We grip the sides of the rickety fishing boat as it slams against the crests of the Caribbean waves. My husband and I try to ignore the fact that we are not wearing life jackets.The dreadlocked boatman is perched perilously at the bow. This is a feat, given that the ride is bumpier than Jamaica’s potholed roads.He notices our apprehension. Pointing vaguely into the distance, he says breezily: “Twenty more minutes, mon.”
Just as we begin to seriously worry, we spot a wooden hut in the sea and we climb up a ladder onto the main circular platform.