“Blake, did you know that I get—” I try to tell him.

But I’m cut off by a portly, fifty-something man in a white captain’s uniform.

“Hello there!” he exclaims. “Welcome to Sailaway, New York’s finest yachting experience. I’m Captain Edward Smith, I’ll be taking you out on the water today.”

The captain shakes our hands and we introduce ourselves, though it seems as if the captain has been more than expecting our arrival.

“Isn’t this fun?” Blake asks. “I wanted to surprise you with a boat ride around the tip of Manhattan. The views are gorgeous, and I thought sailing would remind you of home.”

Nobody in Portland walks around in crisp white sailor’s uniforms. This is clearly just for effect. And if he really knew anything about my experiences with sailing—if he really knew me—he’d think twice.

We walk toward the yacht as a trio now. Captain Smith tells us about the history of this particular ship and the weather conditions today, and I start to panic as soon as he describes the water as “a little on the choppy side.” I don’t know if I should tug on Blake’s sleeve, interrupt, and tell him how violently seasick boats make me. If it were just the two of us on a regular day, I might. But there’s already so much pressure on this day, and I don’t want to embarrass him in front of the captain. Before I can make up my mind, it’s too late. We’re already boarding.

We cross a gangway. The captain suggests we enjoy the view from the bow of the boat, while he disappears into the interior, presumably to steer. Even while we’re docked, the gentle bobbing motion of the yacht makes me feel unsteady. When the boat starts to move a minute later, it feels like the waves rock us even harder. I clutch the guardrail. Blake doesn’t seem to pick up on my discomfort. Instead, he comes around behind me, as if we’re a nauseous Kate Winslet and a clueless Leo DiCaprio. I thought Titanic was the most heartbreakingly romantic movie on the planet the first time I watched it back in ninth grade. But I had grown up enough—and gotten cynical enough—by junior year to see that allegedly “falling in love” after three days is kind of a sham. Even saying “I love you” after four weeks, like Blake and I did, is clearly pushing it.