Sometimes Paradise Goes Unpaved
Sometimes Paradise Goes Unpaved
Red Stripes in Jamaica
We had assumed for years that Winnifred was dead. Fenced off, manicured, paved over. It couldn’t be helped. That’s the way of the world, we said. The little guy always loses.
My boyfriend, Sean, and I stumbled across Winnifred Beach on a backpacking trip to Jamaica nine years ago. We were on a tight budget; I was a grad student and he worked at a non-profit. The owner of Zion Country, a little hostel where we stayed, told us that Winnifred was free and the best beach around.
So we piled into a route taxi, whose driver dropped us at a small dirt road on the side of the main thoroughfare. We walked down the quiet road, rocks poking into our flip-flops. The path wound its way through the tangled bush, finally dropping steeply down to the coast.
We turned a corner and there was Winnifred. Bright aquamarine water and a shady, quiet beach. It’s hard to put into words what was special about Winnifred. Tucked away from the road, it felt like a hideaway. Whatever it was that the fences and fees at Jamaica’s many private beaches were supposed to keep out, it wasn’t at Winnifred. Sure, there were some people hawking trinkets, but theirs was a gentle hustle.
It was about the vibes as much as anything else. Winnifred is in Portland parish, on the far eastern side of Jamaica, both literally and figuratively as far away as you can get from the all-inclusives in Negril, on the other side of the island.
We whiled away hours on the beach, taking our cold Red Stripes into the warm water and reading under the shade of the trees.
But there was a cloud hanging over those good vibes. Locals told us there was a fight brewing over the beach. Someone wanted to build a resort on the beach and make it private. Sean and I looked at each other knowingly. Surely, they were screwed. But when they asked us for money for their fight, we donated anyway and wished them luck.
As we trudged up the path from the beach on our last visit, we turned and took a last look, knowing that Winnifred was not long for the world, but happy that we’d made it there.
Time and many other beach trips went by. “Remember Winnifred?” we’d say once in awhile, and shake our heads in silent mourning.
But life moved on. We got married and had a son. We moved across the world to Australia.
One day, we were watching television when suddenly, there was Winnifred on the screen. And there was Anthony Bourdain, slurping soup and chowing down while discussing Winnifred’s fate with Cynthia, a local restaurant owner.
“It’s WINNIFRED!!” we shouted. We were giddy. Winnifred was alive! The Free Winnifred Beach Benevolent Society was still fighting for their beach. A court ruled in their favor later that month. A few months after that, Sean’s employer assigned him to Jamaica.
“It was written,” a friend said. And it did feel like fate.
We headed out to Winnifred soon after we moved to Jamaica, driving along Portland’s narrow highways where tropical foliage pushes into the road.
Just when we thought we were lost, we turned the corner. There was Winnifred. Again.
A man waved hello to us. “Welcome to paradise,” he said.
We set up under a tree in the middle of the beach, right behind the man who sells beer and ice cool jellies, or coconuts. Our 18-month-old son, Luca, played in the sand and we cracked open a couple Red Stripes and ordered up some lobster from Cynthia’s place.
It was as though we had never left.