An Island Forest
My favorite bathing suit in college was a white one-piece, with a cut inspired by the new and wildly popular Baywatch uniform…bare thighs all the way up to my hip bones, deep scoop-neck front, and an even deeper U-shaped back. It’s a feat of engineering that this thing stayed on via barely-there shoulder straps. Looking back, though, the image of the white-on-white oblong shape of me and my incredibly pale eastern-central European skin must’ve looked like a giant tampon. The locals kept telling me — in their lyrical, rhythmic accents that I’m convinced must have inspired their reggae music — to put on some sunscreen. I didn’t heed their warnings. Then, later in the week, I got terrifically sunburnt. What that must’ve looked like…ewww…
But apparently I had nothing to worry about, even with the color choice debacle and the extra weight that ritual pizza and beer binges had put on my petite frame. Forest, my on-again, off-again noncommittal crush who had (sort of) followed me to Jamaica for spring break, still wanted my lips on his, and all of me in his bed.
I was staying with another friend in a plush hotel that was flush with Canadian newlyweds. Forest and another friend of his were staying in what can only be described as a shack on the beach. It was tiny and damp and sandy and dirty, made more so by the lack of housekeeping done by such fraternity boys.
It was also dark, made of windowless wood with narrow shards of sunshine peeking through the uneven slats during the day. I was only there once at night and, for a few hours, we turned it into our own little love shack.
We were lost in the sensory overload of this unlikely romantic spot, everything was enhanced. It was an oasis of the ocean’s scent and sounds against the backdrop of steel drums in the distance outside. He tasted like the famous Jamaican weed and frozen daiquiris we’d imbibed in earlier in the evening with our friends, between layers of his sweet sweat from the day…and then there were the fresh beads of sweat from now. And his touch felt like the care and interest he refused to admit…or commit to.
We drifted off to sleep, eventually woken up by the loud arrival of his wasted shack-mate, who promptly high-fived us as we lay naked arm-in-naked arm in a twin bed. We all laughed maniacally at this strange gesture of support and went back to sleep, the other bed no longer empty. It was now a slumber party.
It was a week of comedy, drama, adventure, and young romance. My favorite blend.
Forest died in 2017. February marks his birthday, and the anniversary of his death. March is when our Jamaican trip took place many years earlier. Naturally, he’s always on my mind much more than usual during this time of year.
We’d kept in touch over the decades, through our respective failed marriages and various personal losses and tragedies, occasionally seeing one another on business trips and such, and even sleeping in the same room — but we never broke our vows to others. In the couple of years prior to his untimely death, both of us single again, we spoke often of visiting each other, but never did. Our feelings matured and evolved to a more honest place. We talked and texted like lovers. Giving way to sentimentality one Christmas, Forest sent me his treasured fraternity sweatshirt from our college days. He was certain if we were living in the same city, we’d be living together.
The crush was still there, the intimacy of conversations and history never vanished. And we reminisced about Jamaica often. We visited it in our joint memory because geography and timing always got in the way of us being able to re-enact the pleasures of that treasured week.
My mind and heart are where Jamaica will have to remain for me. I could never recreate the magic of that sweet, sweet spring break. I will never return to the gorgeous island country that gave me the best vacation of my life.
God, I miss him.
