We’re not sure if it’s become cool to hate on New Year’s Eve - or whether us humans just need to work on our earnestness - but we’re getting pretty bored of people closing out the year by saying, “New Year’s Eve is so overrated”. New Year’s Eve is not overrated. At least, not when you do it The BucketLust way.
That’s because our New Year’s Eve’s are different. Oh-so-different. F**king different. There’s no hating yourself for paying Uber surge prices, trekking it to the other side of your cold and crowded city, and then drinking knock-off champagne in a confined space with hundreds of strangers knowing you’ll probably have to go pee at 11:37pm or else you’ll welcome in the next epoch of your life parting the sea of midnight kissers with awkwardly wet pants.
This is why the world’s most life-loving unicorns have begun avoiding New York, London, Paris, Sydney, Hong Kong, and every other world-famous New Year’s party to come kick it with us, and our flotilla of yachts, on a voyage of hedonistic exploration that would make Christopher Columbus quake in his sandals - and this New Year’s Eve it’s our St Martin Route that’s getting the FULL F**KING SEND.
It’s gonna be huuuge. No. It’s gonna be hot. So hot you’ll need to wear a welder’s mask to look at it and teflon gloves to touch it. But it will be so worth it because this route is gonna make your mind fizz, your soul shake, your fists punch the air, and the good-time memories sear themselves into your smile, replete with all those gorgeously bad habits you think you’re going to give up as part of your ”I can be a saint” resolutions. Yeah. It’s as big as New Year’s gets. It’s three islands in seven days. It’s a cocktail of French grandeur, Dutch flair, Caribbean-cool beach vibes, and our TBL special sauce.
New Year’s Eve is dead. Long live New Year’s Eve.
Long live The BucketLust.
Rule No.1: No One Forgets Fort Louis
We only know one way when it comes to kicking off a BucketLust week, and that’s telling our crews to hang on for dear life as we raise the sails and leave your world behind in a jumbo jet take-off - and there’s nowhere more epic for this kinda launch than the Fort Louis Yacht Club. It’s got more prestige than most princes, more stories to tell than most novelists, views for days, and an epic AF perch above Marigot Bay. It’s a place that proves our two favourite things:
You can never have too much of a good thing.
Feeling smug about your NYE plans is totally groovy.
Rule No.2: Circles Have More Fun
We don’t care if you’ve danced down the streets of Rio in sparkly underwear, gambled and skied your way around Lake Tahoe, done the two fireworks finales at Niagara Falls, or got blisters doing Berlin’s Party Mile, you’ve never partied The Bucketlust way. Never. But that’s because you’ve never been floating around the far-flung islands of paradise in a flotilla of yachts led by our motley crew of misfit skippers who love nothing more than rafting our yachts together in a giant circle and giving our resident DJs the thumbs up to throw a mid-ocean pop-up party for our close-knit tribe of pirates. It’s epic. Inflatables fill the ring of yachts, lasers cut through the sky, skinny-dippers leave their trunks on deck, fists pump like there’s no tomorrow, bikini-clad beauties dance like they’re in an MTV music video (or a Bravo TV show), and so much champagne is sprayed the sea-level rises faster than a honeymooner’s bubble bath. And because it’s New Year’s Eve, we’re gonna send it like we’ve never sent it before. Yeeeehaw.
Rule No.3: We Always Find Utopia
All-dayers down the boozer are grand, but all-dayers on the shores of a secret paradise are way better, and we’re not just talking about a pretty beach with a hammock hung between curved palm trees. We’re talking about ringing in your last days of 2018 in-style with a jaw-hits-floor day-trip to Ile Tintamarre. Totally uninhabited, pulling up here is a cinematic dream; smiles filling faces as we idle towards the drug-white shoreline, sails loosely flapping in the wind as the North Curve comes into focus. It’s f**king paradise, dudes. We won’t ruin the surprise, but there’s a cove full of with sea turtles and rays and pristine beach perfect for digging holes, filling with speakers and making the sands shake. Whoever your next-of-kin is, you’re probably going to send them an involuntary text the moment you arrive that reads: I’ll be back never.
Rule No. 4: We’ll Prove The King Is Alive And Kicking
Elvis may have died in Graceland in 1977, but his spirit made its way to the sliver of paradise known as Anguilla and the Elvis Beach Bar. It’s the place for late nights and live music. It’s a toes-in-the-sand beach bar on Sandy Ground that caters for good-times of every kind. Midday cocktails, sundowner shots, and parties that wave farewell to dusk and raise a glass of champagne to dawn. And, yeah, like we said, it’s on Anguilla; the Caribbean place that isn’t for everyone - and that’s exactly what we goddamn love about it. It leaves the egotism to St. Barts, the swimming pigs to The Bahamas, and the volcano hikes to Nevis, and just focuses on what it does better than anywhere else - giving you the chillest Caribbean vacay.
Rule No.5: You’ll See Bays And Meet Bae
There are bays, and then there are bays, the kind that will make you bite your bottom-lip, break the ‘gram with a #nofilter snap of a jumbo’s wheels teasing the beach sands of paradise, and then grab the waist of whoever you’ve been crushing on and give ‘em that trip-changing first sign as you dance your way towards the warm waters. And we’re giving you two of these bays. Friars and Simpson. With our resident DJ’s kickstarting another pop-up party, bikini-clad hotties dancing on the decks with boardie-adorned hardbodies, and the sun turning the ocean pink with each tick-tock of the 2018 clock, there’s nowhere you’d rather fall in love with life and fall in lust with whichever unicorn you haven’t been able to take your eyes off. Yeah. We make “meet cutes” sexy.
Rule No.6: No One Does It Like The Dutch
What’s an epiphany trip to St-Martin without dropping in on the Dutch side of the party and the capital city of this hatter-mad island - Philipsburg. It’s the wild west of the south that doesn’t know how to do quaint, meaning it’s debauched in all the best ways possible. It’s the perfect pitstop for those wanting to see their heart thud through their swimsuits and hear their flip-flops tip-tap down the cobbled streets of seventh heaven. It’s a mishmash of old buildings meets new, outdoor shopping malls, red light districts, and boardwalks jamming with boisterous beach bars and tables made for dancing. It’s the perfect place to take our floating amphitheatre of epicness and let our motley crew of life-lovers and yay-sayers crank it up to eleven.
Rule No.7: Seafaring And Smile-Celebrating Guaranteed
Of all the Hallmark days that clog up our calendars, none is more life-affirming than New Year’s Eve, and there’s no better way to look back at the year you’ve just conquered and forward to another year of dream-touching than to stand on the bow of a yacht, surrounded by your BFFs, clinking jars of Cap’n Jack’s Notorious Punch as you stare out at the open seas and stern-split waves full of love and life, hopes and hope-nots, and then feeling your out-of-this-world crush take you by the hand and kiss you under a sky of flickering stars and crackling fireworks - sparklers, spinners, poppers, fountains, roman candles and firecrackers - all of them lighting up paradise with a bang. Yeah. Sailing f**king rocks, man. That feeling of exploring a small pocket of paradise with the sails up and the elixir of sun, salt and warm winds licking your skin. It f••king rocks. But sailing The Bucketlust way is even more badass. It’s like Sailing 2.0. No. It’s like Living Your Best Life 2.0.
Rule No.8: The Best Things Happen Unexpectedly
It wouldn’t be a BucketLust Route without us throwing a few madass surprises into the mixer and shaking them over our shoulder. It’s what we do best. It’s what keeps you mad bunch of misfits coming back, again and again, to explore the world through our kaleidoscope of house music and hard-stuff hooch, ocean breezes and strip teases, pop-up parties, dance-offs, beach landings and more. So much more. And this New Year’s Eve we’re gonna send it with so much force our parties will be written into the scrolls NYE folklore with permanent ink, a winky face emoji, and a reference from the good-time gods that reads: you ain’t lived until you’ve lived this week.
NYE is dead. Long live NYE. Long Live TBL.
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