Seven Days of Decadence

The yacht was fully staffed - a chef, a maid, several young man in black trousers and white shirts who's only job it seemed was to see to every whim of every guest, a captain and a capable crew. The prospect of a week at sea in the warm waters and picturesque ports of the Caribbean seemed like a gift from above.

We left from Puerto Rico, sailing into a bright ocean with sun and blue skies above. I felt at home with the salt spray and the water, it was familiar and comforting. A table was laid on deck, linen napkins and sparkling silverware, a vase of flowers. Lunch and champagne were served precisely at one, dinner at eight, and in between the chef was always available to whip up a light snack. We sailed mainly at night when all but the crew slept so as the sunny days were free for sunbathing and swimming, an impromptu game of bridge, or some lazy fishing. Along the way we stopped in Martinque for a day, in St. Kitts for an afternoon, and finally in Jamaica where we shopped and roamed until dark and spent the evening on the flagstoned terrace of an oceanside hotel, watching the boats in the harbor and drinking rum punch.

For me, it all came to a screeching halt the following morning. While my mother in law tended to some last minute shopping and my father in law and husband lazed poolside, I discovered the side of Jamaica you don't see in the travel brochures. Following a sing song sound from beyond the shopping district, I walked along a dirt road to the shacks, the stray dogs, the crushing poverty. Children in rags begging for coins, old people so thin that I could see their ribcages and a group of women in a circle on the ground, plucking chickens and singing in French. No tourist trade here, no colorful shops or gregarious vendors, no high flying flags or well appointed horse drawn carriages. This side of Jamaica wasn't for the rich Americans or other carriage trade in their linen dresses and seersucker suits, stocking up on paperback novels and duty free liquor and my liberal social conscience had kicked in with unexpected force. The images refused to go away and the yacht lost its charm, leaving me with a wretched sense of guilt and unearned, undeserved good fortune.

Like unexpected company, rude awakenings arrive without invitation and overstay their welcome. You can make conversation with them or leave the room but you can't pretend they aren't there.