Protected from the tropical sun by nothing but a notebook, the First Amendment and half a bottle of No.
Please, lady, I'm a working journalist here!Īnd so, with muttered curses at the editor who sent me, I drop my objections. I won't have any place to keep my spare pen. I mumble some arguments: I'm worried about unprecedented exposure to the sun. But somehow, being told to strip nekkid by the hotel management is more unnerving than any of the police or border guards I've met from Cuba to Cambodia. I've faced down a few authoritarian figures in my career. I repeat myself, just to be clear: "Uhhhhhh." This is a nude beach and if you're going to be here, you've got to remove your trunks. "Come on, mon," says the woman, a smiling but earnest young Jamaican dressed in staff whites. And I'm just beginning to think that the Hedonism II resort is more lovely than lively when the lady in the uniform tells me to take my pants off. Every vine is lush, every breeze a caress, every bloom a new waft of tropical perfume.
It's a garden of earthly delights, this whispering cove on Jamaica's western tip. The air over the sand is shot through with white morning sun, but under the trees it is dappled and cool. The garden walls are capstoned with Technicolor blossoms, any one of which would look at home on a glass of rum punch. The palms dance over the beach in necklaces of bougainvillea and hibiscus.
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