It's in the tropics, somewhere between the port of indecision and the southwest of disorder, but no parallel of latitude or longitude marks the spot exactly. You don't have to be a navigator to get there. Palm trees provide camouflage, sea breezes bring in the seaplanes and sailboats, the tourists and travelers. Passports aren't necessary. The island's music reigns supreme. No lines for anything.

There’s 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 a lot of lies and a lot of stories. It’s a comical mix that mixes like tequila, salt and lime.

Squeaks!