When I got on the boat, I was met by an uncle like figure who seemed like his only job at the park was to helm the boats, hit on women in said boats, and offer me a hit of his Bob Marley. I couldn’t believe I was being asked to hit the weed before hitting the high oceans, but I was and as is my custom, politely declined. Like the others, he couldn’t believe there was a person who didn’t smoke, in particular, that I didn’t smoke. “Is he high now?”, I thought to myself. “He has to be”. Was I cool with this? Before I could let the anxiety about being tossed out into the ocean set in, we cast off from the dock and shot off into the ocean. I would have to be. The waves were deep and thick, cresting about us, crashing into us with force and vigor. Whitecaps were popping into and out of existence. The wind was whipping about furiously and it felt nice in the dense Jamaican air. On more than one occasion, I felt like I was going to pop up from the boat or it was going to capsize, but in the moment I didn’t care, despite my earlier fear. Everyone around me, myself included, and even the other boats whizzing around were all smiles. As we ventured further out into the ocean, the skipper led my small group on the boat in various cheers, of which, “yah-man” he shouted with particular vigor. I joined along with him, enjoying hearing my shouts of “Yah-Man” drowned out by the roar of the engine and swallowed whole by the entirety of the ocean beneath my feet.