One early afternoon, we threw out the anchor and splashed ashore in Jost Van Dyke's White Bay to join everybody else at the Soggy Dollar Bar, which somehow manages to be packed with tourists without feeling offensively touristy. The Soggy Dollar is the reputed birthplace of "the Painkiller," (see "The Infamous Painkiller" on page 34) a misleadingly named concoction of rums, coconut cream, and pineapple and orange juice, garnished with fresh nutmeg, that may temporarily assuage what ails you but is also liable to deliver a whole new world of illin' if you don't pace yourself. (I did. Others in my group? Not so much. But what happens on Jost Van Dyke, stays on Jost Van Dyke.) Generations of thirsty travelers have waded ashore only to find that their wampum beads are wet, so take a moment to enjoy the clothesline that's strung above the bar, an innovation born of necessity. It's ingenius because while your formerly filthy lucre dries out, you don't have to. We tried the equally famous Foxy's Taboo, which seemed to have evaded the touristy feeling less successfully, but is still worth a visit. Yet Jost Van Dyke is more than a series of beachfront watering holes. Make sure you tour the island-by horse, ATV, or Jeep-it's gorgeous with miles of beautiful beaches and very little going on, in a way that's liable to induce Robinson Crusoe fantasies.