"Pass The Dutchie"

We docked at Grand Cayman this morning, but have yet to go ashore.  Jordan is still passed out and thank God for that.  We were both nursing a monumentally unnatural swerve yesterday morning.

Jamaica (and Pass The Dutchie) was an eye-opener.  Before we went onshore yesterday, we were different people, but the intensity of this trip finally caught up with us after getting back on the boat. 

Then, after another truly frightening session with “Pass The Dutchie”, we had to snap out of it.  And I don’t mean mellow out.  We had to drop all of this crazy bullshit, because by that point we were looking out over the river of sanity, and about to fall headlong downward into the arms of the fucking spirit-Sphinx.

Jordan and I are crazy people, but we’re not totally far gone.  We like to have fun, and we do it up right, but I don’t think either of us really realized what listening to Pass The Dutchie, barely eating, laughing constantly, and drinking like a Viking would do to push us into new, seriously crazy territory…  Cabin fever!

Cabin fever.  God.  No more.

So we both, in a very amazingly unspoken way, spent the rest of the night as actual, normal, polite and respectful human beings.  When we ate dinner we just basically talked about tuna, and tried not to mention Pass The Dutchie.  We tried not to laugh, and bring back the cosmic Jester into the room.  And man, we are better fucking folks now.

I feel great, exorcised.  You stare into the eye of the lion and it’s freaking you out, and you want to run.  So help me god you want to run.  I wanted to run.  As God as my witness I had a minor panic attack during our last Pass The Dutchie session, tormented and freaked the fuck out I stand here to tell you that I said aloud on Novemer 7^th 2011 in the Carribean “Dude, Pass The Dutchie is making me lose my shit.”

Jordan of course was on no solid ground, no, he was on sandy land too, and all he could do was laugh, buckled over watching me bang my head frantically against my bed, tickled pink about the unreal nature of the situation.

I had to force myself to take deep breaths while listening to “Pass The Dutchie” because “Pass The Dutchie” was scaring the shit out of me.  Pass The Dutchie was making me panic.  What.  The.  Fuck.

And, I’m sure you can feel me on this one, that’s all we needed.  We snatched the candy from the eye of the lion and as we should have known it was just a grape-flavored magic mushroom in the shape of a Bob Marley smiling down over a glow-in-the-dark yin-yang.  Good for us, at least we staked our psychic ground there before we headed back to safety.

Last night was blissfully quiet.  It was like a monastery.  We didn’t say much to each other, we didn’t need to.  We did our own thing, and did it like normal people.

Draw your own implications about the magnitude of what I am recounting of yesterday, and keep in mind we did not know what we had been getting into, no one can know, it’s just too weird.

I wandered around the ship last night in silent reflection, and the more I contemplated the days’ events the more I realized most of my problems really weren’t what I thought them to be.  Really all that was troubling me was “Pass The Dutchie”.  The more and more I thought about it the more and more it became clear, “Fuck, it was pass the Dutchie all along.”  I was so grateful to be alive.  I am happier now because of that song.

Which makes me question my initial impressions of Jamaica.  Fuck dangerous, Jamaica was fucking priceless.  It was like the most beautiful Faberge egg of an island you could imagine, like a Picasso of forest, mountains, old shacks, colorful and hip islanders, toughness, poetic beauty, so fuck the danger.  That just makes Jamaica metal.

Judging from the looks of the island from the boat, Grand Cayman looks about as interesting as Branson, Missouri.  It’s got a very fucking Missouri way about it.

I was able to actually keep down food yesterday shortly before our last “Pass The Dutchie” trip, and I was finally able to try the leftover Jamaican jerk chicken we’d brought back to the ship.  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.   Oh my fucking sweet nonsense fuck it was just as beautiful as the island of Jamaica, like Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles priceless but with the bonus magic of habaneros!!!

Not worthy. J