Weekend warrior

It's only Wednesday and I'm finally coming back to earth after a stellar weekend.

August 5th marked the one year anniversary of when I started to hike the Appalachian Trail so I had to celebrate. I took off work, loaded up my gear, bought some 49 cent packs of Ramen noodles and headed for St. John.

I've lived in paradise for almost six months now and it was my first Virgin Islands hiking/camping excursion. It definitely won't be my last.

I settled on Cinnamon Bay, where I thought all the cool kids hung out. But when I got there, I couldn't even get anyone to answer my bell rings at the front desk. I kept ringing the bell and sat patiently. Instead of grabbing a random camp site, the lady at the general store helped me out and assigned me a spot right next to the beach.

I thought she gave me such a sweet spot because I called her "ma'am" and was polite. It all went to waste as I later found out I was one of the only campers at Cinnamon Bay that night and it was Friday.

Why the sudden absence of campers? What gives?

I later found out. But not after taking in a great sunset...


My campsite was about 15 yards from the beach and after the sun set, I decided to get started on dinner. When I hiked the AT, I was known for cooking Ramen noddles on a nightly basis with tuna and SPAM added for good measure.

Since it was an anniversary night, I went with the same. But of course I added some peanut M&M's for dessert and threw in a bag of chex mix for an appetizer.

Here's when it got hairy: the sun went down but the heat remained. It got so hot, I stripped down to my boxers while laying in my tent. I had hiked about 8 miles during the day and normally, that would knock me out. Not that night. It was just too freaking hot.

I literally picked up my tent, which was already set up with all my belongings inside, and hauled it toward the beach with the bright idea that perhaps the shore breeze would chill my sweaty bones. It helped but provided barely any relief.

When I finally did lose conscience around midnight, a flashlight glare hit me in the face and a camp ranger asked me what I was doing camping on the beach, which was not allowed.

I acted like he startled the shit out of me.

Me: "Wha! What's that?! Who's there??!! Oh my God..."

Park ranger: "Hey, take it easy. What are you doing? You're not allowed to camp on the beach."

Time to kiss some ass.

Me: "Oh please, sir. I was sweating pretty bad at my site and I brought my tent out here hoping for a breeze. I promise I'll be out of here before first light."

Park ranger: "Did you register for a camp site?"

Me: "I sure did. 8C. That's me."

The park ranger checked his clipboard and it's not like he had a lot of campers to confirm. He said he could have been a jerk but he was going to let me be. He asked me to be out of there by 6 a.m. and I promised not to leave a trace.

When I woke up the next day, I couldn't think about anything besides swimming. I had been sweating my ass off -- August is just too hot to camp in the tropics -- and couldn't wait to soak up the cool water.

I emerged from my tent around 5:30 a.m. before the sun had even shown itself and it was the perfect time for a morning swim.

I eventually gathered my stuff and started to head to the main road. For some idiotic reason, I forgot to pack a spare change of clothes so I had to put my sweat rags back on (Another AT habit).

A safari taxi driver took me back into town for $7 -- it cost two dollars less to come out of town -- and I ate breakfast at JJ's Texas Coast Cafe just before the 8 a.m. ferry left for St. Thomas.

Aside from the heat and sweat, it had been a successful trip and I was pretty proud of myself.

But there was no time to pat myself on the back because I had a pig roast to attend that afternoon. And it wasn't just any pig roast, it was the 2nd annual Brugos Brothers' Pig Roast on the North Side of St. Thomas. Brianna made cupcakes and I brought my sobriety.

I'll save that story for next time but here's a picture to wet your appetite...

Pepto-Bismol and kayaks

I wish I had photos to show you.

Woke up Saturday during the Memorial Day weekend with a text message waiting for me.

"Conditions look OK, meet at 2 p.m. at the Eco-Tour dock."

Sounds innocent enough, I thought. The message was from my friend, Bill, who takes people out on kayak tours around the island. He does that to fund his sailing endeavors as he frequents the local saloons at night. He also lives on a boat, which I think is pretty cool.

Anyway, I met Bill the second week I was here. I was driving back to the East End (where my boss lives -- she let us stay at her house until we found our own digs) and I saw three guys hitch-hiking on the side of the road. Still fresh from my Appalachian Trail hiking days, I picked them up.

It was Bill and two buddies of his. One guy was from Australia. They were so happy for the ride, and I guess I seemed normal enough, so they invited me out for the night and it was the first time I ever went to Duffy's, an infamous bar in Red Hook located inside a parking lot. Good times.

Now back to my freaking story.

It was pretty cloudy out and the wind was picking up but Bill is the expert. Brianna and I grabbed up some towels, I packed my make-shirt snorkel and we headed for the dock.

Bill and his roommate, I mean boat mate (or is it first mate?), and two other friends were already there loading up the kayaks. The plan was to kayak out to the middle of nowhere and do a little surface diving. Sounds innocent enough, right?

Once we left the calm waters near the dock, the swells started to pick up. They must have been about 5 feet tall on the way out. Brianna was in front of our two-man kayak and was getting frustrated with my paddle timing. It's hard bringing up the rear sometimes.

After about 30 minutes of crazy kayaking -- we capsized only once -- we connected to a buoy and got in the water. Bill and his first mate, Zack, were crazy. I didn't have fins but I tried my best to catch up with them. I just sat at the surface with my snorkel, where waves were crashing down, and watched these two dive 30 feet down, swim through a coral reef tunnel and emerge again.

"How the hell did you do that?" I asked before taking in a mouthful of salt water.

"We do this shit everyday," Bill said. "Give it a try!"

With two experts in my midst, I figured it was worth an attempt. I started my dive and forgot to plug my nose. I wasn't 10 feet deep before the pressure was too much and pulled a 180 for the surface again.

I have to start hanging out with these guys more often, I thought.

When we got back to the kayaks, the swells really started to pummel us. Zack confirmed my suspicion that it had gotten much worse since we tied up the kayaks almost an hour ago.

Now exhausted and with a belly full of salt water, I was back on the kayak and prepared for the my return trip with waves literally crashing down on us. It was not a pretty sight.

I immediately started to get sea sick and my body was starting to shut down. I felt like jumping off the kayak and swimming to shore because the motion in the ocean was breaking me.

After every three paddles, I had to take a breather. Bill said I was grimacing. I had no fuel. I felt like passing out.

Then the waves really started to hit us and our kayak flipped over three times. Yes, THREE TIMES! In a matter of five minutes. It was embarrassing.

After the third fall, the trained experts knew it was time to transition from kayak adventure to kayak rescue. Bill and Zack came back, tied a rope to their vessel and started to tow us in.

(A news editor just looked over my shoulder and asked me which blogger I was reading. I lied and said my friend who lives in Malaysia. Where the hell did I get that from? Little do they know I regularly post to my own blog from my office. Still not sure I can let them in on this so for now, this little project is just our little secret. OK?)

When Bill and Zack were towing us in, I slumped back and closed my eyes. I've been sea sick in big boats before but nothing like this. It was like paddle or die. I wish I could of just snapped my finger and be on land again. That would have been sweet.

As soon as we got back into comfortable waters, my strength immediately came back, the color in my face returned and I was happy. Happy that I did not die.

When I am going to learn? I get sea sick. I can't help it, yet, I constantly defy that fact every chance I get.

"And you always talk about going on a cruise," Brianna said to me back at the dock.

I just want to order a Porterhouse steak at 3 a.m. and see if they bring it up to my room. That may be the sole reason I want to take a cruise. That, and gambling.

Who doesn't like to mix blackjack with some Pepto-Bismol?