It’s in the tropics somewhere between the Port of Indecision and Southwest of Disorder, but no parallels of latitude or longitude mark the spot exactly. You don’t have to be a navigator to get there. Palm trees provide the camouflage, ocean breezes bring the seaplanes and sailboats, tourists and travelers. Passports are not required. Island music rules. No waiting lines for anything.

There is a beach and a thatched roof bar perched on the edge of the turquoise sea where you can always find a bar stool. There are lots of lies and loads of stories. It’s a comical concoction that blends together like tequila, salt, and lime.