OUR LAST MORNING, we had a following breeze, making our final goal—a floating bar called Willy T's—absurdly doable. The William Thornton, a 100-foot steel schooner moored in a bay called the Bight on Norman Island, is party central for the Virgin Islands. A place where women jump naked from the railing to get a free T-shirt and men get drunk. "No matter what you do," one friend had demanded, "you gotta finish at Willy T's."

It was a five-mile swim that felt like less than one. Time in the water no longer represented worrying about survival. It was simply what we did—where we belonged. We were the SwimTrek BVI! boys, and the ocean was our playground.

When we rounded Water Point, a jutting peninsula on Norman's northwestern edge and the entrance to the Bight, we passed over some divers 40 to 50 feet below us—a surreal experience, to suddenly run into other humans flippering

"We just swam from Virgin Gorda!" Hopper announced. He was answered with cheers and a couple of free beers.

through our sea. Their bubbles bumped into us, drifting to the surface. And then we saw Willy T's itself, about a third of a mile away on the far side of the bay. Without exchanging a word, we decided to race that last stretch to touch the hull, which we did, simultaneously.

"We just swam from Virgin Gorda!" Hopper announced. He was answered with cheers and a couple of free beers.

Zeus, the horniest bartender outside of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, poured us a couple of painkillers—double shots of rum hidden in a masterly mix of coconut, pineapple, and orange juices—when we made it up to the bow. Actually, that first beer had gotten to me, so I don't know if the bar was in the bow or the stern, but I do know it was near an end.

As the afternoon passed, more and more revelers arrived by boat—beers in hand, bodies bobbing to the bar music, heavy on rap, reggae, and sexy R&B. Even the women seemed like predators, waiting to see who would get the most debauched. Silent old men (older than me) stood along the railing, praying somebody would go for a T-shirt. As we got drunker, Zeus seemed more and more impressed with our swim, but when I asked if we could get free T-shirts, he said, "No way, man. That's for the women, and there's only one way they're getting them: They've got to show Zeus the stuff." Then he turned up Kanye West so loud that even the sea seemed to vibrate.

As if on cue, an attractive newlywed from South Carolina zipped up in a boat with her husband and, after downing a few of her own painkillers, got herself a tattoo. This required the bride to lift her shirt, so that Zeus could lick the skin just above her left nipple. You know, so he could wet a spot for applying the tattoo. Her husband, powering down a Red Stripe, yelled out, "That's what I'm talking about!"

I chugged down another painkiller, gave Hopper a kiss, and smiled, a contented man. The SwimTrekkers had finally found the real spring break.

Oh, and as far as my Olympic hopes go? Thanks to all that BVI mileage, I got even faster—I'm less than half a second off my best time in the 50 free. It's Beijing or bust, baby—as long as they have beer bongs over there.