“You don’t want to stay in paradise?”

It’s our fourth day in Negril, Jamaica, and the fourth time we have heard this question. A local is dipping his head under our striped umbrella on the beach, trying to sell us a boat tour despite us repeating that we leave tomorrow. We shake our heads and manage the mechanical “No thank you” before he saunters off.

But with the white sand crinkling into my toes, the sunset’s haze glittering against my sunscreen and 85 degrees drying my salty curls, I cling to his question. How can we leave this paradise?

My three friends and I flew 1,699 miles away from Amherst and the tug-of-war of classes, chaotic social lives and post-grad anxiety to Negril for spring break. But the two-hour drive to the airport, five hours of flying, and hour drive to our resort, Rondel Village, ebbs away in the practically Crayola aqua waves. I can’t help but sink into the slow pace of Negril.

And I mean slow — we waited an hour and a half for our meal at the resort’s restaurant. But the coconut shrimp and steel drums made forgiving the service easy. Other nights, my friends and I crossed the street to dry off in our rooms and headed to dinner after hours of water games and sleeping in the sun. Instead of hiking narrow streets, we walked along the waves.

The wait times cut to about 30 minutes at our favorite breakfast and dinner spots down the beach, Alfred’s Ocean Palace and White Sands, where we passed the time with gin rummy and dazing at the blue sea and even bluer sky. At White Sands, coco bread, a fluffy Caribbean staple of flour, yeast, and coconut milk born from Jamaica’s coconuts, elevated ordinary dishes like fish and breakfast sandwiches to delicacies.

Luckily, there was no wait for the “Patty Man,” as we called him. Every afternoon at 2 p.m., the Patty Man strolled through Rondel with $4 beef, veggie and curry chicken patties in a box balanced on his bike. Although the chicken’s spice spilled tears down my cheeks, I refused to let a little heat stop me from savoring my friend’s favorite meal from her family trips to the beach town. We tossed aside Trip Advisor and trusted her memory as our inside eye for Jamaican gems like coco bread, patties and jerk chicken. But that last jewel of Jamaica became a challenge we could not win. After three tries at three separate restaurants, she still shook her head, insisting the dishes lacked the signature jerk balance of smoke and sweetness.

To cool off, we shared fruit platters with juicy pineapple, watermelon and papaya and slurped Red Stripe beers and happy hour cocktails dripping with fruit and Jamaican rum. White Sands’ mango daiquiri stole first place, seducing my sweet tooth.

Article continues after...

Yesterday's Most Read Articles

Real Estate Transactions: April 11, 2025

Mohawk Trail Regional School District plans trainings following staff misconduct allegations

Track roundup: Mohawk Trail opens season with sweep over Franklin Tech/Turners Falls (PHOTOS)

Attendance growing at weekly Gill standouts protesting Trump administration

Pioneer's Riley Thayer commits to play field hockey at Lasell University

Northfield’s Wild Geese Decluttering helps clients achieve comfort through organization

Your Daily Puzzles

Cross|Word

Flipart

Typeshift

SpellTower

Really Bad Chess

On the beach, Negril’s slow spell seeped into our senses. Marijuana smoke and the bongos of reggae music blew in the heat. Four hours from Bob Marley’s home, dancing to live reggae with rich, deceivingly effortless vocals over a loose hook was a few steps away on Jaybird’s stage or at the next resort.

When we turned our heads at Flag City, the restaurant neighboring Rondel, we giggled as every single waiter and cook swung their hips and arms on beat. Even the worker catching lobsters on the sand rocked his knees back and forth as he pulled in the trap. In this hazy paradise, reggae was everywhere.

After four days of sandy serenity, we left the resort for an adventure and our favorite memory of the trip.

One hour-long cab drive later, Barney of Barney’s Flower & Hummingbird Garden is walking us through the lush native and exotic trees, leaves and flowers of his quarter-acre jungle. My friend asks Barney if he considers himself a botanist. A pause, then Barney shakes his head. “I’m the plant father,” he replies simply, and continues the personal tour.

Although distraught when he greeted us at the door, repeating that no hummingbirds will visit after weeks of no rain or water delivery, Barney’s hard shell fell when the water truck arrived in a surreal coincidence. A few minutes later, the streamertail hummingbird zipped over to a flower. Barney beamed at us and the neon green visitor. “Water is life,” he said simply.

After a selfie with Barney, we hiked to the Rockhouse Hotel & Spa for lunch and a dip.

Coconut milk and fish tacos in our stomachs, the four of us climbed down to the cliffs. Rockhouse’s expansive oasis curled along a bluff.

“We found a jellyfish!” Two of my friends hollered later, grinning in their goggles.

“Where?” yelled my friend and I, who preferred to float.

“Right here!” and she pointed to her feet. “Be careful!” I screamed, shaking my head.

While they stared at a jellyfish sting, I left my friend and swam back to the cave tucked in the corner of the cliff. In the dark, I scaled the rocks, rubbed raw and mauve from the waves, careful not to cut my toes on the barnacles or crush any crabs. I finally landed on top of the cave’s rocky tongue.

Wrapped in rock, I caught my breath as the world slowed down again, watching the water breathe its tide against the steps I took. The seller’s question rushed back. How could I ever leave this paradise?

University of Massachusetts Amherst student Aalianna Marietta is a former Greenfield Recorder intern.