From the editor: Gene pool

Walking into a chic, impossible-to-get-into restaurant in Miami’s South Beach a few years ago, I spotted Tim Warmath, a close friend who lives in London, dining with his large family. As I greeted the assembled North Carolina brood, Tim’s dad, in a not unpleasant, thick Southern drawl, asked me “Richard, where are your people from?” I can honestly say I had never been asked that question in quite that way before. “Well, Sir, my people are island people, from Cuba that is,” I said. As I finished my slightly smart-alecky response to his vaguely judgmental query, it hit me: My people are island people. The evidence was overwhelming.

Before making this particular patch of desert home, I’d never lived more than a ten-minute car ride from a significant body of water. Boston, San Juan, Miami, New Orleans, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles—water, water everywhere. Even in Manhattan, I had the good fortune of living and working where I had stunning bird’s eye views of the Hudson River from both locations. I’m drawn to water—it’s in my genes.

The whole water as a constant in my life took root because of my Cuban parents. I believe that one of the main reasons why they’re still very happily married a full half-century later is their shared passion for the sea. Fishing, to be more precise. As a consequence, their children spent a large part of their youth slathering on SPF 30 and dropping a line from the back of a boat on the Atlantic Ocean. My siblings loved it. I, on the other hand, was invariably pouting about the heat or berating my dad and uncle on how catching fish was equivalent to murder. But, there you have it—we’re island people to the core.

To this day I love being on the water, be it chillin’ with friends on one of upstate New York’s majestic lakes or reading a book high atop a massive cruise ship. But here’s the rub: To the horror of my people—all Cubans, please avert your eyes—I much prefer a pool to a beach. Much. I’m sure my Desi Arnaz-Gloria Estefan Authentic Cuban Membership Card is being revoked even as I write this, but it’s true. There’s something about a pool that I can’t get enough of. I like how everything at a nice pool is devoid of sand, how inviting the brilliant blue water seems, how I can fully relax on a plush chaise longue and have one (or many) chilled adult beverages.

I can think of several dozen pools that have hit the spot for me over the years including Miami’s Mandarin Oriental, Soho House New York, Parker Palm Springs, The Bahamas’ Ocean Club, Cabo’s Palmilla and, best of all, West Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont. Needless to say, I’ve been surrounded my entire life with people who feel quite the opposite—let’s hit the sand!—and therefore have experienced first-hand some of the planet’s most gorgeous beaches: Bondi (Sydney), Fire Island (New York), Sitges (Barcelona), South Beach (Miami), Maui (Hawaii). It’s not like I don’t understand the beach’s appeal, but, in the end, I’m just a pool boy.

The first time I heard about a Vegas pool party, I was—you guessed it—poolside in Los Angeles in 2004 talking to an actress who told me that the Hard Rock had asked her and some cast mates from her hit MTV show to host a pool event. What a brilliant idea. Of course Las Vegas would think of monetizing pool parties in the summer. Why in the world would anyone sane—or famous—ever go to the desert in 100-degree heat? The Hard Rock’s Rehab pool party was sheer marketing genius then and it remains so seven years later.

I’m well aware what many conservative windbags in this city have to say about the spectacle of a fully lubricated Las Vegas pool at the height of the party. But critics and cynics are missing the larger point: It’s just a pool party. So it’s 111 degrees and a lot of pretty girls and bronzed boys are having a good time. That’s all. This isn’t complicated, folks. Of course we have to work a little harder to make sure that everyone’s having a great time without breaking any laws, but, to me, the pool police have always struck me as our version of the movie "Footloose," you know where the old fuddy-duddies banned dancing in their town. I say, relax. It’s just a pool party.

When I called my parents—who’ve lived on the ocean in the Florida Keys for decades—and told them I was moving to Las Vegas, they fell silent for a full minute before my mom asked quietly “Honey, you’re really moving to the desert?” “I don’t even know what to say,” my dad whispered. And there it was: My parents were rendered speechless by my willful act of choosing sand over water, a blatant betrayal of my island roots.

Hello, my name’s Richard, I live in the desert and I prefer pools to beaches. The first step to healing is admitting your sins. Mea culpa. And for my island people, this landlocked sin is a doozy and nearly unforgivable. How will I ever get my Cuban card back now?