Sometime between carving the Thanksgiving turkey and trudging upstairs to his office the next morning, my husband announced, “I really need a vacation where I do nothing but relax.”
My immediate thoughts were:
“Yes, he does.”
“He works his ass off: he should go anywhere he wants.”
“I just got back from 12 days in Europe: I am unworthy of more vacation funding.”
“Maybe he would like traveling alone.”
When I voiced thoughts #3 and 4, Gabe stared at me like I’d finally lost my last marble.
“How would it be relaxing for me to vacation without you?” he asked.
Aww—-and after two decades of marriage! I love this guy.
I was about to repeat my unworthiness for additional vacation when Gabe said, “It’s time for a trip to the Half Moon.”
Well, when you put it that way. . .
“Is this your first time in Jamaica?” our driver Redmond* asked, edging his Lexus into Sangster International Airport departure traffic.
“No, this is our fourth time here.”
“Welcome home,” Redmond said. “When you return to Jamaica, we do not say welcome, we say ‘welcome home.’”
He maneuvered successfully past the Montego Bay sign and through the roundabout, then eased us east onto the A1.
“You will love Half Moon,” he assured us.
“Oh, we know, it’s paradise,” I chirped. “We go to Half Moon every time we come here.”
The look he gave me in the rearview contained both disappointment and opportunity.
“You’ve been to Half Moon four times?” That tone was definitely disapproving. “You need to get out and see the real Jamaica.”
Redmond, of course, offered to show us the “real” Jamaica, which sounded like a bunch of tourist sites (Bob Marley anything, Dunn’s River Falls). He also let it be known that he could get us the finest ganja in the world (fun fact: pot is still technically illegal in Jamaica). We let it be known that we were less than interested and that pot is legal back home, should we desire it.
I used to feel guilty about my lack of desire to Jeep through Cockpit Country or visit the Bob Marley Museum, thought there are places off-property I’d like to see some day, Port Royal** in particular.
But now I’m over the guilt. We go to Half Moon to relax and escape, motives that people vacationing at Disney or the Outer Banks or pretty much anywhere else in the world don’t have to defend.
So, yeah, we go to a resort on the island of Jamaica with no illusions that it’s “real Jamaica.” Half Moon is our fantasy home, with none of the inconveniences—snow, laundry, work—of real home. And we love it.
We spent our first afternoon and evening getting re-acquainted with the place (“Hello, most stunning view in the universe! Hello, coconut trees and sea grapes! Hello, bushes next to Cottage 2 where we once found kittens! Hello, lemongrass-scented bath products! Hello, single-gear blue bikes!”). We sipped—okay, slurped—our requisite rum punches, walked along the beach, sat and soaked our pasty winter skin in sunshine.
Our first full day at Half Moon was a picture-perfect 80 degrees with sunshine so we beached. That night, the wind whipped off the Atlantic and blew in bad weather, by which I mean low 70s and clouds. So, after lingering over breakfast, by which I mean the most divine spread you can imagine, Gabe and I decided we’d breeze around the Half Moon and see where the whims of the moment took us.
“Hot tub,” I suggested.
“Strawberry daiquiri,” Gabe said awhile later. “At the swim-up bar. The non-swim-up side. Just don’t talk politics with anyone.”
I may have been involved in a voices-raised airing of political differences at the Cedar Bar in 2019, an episode I would’ve regretted had the opposition not purchased a round of drinks.
At the non-swim-up side of the swim-up bar in 2024, however, I had no need to do battle: Horace the bartender and I were in complete alignment on the bat-shit craziness of US politics. Michelle the server just shook her head and said she didn’t get involved in politics.
Smart woman.
As our talk turned to more pleasant matters, an elderly gentleman who we recognized as our next-door neighbor meandered over with an ice bucket in hand. While he was working out, the man’s “lady friend” had called him demanding fresh ice and a Diet Coke, STAT.
Upon exchanging introductions, our neighbor was a bit flabbergasted that we’d never heard of him. Plenty of A-list celebrities vacation at Half Moon—Harry and Meghan had just departed—but the big names generally stay tucked away in the villas area of the sprawling resort. The C- and D-listers, as we call them, mix and mingle with us mere mortals, i.e., those of us who do not have Wikipedia pages.
Turns that our neighbor is a pretty big deal in the country music world, a realm more alien to Gabe and me than Mars. John Candy explaining his identity to Catherine O’Hara in Home Alone came to mind.
After Country Music Man sallied forth with his lady friend’s fresh ice and a Diet Coke, Horace and I somehow got on the topic of ghosts. While skeptical of their existence, I am also certain that I was visited by the ghost of my grandmother shortly after her death.
When I asked Horace if he’d ever seen a ghost, he took a deep breath and launched into a story about seeing the ghost of Annie Palmer*** riding a horse down the A1 and causing a traffic jam. Michelle once again walked away shaking her head. Gabe and I, however, loved being swept up in the tale. We thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the two or three hours we spent sitting at the bar shooting the shit while the “bad weather” played itself out.
A few nights later, Gabe and I stopped by the manager’s reception on our way to dinner at the Sugar Mill Restaurant to celebrate our 21st anniversary. We figured we’d have a glass of wine, take in the sunset from the balcony, and leave after 15 or 20 minutes to catch our ride to the restaurant.
Well, the views were worthy of far more than 15 or 20 minutes. The people watching was off the charts. A couple asked us to take their picture, which we happily did in exchange for our own on-the-balcony-with stunning-sunset-in-background photo.
As we turned to leave, we started chatting with another couple who we liked immediately. A half hour later and tardy for our ride to the Sugar Mill (no worries, mon!), we finally departed, parting with vague promises to meet again.
And, behold! As Gabe and I were en route to a pre-beach BBQ beverage the next evening, who should we encounter but our new friends. Let’s just say our shenanigans before, during, and after the beach BBQ were high-spirited and life-celebratory, and in no way involved gossiping about some people we observed (D-listers of an esoteric sort), biking in the dark while a bit tipsy, or doing gymnastics by the Cedar Bar while the bartender was washing and drying the last cocktail glasses of the night.
As we were packing our suitcases the next morning, Gabe and I agreed that the trip had been the perfect length, that we’d savored every moment, and that, for the first time, we weren’t prostrated with grief over having to leave.
“Come home again soon!” said everyone from the breakfast hostess to the bellhop as we left for our airport transportation that was not piloted by Redmond.
There is exactly zero chance of us failing to return to the Half Moon, as soon as time and vacation funding allow. For now, we have remnants of the Caribbean sunshine deep in our bones and a weeks’ worth of good vibes to sustain us through the rest of the Massachusetts winter.
*Our driver’s real name was not Redmond—just in case the ganja police are reading this—but it was in the uber-British name genre favored by the parents of many Half Moon employees.
**Port Royal: “The wickedest city in the world.” More on that next time.
***Known as the White Witch of Rose Hall, Annie Palmer was said to have been a voodoo priestess, taker of slave lovers, slave murderer, baby murderer, husband murderer, tyrannical psychopath. More on her next time.
Sounds like a wonderful, relaxing vacation. Love the photo of you two. And, yes, "aw" to Gabe's comment about not being a vacation without you. So sweet.
I look forward to reading about Annie Palmer. She sounds like a lovely woman.