He thrust up his arms in celebration when he saw the Jamaican lighthouse. He slowed as he entered the small harbor and strained to see a familiar face. He was late for the meeting but they had assured him they would be there—if he ever made it. The engine sputtered to let him know it was thirsty again, so he took the boat ashore and began walking in search of fuel. The Jamaicans would have to wait a while longer.

He had only been walking a short time when the police arrived. Papers were shown and they asked where his friends were. Jerry explained that they had decided not to make the trip, but still they had their suspicions. Why are you here? they wondered. He showed them the scuba equipment. I came to dive, he said. He knew it sounded lame but they couldn’t prove otherwise.

“We must check,” they said. They took him into custody and began making calls.

“You marijuana man?” a policeman asked. “Your friends drown in storm? Small boat.”

This went on for two days. Even the American Embassy became involved in the investigation. Jerry was unfazed because they had nothing to charge him with and he got time to rest. Finally, they took him and the boat to Kingston and let him go. He had a few repairs made to the boat, now tied to a dock at Port Royal. The craft had held up well, considering what it had experienced.

As he walked down the pier, a Jamaican came to him and whispered, “It’s okay, mon. We’re waiting for you.”

“What?”

The Jamaican smiled. “You want to buy marijuana, right? We’re waiting for you.”

Jerry couldn’t believe it. He took the Sea Ray out of the harbor. Soon he saw them in open boats with small outboard motors. As they began to wave, he recognized one of the men.

“We didn’t think you’d come, mon,” he said “Big water, little boat.”

Another said, “Mon, you should be in the Guinness Book of Records for making it this far in that boat.”

Jerry was getting tired of hearing about the boat. “You got the marijuana?”

“Yes, mon, we got it.” He looked back toward the shore. “Police okay with you?”

“There was nothing to find, so they let me go,” Jerry said. “We have a deal or not?” He was getting impatient and wanted to get it over with.

The Jamaican laughed. “We got deal, mon. People think you’re crazy. That why police let you go.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

The Jamaican laughed again.

Jerry looked past them. “What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

“Better hurry, mon. Bad storm coming.”

Jerry nodded in resignation. To hell with this place, he thought, to hell with the ocean. When he was through, he didn’t care if he ever saw water again.

Jerry paid them the rest of the money. After the six hundred pounds of marijuana were loaded in the cabin, he headed for the Bahamas. Just as darkness arrived, the storm came once again. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. “Don’t you ever give up?”