I crack open a bottle of Geary’s: we don’t have that back in Buffalo, and it’s one of the founding breweries in the country, or at least one of the longest running. I’ve had one earlier in the night, which is good because this one comes after one last, arguably excessive, margarita. It has just the right balance of malt and hops for me, exactly what I want when I just hear the word “ale”, and I’m glad I was able to try it.
It comes after a game of Forbidden Island, which we won, and during two games of Seven Dragons, which I did not. I didn’t much care for Seven Dragons, but that may be because it was after midnight and I had had one margarita too many.
I’m in the back yard of the house, which my son and I keep calling a cabin, much to the consternation of my wife. I’m reading Pete Brown’s Three Sheets To The Wind and loving every page. I like it even more here, in the quiet shade, than I did on the beach, because here I have no interruptions and no sun and it’s much cooler.
Plus I can have a beer. A bottle of Bad Martha, which I picked up by popping down a side street on Martha’s Vineyard to a shop I found on Yelp while everyone else sat on a bench.
My wife and I had gone out for drinks at The Beachcomber, a bar which felt like it belonged on St Martin so much that I eschewed beer for rum drinks, some of which went down entirely too easily.
We get back to the cabin — sorry, house — and somehow, inexplicably, find ourselves playing drinking games. It just happened: one minute we’re talking and the next Sam is dealing out cards while explaining that 5 is guys and 6 is chicks. Half a week away from 31 and I’m back doing waterfalls, only this time with Cape Cod IPA. I sip slowly, because I don’t really want to get terribly drunk, a goal I think I succeeded at.
We step onto the pier after a whale watching trip that was remarkably fruitful. My only other experience with whale watching came on my honeymoon, when the ship puttered around for an extra hour until we finally saw the back of a whale, there off in the distance, so that the company didn’t have to refund us our money. Now we had whales leaping into the air, whales doing synchronized swimming routines, whales so commonplace that I shrugged and told my wife I didn’t mind watching the kids inside because I had gotten my fill.
Off the boat, though, I realized how hot it was. I bemoaned the lack of street vendors selling Red Stripe that I could walk around the shops drinking like I had in St Martin’s Philipsburg. I didn’t want hops, I didn’t want malt, I just wanted something clean and refreshing.
I got my wish at a beachfront restaurant, a Cape Cod Beach Blonde to go with my lobster and avocado wrap, and damn did it taste good, although not even avocado could make me feel anything other than ambivalence towards lobster. I tried, many times, but still don’t see it as anything other than an overpriced sea spider.
It’s our last night, and I finally am able to wrangle two other people into playing Descent with me. I stay up too late, again, ultimately only managing four hours before the drive home the next day, but there were games to be played and beer to be drunk. After all, the more we have tonight the less I have to pack tomorrow.
I look at the time, and how far the party has to go before the end of the scenario (how many skeletons and kobolds I’ll have to spawn just out of their sight). “One more beer and then I’m going to bed,” I declare, and open a Mayflower Daily Ration.