Hard to believe it's been that long. Back then I was just about ready to buy tickets when Gilbert came to my attention. So I waited and the rest is history. A year later we made that trip and went looking for our friends. The story I'll never forget came from Sister Love (Adassa), who had a shop
in the Rasta Village by the bridge. She said she and her daughter had wrapped themselves into a mattress cinched tightly with a rope around her center pole and held on for dear life. When I first met her on the bridge in 1983, her hair was black. When I saw her again a year after the storm her hair was snow white. But they survived.

In a tragic postscript some years later, a car backed over her in the bank parking lot, killing her. I guess you never know when it's your time.

On a happier note (1983) I had my first Jamaican home cooking at Sister Love's, prepared by a lady named Dorothy P. You can probably guess...
brown stewed chicken, rice and peas, callaloo and roasted breadfruit. So began a 40-year (and counting) love affair with Negril.