He's a stoic. No way. Something else."

"Well, we could have one of the women flash her gazongas at Jack as incentive and ..." I offered.

"Oh, Christ! He'd stop breathing and Max would pin him so fast," Dino said.

Just then, Hando came strolling up. There was an easier way, he said. He figured it this way - Jack is a berserker like Hando figures he is. We needed to figure out something to say or do to Jack to get him to want to open a real can of whup ass on Maximus.

We thought about that. And thought some more. And it finally came to us.

Somehow, Jack got the distinct impression that Max had said something quite outrageous about the Navy ... something about how Navy men were wimps, candy-asses and certainly never had to rely on good military tactics to win a battle. Well, there was a bit more to it ... but ... well, I'm not positive whether or not that did it, but there was a wicked fired leaping from his eyes as Jack came into his showdown with Max.

Not that it wasn't a real contest. It was. Can you picture the battle of the wills? The arms? The necks? The sweat? The grunts? The testosterone?

Whew. I'm getting hot again just thinking about it.

But in the end, it was Jack.

And just as I was cheering and Jack was getting congratulatory kisses from all the women ... it hit me. Or maybe it was because the one he kept hanging on to was Teener ... whispering in her ear and she was giggling in response.

Oh, shit.

I'd forgotten that the winner of the limbo, Teener, got to have the rest of the night with the winner of the arm wresting, Jack.

Well, fuck.

Yeah. I'd just lost Jack for the night.

But, hey, I'm a big girl and I was gracious in Jack's victory.

Who am I kidding? What a bitter pill! If I'd really thought it through, I would have had let someone flash Jack so Max would have won. But I didn't. So there I was, wandering back to the bonfire and refusing to look behind at Teener claiming her prize.

Soft strains of reggae were coming streaming over the sand. Spits and sparks of the bonfire crackled in the night. Couples were cooing soft at each other and then trying to act like they weren't being sneaky as they snuck away from the fire. The stars were out in abundance and a silver moon seemed to be making fun of me.

Except I'd forgotten something else.

And that is ... if Teener was with Jack, then ... oh, yeah. The 'skin' was on the loose. But not for long. He came to sit by me and we watched the fire for a while. When he asked me to go for a little walk along the water's edge, I didn't say no.

Of course I didn't. I might be stupid but I'm not loco. Well ... okay, I might be loco but I'm only me. Me. Someone who's never yet wanted to resist Hando.