Sharks, Sailboats, & Goats | Montego Bay, Jamaica

While I had been to Mexico a handful of times by this point, my first “real” out of country experience was on a family vacation.  In 1995, we spent a week in Montego Bay, Jamaica, relaxing on the beach and doing absolutely nothing. Talk about an adventure! But seriously, this trip truly was an experience forever marked on my brain. And thus brings us to the first post of the Around The World series. I was 10 at the time. Just growing into all my lovely baby fat I had managed to store from our first winter in the great state of Rhode Island where I nearly froze to death and turned equally as white as the snow that plagued us year round. Long ago were the days of swimming outside everyday and my freckles joining together to make me a tiny bronzed fish. And so my parents drifted from our usual ski trips to the lovely island of Jamaica to give us (and them) a much needed break from the northeast.

I really have no idea if much good actually came from this when I think back, but I’m sure it was much more fun in the moment. Most of what I remember from this trip are the reasons why I hate sailing, sharks, and goat, and how I will now forever burn like a lobster sans sunscreen. Do let me expound.

My dad thought it would be a brilliant idea to take a sailboat out into the ocean to “truly experience the island”. Evidently I was the only one dumb enough to take that bait. So the two of us, without a guide, took to the seas in a tiny sailboat that my father had never even seen before. Before we knew it, the boat was flipped, we were in the water, and no one was around. Except for some lovely little fins that kept popping out every so often and creeping closer and closer to us. I’m telling you, sharks can totally smell fear. For what felt like a eternity (in reality it was prob just a few minutes) a glass bottomed tour boat came to our rescue and guided us to safety. I think mortifying is the word I am looking for to describe this little experience for  my father while I would certainly choose terrifying. Strike one.

For whatever reason, my family always went to the Hard Rock Cafe wherever we went. And got a t-shirt to boot with the location’s name to sport around town when we returned home. A wearable souvenir that all too often seemed to involve tie-dye or embroidery. Oh those where the glory days. So naturally when the man at the hotel suggested that we Americans should go there, we obviously obliged, excited as could be. Now, if you’ve ever been to a Hard Rock, you know how utterly extravagant it is decked in guitars and musical paraphernalia, dripping with rock and roll. Imagine our surprise when we arrive at nothing more than a little cafe, complete with plastic chairs, checkerboard tablecloths, and one lonely logo that was painted on old wood…

I thought perhaps this is how all foreign Hard Rock’s looked, donning the culture it was nestled in rather than being too “Americanized”. Keep in mind my only other out of country experience thus far was in Mexico on the Texas border. So we began to order and I proceeded to get the kid’s cheeseburger. Harmless enough, right? What on earth could go wrong? When my plate arrives, my meat was more grayish than usual and looked a bit different. Shrugging it off, I took a bite into a very chewy, gamey, bland piece of “burger” and finally divulged to my parents that it tasted a little funny. They called the waiter over and explained the situation, saying that “my hamburger didn’t taste done”. The tall Jamaican man tossed his head back in laughter and said “That is not hamburger, that is goat burger!” Strike two.

Since I was 10, that would make my brother 15. Old enough to “watch” his kids sister as we played on the beach, but also a teenage guy that was likely drooling over every bikini that passed and had no concern to remind his kid sister to reapply sunscreen after each time he chased me into the waves by  threat of a handful of sand in my face because I wanted to read instead of build a sandcastle. {I know, shocking, right?} So as you can imagine, I got burned. BAD. I mean, they took me to the hospital because the skin on my back my bubbling bad. I had to apply cream for months. Strike three.

So why on earth did I ever travel again you ask? Because of all of the beauty of the country we had just beheld. And because from then on out, I was the one in control of all of my choices in regards to food and activities and no one has ever made me go sailing again 😉