Gerry G's TRAIL OF ASHES TOUR Final Chapter -- The Mighty Californian's return

[gerryg123]

It's Monday morning, Christmas eve, and it's snowing on the east coast in the USA but a perfect balmy day in Negril.

The plan was to go spearfishing early in the morning, but Famous Vincent had to switch things around for a fishing trip -- more money, so I understand -- so I did a little work on the Net (only ONE non-boardie in the whole world knows where I am, and that's the way I like it!), and then I hung out at Seasplash for a bit with the new friends I've made.

One is the previously mentioned John, a boardie from Canada who is staying there, a single guy on a scooter so you know we can relate to each other. He's a boardie lurker who says he loves my reports but does not want to be in it (imagine THAT), yet it's all good. I don't want to be in it, either, but I guess I have no choice since it's all about me. ha ha.

Another is a nice expat named Steve who runs a recording studio in Negril and lives in the hills in a big house. He invited me over a few times, but I never made it there, and he also was considering going spear fishing with me, but he says he prefers underwater tanks. I scuba, too, but not this trip.

The third is an older Negril vet staying at the Palms -- he says the place needs some updating -- and he's one of those typical tan tourists with the gold chains. Nice guy. God was he bummed on the last morning when he had to go home and was counting down the minutes.

Anyway, I am laying on my raft, kind of thinking about my life and about my father, who had died in November from a disease. God, how I loved my father. He was my Little League coach, my mentor, my moral compass before the desocialization kicked in (just kiddin'), and a good provider who above all else loved to have a good time -- and who does that remind you of???

It was a sad ending to his life because I would visit him daily at the hospital, and he would always implore me and my brother to stay a little bit longer. He did not like being alone, and he was always optimistic he would get better, though the doctor had privately told us this was the end. It's incredibly heart-breaking not being able to tell your dad he's dying, to keep a happy face when confronted with such a morbid reality. He was suffering at the end, unable to breath without a machine, so God took him at the right time because there was no way he was going to get better, and he did live a full life through 76 mostly happy years. But the last two or three months were very tough, and it took a lot out of me to bury him.

I needed some relief. I needed to get away. I needed some 'me' time. Negril was the cure, the elixir, the feel-good potion that renewed and invigorated me and made everything OK again.

Meanwhile, during all this deep thinking and sentimental looking-back, I had unwittingly drifted on the raft all the way past Treehouse, and when I finally looked up, for a moment I had no friggin' idea where I was!

Eventually, I toweled off, found my way back to the Seasplash bar and ordered two of everything to go.