Get my glide on

The name of this bloggy blog is "Living In Paradise" but I tend to makes moves to different parts of the world. From time to time, I need a vacation away from my vacation, you know what I mean?

The fat Creole guy from The Waterboy said, "Home is where you make it." I think that's what he said. Well, I believe you can attach the idea of paradise to the same statement.

Last month, I spent two weeks in the States and was able to visit family in the Outer Banks, NC. I used to live there during some insane college summers so those barrier islands have seen me at me best ... and at my worse.

During my post-recent trip, I tried some hang gliding for the first time. Went there with a fellow thrill-seeker, otherwise known as The Hersh. Just another decent soul frolicking around the earth.

If you have a shred of athletic ability, then hang gliding is for you. It's like skydiving but not as crazy and similar to wind surfing but without the sand in your mouth. If you have the right people around you and a decent hill or cliff, it's very easy to pick up on your first try.

I had those elements around me at Jockeys Ridge in Nags Head and Mike, the instructor, was a cool guy. Therefore, I strongly endorse their company so check out their web site.

I've spent $100 on much worse things.

Now ladies and gentlemen, it's time to fire up some YouTube and watch me fall on my face. Check out instructor Mike, who actually laughed at me when I did a nosedive into the sand.

The second attempt was a little better because I grabbed some decent air. I almost landed it, over-committed at the end and ultimately, fell on my ass.

My goal was to stop eating sand.

On the last attempt, I finally landed the sonofabitch. At the time, I thought I did it all by myself but after The Hersh sent me these videos, I saw that Mike helped me at the very end. What a letdown. It was like when my dad got drunk, forgot to put a dollar under my pillow and the tooth was still there in the morning.

Tragedy at MoJo's

It was after several happy hour beers and a celebratory round of Jager shots when it finally happened.

My sun glasses broke.

I did nothing wrong here and I wish I had a cool, snappy nickname for the glasses but I don't. As we were leaving MoJo's, I grabbed the shades to put them on my face and one of the arms (is that what they're called?) snapped off.

In response, I took the glasses and slammed them down on the pavement in a over-the-top display. The whole ordeal had cruise boat tourists slowly pulling their purses and wallets closer to their bodies and had locals rolling their eyes. I then started to stomp on the shattered shades with my foot like it owed me money.

Beer tears almost started to form in my blood-shot eyes.

The bartender received a decent tip so he didn't care about my exploits. Then my friend Frank picked up one of the heavy, wooden bar stools and finished the job by smashing the shades to pieces.

Then we left. What an exit.

Those shades stuck out in my mind because they've lasted me during my entire stint on St. Thomas thus far. I remember buying them for $8 at some stupid retail store during a blizzard that paralyzed the entire state of Maryland in 2010.

The check-out lady made some sly remark like why I would buy cheap sun glasses during one of the worst snow storms to ever come across the state. I told her that I was moving to the Caribbean in a few days and that she should mind her own business.

After reflecting about our relationship -- the one between me and the late shades -- I realized that it lasted longer than any other in my life. I was a lifeguard for seven summers in a row and hit the ski slopes for four of those years. All along, I needed sun glasses to survive and never held a single pair for longer than a month or two.

I remember one summer at the Outer Banks, when I waited tables and had way too much cash burning a hole in my cargo pockets. My friend Jeff B. and I went out and purchased very expensive Arnette polarized sun glasses. Before the summer was over, they had fallen into life's abyssal lost-and-found container and were never seen again.

To make things worse, we retired back to Frank's house for a quick session after the bar. While sitting on a bar stool near his kitchen counter, I accidentally broke a glass fixture he had received as a gift. It fell to the hard floor and shattered right before our eyes.

I guess I was just into breaking cherished artifacts that day, for whatever reason. These things come in threes so I drove home from Frank's house later that night like I was taking my driving test and the instructor was sitting shotgun. Hands on 2 and 10. Turning blinkers are over the place.

So I guess I'm in the market for new sun glasses. Maybe I will hit up K-Mart after work.

Unlike my college years, I no longer have cash billowing out of my pockets thanks to yuppie tourists. Now, I just try to avoid them while I run the streets of St. Thomas and snicker at their painful sun burns.