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The magazine writers demurred when asked if they would be writing articles on the Eos following the trip, saying, rather huffily, that they never made such promises. But Guilfoil raised his eyebrows. "They can say that," he laughed, "but you go on something like this ... I think there's a certain understanding."

When we reached Key Largo, there was the Eos crew beckoning, like sirens, toward the 80-foot private yacht waiting to take us back to South Beach. The boat had but one rule: no shoes. Whatever thin veneer of professionalism remained among the guests came off with our shoes and dissipated forever in the sunlight and frothing, foaming water of the yacht ride. Barefoot and sun-sleepy, journalists lounged on cushions outside the cabin, facing the water. We ate crab. We drank wine.

"These things exist everywhere," murmured a writer named Jeff, as he lounged on the deck, "if you can make the right connections." Sunburned, snapping pictures, and sipping wine, Jeff looked out at the ocean. "The trick for you and me," he said dreamily, "is to make this afternoon and tonight last forever."

Exhausted, reporters collapse onto the deck
Exhausted, reporters collapse onto the deck

As the yacht pulled in, an MWW exec invited all to attend a spa treatment, dinner and cocktails, and an outing to Mokai — "a very exclusive club," they assured us — where bottle service starts at $300. Light-headed from the wine, exhausted from the sun, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, I walked onto the dock and was instantly greeted by an MWW flack, who handed me a Dove chocolate ice cream cone.

I took it. I couldn't say no.

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