You’d think not only being invited to stay for free on a yacht, but in Greece, would be the experience of a lifetime. NOT. It just depends on whom.

Wine glasses clinked about four beach chairs down from behind me. Momentary shrieks of giggles and ice buckets clanging and clashing came from my right. The American waiter on his third tourist visa was at it, yet again.

Simultaneously, a steady thump-thump-thump afrobeat found its way a few feet away from the bar speakers above the Greek bouncer’s head to my seat, engulfing me in surround sound and serenity.

Dancing quietly in the backdrop of this very moment were the sapphire low tides that washed gently upon Corfu’s translucent sandy face. My mind had darkened as a sun-kissed hazy fog steadily forced my eyes shut.

Then, suddenly, on my left, a voice shouts: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I jolted awake — the waves dropped flat silent, the neighboring British sunbather paused her munching, the techno tempo paused.

Her: HAVE YOU GOTTEN THE WAITER?

Me: No.

Her: Why? Get him over here already! Don’t you want your drink fast?

Me: Sure.

I waved my hand about three times across five minutes, trying to get the waiter’s attention.

The same upsetting voice then shouts: COME ON. You need to be more aggressive. Go up there and get him.

Me, whispering: I am not in a rush. When he can come, he can come.

Her: No, I don’t want to watch you next to me waving forever. Come on, you are such a scared little Asian! Just like my father, I swear. Stop being so shy and speak up. Shout to him!

I continued to ignore her loud remarks, maintaining my calm gestures for the waiter while internal fiery flames and acute awareness rapidly spread inside me (especially since several heads turned my way).

Her name was Tammy. She was a 60-something American woman from Miami who looked literally 40 at best. Must be thanks to the Filipino side she claimed she has, coupled with her puffed-up lip injections, ongoing Botox, monthly hair bleach, and an A-to-D upgrade in those “watermelons.”

We had met about three weeks prior in Albania at an all-female hostel. When you’re often far from home like her and I, and you suddenly run into that crispy-clear, high-pitched American vocals, you can’t always help but say: Oh my god, no way. Which state?!

We hit it off immediately and became fast friends. She was traveling alone, like me, and had been stateside for several years while maintaining her main residence at the time in Corfu, Greece. And dare I say it, living with her South African boyfriend on a $3,000 yacht that’s parked year-round in the island’s famous maritime port.

One day, propped up from her hostel bed, bare breasts out and all, as our 70-year-old Albanian hostess swept around us, Tammy asked me: Why don’t you come visit me in Corfu?

I have this beautiful yacht and an extra spare room. My boyfriend is in South Africa and I can take you on a rented moped around the island. Just us girls. Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!

Nearly two and a half weeks later — a 20-euro bus ride from Amsterdam to Cologne for a 40-euro one-way flight, and my 2-pound carry-on — I unapologetically (yet without realizing at that time, naively) greeted Tammy again, this time at the Albanian ferry entry into Greece.

I cannot tell you how excited I was to venture off with what I thought could be me in 20+ years: a ferocious female confidant who sweeps even men below 30 off her higher-than-ego-saddled horse, holding our freedom flag, and never taking fried tacos that are too fried as a “no” for an answer.

To be Continued.