On the last day in Jamaica, I gathered my things slowly, taking in the time I had spent on the island. The night before, after returning from Negril, I spent the night laughing and drinking myself into delirium with my family and newly acquired friends. Before heading out, I took advantage of a ride out into the ocean in a small, Hobie style sailboat with a skipper. You could chew the humid air, but as we pushed out into the water I quickly felt it thin out from the tradewinds that met our little vessel. As we sailed further away from the island, the gentle waters became choppy, eventually becoming waves and even deeper white horses. We didn’t say much. Then again, there wasn’t much to be said. The ocean is what bound us. Looking back at the island becoming smaller, sinking under the horizon I began to feel that Jamaica had taken root under my skin while the sun baked the salt water on it above. It was a place that reminded me of something real but unsaid, tangible, amorphous and ethereal all at the same time. Jamaica felt human, unvarnished, and wild. From the day I came to Jamaica, I’d felt that things were always spiraling beyond my grasp, pulling me out of my comfort much like the wind was pulling my increasingly fragile feeling dinghy. More than once I thought I’d be flipped into the drink or at the very least lose my glasses as the cool waters whipped across my body and face. And just when I thought we’d gone too far, in an instant, the skipper turned us around and we made our way back towards land. I’m going to miss this place, I thought to myself.