Pirates life is for me - Day 3 - Mo-Mo-Mojito!

Because I know everyone wants it, here's Day 3 of "Melissas Do (it on) the Pacific 2006."

Screams from fellow hostages woke our lazy butts up Tuesday morning, and the first thought that popped into my head was "great, they're taking us to the Mexican prison work camps. I knew this damn trip was too good to be true. Paco is going to make me his little weiner pinata. Perfect! Great idea, dear, planning a trip down to Mexico."

I get out of the hammock (that's right, Royal Caribbean loves to make their hostages feel like they're really on the sea, living like Gilligan and the Skipper), scratch my ass because it's there and wander out to the balcony. That's when I realized the screams were squeals as folks were pointing out Flipper and his fellow dolphins racing the ship, jumping over the wake and playing chicken with the our little tug boat.

But the 'phins where just the opening act that morning. While we were watching them frolic like high school boys at a sorority party, in the distance we could see the tell-tale sign of moby dick - a white puff of spray shooting through the water. Our captain, I'm sure his name is Ahab now, pipes up on the ship's intercom and tells his hostages that whales are on the port side of the ship - the only port I know is wine, so him telling us whales were on the port side meant about as much as to me the square root of Pi - but it just so happened that was our side of the ship. And as Ahab finished pointing out the obvious, the whale breaches near a fishing or whale-watching boat (we never received a consensus, but there was no sign of George Clooney or humongous, pee-inducing wave, so we were banking on it being a sight-seeing vessel. But it was Mexico and I'm sure whale is good eating) and out pops its tail. Chris, who had also just woke up from his couch-laden slumber (what a trooper, 7-days on a couch bed? Gitmo prisoners are treated better.) took one look outside and summoned his camera with the Force. Luke Skywalker couldn't have called for his light saber faster. To his credit, Chris snapped at just the right time to catch the tale sinking back into the inky ocean.

We have - what else - the breakfast buffet before disembarking (fancy word for ditching the seasickness manufacturer) onto smaller barf buckets that shuttle us to Cabo San Lucas' dock. It's our first port for "Melissas Do (it on) the Pacific 2006" and all our group is talking about is Cabo Wabo, Sammy Hagar's bar.

"Chiclets for a dollar?"

"Jewelry - almost free."

"You like these bracelets, senor? $1 or free."

"I have trips into the desert, beach trips, lunch trips, I'll even take you to the moon if you like."

The locusts - Cabo street vendors - are nothing if not creative. They make you laugh and almost gets you to buy. Almost. But what the hell am I going to do with a necklace that will leave me with a good case of lock jaw and a green, day-glo ring around my neck after just three hours?

We finally hit Cabo Wabo after walking through the splendidness that is Cabo's inner-city, stopping only so we can take a picture of me under the "Husband for Rent" sign. Folks, I can't make that kind of shit up, there was such a sign.

I'll give it to Hagar, even if he was dumped by the Van Halen Gestapo, he knows how to mix some mean drinks. While everyone orders margaritas and mojitos (more on those in a minute) I order a beer - Pacifico - and I stick out like a straight guy at a lesbian rally. What the hell was I thinking - Pacifico. I take one sip of Wife's margarita and realize the folly of my ways. When in port for your first drink with the group, something with a straw and ice should be the order, not barley and Mexican piss.

However, that's when our lives changed - for the better. Juan and Sugar - who learned more about me than really should have been taught, but more on that in another post - the seasoned travelers they are, ordered mojitos. They gave us all free taste tests and we dutifully slobbered on their straws to realize the yummy goodness that is a MOJITO (it really should be capatilized now. I'll call the Associated Press so they insert it into their next style guide). I saw God and Jesus and a choir of angels and James Brown who was singing"I Feel Good" (I guess that was foreshadowing on God's part seeing as the Godfather of Soul kicked the bucket two weeks later).

There were nine fresh MOJITOs the next time the waiter stopped by our corner. What's in a MOJITO? Lime juice, sugar, rum, a sprig of mint and God's kiss. It was a religious awakening. If they served this at communion, I'd attend every Catholic mass I could find.

Wife polished off two, along with her margarita, and was just giggles and hiccups from that point on. I could have taken her over to the five-star, hourly rate motel across the street (the grease and grimed streaked windows, cracked wood siding and shroud of Turan-like drapes really sold me on it being the perfect joint to make some sweet lovin'. Nothing says "I love you" like rolling around on sheets they wouldn't use to cover dead bodies.

And while the MOJITOs were amazing, I had to spin the wheel one more time and try the Waborita, which Jerry tested twice before convincing me it was tasty despite it looking like Windex and Clorox just mated. While the MOJITOs were refreshing and nice and a sweet caress from the Virgin Mary (I'm going to Hell), the Waborita was a kick in the nuts by Satan. Oh, don't get me wrong, it was a special kind mmmm mmmm good, with a punch.

We walked out of Cabo Wabo an hour or two later (really, who can keep time under the MOJITO's power?) ready to board the ship for some prime jacuzzi time. Well, to clarify, everyone but Wife walked out of Cabo Wabo, she more or less stumbled until I could steady her feet and teach her how to walk with mucho alcohol in the system (yeah, we all know three drinks ain't much, but don't tell her that). But before the ship saw our extremely happy faces return, we couldn't pass up the siren call of "5 beers for $10" on the dock. It's really the only proper way to say good bye to Cabo San Lucas, luke warm Mexican piss in brown bottles brought to you in a steel bucket. Clean and healthy, just how I like it.

Maybe God stepped in later that night to save us all by giving us rocky seas, which, as we've all learned now, is not condusive to drinking. It does, however, help the appetite apparently. I polished off - in order - scallops in a light alfredo sauce, minestrone soup, a lamb shank ("Mary had a little lamb, and did it sure taste good") and shelled shrimp. If I could remeber the dessert, I'd mention it here, but I think I went into a food coma after the last shrimp.

Luckily, Wife was able to revive me so we could bee-line it to the lounge to enter the ship's version of the Newlywed Game. We didn't pass their strict selection process (our raffle ticket wasn't chosen) and were relegated to watching the game show and wondering what might have been as we both relayed our answers to each question and finding we would have smoked the couples chosen to make fools of themselves. "What's his most annoying habit?" "Passing gas," please dude, you're an amateur. Let me know when you get to my level - blaming the gas on the cat, which Wife uttered, verbatim.

Poor Jim, though. His wife of 58 years - holy crap, I said we'd be lucky to make it 58 hours before one of us throws the other into a full bathtub with a fired-up hairdryer - dragged him up there, literally, as he moved about as fast as his 80-something year old legs would allow him (think a turtle on heroin, that was Jim's speed). The interesting thing about Jim, besides the fact that he was still alive with the reflexes of granite, was that his pharmacy in Los Angeles was frequented by the like of Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Groucho Marx (who he said would lie on the counter and smoke cigars) and Jayne Mansfield. I could have listened to the old guy all night instead of the crackhead buttmunch cruise director.

There were three other couples on stage, no where near as fascinating as Jim and Margie, although when the question was posed to one husband about his wife's most ticklish spot on her body, he hemmed and hawed like he was trying to decide whether to launch a nuclear attack on Uraguay before finally blurting out her boobs. Just what us hostages wanted to picture, pal, you feather-dusting her na-nas until she's sprouting a stack of dimes. Thanks, schmucko. Thankfully, that was the last question and they put this abomination to bed.

With a full day behind us, I crashed out on the balcony, just myself watching the 5-10 foot swells smack the boat. There was a roar to the ocean that belied the soft ballet that coursed through the water. White caps peaked at the balcony, winked, and rippled under itself. Miles of liquid blackness dotted by thin, roiling strips of foam surrounded our ship. It was one of those moments that reminded you no matter what life experience you packed away - be it MOJITOs in Cabo, or the simple fringe benefits of free soft-serve ice cream - we're all just a wine cork bobbing in this vast ocean of a universe.