Guánica, PR

The best beaches are the ones the pirates used to dock in.

Cruising down the southern highway of Puerto Rico you speed down a road flanked by empty green mountains and farmed valleys, as large vultures called Guaraguaos glide in slow circles overhead. Pass Yauco—a coffee town painted pink and orange against the mountain— and take exit 116 onto a narrow road that seems to go on forever. Walls of trees, cacti, and green brush create a tunnel around you until eventually you hit la Central de Guánica.

Block Island, RI

“I love Block Island!” bellowed a half-drunken hillbilly wearing brightly colored shorts, a cowboy hat, and sunglasses. Crowds of people flowing onto the dock cheered back their consensus as the locals snickered and rolled their eyes. It was noon and the tourists were already drunk while everyone else was just relieved to finally be “on the island.”

Block Island, that is. On Memorial Day weekend I stepped off the New London ferry onto Rhode Island’s answer to my island’s Culebra. BI is where New Englanders go to drink and eat by the beach, but for many Rhode Islanders—the “locals”—this is their second home, where they come eat and drink by their houses and occasionally the beach. My friend Willis’ family had very graciously invited me up for the weekend and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Despite this being my first time here, Willis assured me, “Don’t worry, you’re a local.”

That’s lesson number one when visiting an island, any island (mine included): you always want to be a local.