The DJ has already promised victory to both teams, which is a neat trick. Bartenders run a two-minute drill that never ends. Every guest believes the Super Bowl at sea involves a ship, a TV, and a miracle. That is adorable. The part no one sees carries the only thing that matters, the clean world feed that survives weather, stadium chaos, and coastal RF soup. It touches land at a few trusted points, it rides the sky where physics still behaves, and it shows up in the ship’s headend like it never broke a sweat.

Regulators love phrases like “more intensive use.” Sounds productive. Sounds modern. Try whispering that to a ship a hundred miles off Saint Thomas while a prizefight between mid-band radios turns the coast into a glowstick. The bandwidth that keeps your phone feeling important lives next door to the downlink that keeps the game alive. If the guard rails wobble, the deck DJ becomes a grief counselor.