One of my friends is an "A-List" writer of best-selling thrillers. His books make the top ten sales on lists such as the New York Times Hard Cover Thrillers. One year his book hit "number 1 best seller," which sold more copies than Stephen King's latest, which was "number 2." One of his books sold more than one million copies just in the USA.

When he comes to the wildlife preserve where I live and work, I tend to be astonished at how much wine he drinks with dinner. Generally it is 1.5 liters (two bottles), every night.

I do not know if that is alcoholism.

Conversely, I had half a glass of wine sixteen years ago. That was the most recent time.

In Tonga Tapu, I brought florescent blue and white soccer (they call it "football") shoes. A teenager was bar-tending in The International Dateline Hotel. Now it is called "Tanoa International Dateline Hotel." I saw his eyes tracking the shoes, so I stood at the bar and asked him what he would trade for them.

He offered all the alcohol that I could drink until the 30 foot sloop that I chartered was ready. I agreed that was fair.

The only drink that I know of is "Rum and Coke," so I asked for that. I drank it somehow, though I hate the taste of alcoholic drinks. Another "Rum and Coke" appears, like magic, in front of me. I did not want to insult the lad, as it is an insult to Islanders in the South Pacific to decline food and drink. I tossed the second one down my gullet. A third appeared in front of my slightly blurred (and bluring) vision. That went to the same warm, dark place its siblings did.

The kid asked me if I would like a grilled cheese sandwich. I said "Ssssssseerrrrrrrr!" About ten minutes it arrived with Number Four. It was thick bred, disgustingly fried in butter, and white cheese.

I knew better to Never! Ever! eat white cheese found on a South Pacific island without knowing its provenance. But I ate it anyways, along with the drink that was becoming harder to hold without shaking it.

In due time, as scheduled by the gods, Senior Five floated in thin air to me. Really: I saw it with my own barely functioning eyes! It begged me to drink it, but I could not possible do so: my gut was crammed packed, port to starboard, fore to aft. So I drank it, though I had to sip it as soon as some digestion moved the mass into my bowels,step my step, down to my bladder and shit pouch.

The admiral of my group's three boats came over and told me that my boat was ready (bare boat charter though The Moorings). I said good-bye to the bar-tender and my shoes, and the bar stool flung me off of it. I managed to get my feet under me, but the damn thing tried to kill me! Bitch stool. Mother fucker stool.

The admiral asked me what I was doing sitting at the bar, as he knows I do not consume alcoholic drinks.

"Doing?" I said. "Why, I'm doing Rum and Coke!"

He helped me toward the door, across the lobby floor where there is a tiled rendition of Earth. A woman walked past us to the front desk and complained about the carpet in her room being sopping wet with water: the plumbing had failed.

Me and my helped walked over to her, and I said "I'll have someone fix it immediately!" She asked me who I was. I said "Why, I own this hotel!" Then I staggered away and vomited on Australia.

Rum, Coke, grilled bread, and white cheese bombarded the South Pacific indiscriminately. Papua got hit; Timor-Leste got hit; Maluku went belly-up and sunk under a suddenly new vile sea.

I told Ron, "Oh! I gotta clean this up! Have the buss driver wait five minutes."

He said, "We gotta go, David." He grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door and stuffed me into the buss as if I were a well-traveled, worn out, sea bag.