Come to the Edge_ A Memoir - Christina Haag [81]
Treasure Beach is made up of a string of sleepy fishing villages and farm communities in St. Elizabeth Parish, between Negril and Kingston. There are no big resorts on the four bays—Billy’s Bay, Frenchman’s Bay, Calabash Bay, and Great Pedro Bay—and the people who live there are friendly and laid-back. The feel is offbeat and authentic. Pirate Billy Rackham had headquartered there, hence the name Treasure Beach, and legend has it that in 1492, Columbus came ashore after the Niña sank nearby. The locals of Treasure Beach are called “red men” by other Jamaicans, and indeed there is a prevalence of blue and green eyes, blond and red hair, and freckles. They’re said to be descended in part from seventeenth-century Scottish sailors who survived the wreck of their ship and stayed to fish and work the fields.
We checked into the Treasure Beach Hotel, built in the 1930s. It was charming, un-renovated, and relatively devoid of tourists. We dropped our bags and went down to Great Pedro Bay to catch the sunset. The last cove of Treasure Beach dead-ended into Pedro Bluff, a promontory more than a hundred feet high and jutting more than a mile out to sea. In the waning light, it loomed above us.
As John tinkered with the kayak, he realized he’d left the spray skirts and life jackets back in New York. Spray skirts are made of neoprene and keep water from getting in the boat. You wear them around your waist and fasten the edges to the round opening of the kayak, and if you’re hit by a large wave, they keep you from sinking. In the bay, we would be in protected water, so not having them didn’t seem all that important.
After the boat was ready, we sat on the beach and drank a little of the magic mushroom tea we’d brought from Negril, a requisite purchase there and, we were assured, “da real ting.” The effect was mild and relaxing, the pace of Treasure Beach just right, and we paddled around in the smooth waters of the bay. But soon John began to steer the boat toward the current at the end of the bluff. The unknown beyond was referred to by locals as “back seaside,” miles of undeveloped land and cliffs that rose up 1,750 feet. One of the highest points was a spot called Lover’s Leap, where two slaves had jumped rather than be separated. Or, as another tale told, a woman had watched as her lover sailed away and then leaped from the cliff in an effort to join him.
“Just a little farther, Chief. It’ll be fun.”
The sun had gone down, and the silver waves grew higher.
“I promise. Just around the point and we’ll come back.”
He always wanted to see what he couldn’t see. Like an itch, like longing, it was out of his control. I was dizzy from the tea, but I wanted to overcome my fear and push through it. When I did, I felt powerful, more alive—and with John, I’d found an inkling of my risk-taking self. I wanted to keep going, to show him I could, but I looked up at the darkening sky and remembered the rudimentary map in the Lonely Planet guide that showed no towns, no roads for miles on the other side of the bluff that led east to Spanish Town and Kingston. No one and nothing.
Maybe it was the mushroom tea. Maybe it was common sense or my busted foot. Maybe it was just plain old fear kicking in—not the self-created, insecure kind I was prone to and he wasn’t, but the necessary fear that keeps you alive by alerting you to danger. But when I asked him to turn back, he didn’t argue, bargain, or cajole with the battle cry he often used: Couragio, Christina! He seemed relieved and kissed me lightly. He was also hungry, an urge as strong for him as conquering the unknown. “Tomorrow, tomorrow is another day,” he sang in a soft voice, and I knew we would be back in the morning.
That night we ate at a thatched place a