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It was a lazy Wednesday by temperature standards in Jamaica when I eased into my seat in a quiet corner of Sangster International Airport. If not departing, I would surely have been back on the beach with the book I’d almost finished. My four-day excursion felt like a week on my body. I was rested — the kind of catching up that gives you a peace about getting back to everything — and the sun had been good for my mood. Jamaica, on the right terms, does that. When I found myself suddenly surrounded by agitated travelers who had been shuffled from another gate — comparing notes about loud parties and damp musty rooms — I was unfazed. They’d had seven days to my four; I was better off. Even on my way off the island, I was still at Jamaica Inn in my mind.

I arrived midday Sunday to the resort in Ocho Rios for just a few days of sand-infused replenishing. Gauzy garb, bathing suit and sun screen in tow, my itinerary was purposely light — eat, sleep, read, repeat. Of note, no living space in the resort has a television or alarm clock. That alone makes planning for travel to one of the north coast’s foremost getaways feel like a special occasion. But Jamaica Inn receives you as if you’re returning to it after a long journey. It’s familiar at hello and the premise is simple — retreat. Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller honeymooned here — evidenced by a photo of them in the library and a signaling that there are others; you just won’t hear any names dropped.

What you will grow accustomed to hearing is the sound of the ocean sweeping the shore and at times the buzz of a boisterous jet skier mingled with faint laughter coming from the beach bar. These are not the sounds of regular life. We travel to Jamaica Inn for nothing less … and nothing more.

I’d been to the quaint resort a few years back and believed my accommodations in Cottage 4 near the beach the best to be offered until the porter stepped aside in the foyer of Cottage 7 to give me a clear view of my vacation home. He asked where I’d like my bags, pointing to an upstairs landing. “Two floors?” I inquired. “Yes,” he laughed. Cottage 7 was new, “brand new.” And it was actually the resort’s best. At that moment, I wondered if I’d be able to break away; if I’d want to leave the cottage. It was easily conceivable to have all of my meals delivered to the terrace and only leave the living room that sprawled onto its patio and infinity spa to enjoy KiYara Ocean Spa next door or to venture into the ocean via the private stairway at the foot of the deck. The consideration was as dramatic as the introduction to Jamaica Inn’s elaborate offering.

Early On a Sunday Morning

On Where Pianos Roam

Today, I wanted to share one of my favorite poems.  It's very beautiful and is descriptive of something that maybe only pilots and winged creatures have experienced.  The author of this poem is John Magee.  He was a pilot for the Royal Canadian Air Force during World War II.   He died during a mid-air collision just three months after writing this poem as an addendum to a letter to his parents.  Read it aloud, if possible.  It's really quite gorgeous.

by John Magee

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

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