Some stills from our annual booze cruise around the Chesapeake, as captured by Bailey Miller. While last year may have involved more cannabis and less engine faults, this year witnessed finger sandwiches and the dwindled remnants of a thirty-rack of PBR. There were also, back on dry land, pitchers of rum punch with breakfast, of Orchard Breezes with lunch, of Bellinis before dinner; beautiful bottles of wine, champagne in ice buckets underneath the cabana, drowsy rounds of badminton followed by anxious plunges into the pool. Drinking and eating and swimming and satirizing: that's what happened this weekend. Of course, this is all an exiguous precursor to the jaunt up to New England that is to come, which, I surmise, will be more of the same, just on an unimaginably more legit scale.
The point of all of this is that it's fucking ideal. And that it doesn't happen all the time, and that things change drastically and often, but some things, some traditions, like the priority of great, indulgent escape, sit remotely untouched, and savourable, and pristine among friends. Because it's good when we do things and we make things of ourselves and we achieve, that we evolve, that we harden, that we become people. But it's also very important that sometimes we don't. That sometimes we are spoiled, lazy, overprivileged, overindulgent, and completely fucking pointless.
