It was a hot day (a lot of them are in Negril) and I needed some shade and a break from my walk, so I sat down on a natural seat in the crook of the sea grape's trunk. "You look like you're interested in a sunset cruise," asks the young woman. "Yeah, I was thinking about it," I answered, surprising myself, "tell me more." "Well, we go out on "Wild Thing"," she pointed to the catamaran moored in the sparkling waters just off shore, "we cruise up to Rick's Cafe and we dance and have a lot of fun. Its open bar."

"Yeah mon, you should come, we have a lot of fun." This from a young, good looking Jamaican guy lounging in a chair in the shade. I assume he's one of the crew. Two older ladies, successfully diverted by the sail in the sand, walk up to the table. The young lady greets them but they have eyes only for the young guy.

"What's your name?" one of them asks, looking at him, her accent identifies her as British. He looks up at them through his ultra-cool shades, "Ahhhh, people jus' call me Trouble," he says, putting his head back and chuckling.

"Ohhhh, Trouble are you?" One of the ladies reaches over and rubs his head, which is covered in tight rows of braids each tipped with four beads, black, green, yellow and red.

He pulls his head away, dodging her hand, "No, no ... don't touch. If you touch my braids I lose all of my power." We all laugh, I tell him that maybe his name should be Samson. The young sales-lady takes the moment to launch into her sales pitch again. She promises a fun time, unlimited drinks, pizza snacks, music, dancing, a great sunset and the cruise along the Negril shoreline.

I figure it sounds like a good way to pass some time and I had a hankering to get out on the ocean, so I book a cruise.

Two days later I'm standing on the same patch of beach with a group of about twenty other people, each of us clutching our yellow 'Wild Thing' boarding passes in our hands. The group is relaxed and chatty, anticipating a good party. There's a good mixture, singles, couples, groups, mostly young people and a few older. 'Young people?' I look around and suddenly realize that I am probably the oldest of the group. Yikes! Its bizarre how that creeps up on you. I think about the first time that I came to Negril, twenty-six years ago. I look up the shore towards Rutland Point and I can see myself standing on the beach in front of the Sundowner Hotel (long since torn down), twenty-some years old, pumped full of testosterone, beer in one hand, spliff in the other, not a care in the world. Where in hell did the time go? Can't figure it out. Jimmy Buffet wrote a song called, 'He Went To Paris', and there's a line in there 'And twenty more years slipped away'. It's an old song, from '73, and I liked it back then, but now, standing here in the warm sand looking at the 'Wild Thing' crowd, I know exactly what he meant. I look at the Red Stripe in my hand (the spliffs are back in the room). Things haven't changed that much! Negril still lights me up. And in Negril, it doesn't matter who you are, regardless of age, colour, shape or religious bent, all are accepted, everybody fits in. In fact, around here, the more eccentric the character, the better the fit.

We get the go ahead and move out to the glass bottom boat tender that will take us to 'Wild Thing'. Before boarding the catamaran we are instructed to remove our foot ware, which we do. Barefoot is good, it goes with the informal mood. Besides, if I drink too much, (open bar) and chuck my cookies, I won't risk splattering my sandals. The Bob Marley tunes are playing and the bar girl is doing a brisk business as the second load of passengers clamber aboard. I do a double take. There's this guy getting on board that looks like a young Bob Marley! Its uncanny, I try not to stare. Same build, same skin, same dreads. I go over and talk to him, he's an American. I tell him that he reminds me of Bob. He smiles (and in doing so looks even more like Bob) and says that a lot of people tell him that. His girlfriend seems pleased.

Wild Thing is a good sized catamaran, about 35-40 feet, it feels good underfoot. It looks lovingly maintained. There's a big open deck with a sunshade mounted above. We all settle in and the engines rumble to life. The captain steps up to center stage, points out the head and gives us our fun briefing. Basically, 'everything goes and have fun'. The mooring is let go and we motor to the west. There's no wind this evening, but the sail is hoisted anyhow, for effect. I look up, a huge 'Rick's Café' logo is emblazoned across the dacron. Capitalism is alive and well in Negril.

Last week there was a lot of wind, but not the sailing type. A big storm blasted the coast and the owner of Wild Thing, Peter McIntosh, lost three boats in one night. His glass bottom boat is sitting in front of my hotel, The Beachcomber, its roof poking forlornly out of the water with its hull completely embedded in sand. I can't imagine how it could be extracted without wrecking it, it looks like a write off to me. There's a big runabout up on the shore a little further to the south of the Beachcomber, half buried in the beach. With skill, it might be salvageable. Finally, there's a small trimaran, what's left of it showing the bow portion of one lonely overturned hull bobbing about 100 yards offshore. It looks like a done deal too. I feel for the guy. His experience is proof positive that paradise can rear up on you and bite you hard on the ass.

Back on board the pizza has been uncovered and is being washed down by gallons of Red Stripe. The blaster is cranked to max and Bob Marley urges us to 'stand up for your rights'. The party has started. I hang on to a main stay, watching the water swoosh by. It's so nice to be out on the ocean. I go up front and lay on the trampoline. Wild Thing lunges happily in the swell, the sinking sun kisses my skin, life is good.

The Negril seascape is something to behold. From offshore the whole sweep of the beach from Booby Cay to the cliffs is laid out before us. I see the beach that I've walked (and jogged) hundreds of times from a new perspective. The hills behind Negril frame the beach with a green wreath. We bounce by the traffic circle, with the remains of the old Warf Club clearly visible. I can see that residential growth is slowly creeping up Redground. The red roof of the church marks the true beginning of the cliff road. We slide by the "Negril Yacht Club", people are milling on the big patio there. Some look out to the Wild Thing and wave. Then there's Cuba's Bar, perched over the last little bit of beach before the cliffs take over. I was in Cuba's one after noon this week. A couple of brave local girls decided to take a swim from the beach behind the bar. I felt sorry for them. The local boys in the bar put on their best leers and cheers the whole time they were bathing.

There's a picture of a smiling banana painted on a wall below "The Happy Banana" (I just love that name). The sunset crowds are starting to gather in spots along the cliffs. The Blue Castle looks just awesome from the sea! And I spot Pee Wee's, man I got wasted there a couple of nights ago.

There's a cheer from the deck and I look back, one of the girls has decided to liven up the party and has taken her top off. She's got hold of a post that holds the roof up and is doing the hip gyration thing. Her friend doesn't need much encouragement and her top comes off too. I love Negril! We round a promontory and cruise past Pirates Cove and The "Pickled Parrot". As I look I see someone launch themselves from the rope swing at Pickled Parrot, he lets out a blood curdling scream that echoes of the cliff face. A little chill runs through me as I imagine true blood curdling screams coming from the pirate ships that used to anchor here. The cliffs, the cave and the water here are hypnotically inviting and stunning in their beauty. I feel a great urge to dive in and swim over to the bar in the cave. I've spent many a glorious afternoon at the Pickled Parrot, snorkeling, sunning and chillin'. It's a place that I think of on cold winter mornings, trudging through the snow, its memory helps me to survive.

Wild Thing rounds another prominent cliff and we see Rick's and the lighthouse beyond. We motor into the cove and tie up, its fairly rough and we bob at the mooring. I can see the bottom at forty feet. Rick's is a mob scene, our boom box is no competition for the big amps above. There are people standing in every available nook and cranny along the cliffs. The bar is crammed three deep. A lot of people are jumping from the high cliff. A tender pulls up to take passengers ashore. Hey! It's the same tender that boarded us! He followed us down the coast. Some of the passengers board the tender, which is difficult in the choppy swell of the cove. A couple of people jump in and swim for the dock below Rick's. I opt to stay on board, I like the view from here and I've already done the Rick's scene. The crew of Wild Thing (actually they would better be called the 'Cast') get act two going, Bob Marley is replaced by dance music.

The Sandals launch cruises by. The people on board are subdued, no waving, standing still, they take in the scene and depart. Suddenly there's a blast of patois from seaward, I look around. A BIG catamaran has arrived and our crew is yelling and gesturing to their crew. Five guys on the cat are lined up on one gunwale, they've got their shorts yanked down and are hanging a group moon at the Rick's crowd. The cliff side erupts in thunderous applause and cheering. A local guy on the big cat is hanging his dick out and waving it around. I sit up in the trampoline and turn around for a better look. Holy wow, it looks about a foot long! Man that guy is hung! I look closer, and see that it's just his hand stuck out through his fly. Good one! They look like that are having a party. I see an old Rasta on board the big cat, his dreads and beard are gray. I recognize him! It's the guy from Hedo. He hangs out near the pier, my wife and I sang some songs with him last year when we stayed there. I yell at him and he waves back. Now it all makes sense, the big cat is a cruise from Hedo.

The pilot of the big cat maneuvers between Wild Thing and the cliffs. Its rough but the kid (kid?) does a splendid job, he puts the cat in close, turns it around and they head back out to sea. The mob scene at Rick's continues. People continue to dive from the high cliff. After each there is a big splash and sporadic applause.

I'm just getting settled back into the trampoline and there's another loud blast of incomprehensible patois. I look around, the big cat is returning. More gesturing and hollering is exchanged. The bar girl on Wild Thing suddenly ducks below and comes up with a bottle of Wray and Nephew's O.P. It seems the Hedo boat is low on rum. They maneuver close to stern, the bar girl lobs the rum into the big cat's forward netting. Slam dunk! The Hedo people high five each other and shout their appreciation. They leave happier than they arrived.

The glass bottom tender is bringing our excursion passengers back. It bobs and weaves as it approaches. The deck of Wild Thing heaves and there is a shuddering 'BONK'. "BLOODCLAAT!" Our Captain shouts the universal Jamaican epitaph.

The tender has hammered the starboard hull of Wild Thing. Much arm waving and bursts of accusatory patois ensue, liberally punctuated with more "Bloodclaats". After several concerned glances at the point of impact it is decided that no damage has been done, nothing that's visible anyhow. The rest of our passengers embark. One jumps off the tender, swims forward between the hulls of wild Thing and re-boards via the sea stairs there.

The sun is getting low as we depart Rick's for the cruise back home. Now the party is loud and raucous. I'm getting into it, everybody is up dancing. From the boom box Shaggy insists "It Wasn't Me", over and over. The bar girl is dancing as much as she is serving. Some people are getting seriously smashed, they can hardly stand, let alone dance. The sun has reached the sea, we heave to, Wild Thing faces the setting sun. Down it goes, 'Click, Click', I give it a five. In the waning light a string of lights around the sun shade are lit to add the final touch to the party atmosphere.

We get back to our home mooring in the dark. Slowly, reluctantly we leave Wild Thing. I step aboard the tender, its our old buddy, 'Hammerhead'. It appears that he has suffered no damage.