Everywhere you walk in Jamaica you hear Bob Marley. Blasting out of big speakers at bars, chicken stands, or just in the air from somewhere out of sight. The only time I didn’t hear Bob Marley was on a glass bottomed boat. The guy was at least 6 foot and he carried a trail of weed smoke as he took us toward his boat. It was cheap, the boat was old, we got on, we sailed out into the ocean. It sparkled and turtles swam beneath us. I jumped into the water and stroked its silvery surface with my hand, my hair floating just beneath the surface, life all around us. Back on the boat our guy exchanged money for packages with another boat that pulled up. That day we were, all of us, fishing.