Cuba

Story time…

I thank God for Cuba…

Cuba came into my life like a saviour.

Moving back to Toronto from Vancouver gutted me. I didn’t want to be here—at all. I only came back because I thought it was the best decision for Kayla.

She had expressed several times that she wanted to come back.

I was also told Crohn’s disease was caused by stress.

Meanwhile, not once did I ever see her as stressed—she was outgoing, social, happy and popular. But I took into consideration that maybe I don’t know exactly how she feels inside, and maybe—just maybe—if I put her where she wants to be, if she was stressed, it would help her mentally and take that component away so she could heal.

I was in my 20s. I had a decision to make. And as much as it gutted me, I thought I was doing the right thing.

I packed it all up in 1994 and moved 3,000 miles west on a whim—it was a big fucking thing I did!

However, it was also the best thing I could have done.

Then, 7 years later, I came back east in haste.

We were alone in Vancouver. My child was being fed 3 months at a time through an NG tube that went up her nose and down her throat to the stomach.

I was a fucking mess inside, crushed—I started using crystal meth. I recall being encouraged by my so-called family to come back, and I was saying to myself—fuck NO!

But one day, maybe two months into the tube feeding, I looked at Kayla, the IV pole, and said to myself, I can’t do this—I can’t do this alone.

It broke me. And just like that… as quickly as I left was as quickly as I came back. I sold all my shit, bought two tickets, and moved back to Toronto.

Our arrival was a shit show to say the least. Kayla’s dad came to pick up at the airport after moving into the apartment that was meant to be ours and he was a fucking hour late.

I remember vividly the passenger door opening in the front seat, they both expected my to sit there. I said to Kayla—”You go—it’s your dad, you sit beside him” I couldn’t even look at his face—still cant.

I sat in the back seat, and once we hit the highway I started bawling—heavy crying, like I had to catch my breath a few times crying. They both stayed silent.

It was a constant uphill battle right away. All the way until Trent was well over a year old.

Those two years were fucking hell. I felt so disconnected with Kayla, and with Toronto.

We eventually settled, and once we did, my uncle said to me one day—“Hey Jaye, gotta go to Cuba. Just fucking go. You gotta go.”

I started looking it up and I was like, holy fuck—the beach is beautiful and it’s only a three-hour flight. Trent was free until he was two, or until he turned three actually. And then he was half price. It was cheap! I was like, whattttt! I was all over it.

I did a little deed, collected a chunk of cash, and I bought two tickets for Tryp Cayo Coco.

It was May—I became border line obsessed with that place. The white sand, the blue water, the sun.

Beach obsessed.

That first time we went in May, 2003, when we got home, right away I booked two more tickets for November of that same year. And we were there every single year consistently until Kayla was no longer interested in hanging with me.

And then eventually Trent didn’t wanna hang either, so I started going solo.

I travelled with Kayla and Trent with Q to Jamaica when he was 4.

I took Trent back when he was like 14 or so I wanted to show him how to roll in Negril—local. Not on a resort.

I already knew people there, I knew the code. And believe me, in JA there is a code.

All those years spent on resorts—JA wasn’t his jam.

He didn’t understand patois—he wasn’t a fan. I grew up around it—I comprehend, well.

Jamaica—can be pretty aggressive on the road. It ain’t for everybody.

I gave Trent a pair of mirrored sunglasses. I told him, if you want to watch, check out someone or a situation, put the sunglasses on and watch—but whatever you do—don’t make eye contact.

There’s always someone or something crazy going on in Jamaica—usually a funny something to watch. Or, well—maybe it’s just funny to me.

That alone though will save your ass on the beach in Negril. Do not make eye contact.

When they pass asking for whatever they’re asking for—I don’t even look at them—I cut them off, real quick and look in a different direction. 

I might say hi—to not be rude. But it’s immediately followed by a strong “I’m good.” And if they go for my people, whoever I’m with—

“Nah nah, we’re good. Thank you, have a nice day.” Might even suck my teeth, and then they know, I know the program.

They walk away—“Yes yes, boss lady, have a blessed day.” They know to keep it moving.

That’s beach etiquette in Jamaica straight up.

Look in their eyes when they're walking your way with fruit, cigarettes, or gunja—if you go forward with salutations, eye contact, and interest—well good luck to ya.

Ya got yourself a bugging buddy for the rest of day. And if you ain’t quick with it you will get got.

When you’re on the road in JA—it ain’t no joke. You need to carry yourself in a certain way, especially nowadays, post-pandemic. It ain’t safe.

Being on a resort is a whole different ball game, you are safe. I’ve never done a resort in JA outside of a night or two at Royal De Cameron or Holiday Inn, and that’s because it’s only 10 minutes from the airport.

I’ve missed my flight coming up from Negril to MoBay due to car fuckery—driver’s car conked out with the driver walking away from the scene talking bout he’s going to get a part—“Soon come!” Ya, no. Ain’t nobody soon come or coming at all. You’re on your own.

So there was a time when we would head up the coast for the 2-hour drive a day or two prior—just to play it safe.

And by we, I mean me and the girls. I’ve traveled there many times with many different girls.

Trent and I also travelled to Mexico a few times, but it was always Cuba.

Twenty years ago the hospitality there couldn’t be beat.

The white sand, the calm turquoise water, and lastly—it wasn’t Toronto.

It became an escape for me. An oasis—that’s exactly what it was and sill is.

I also thought I was showing the kids a good time, giving them an experience I never had.

Like who the fuck doesn’t want to go on vacation to a tropical island as often as they could??

Nothing after Trent came along was ever good enough for Kayla. Nothing. I became enemy number one.

No matter what the push and pull was with her—after Trent was born, it was constant.

There was nothing I could do at that time to fix how she felt about me, so I just kept plowing on.

I had another child to consider, it wasn’t all about her anymore. That changed things—the dynamic between her and I. And we’ve never been the same since.

I loved it, in Cuba—the three of us there together—and they loved it too.

Cuba is now a big part of their lives, just as I wanted it to be.

One time my uncle’s trip and ours crossed over. We—Kayla, my uncle, Trent with his stroller, and me—went to the Barcuzza pizza bar at Tryp, back when the pizza there really was the bomb.

One of the workers I was introduced to was like, “I’ll hook you up with some rum,” and told me to bring the stroller over off to the side—not far at all from where my uncle and the kids were sitting.

He gave me 4 large bottles of rum. I tucked them into the stroller and covered it with a blanket.

Then he said, “Come here.” So I walked over to him, as he was standing in front of the washroom door—he pushed me in, locked the door, had his back against it—pulled out his dick, and started jerking off.

Saying to me, “Show me your tits.”

I just stood there, saying quietly—“No! What the fuck are you doing!” It was mid-afternoon.

Buddy ejaculated on the floor, zipped up, and walked out.

I just stood there trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened and why.

I was stunned. I froze—I wasn’t gonna yell or scream because my uncle was right there, just 10–15 feet away, sitting at the table with the kids.

And he thought he was a good guy. The fucking nerve of that cocksucker!

It was then when I started to realize the program in Cuba with Canadian women and Cuban men.

Yep, lots of women from Canada go there to fuck the dudes—it’s a thing.

But it wasn’t my fucking thing—I was there with my kids, for the beach for fuck sakes.

I have been in so many different situations throughout my life—you could only imagine.

I have stories for dayssss.

Everybody says and thinks, “You’re big and tall, and so strong—why didn’t you fight back?” Yo—

I asked myself the same fucking question, but the fact of the matter is you don’t know what the fuck you’re gonna do when you’re put in a situation like that until you’re in it. Straight the fuck up.

Just like with my ex— I always said if I ever caught my man cheating, I would just walk away and be done.

But I didn’t walk away. I was hot. I separated them and smashed him in the face.

So yea—people can yip-yap all they want about what they would do, but nobody knows how they’re going to react until they’re actually in the element of surprise—a fucking situation.

If I had of told my uncle—he would have went bat shit crazy and then I would have fucked it all up for him—his love for Cuba.

So I never spoke of it. Not until many years later, and still, I never got it all out.

Anyway, after that, Tryp Cayo Coco was tainted for me.

But I wasn’t going to let that/ him fuck up my love for that beach.

Just like Jamaica—even though my ex and I separated, and JA for me was all about him at one time—the memories I had etched in my head, my heart—

I wasn’t about to stop going to Negril just because of him. Naw, fuck that.

I went back to Cayo Coco.

We went back—Trent and I—and I carried myself differently after that incident and discovering their expectations of Canadian women.

I pretty much carried myself like I was in JA—with a look on my face that said, “Don’t even fucking look at me, buddy—I ain’t the one!” My whole demeanor changed.

We checked out other resorts. We tried Cayo Santa Maria—we didn’t like it. So we went back to Cayo Coco, just different resorts—until we came across Memories Flamenco.

It was perfect, small, and quaint. Until it wasn’t, which was after the pandemic.

I just moved along to another resort, paid more for a better experience, a better clientele, and that was that.

I’ve met so many great people on my getaways. I’ve always said, your vibe attracts your tribe. It’s always a good time.

Everybody squawks about the food—who the fuck cares about the food. They always have the basics: french fries, pizza, pork, chicken. Eggs, bacon.

Shit, I haven’t eaten any of that in three weeks. I could easily sacrifice my appetite, food for that beach and then some.

There is no other beach that I have been to that compares. It’s calm, pristine—soothing. It’s my oasis—where I restore.

Negril is beautiful—it’s Jamaica, the Caribbean Sea—I love it there. Jamaica is a whole vibe, period. But JA ain’t no joke—ya best be paying attention.

Don’t be doing stupid shit like bringing men back to your room. Ya, you might get some good dick, but it ain’t worth getting robbed—you’d be lucky if even your passport’s still there by the time you wake up and he’s long gone.

And do yourself a favor—leave the sand at the beach. C’mon man—wakey, wakey. That green card love—yea, that’s what I call it—Green Card Love…

Don’t let that good dick fool ya, especially if you ain’t getting paid. ’Cause once you bring that dick home—that dick ain’t gonna be yours no more.

That shit turns into community dick real quick.

The beaches in Barbados are stunning—majestic, playful, and strong. I love it there too, but…

Cayo Coco is and will always be my spot.

The feeling I get inside when I’m in the ocean is everything— its euphoric.

I feel connected in the ocean—any ocean.

But even more so in Cayo Coco.

I will always go back—I found peace there, happiness… well, as much as I was allowed to feel.

It was my saving grace after struggling for two years with my transition back to Toronto. It was my escape from Toronto.

Almost like I was being rewarded—given some happiness for the sacrifice I made.

Cuba has been a big part of my life for the past 21 years and will continue to be.

I’m actually going next week for a few days and, to be honest—I’m scared shitless.

The crowded spaces, people getting too close to me, which is something I’ve been struggling with lately, and well—my fucking stomach.

Even though I feel that way, I’m still fucking going—because I know my subconscious, or my superconscious, whichever it is, will take me there.

Fuck, I’m pretty sure it was that that booked the trip—for fuck sakes.

’Cause I was like, did I just fucking do that?! Ok, fuck—yup, looks like I’m going. Haha!

Lately, certain things I do—like that and like writing 1,000 or 2,000 words in 34–45 minutes, talking—kicking wisdom, sorting my pills, and other shit—I accomplish a lot some days.

Including the podcast that’s coming up—things that need to get done…

When I stop, or come out of that mode, that zone, and reflect on what I’ve just done, I’m like—shit. Alright, yup, that all just really fucking happened.

I’ll pack what I need for my stomach. And my subconscious—or whatever it is—will kick the fuck in, just like it has been, and make sure I get there and back.

It’s like I go somewhere else. My subconscious takes over.

It’s in me—every move I make. Guiding me.

I switch to airplane mode when anxiety or anything else tries to block me or interfere.

It takes over and it overrides everything. And it’s happening now—because I need to be there.

When I say the ocean is calling me, I mean— it is actually fucking calling me.

Restoration time. After all the fucking shit I’ve been through—especially these past four months—and, well, it also happens to be my birthday—my subconscious is making sure I do what I do on my birthday—and that’s go to Cayo Coco.

I need to float.

The end.