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soulful town, soulful people:
said i see, you're having fun,
dancing to the reggae rhythm,
O island in the sun:
O smile!
Robert Nesta Marley - Smile Jamaica
said i see, you're having fun,
dancing to the reggae rhythm,
O island in the sun:
O smile!
Robert Nesta Marley - Smile Jamaica
I need this trip. I’m aching for this trip. Less than a week ago I was crawling through one of earth’s hellholes, a rather desolate and hostile area in one of the war torn nations in the Middle East. It threatened to derail this trip, planned well over a month ago, but fortune smiled on my team and we got the mission done expeditiously.
As I sit looking at my empty suitcase at 0200 on the morning of my flight to Jamaica, I can feel a sense of peace starting to flow through my body.
Bags are packed, money sorted out, papers in order. My flight departs at what should be a very comfortable 1000, but I’m a late sleeper and no hour before 1200 is safe for someone who doesn’t shut down until 0300. I don’t check the tele for the weather; I don’t go online and peruse the Observer’s latest report on the murder rate on the island; I don’t check dancehallreggae.com for upcoming bashments in Ochi. I just know I’ll be good when I get there.
I hit the snooze button 3 times before realizing I’m in danger of missing my flight. It’s 0700 and I’m out of bed, scrambling to hit the shower and get dressed.
Call a cab and then confirm that I’ve packed everything. Better throw in one pair of jeans – perhaps I may have to abandon my shorts and t-shirt ensemble one day.
It’s bitterly cold in DC this Thursday morning. I’ve got on my cargos and a t-shirt. Over that I have on my milspec fleece. In a few hours I won’t need it – but for now a cold wind crashes into me as I await my cab and I smile in its face. You can’t follow me where I’m heading friend. A different type of breeze blows where I’m heading and I’m looking forward to its cool caress.
The cab ride takes me up 395, the most trafficked highway into Washington, DC. Traffic is at a crawl and my Suunto tells me that I’m running short on time. Reagan National has strict rules when it comes to flights. The security process can be short, but I know I’m never that lucky. I’m wearing my riggers belt, and I know the heavy metal buckle will require that I take it off at the security checkpoint. I’m wearing my Hi-Tec boots, and the metal d-rings will necessitate their removal as well. All of this requires a 0830 arrival at the latest, and I’m in danger of missing that mark.
The cab driver has a plan though. Grab the Glebe Road exit and head south to Route 1, a left and then veer right to the airport. I’m in the terminal with 1.5 hours to spare. Smiling now…getting closer…no drama yet…just Jamaica tugging at my heart, yearning for my return.
I notice 3 guys geared out in 5.11’s and assault rucks – the very same one I have beside me as my carry on.
Probably former SF guys now turned security contractors heading out to the sandbox. They do a double take when they spot the shield on my baseball cap with the motto of the United States Army Special Forces: De Oppresso Liber – To Liberate the Oppressed.
We exchange a knowing nod and they continue towards their gate…Warriors looking for money in a now fertile war market. Not me though,
not on this day. Where I’m going the sun rises on a more peaceful landscape. Where I’m going, my body armor isn’t an essential item in my luggage.The first leg is to Miami and the crowd looks it. Families with kids in tow; young women with beautiful figures wearing outfits to reveal them. A few suits dot the gate, but for the most part this is a leisure flight and for some of these folks, not a minute too soon.
On the plane now, and, what’s this? Some unspoken delay. The flight should have departed at 1000. It’s now 1035 and I’m still in DC. Check my boarding pass for Miami as we finally ascend – my connecting flight leaves at 1326. It will be tight, but I’ve made shorter.
Jet lag from the past week is still with me. It’s been a relatively normal workweek: Activated to conduct a rendition mission that quickly turns into a firefight; back to DC and the practice of law; firearms training for visiting liaison forces; and now a flight to Montego Bay for my first vacation since my last trip to Jamaica in February 2004.
I remember trips home as a youth. Eager to impress cousins and friends with my new ‘foreign’ goods – but dreading the heavy bags I knew I would be carrying. You see, back then you didn’t just go home with your vacation clothes. You brought flour, rice and Dove soap for mama, a pair of Payless ‘creps’ for a neighbor, clothing for cousins, and at least one extra ‘grip’ of assorted crap for the other grown people with all 15 years old of me lugging the rahtid heavy bags through the airport!
Flight attendant stops when he sees me jotting these notes in my Tungsten/T and we chat PDAs and applications. We swap a few apps and he continues on his assigned duties. It’s a longer discussion than I care for, but I’ve got Jamaica on my mind, and it’s hard not to be sociable when Jamaica is on your mind.
Final descent into Miami and it is 79 degrees. Getting warmer…halfway there.
It’s a close call in Miami, but the connection is made and what threatens to be the flight from hell begins to unfold. Yet another delay and American Airlines seems intent on punishing us for daring to fly today. The cabin is saturated in a blistering heat.
A Haitian family wreaks havoc with the seating chart when they decide that their seat assignments just nah mek it. What follows is reorganization akin to the League of Nations/UN shuffle.
I’m scanning the crowd as I always do. There is a guy up front that I zero in on. Looks like he might be a potential threat. But I think about my destination and convince myself to relax and enjoy the ride. Besides, an exchange in the row behind me has my attention.
A middle-aged Jamaican guy is sitting in row 27-C, the aisle seat. A slightly older Caucasian woman occupies 27 –D, the opposite aisle, with her 23-year-old daughter in tow. JA guy and Caucasian lady take a look at each other. Then a double, then a triple take. Finally, Caucasian woman breaks the silence and asks, “[a]re you so and so?” JA guy responds in the affirmative. Caucasian woman gasps and exclaims “I’m ‘so and so’, your sister!”
Turns out these two individuals, seemingly worlds apart – one black, with a heavy Jamaican accent, the other white, with that low southern drawl that permeates Texas – who heretofore have never met, are siblings from the same father. Out of Many, One People. Indeed. I smile at the beauty of the moment and retreat to my iPod.
Final descent and I can glimpse the waters of the Caribbean with that exquisitely inviting green and blue hue. A smile wafts across my face and my iPod, set on shuffle, signals agreement. Bob is singing as the rear wheels touch down and he’s telling me to smile – I’m in Jamaica now. [img]/forums/images/graemlins/laugh.gif[/img]
..I hate the war , not the warriors [img]/forums/images/graemlins/wink.gif[/img]
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