Nooosspapa mon delivers

I remember thinking something like, "Whoa, it's like 9:30 a.m. and we're still going..."

Just then, my brothers, who were swimming in the infinity pool under a early morning sun, started to taunt what they thought was a man standing near the fence to this elaborate and gaudy property.

I sprung into action. I walked over and to see what this person wanted. Only trouble, I presumed.

Turns out, it was not a man but a fiery woman with very short hair. A neighbor. A person, she led to believe, with power.

I played it cool to begin.

Aaron: "Good evening, mam, or should I say good morning."

I still had a cocktail in my hand and I was soaking wet from my previous pool visit. She was not impressed.

Crazy woman: "Are you fucking kidding me? Good morning!? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I was ill prepared for this encounter.

A: "I apologize mam --"

She cut me off immediately.

CW: "Listen. It's fucking 9:30 in the morning and you have the music blasting. There are good people here that have been trying to get sleep all night. We've had enough of your shit."

She held all the cards in this hand and I was ready to fold even before I walked up to her. I will not humor you with the rest of the conversation but it got ugly. Quickly. Indeed, this was no time for a showdown.

Granted, we had put down thousands of dollars to make this villa our we-don't-give-a-fuck vacation villa. But this is not 'Nam. There are rules...

The conversation ended abruptly when I proved to her that I lived here, was not some schmuck from (enter random U.S. state here), and promised to shut down the party as long as she didn't call the swine. Not that they would have come anyways, they have bigger fish to fry. So we left our encounter on even accords and the party ended with a few snaps of the finger.

*   *   *

Two weeks ago, I had approximately 25 cousins, wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends of cousins (whatever, you get the point) visit me on St. Thomas for a magical Caribbean vacation they've only ever read about.

We had two monster villas under our belts, countless bottles of cheap rum and an appetite for destruction on our combined group resume.

Months earlier, I put out an open invitation to all my cousins -- I have quite a few -- to visit me for one solid, crazy week on the island. I was expecting an optimistic return of 50 percent. I didn't get a single "No" which is a testament to how awesome my family is. At the same time, it struck fear into my soul.

Living here, you always run into people that have a friend or two visit them from the States. No big deal. The revolving door on my house has been swinging in the Caribbean breeze ever since I moved here in 2010. I love visitors and I invite them from far and wide.

But 25 heads? It was a huge undertaking. No doubt. By some sort of pure luck, I was able to pull it off.

I took the week off from work, which was a necessity. Living here for over two years, I basically put down on paper all the cool things I like to do here and just threw it at them in some kind of blind itinerary. Some people may flinch at the concept but everyone involved on this trip absorbed it and prospered.

It was an amazing week. Movie night on Water Island, Festival on St. John, Megans Bay, Peterborg, Frenchtown, Sib's on the mountain, and even a ride on the Treasure Seeker. Plus, every bar we visited, we took over. It was fabulous.

Just want to thank all the family involved. You guys were great. Let's do it again next year. Why not?

Nooossspappa mon!

Thanks for all the love. See you guys again real soon.

The Hersh

It's summer time on the island and for some odd reason, the people on the fence about leaving Rock City for good, usually pick this time to pack up their shit and hitch a ride to the airport.

It's not a bad thing. Friends come and go. It just seems like on St. Thomas, an island saturated with misfits and money-makers, the time in between "I've decided to leave" and "Peace out" is usually very small.

Take this fine gentleman for example...


I took this hilarious photo while we were waiting for the car ferry on St. John. Of course, we had already had a few. His name is Jesse "The Hersh" Hershberger and he was also responsible for a little mishap in the BVIs I don't like to talk about.

We had dinner and drinks on a Thursday at the Pie Whole in Frenchtown and we were talking about his plans to travel to New Zealand next year and what kind of "Lord Of The Rings" chicks he may meet there.

The next day, Friday, he calls me around 10 p.m.

Hersh: "Dude, come to Fat Turtle, we have to talk."

Me: "Dude, I just got off work, I'm exhausted and the game is on...what's up? Trouble?"

Hersh: "No, not trouble. But stress. Definite stress."

Me: "Don't worry, I'm sure there are plenty of beautiful women in New Zealand. I heard The Hobbit pulls some serious ass there."

Hersh: "No, no, no. I think I'm leaving island. Like on Monday. For good."

Me: "Whaa, whaa, whaaaaa?"

I still didn't meet him out for drinks because we had planned to go hiking the next morning and because I was lazy and the game was on. But I later found out that he was offered a job at his old restaurant -- he's a chef or a cook or a guy in the kitchen with sharp blades ... you get the idea -- but that he had to come right now.

By the way, the job was in Alaska and it was supposed to pay him double. Sort of like Ice Road Truckers.

So just like that, I was hanging with my bro, sucking down a few Belgian beers (the Pie Whole is amazing) and within 48 hours, he was gone. Forever. I've been crying myself to sleep every night.

There wasn't even time to throw a "Leaving Island" party. Those festivities tend to get very rowdy. When the cops show up, you just tell them that you're friend is leaving island tomorrow and they usually leave you alone. I mean, who really wants to do paperwork for someone that will be out of the hair in less than a day?

The best is to throw a "Leaving Island" party like a week before you actually leave. Then, for the rest of that week, people keep asking, "Isn't he supposed to be in Alaska or something? Did he lie to me just so I would buy him shots?"

Anyway, like the dude said, he was on a plane that Monday. Made it to Chicago for a day and now he's in Alaska. Since he's left, he's sent me a few photos.

One was of the speedometer in his car and it was clocked well over 100 mph and the other pictures were of Taco Bell burritos. Need for speed and bad Mexican food. The man knows me well. A true friend.