By Brandon Highwood

When it comes to receiving event invitations as a free-willed adult, it all boils down to a few select categories: the milestone invite, the casual invite, and the boat invite. The first arrives with a formalized RSVP and a smorgasbord of militantly predetermined details. The second, following a more free-spirited approach, typically rises up from the depths after the fourth pitcher at your local dive bar.

Then, there’s the boat invite.

Wielding more power on its own than the other two combined, this recruitment attempt won’t include any muted pastels, floral patterns, or gift requests for that kid who “accidentally” dropped your lucky pint glass from the National Championship game. There is no ambiguity, no dress code enforcement, and no need for flight coordination.

It doesn’t arrive by physical or electronic mail. Nay, this invite catapults itself into your life with a simple two-word text notification just as you’re about to polish off that family-sized bag of purple Doritos.

As of that moment, whatever prior plans you may have had are now officially expunged. Birthday party for your neighbor’s kid? Hard pass. Brunch with your possible future in-laws? They can send a postcard. An afternoon spent pretending to enjoy whatever padel is? You’ll get ‘em next time. Once that boat invite hits your smartphone’s doorstep, all social hierarchy restructures itself around the horizon, cooler space, and SPF math.

However, similar to finding a bar with live music that doesn’t make you want to lie in traffic, these invites can be few and far between. Let’s set sail on how we should go about them, shall we?

ACCEPTING THE INVITE

First up, we need to formally acknowledge and accept the invite. Make it clear that you’re interested, but don’t be too eager. Here area a few thought-starters to get you going.

GOOD OPTIONS

• Down or an alternative version “I’m not NOT down”
• 10-4
• Done & Doner
• Roger That
• That GIF of Shia LeBouf saying “Absolutely.”

NOT GOOD OPTIONS

• Who all is going?
• Can I bring a plus one?
• I threw up on that spring break cruise, but this should be fine!
• I still love you.
• How big is the boat?

OTHER ACCEPTABLE OPTIONS

• Only if I can wear my movie-quality Jack Sparrow costume.
• You were my Uber driver four years ago, and I don’t even live there anymore. Please stop texting me.

GATHERING THE GOODS

Preparation is, perhaps, the most critical stage of the event. Showing up empty-handed for a boat invite is a surefire way to never be invited again. Additionally, you’ll be labeled as a complete and utter sociopath. Then there’s the person who shows up with so much that it propels them beyond “cute mother hen vibes” territory and into the “when was the last time this person experienced human contact?” zone. We want to avoid the extremes.

No need to overthink it. Pack the essentials, don’t be a think-of-yourselfer, and make sure you’re contributing to the cause. Along with a general idea of how you would establish yourself as an irreplaceable asset if stranded on an island, the foolproof loadout includes ice, snacks, and an adult beverage of your choosing, packaged in a cluster of 12 or more. Beyond that, here are some categories you may want to consider adding to the checklist:

FOR THE DAY

• Bathing suit
• Sun shirt (or shirt you don’t mind getting soaked in)
• A know-thyself level of SPF
• Footwear that does the job but won’t break your heart if they
  take a dive
• Any specialty food/beverage items
• Towel
• Sunglasses (refer to footwear criteria)
• A hat

FOR THE BOAT

• Food + Snacks (handheld, minimal unwrapping needed)
• Drinks (both the celebration and hydration variety, don’t be that person)
• A cooler/ice situation
• A no-skips playlist that can set the vibes right

MAKING THE VOYAGE

As a rule of thumb, it’s usually best to go into a boat day with the expectation of survival, and nothing more. That way, if it’s great? Great! If it’s super awkward and/or terrible? You survived! Either way, your quest will begin at a marina that smells of fuel, tanning lotion, and generational wealth. It’s similar to the lawless landscape of an airport at 10 a.m., the speakers are loud and overlapping, people dressed as if today is simultaneously their first and last day on Earth, and red solo cups filled with enough proof to put Lizzie Borden away.

Then, after you and your fellow seagoers have unmoored yourselves from the piers of land and self-awareness, everyone suddenly transforms into the best, weirdest version of themselves. Hats flipped. Sunglasses are in place. Salt air is committing aggravated battery at an alarming rate. You have set off on an adventure that will contain far too many slips of the truth and absolutely no Zoom invites. Life is good.

From there, it’s mostly a blur. Time is a construct. It was raining, but now it isn’t. Is this a fishing trip? Do any of you know how to fish? All the meaningless details and happenstance that blend into a multi-hour fest of food, drinks, laughter, and a single over-side vomit moment from the guy who kept telling you how he “grew up around boats.”

It is in these fleeting moments of nautical nirvana that you discover things about your friend, yourself, and the couple who filled the day with passive-aggressive jabs at one another. But don’t ignore the fact that you’re also proving yourself worthy of a repeat invite, so act accordingly:

FOR YOU

• Can you grab the cooler before it flies off the side?
• Can you pull off a sympath laugh while being accosted by saltwater at 35 mph?
• Can you assemble a playlist that contains fewer than three songs that instantly prompt a resounding “NEXT” from the group?
• Can you somehow transform into a master deckhand in the span of six hours without any prior knowledge?

If so, bravo. You may have another invite down the line.

RETURNING TO REALITY

The trip back after a day on the boat feels less like coming home and more like returning from a naval battle. You’re sweaty, sunburned, salt-covered, and you have a camera roll filled with images that were “post-worthy” three hours ago but now look like gas station footage. Somewhere, in the depths of your soul and your bloodstream, one single Gatorade is fighting a battle that resembles a third World War. And yet, you choose to overlook all these facts and bask in the sheer mythology of the day. The crew has the marina in their sights, and you all revert to the same small pond of post-boating remarks. Hell of a day, team! I knew the rain wouldn’t last. Since when do you know how to spearfish? I think I left my phone back at the sandbar. A perfectly fitting end to a day spent inhaling saltwater, asking if that beer is your beer, and listening to early-2000s hip-hop. And when that next boat day text arrives, you’ll be armed with the understanding of what’s being offered. Sun, surf, and the ever-present danger of biting into a sandwich that has been sitting out in the sun for entirely too long.

Don’t forget to bring ice.