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around till the sides are nice and coated, and then toss anything that doesn’t stick. Add the remaining ingredients to a shaker with ice, shake well, and strain into the glass. Guests? Lemon twist garnish. No guests? Cut the cute and get reading.

THE LAST OF THE MOJITOS
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS (1826)
BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
    L ong before the universally adored film came out, The Last of the Mohicans was landmark (if historically wobbly) literature. Chronicling the tomahawk-assisted turf wars of Native Americans, Cooper stuffed his pages with wordy, witless plot-stoppers: “Duncan wandered among the lodges, unquestioned and unnoticed, endeavoring to find some trace of her in whose behalf he incurred the risk he ran,” anyone? Anyone? We’ll help you through the slow parts. Take a classic mojito and launch your own sneak attack, losing the sugar for agave nectar and adding a few authentically Native American fruits to the party. The result could stop wars.
    5 fresh blueberries, washed
    3 small, fresh strawberries, washed
    8 sprigs fresh mint, washed
    Â½ ounce lemon juice
    1 ounce agave nectar
    1½ ounces light rum
    1 (12-ounce) can club soda
    Muddle the berries, mint, juice, and nectar in a Collins glass. Add 2 handfuls ice and the rum, give a good stir, and top off with the club soda. Expect a rain dance of happy tears.



THE LIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER (1798)
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
    N ext time you’re marooned on an island, resist the temptation to call out, “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink!” First of all, the other survivors don’t need a clever quote, they need cocktails and a grief counselor. Second, you’ll probably end up dying of dehydration, so your final words ought to be accurate. The actual phrase—“Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink”—is from an epic poem about bad weather, angry oceans, and pissed-off dead birds who aren’t afraid to haunt a hull. (Moral of the story: leave God’s creatures alone, skipper.) Celebrate your land legs with this limey twist on a salty classic—and seriously consider staying back on the beach.
    Sea salt, for highball rim ( page 7 )
    2 ounces lime juice
    2 ounces grapefruit juice
    1½ ounces gin
    Rim a chilled highball glass in sea salt. Fill the glass with ice, pour in the ingredients, and give a good stir. When you’re sobered up, matey, head back to the lookout deck—and watch out for low-flying birds.

LORD OF THE MAI-TAIS
LORD OF THE FLIES (1954)
BY WILLIAM GOLDING
    T he plot that started a dozen TV franchises: throw a group of disparate souls on an island after their airplane crashes, and, in a Clearasil-ready twist, make sure none of them are old enough to drive, let alone drink. If you went to a high school that favored broadened minds over banned books, you’ll remember devouring this fable of order and disorder, schoolboys-turned-savages, and one very trippy pig’s head. Recommended reading during your next flight to Hawaii, escape to the galley if things get bumpy and throw together this Polynesian nerve-calmer. It’s fit to be served in a conch shell, but don’t turn your back on the other passengers.
    2 ounces cranberry juice
    2 ounces orange juice
    1½ ounces light rum
    1 ounce coconut rum
    1 teaspoon grenadine syrup ( page 11 )
    Orange slice or pineapple wedge, for garnish (optional)
    Shake the ingredients with ice—odds are, it’ll all turn out bloody red—and pour everything, including the ice, into a Collins glass. Get creative with the tropical garnishes: pineapples, oranges, eye of piglet. . . .

HEART OF DARK MIST
HEART OF DARKNESS (1899)
BY JOSEPH CONRAD
    W hat is it with white guys and their imperialistic, waterborne adventures? Yet again, we encounter a Western classic that drops a “civilized” man (Charles Marlow of England) into the middle of a foreign land (the Congo wilds,