It’s in the tropics, somewhere between the Port of Indecision and the southwest of Disorder—though no line of latitude or longitude marks the exact spot. You don’t need to be a navigator to get there. Palm trees provide the camouflage, while ocean breezes bring in seaplanes, sailboats, tourists, and travelers alike. Passports aren’t required. Island music reigns supreme. And there are no lines for anything.

There’s a beach and a thatched-roof bar perched at the edge of the turquoise sea, where you can always find an open barstool. There are plenty of tall tales and stories to go around. It’s a comical concoction, blended together much like tequila, salt, and lime.