Seven years ago, two weeks before my trip, after a night of particular debauchery, I took an online quiz, 24 yes-or-no questions to gauge one’s alcoholism, scored thusly: zero to three meant you were a “probable social drinker”; four meant you were “borderline”; five-plus meant “possible alcoholism”; nine-plus meant “probable alcoholism.”
I scored 21.
So I was thrilled to learn that booze was illegal in these outer Pacific atolls. I could detoxify and sunbathe, read and explore, surf and snorkel, liberated from morning-after nausea and unfounded aggression. The locals were a dusky race of purity, curiosity, sweetness, and their environs were brightly sterile and surfy, with no thugs or thievery. There was no airport. If there is one place Alcoholics Anonymous should build a rehab center...witness.
I scored 21.
So I was thrilled to learn that booze was illegal in these outer Pacific atolls. I could detoxify and sunbathe, read and explore, surf and snorkel, liberated from morning-after nausea and unfounded aggression. The locals were a dusky race of purity, curiosity, sweetness, and their environs were brightly sterile and surfy, with no thugs or thievery. There was no airport. If there is one place Alcoholics Anonymous should build a rehab center...witness.