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I’m a reasonably seasoned adventurer. I’ve tasted, in the back of my throat, the rotten egg stench of erupting geysers in Iceland. Drank ‘wine’ made by tribes-people, trekking jungles in Borneo. Touched the walls around Chichen Itza, exploring Mayan ruins in Mexico. I’ve been stunned to gaping silence at a Kathakali show in India. Now, after my latest foray into the unknown, all of those experiences are beginning to slightly pale in comparison. I don’t say that easily but what I’ve returned from, a week ago, is only now starting to form into digestible thoughts that are in any way translatable to words. So let me try, as best I can, articulate what has been the greatest 3 days of my (almost) 30 years. It’s called ‘Flogging Molly’s Salty Dog Cruise’ – a myriad of bands, DJs and punk rock karaoke – set on an Ocean liner, sailing high on the Caribbean sea. To begin, we’re ushered on-board where there’s buzzing droves milling about trying to take in their surroundings. Those surroundings, in a single word, would be – disparity. The opulent back drop of glass elevators and gold flecked staircases was overrun by Mohawks, tattoos and tartan. The punks had commandeered a ship for a weekend of piratical hedonism. The elation was evident, everyone not so quietly anticipating what was in store. Strangers becoming instant weekend friends in bar queues, hallways, cabins – bonded over some obscure band t-shirt. We somehow end up in a queue of our own, mistaking a bone marrow donation table for a merchandise stall. We feign disappointment we can’t partake due to our nationality, though our faces look equally relieved that we get to keep our bone marrow. Just in case we need any extra, come Monday. The kickoff party starts with ‘Skinny Lister’, playing a stomping set that sounds as excited and electrified as every person looks. It ends…well, let’s just say it ends. After watching more shows but before submitting to another mojito. The momentum manages to last beyond the wee hours. Us though, we only saw the early AM. First stop the next day is Nassau, Bahamas. A relatively small city, where hundreds of alternatively clothe masses have invaded the streets. We watch an impromptu bagpipe, box drum, banjo mashup in the Hard Rock Cafe over ridiculously large nachos, laden with an absurd amount of cheese before heading back to base. Sunday is a stop at Great Stirrup Cay, a private island, where Flogging Molly take centre stage, blasting tracks and instructing the crowd to curse the seagulls. A wrap up party on-board later that night see’s the crowd chat and dance and sing among themselves, as if the ship was their lifelong home. It seems as though the last 72 hours has created a patchwork family. I can’t wait to visit them again. And for anyone who to loves to experience outrageous excess, devilment and banging tunes – I’d tell you to become a punkrockpirate for a weekend too someday.