But no. Instead, it launched an all-out revolt on me in the middle of the ocean (or bay or whatever body of water we were floating in). My nails gripped the wood—getting splinters underneath the beds—as I hurled over the side of the boat in a very unladylike fashion. The sea was nearly silent, other than the waves lapping on the sides of the boat and my wretched heaving. Once I started throwing up, Jerry and Mario just stared at me, with Mario rowing the boat single-handedly. Unapologetically, I managed to splatter both my captors with vomit—Jerry’s left arm as he held me firmly (you know, in case I wanted to jump over the side and swim the five miles back to the resort), and Mario’s shoes as I sat back in my seat a little too quickly after a bout of puking. I apparently still had just a little bit left in my stomach. Oops. They both scowled darkly at me like that was what sealed our fate. Excuse me for breathing. Well, I’m not really sorry. I warned them. Roger warned them, too.
