Throughout Jamaica at night, you can hear the chirp-croak of the Jamaican Tree Frog. Sounds kind of like a robotic bird.

After some time of taking in the ocean, I got wind from a young couple that there was a shuttle bus taking off to bring guests down to Margaritaville. I was chilled out enough to want to stay put where I was on the beach, but buzzed and amped up from the day’s adventure that I didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t too sure that I wanted to keep things going at Margaritaville either. All I could think about the scores of obscenely drunk people in the French Quarter drooling over how much they loved Margaritaville and “all of the color” and how I didn’t want to be that. But my feet were firmly on the bus by the time I had given it too much thought. Deon, Connor, and a few of my folks were already on the bus by the time I got on, so apparently, they had gotten the memo too. Everyone was pretty pumped, chatting lively amongst themselves. There was an electric quality to the air that you could grip with both hands. I sauntered past the first few rows, found my way to a seat near the center left side of the bus and burrowed into the seat. Once situated, I tried to get a sense of things, the people around me, my surroundings, escape routes and so on, like Jason Bourne, only if Bourne was shitty at being a spy and out of shape. We might be getting kidnapped I let my mind wander, but rationalized that these imaginary criminals would be going to unusual lengths and expending lots of resources to squeeze a group of budget-conscious travelers. We weren’t worth the trouble I concluded.