Simbar Reziki, the Queen Mary of the Mentawai Straight, has seen better days. Much better days. Her sagging profile emerges as my eyes adjust: two stories of pealing wood. She’s going to ferry us for eight to ten hours, across the Mentawai Straight, to the island of Siberut.

Although the straight is only one hundred and fifty kilometers wide, it is up one thousand five hundred meters deep with turbulent currents. Consequently, the time required to cross is never a fixed entity. I paid $125 for ten days of jungle adventure lifeboats not included. My ancestor, Daniel Buckley survived the Titanic. Am I tempting fate?

"Naik kapal" (All Abord.) A single plank connects the vessel to land: two inches thick, two feet wide, fifteen feet above the water, and miles long. Indonesian passengers race across like carpenter ants to secure the best seats.

Procrastination has always been a particular talent of mine. Wait and hope it’ll get better. My companions board and look across at me. The padded, black straps of my green backpack fit snugly around my waist and over my shoulders. I’ve pared down to the bare necessities. Still, everyone else’s pack seems smaller. It’s now or never. Gripping my camera bag in my right hand, I step onto the gangplank.

Left wobble steady. Right wobble steady. I can swim, but I’ve always been leery of water when I can’t see bottom. Don’t look down, don’t look…I freeze mid-plank, eyes hypnotized by the dark water.

One false move and it’s straight through the oil slick, into the black abyss. Drowned beneath the weight on my back. I force myself forward until my right foot lands on board as Budi’s smile approaches.