The big clock on the departure screen told me I had an hour to kill inside the terminal, and the gate area was packed with American senior citizens looking reluctant to repatriate. I snagged a pack of cigs and found the bar, tucked in between the other two terminal eateries with a yellow-brown cloud lingering up against the ceiling.

A cute Colombian bartender greeted me with a seemigly-genuine smile, and I ordered a Balashi, the preferred local island beer. I wasn’t really craving a brew, but I was politely obeying the handwritten message on the chalkboard that asked in two languages for smokers at the bar to purchase a drink. As I sat there all alone, I finally had a few minutes to reflect on my last 10 days in the little latitudes. Things went so fast. It was only then that I realized that I hadn’t realized how much fun I’d been having.

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UltimateBet doesn’t do much in terms of live events, especially when compared to PokerStars (who are dominating the live scene on four continents already). Once a year, though, UB throws what’s rumored to be the premier poker party of the year. After about six years of trying and failing to get down to Aruba, I’m pleased be able to confirm that it is, indeed, the place to be come October.

They have a slogan for themselves down there in Aruba — “One Happy Island” — and the tag line is perfectly fitting from my experiences. Sometimes when I arrive in a new country, it takes a day or two to get acquainted with the sights and the sounds before I really understand what’s going on and how my routine will meld with the environment I’m in. There was no such feeling-out period in Aruba.

I had touched down on Saturday and taken the quick cab ride to the Radisson. I truly bleed black and gold when it comes to poker, and it did my heart proud to see the hotel and the staff liberally adorned with UB logos, patches, shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. Even the housekeeping maids were patched up. I grabbed a book of UB matches off the swag table in the lobby and when I opened it, I realized that it was actually a condom tucked inside a matchbook. I grabbed two more, thinking this was obviously fine foreshadowing of things to come.

After a warm greeting from the UB crew in the open-air lobby, I bumped into SusieQue and fstyfngrtps sipping on a tropical orange concoction in the bar. After the hugs and handshakes, I checked into 3622 in the third tower, the one farthest from the lobby and the casino. Big bed, nice bathroom, American channels on the TV, and a huge window shade on the far wall that hinted at a private balcony. I threw open the big slider to scope out the vista; single-masted sailboats dotted the shore of the perfectly aquamarine South Atlantic like a photo in a travel brochure.

“Oh shit, ‘Cuse! What up, bro?!”

It took an awkward half-second for my half-functioning brain to pull up the file for the person that was talking to me. On the balcony next door, two white boys and two dark island guys were peering around the corner at me. It clicked; the voice came from Matt “cwp394″ Ross, a fellow-Syracuse native and poker player. About my age too. The only thing that separated us was that he has yet to make it out of Liverpool and the great white north.

I first ran across Matt this past Spring at the Circuit Event in New Orleans. He was sporting a Johnny Flynn jersey, and we shot the shit about the Dome and the snow and Dinosaur BBQ. We never really hung out away from the tables there, though. The other whitey on his porch was Brandon “xblah” Riha. Brandon had come down from Auburn, and the two of them were my next-door neighbors in 3624.

Before I even had a chance to meet the two locals, Matt held up a trophy of a joint, raised his eyebrows and asked that magical question: “Do you blaze?”

Why, yes, Mr. Ross… Yes, I do.

After the introductions and re-introductions next door, I was burning down on perfectly-constructed roll-up of some mediocre island bud. This is literally within five minutes of my arrival. Many more sessions would follow over the course of the next ten days. Weed is a luxury that I don’t actively seek out when I travel, but it fell right into my lap this time. Matt had met the two locals, Juice and Jamilo, down in the casino. That kid can strike up a conversation with anybody. They were dealers in the gaming sense of the word, but they could also scrounge up a few grams of whatever you needed within 30 minutes at any time of the day or night.

It’s pretty easy to make friends on a poker trip, and the five of us would hang together for the bulk of the week, along with a rotating crew of onliners like “weeminer” and “bazeman”. Juice and Jamal showed us where the women were and taught us a few phrases in Papamiento to break the ice, and we taught them how to count cards at blackjack and how to three-bet shove on a flush draw. We shared lots of late-night sessions at the tables and far too many rounds of Aruba Arribas, the sweet orange drink of choice among the American visitors. Nectar of the gods. Jamal and Juice had joint-rolling contests. I’m talking serious museum quality rolling skills here. Perfection. We laughed and joked and swore and smoked all night every night.

Such was my week. Work. Swim. Drink. Smoke. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat. Fantastic.

The tournament itself was a lot of work, but it came and went quickly enough. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a vacation for vacation’s sake… in fact, even writing this, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been away for something other than work. With that thought well in mind, I decided to loiter around the island for a few days after the tournament crowd dispersed. It was better than heaven. I pissed the days away laying under a palm tree on the beach, a book in one hand, a beer in the other, and Buffett filling my ears and easing my soul.

There was only one thing missing.

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The voice over the loudspeaker in the terminal announced in broken island-English that our flight was boarding. I polished off the last swig of my Balashi, snubbed out my cigarette, tipped the bar chick, and carried my half-ton of luggage to the gate. ‘Ross the Boss’ had hooked me up with some special brownies a few days earlier, and I had somehow managed to save them until now as I was getting settled into my window seat. They were amazing. My last conscious thought was how pleasantly plentiful the legroom was on this particular flight. When you’re 6′4″ with sketchy knees, even an extra inch or two in front means the difference between relative comfort and requiring a full day to untangle your spine after you get home.

Our plane broke free from gravity’s grasp with that familiar ka-thunk of tires and asphalt parting company, and I dove headlong into sleep recovery mode before we even reached the cloud deck. The tranquil shore was still visible out my right-side window the last time my eyes dropped shut.

Adios, Aruba.

See you next year; you can bet your happy little island on that.

Changes in latitudes
Changes in attitudes
Nothin’ remains quite the same
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands
If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane