Sure, America’s a pretty good country, with plenty of freedom, democracy, moms and apple pies to go around. But Cuervo Nation–a lucious island in the British Virgin Islands–has, well, Cuervo, babes in bikinis and a whole planeload of celebrity ambassadors. After a star-studded trip to the tropical haven, we’re wondering just how hard it is to get a green card there.
But this enticing, exotic land exists only in a transitory world, and for 2005, the tiny eight-acre island off the coast of Tortola materialized on Cinco de Mayo (that’s May 5 to you gringos!) like a glittering jewel in the Caribbean. Its debut population swelled to a couple hundred, thanks to the planeloads of contest winners who were flown into the Virgin Islands and taken by a sumptuously appointed yacht (read: all the Cuervo you could drink) to the island to celebrate…um, what were they celebrating again? Oh, yeah, the fact that Jose Cuervo is the world’s top-selling tequila brand, with enough shooters to its credit to establish its own island kingdom. That and the bikini babes.
The celebs arrived in style, picked up at different points on the yacht trip over to the island. Led by the curvaceous Gastineau Girls–mom Lisa and daughter Brittny [corr]–their beach-ready bodies left the Cuervo-swilling menfolk in the crowd debating the merits of MILF Lisa versus her coquetteish offspring. Both looked so smokin’ in their beachwear, we’ll presume this TV-babe debate will rage on, like Ginger vs. Mary Ann, Jeannie vs. Samantha or Wilma vs. Betty–that is if anyone remembers the Girls after the fifteen minutes of fame on E!
The now twenty-something ex-witch Melissa Joan Hart was also whisked into the newly formed country (by plane, not by broom) with her hubby Mark Wilkerson, and the two were so lovey-dovey and cozy they seemed practically on a second honeymoon. Even in the Virgin Islands, the natives had been bewitched by Melissa’s charms via satellite, greeting her with a friendly “Hi, Sabrina.”
CSI‘s Eric Szmanda put his forensic tools aside to live large in the sun. He was supposed to be joined by his co-star Jorja Fox but unfortunately Fox was still a slave to those silly U.S. rules and regulations, stuck at home with jury duty. No such inconveniences would invade Cuervo Nation! Eric brought his Wisconsin homeboy Chad Brisky instead–eye-pleasing but not as bikini-friendly as Jorja might have been.
On the excursion, Eric and Chad took their very first snorkeling trip, along with the more seasoned snorkeler Melissa, who ditched any Hollywood pretense and jumped in in a swimsuit san makeup (did you know she was belly-pierced?). The rest of the guests joined in the underwater exploration–all except the Gastineau Girls, who didn’t want to get their hair wet.
After landfall on Cuervo Nation, everyone showered the saltwater off themselves–at this point, the salt was reserved for the rim of a glass of Cuervo, triple sec and lime juice. The party was pumped up by the arrival of Michael Clarke Duncan, who was taking in a little R&R with gal pal Irene Marquez, perhaps in the spirit of his highly anticipated summer flick The Island. The two had skipped the yacht trip in favor of frolicking with some local dolphins. Later, the critter-loving couple became fascinated with a teeny baby lizard they discovered in a bathroom and tried to figure out how to smuggle it back to the U.S. But even Michael didn’t want to mess with those Cuervo Nation airport security teams.
Although Cuervo Nation only existed for about 48 hours, it did develop its own national anthem. Yeah, you just THINK “Margaritaville” would be a natural, but the natives opted for something more progressive: just about every hit from the Grammy-nominated rock band Hoobastank, who graciously jetted to the sandy shores for a knockout live performance on a floating stage in the waters off of the island. The Cuervo tourists, fueled by ample amounts of tequila, floated and swam in the waters surrounding the stage, splashing enthusiastically whenever their favorite tune was played. Michael Clarke Duncan was so fired up, he even gave up the Hawaiian shirt off his mightily muscled back, dropping to do push-ups for the cheering crowd.
And then, like Shangri-la or Brigadoon, Cuervo Nation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, not to return for another 360-some days, leaving only several empty bottles of Jose Cuervo, a smattering of discarded swimsuits and–we hope–some relatively intact memories in its wake.
