Trelawny

Once I began to travel, I didn’t want to stop. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do, or where to go. So, I went back to Jamaica. I had fun when there, met people, drank too much, stayed out too late, and got up too early, thinking a beach vacation was all about the tan. But I’d found two weeks in one place was too long. Entertainment and activities repeated on a weekly schedule. This time I would go to a different resort the second week, on a different part of the island.

I discussed this with my travel agent and she booked me into two resorts. The first was the Trelawny Beach Resort in Falmouth (the Royalton White Sands now) and another in Negril, a Jamaican owned resort (I think it was the Coral Beach Resort, but names change; it was certainly coral coloured when I was there, the trim painted either pink or blue).

I arrived to the same fanfare as before, Red Caps wrestling me for my luggage. I found my shuttle and was off. Trelawney was just past Falmouth, so the drive there was shorter than it had been to Negril.
Trelawney may have been larger than Hedonism. It was certainly taller, seven stories towering over the central pool its wings reached out to. It was windy, too, the wings funnelling the airflow in and through its central space. Guests were always chasing their towels, wrestling with their shifts and wraps. I watched as a bride flashed the resort when her dress flew up to her chin. She ought to have worn underwear, but she obviously wanted to be a little risqué on her special day. Her tan lines were a dead giveaway. Few people lounged on the beach. Sand coated those who did, the wind blowing in from the north picking it up and blowing it around, their sun-block flypaper to the gains.

I can’t say that I enjoyed myself. I did, but I didn’t. I was ill. I came down with the flu and spent my days freezing by the pool. I passed out on my lounge chair more than once, waking to find myself in a cold sweat, with my beach towel clutched tightly around me. I coughed when I spoke, despite the steady lubrication I inflicted on it.

I lie. I did not lubricate my throat anywhere near as I had the year before. If Hedonism had taught me one thing, it was that people can indulge too much. Becky had to administer to two fools who showed no restraint at all on their first full day. They drank too much over-proof, disdained sunblock, and paid the price. They both sprouted purple patches of second-degree burns and lolled in bed, shivering from their burn, delirious from alcohol poison. It’s quite a sight to see someone’s skin defying gravity, not fall back when pinched. I can’t say I felt any pity for them. They were stupid and their excess cost them their vacation. They spent days rehydrating and peeling off sheets of blistered skin, only to emerge on their final day, their skin blotchy, their legs weak and shaking. Memorable. A cautionary tale.
Their excess made me promise myself that I would not drink before 3 pm. That seemed reasonable. My Irish skin can only take so much sun before it dries out and flakes away, so I’d call it a day then, make my way up to the main bar and took my first Red Cap from the bartender who always had it ready for me when I sat down. Tipping a $20 bill on the first day expedites service in my experience. The bar smelled sickly sweet. Grenadine hovering in the air can do that. It can also attract flies, which were always in attendance.

3 pm seemed a good time to quit baking on the beach and get a seat before the masses poured in. The sun was not as strong by then, its light growing golden in its waning. The wind was cooling by then, too. But that was probably my fever. I’d stay there for an hour or so, chatting with whomever was at hand. Some were eager to see a new face. Some were not, taking their leave of me to join their groups quickly. Those who were sought me out later. Some asked me to join them for dinner. I always did. I was alone, after all.

I did not dive. I was too ill. I didn’t know I had the flu at first, but I suspected. I ought to have gone to my room to sleep it off, but I was youngish (30) and foolish and wanted to eke as much enjoyment out of my vacation as I could muster.

I barely joined in any fun and games. One of the activity directors, a Jamaican woman with jet black skin who I thought rather fetching, used to tease me, calling me “Mister No-Thank-You.” I surprised her later on in the week when I said, “Sure, I’ll do that,” when she asked if I’d like to compete for best tan. I was perking up by then, not energetic by any means, but I was also beginning to get bored of lazing about all day. She’d already begun to pass by, and had to do a double-take when I agreed. She smiled brightly then and told me to follow her. I took third place, rather surprisingly. It was a cloudy week, not continuously sunny by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d managed to brown a bit, nicely bronzed from all those hours sleeping in my lounge chair. There were only six of us, so I was happy to place, especially pleased to have beat out a new arrival who declared that he was using Red Cap as his SPF. He was drunk. He was giddy. He was the crowd favourite, hanging on by the tips of his personality to finish fourth.

Sadly, there was no romance that week, either. Suffering with the flu, I was lucky to remain upright, let alone make an effort at wooing some woman.

I can’t say that Trelawney was a disappointment, but my week there was. The resort was beautiful. The room was a little small, but I was alone, so it was cozy. The view from my balcony was fantastic. The food was great. The bar and activity staffs were friendly. So were many of the guests.
But I was eager to move on by then.

I had high hopes that the second week would be better.

It was.

It was life changing.