In keeping with the Boat Cruise theme, I am reminded of my College Senior Year Spring Break Trip to Cancun, Mexico. Unlike, Panama City from the year before, we learned from our mistakes and went with a large group consisting of absolutely no girlfriends, or women for that matter.
We stayed at an overly nice Villas-style resort, which was obviously not intended for Spring Breakers, but we ended up there anyway. (one of the guys who went with the group was good friends with a travel agent). Anyway, the place was almost right next door to Fat Tuesdays, which ended up being our favorite place to go and also would be the site of MTV's Spring Break the week after we left (remember, our Spring Break was always in February).
One of the draws to Fat Tuesday was that they offered a booze cruise, where they would take you out to an island for food and entertainment, and alcohol and debauchery. So we get on this boat, and out to sea. Apparently, "cruise" does not translate into Spanish very well, because this boat is flying through the water, rocking side to side, and making it difficult to stand up even without the large amount of alcohol in my system at the time.
It's about a 1/2 hour or more on the boat before we get to our destination, so my group is splitting up on the boat and talking with different ladies and such. After a while, I find myself hanging out with this group of three girls from Boston College (I think... somewhere in Boston at least) that my friend Debo had originally been talking to and had left to try his shot with other girls. Debo was the "player" of our group for Spring Break, though I wouldn't exactly say he was the smoothest. He did end up with at least one girl each night, though some of his finest pickup moves that I've witnessed included spitting some of his drink at a girl to get her attention, and yelling at a girl after HE forgot HER name. Yeah, not sure about that one. Anyway, back to the story.
So, I'm chilling on the boat with these three girls when we finally arrive at the island. At this point, I'm looking around for all my friends without any luck so I continue on with the girls to the buffet line. Apparently the alcohol fogged my judgment (go figure) as I saw nothing wrong with having a buffet on an island...in Mexico... where I saw no visible signs of a kitchen. I helped myself to a plate full of Mexican dishes and the four of us went to sit at one of the cafeteria style tables. As the only guy with these girls, I was more or less the focus of the conversation as they all knew each other already (duh).
This was all well and good until I took that fateful bite into the burrito I had just gotten from the buffet. The minute the bean or guacamole or rat paste or whatever hit my tongue, I knew this was not going to be good. My tongue started to feel like it was growing to twice its thinkness and my stomach was letting me know it wanted nothing to do with this new food group, especially after a rocky ship ride. But the girls are still talking to me. How do I continue the conversation without saying a word? I know if I try to speak, I'm gonna puke for sure. I can fight this one down. I'll be OK. But where is the bathroom just in case? I don't see a bathroom anywhere. And we just got here. And I must look pretty bad right now. And my tongue does not appear to be shrinking back down. And these girls keeping talking. So...
I stand up, without a word, mid-conversation and make a b-line away from the general table area. I make it about two feet before I feel the puke coming up. I quickly put my hand over my mouth to hopefully hold it back, but instead create a wonderful fountain of puke, spraying in all directions out of the gaps in between my fingers.
I eventually make it to one of the tiki bars positioned on the edges of the eating area and notice a trash can right next to it. I finish my business in the trash can and ask the bartender for a napkin ...or 10. After wiping my mouth and hand thoroughly, I finally locate my buddy McGee and have this conversation.
Me: Dude, do I look OK?
McGee: Yeah, why?
Me: I just puked. Do I look OK though?
McGee: [mocking] Yeah, you look fine.
Me: Good. What about my hand? [I extended my smelly puke hand towards his face]
McGee: HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!
Yeah, I'm not doing so good. Luckily, I ask the bartender where a bathroom is, get to a sink and wash myself up.
The sheer embarassment would likely keep anyone from going back to the girls at the table, but I soon came to discover that puking on yourself then returning to the scene of the crime actually bonds you closer to the girls you are with. They were very sympathetic and ended up spending the rest of the cruise with me and my group of friends.
Well, if spitting and yelling works for Debo, I guess puking into my hand is my go to move.