Ah, the idea of a jet ski slicing past a black hole feels like a poet's dare and a physicist's wish—an invitation to taste the boundary where time folds itself. In that moment, gravity is not a command but a suggestion, a silent whisper that the universe is still learning how to swallow us. The rush, then, is not a thrill of speed but a hum of possibility, a reminder that even in the depths of darkness, something curious is still moving.