5.30am. The phone rang. Groggily, I answered it. Hello?
It was the captain.
You have to get off this ship. Now. We will not take you and the ship leaves in ten minutes. Get off!
In an obstinate attempt to force fate to ensure I got to stay on the Linge Trader, I hadn’t packed my bags, and my crap was spread out all over the cabin. I hurriedly stuffed everything into my backpack, possibly breaking all my things in the process and trudged downstairs like a man condemned.
Into the ship’s office and there was Junior finishing up the ship’s paperwork. What was I doing? I have to get off, the captain says…
No, no, no – you can’t get off here, they won’t let you.
Immigration say you cannot get off. I’ll ring the captain.
A fraught phone call ensued.
The outcome being, by virtue of the port authority of Jamaica not wanting to let a mad ginger git like me into their country, I got to stay on the boat. Woo! Thanks, Jamaica you unwelcoming narks – you unwittingly ensured my passage out of The Caribbean! Ha!
After all that excitement, I couldn’t be bothered with the rest of the day, so I went back to my cabin and pretended to be a tortoise.