Local Author Spotlight: JOHN HENSEL
TALES OF A SUBURBAN GYPSY
A Story of Finding LOVE
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Part Two
This book is dedicated to all the People (angels) who took the time to help me along my PATH.
Thanks for your Faith in me and the Laughs we had along the way.
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From: Notes to my Son
A TIMELINE TOWARDS DESTINY!
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SURVIVING is easy...
It’s LIVING that’s Hard!
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THE JOURNEY BEGINS
A bit of advice given to a young Native American at the time of
his initiation:
“As you go the way of life you will see a great chasm.”
JUMP! … “It’s not as wide as you think."
—Joseph Campbell
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JAMAICA
NEW YEAR’S In PARADISE (1972–1973)
(or looking for Marley)
Winters in Miami and the south are different from the traditional winters I grew up with on the east coast of New Jersey with blown snow, ice, and bundles of clothes.
I moved to Miami for the warmth and beauty of the land where you could swim and tan all winter and wear shorts in February.
1972 was no different in Miami as I sat out on my sunny porch overlooking heavily laden grapefruit and palm trees that surrounded the two acres I rented with roommates near Parrot’s Jungle.
Located near the southern end of S.W. Miami the little house was hidden away from the hustle and bustle of a nearby highway.
Leading you up to the small house was a giant circular driveway. You had the impression that my roommates and I lived in a mansion based on the driveway alone, but it was only a glamorous shack with a few bedrooms, kitchen, and bath. The acreage gave us peace—front and back surrounded by complete privacy.
What I loved about our driveway was the approach. You could hear and see all vehicles as they came up.
You either welcomed them or send them back down depending upon who they were or how you felt that day.
Sitting quietly I could hear the sound of a number of parrots that had just escaped their cages and were now free to roam the trees and bushes of our neighborhood.
Freedom is precious to me and I thought of mine sitting there in the sun daydreaming of an upcoming trip a number of friends had recently put together.
A fantasy week-long vacation spent over New Year’s celebrating the holiday on the island of Jamaica, the heart of the Caribbean.
I pinched myself to remind me of the current date....
Dec. 28, 1972. A smile crept on my face as I kept thinking of the trip with my crazy friends to a mysterious and beautiful island where none of us had ever been to before.
Adding to the intrigue was the movie “The Harder they Come” starring Jimmy Cliff.
If you haven’t seen it—it vividly portrays a musician who battles through the streets of Kingston, gang lords, and busted music deals (two or three people were killed during the actual filming).
Virtually a prisoner in paradise Cliff's plan is to sing his way to stardom and eventual freedom which he almost does but is framed for murder, dying on a jetty in Kingston while his hit song plays softly in the background.
The film’s story and music left a haunting image further fueling my fascination with the island.
From Miami—Jamaica is very close (60 miles) yet an ocean apart. A world and culture so very different from ours, it can’t be explained and one that has to be experienced to comprehend.
I was more than ready to soak in the Jamaican lifestyle but was snapped back to reality with the thoughts of the many things that had to transpire before I could jump on a plane and escape for my week of fun—( 9 men/3 crazy women—Look out, Kingston...good-bye, Miami.)
But not just yet!
Paradise was a day away. A VERY LONG day away…
My job in the 70’s was producing concerts, events, plays, et cetera for the promoters of the day and there was a Holiday music festival today at the Miami Speedway—as usual I was right in the middle of it.
This festival was billed bigger and better than all of them. A vacation would be well-earned, to say the least.
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I dropped out of college in the early 70’s to work with a small band of people that ran a concert company out of Coconut Grove backed by Jerry Powers, the mad genius who invented “The Daily Planet,” Miami’s answer to underground newspapers, and his way to take on the system, make money and get laid—in whatever order.
Jerry’s picture has to be next to the word “slime ball” in Webster’s—for he was one of the lowest and conversely one of the best business people I have ever met.
The entertainment industry has to be the most fearless business there is and Jerry personally knew most of the players in rock‘n’roll during this time.
I love music, especially when it is live and spontaneous. To be able to work side by side with the stars of this era made me feel like a child in a candy store.
This love inspired me to excel in the profession and to work even harder for each show.
For three years we produced concerts almost weekly. Jerry handled the money—I produced the shows and smoothed over all the rough spots.
We made it all work. Producing everyone and anyone missing only the Beatles, Clapton, and The Dead.
If it went through Miami, it went through our company. Events surrounding these days are priceless and some will be told later....
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THE FESTIVAL
The December ’72 Holiday Show was packed with intensity – the event produced as a 12-hour all- day Festival included some of the very best. Many thought it was a dream billing which included The Allman Brothers, Santana, Johnny Winter, Bonnie Rait, ZZ Topp, Rod Stewart, John Machlunin and many more…Powers was hired by Howard Stein’s N.Y. staff to run the ticket sales, advertising, lights, sound and stage construction.
What made this show different from most of the regular concerts was the number of bands (12) and the location, a first for the Miami Speedway.
The intensity level of the event was on high and escalated by Stein’s presence, his first show in the area. If this event were a success his group would bring in more shows to the area, which meant more work for all of us.
If you don't know the name Howard Stein then you didn't go to a concert in the 70's. He was one of the top promoters in the US and only behind Bill Graham in stature.
On any given weekend both companies could easily produce a multiple of shows simultaneously.
Graham's claim to fame was the Fillmore East (NYC) & West (SF).
Stein turned the concert business into a conglomerate and was a symbol for this new and growing industry. At one point, Howard was shown in Time Magazine pictured with his vintage '50's Silver Shadow RR bought with pocket change for $25K., an amazingly high price for the time.
With these kinds of egos involved I stayed in the background as much as possible. His office ate people in business for lunch. To them I was hired help and there to assist only on specific jobs for the show. Normally the entire scope of each show revolved around our small staff.
The Holiday Festival was designed to hold 30,000 to 100,000 people. Our advertising was produced and ticket sales began. We promoted to all markets especially the college crowd who were vacationing in the sun, hopefully our Sun!
Perhaps thinking they might be able to produce a mini-Woodstock in Miami, Jerry and Howard geared up like we were...I handled my jobs checking and double-checking everything.
You have to work with back-up plans to handle any possible situation. My role was equal to a rock ‘n’ roll “Sgt. Bilko” for in the world of live entertainment you have to pull off small miracles so the show can go on.
Just about every week we produced a live concert—90 percent went over well.
Some did not.
The Pink Floyd show at the Sporatorium in the summer of ’73 was more than a disaster.
Most groups arrive the night before a concert and begin setting up early to work out all the kinks by early afternoon.
The Pink Floyd show was different. The technician’s that handled the band were truly wizards of the day. They mastered all facets of life on the road so we were more than shocked when the lead roadie came to us around 1 p.m. to notify our crew that the entire truck with all the stage equipment was stuck somewhere on the highway.
With precious little time for error our company sprung into action. We began finding rental trucks that were close enough for transport. By 3 p.m., we zoomed to the breakdown with a caravan of five rental trucks and lots of men to help.
By 5 p.m. the stage was full of the band’s equipment, which we had loaded and unloaded by hand. At 7 p.m., power was booted up, but all you could hear was a loud hum throughout the system.
By 8 p.m., the stadium was packed and somehow the opening act played but through an undercurrent of humming. At 10 p.m., things didn’t get any better and the promoters asked me to tell the crowd we would have to refund their money.
I gulped and then somehow turned to the mike with the news and was instantly hit with many objects.
In Tampa the next night, the Pink Floyd crew called to apologize. It seemed the overall problem stemmed from one little connection they had missed the night before.
Miami was not a big town then, and you got to know all of the vendors real well. We rented pianos, organs, sound and light equipment, and hired caterers, piano tuners, security guards, stage personnel, and dozens of people who had to be available around-the-clock.
Talking with a vendor at 1 a.m. about a situation for the next day was normal for the business.
Contingencies for each show depended on the group’s “Rider Contract.” This spelled out the specific special needs for each group that played.
For instance the Festival had to provide transportation to and from an isolated area (Miami Speedway) so we decided to find a helicopter that could get the groups in and out quickly and that was large enough to transport ten to fifteen people comfortably.
The problem was that the old army chopper was retired and from the early ’60s it moved no faster than 25 m.p.h. (top speed) was barren and uncomfortable, but somehow the plan worked. We had 24-hour access with dedicated clearheaded pilots that knew our game plan—and back and forth we went from the airport to the speedway—all day/all night—taking off from each site every 30 minutes.
Leading up to the show both of the camps got bitcher and bitcher. From the beginning Jerry’s flamboyant style got him in trouble. He was talking to the media as if we had a South Florida “Woodstock” brewing which created high expectations from everyone including Howard’s group, N.Y. talent agents, and the musicians.
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Ever since the original Woodstock in ’69 any large concert gathering across the country created excitement and was looked at as another special event, which really could never be duplicated.
Woodstock was a magic moment in history, a spontaneous event packed with talent similar to our show that exploded and expanded in scope when groups kept appearing out of nowhere with people coming out of the woods creating a historical once-in-a-lifetime celebration of 500,000-plus people.
The thought of hundreds of people losing it on LSD, massive injuries, rain/mud, babies being born, and general mayhem over three days made me shudder. (Did I mention rain and mud?)
But The Holiday Show did have a real chance for something special to happen.
We brought major headliners that combined good ol’ boy Southern Rock like The Allman Bros, Lynard Skynard and Johnny Winter with newer eastern rock including John Mclaughlin and his Marvesison Orchestra with the jazz/rock of Miles Davis and more totaling twelve acts in twelve hours.
Each group had good airplay and a unique following of fans that we hoped were listening to our ads and media blitz.
Getting closer to the date ticket sales stayed extremely soft creating further tension from all business entities. In the concert business, you could easily make or lose hundreds of thousands of dollars because of a miscalculation.
By now I was in “Survival Mode” and thinking of Jamaica and the “escape” to paradise helped me remain focused as The Show moved along with a lightning intensity.
One of my other positions was coordinating pre-ticket sales for each event. I was a human Ticket-Tron at the time with outlets in twelve to fifteen stores along the southern beaches.
From Palm Beach to the Grove, each store was handpicked to sell directly to its customer base. Record stores, hair salons, T-shirt shops. I knew the owners. They knew my schedule and our money was always on point. There was no room for error as I would carry $10,000 per trip leading up to a strong weekend of music.
The loyal staff we hired was always in place and basically consisted of college friends who loved music and the life of backstage work.
Each concert offered its own flavor and a sideshow of its own. Our crew was right in the middle of everything working side-by-side through each challenge leading up to the band finally walking on stage and performing and ended with the last suitcase thrown on the back of their truck and a few beers or shots before all said good-bye hitting the road for the next town.
Most groups embraced us when they hit Miami.
We provided them a “road-home” and were their support and help on the long, long road of seemingly endless concert dates.
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Despite all the hype, lack of sales, short tempers, and bitterness of the bosses (the promoters), the show must go on and the ’72 Holiday Festival did just that.
With the support of two companies working together I only worked with a few assignments. One was hiring the stage crew and security; the other was to make sure each group got to the Speedway via the copter.
Group after group they came and went and early in the day things went easy.
A small but fun-loving crowd in the day hours relaxed in the sun taking in John MacCaughling, Lynard Skynard, and Poco who all showed up as scheduled and were treated like gold and then were gone.
The great thing about my job was the flexibility it gave me to mingle with friends in the crowd so I could enjoy a song or two then go back to work for awhile.
Throughout the day and into the evening I worked with this routine while getting updates from the promoters on sales while still enjoying the music that lead us into a balmy Florida evening.
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Women were always around at concerts and made themselves available.
To restrain myself and to stay focused on my responsibilities was sometimes difficult.
This show was more difficult because I had time on my hands. In-between groups a few girls became acquainted with me obviously so they could get a better view of the show, meet the groups, or whatever.
It doesn’t really matter sometimes and a coed visiting from school (Boston?) treated me very nicely backstage and from that point we hung-out for the rest of the night.
Waiting until almost the last group, The Allman Brothers, I plotted my final escape.
The plan was to get home, rest for a bit, and to get out of Dodge for my dream vacation.
With the coed in tow I boarded a flight to Miami riding with a very stoned Johnny and Edgar Winter Band (the Albino brothers of blues) and headed south in the chopper.
Somehow I got us to my little house in South Miami passing out on my sacred waterbed.
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JAMAICA
There is nothing normal about my life so why would a simple trip to an island be any different.
Waking up after the show I found the pretty coed masturbating over my beat-up and drugged body. I had just worked the last two weeks on the show and back-to-back sixteen to eighteen hour days. Gazing at her with one-eye shut I was stimulated but dead to the world not knowing if I should join her or go back to sleep.
The part of me that knew I would probably never see her again decided to give her a morning send-off she would not soon forget and laying there I whispered in her ear that when it was over she needed to be dressed and in the car in five minutes or less.
We raced back to the Speedway hoping to find her friends who she was meeting up with to go back home.
I then sped to my office to pick-up and cash a check but the hours and minutes were not on my side. Time was growing very short. I had to park, run through the airport, and catch the flight that I thought my friends were on.
I was hoping beyond hope that my buddy, Tina, our devoted secretary, would be sitting pretty as always with my check in hand from the show.
Tina Dupree was the heart of our operation always calming us and giving words of wisdom to whomever would listen. Words of advice that often soothe me even to this day.
Tina was at her desk waiting for me. She knew my schedule better than I did. She pointed to Jerry who was in the office early working on the next paper deadline. Last night’s show was now an after-thought and he was moving on to the next project.
I was far from thinking of work at this point and his delay accelerated my heart. He insisted I fix something in his office before I could pick up my check.
As my heart beat faster I somehow kept it together and did his little assignment (change a lock), sped off in my car, and reached the airport already late for the flight.
By now running on fumes and instincts alone, I asked if the flight could be held for a few minutes and raced breathlessly towards the gate.
The biggest sigh of relief came over me as I boarded the plane and saw all of my travel friends smiling at me—beaming and wondering how I had made the plane which was moments away from taking off.
When I was finally able to take my seat my body collapsed and I feel asleep with a smile.
Sleep didn’t last long as I felt the deep descent of the plane and woke up wondering where I was. I felt victorious and finally free as I looked out the window and saw our prize just below us.
First thinking it was fog I blinked again and saw picturesque puffy clouds part. That’s when I got my first look at the island. For miles all I could see was a deep green surrounded by the rich color of the blue ocean around the island.
Everywhere I looked seemed magical. A hypnotic lure drew our plane closer and closer.
Landing in Jamaica was exciting. We all felt free and alive. The island took on a new life as we touched our feet to the ground.
The airport there sobered our enthusiasm and this trip took on a very surreal quality.
Standing there it seemed we were the only white people left in the world.
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The Island run by the British at this time trained the local Jamaican police. With guns in hand they went through our bags one by one expecting to find drugs, body parts, or whatever for they shuck us down and frisked us thoroughly. I really didn’t care though still reeling and exhausted from last night—the concert and the girl made me tired, relaxed, and invigorated all at once.
Our group of young travelers stood out in Jamaica and it didn’t help that I was with two well- tanned blonde ladies and nine long-haired males. We decided to try and escape police reality by telling the girls to keep flirting with any threatening law officials so we could move onwards with our trip.
I firmly believe that a smart, blonde lady could easily rule the world. The island police were caught off-guard as the girls smiles turned them speechless. Any thoughts of hassling us vanished and we quickly left the heat and the commotion of the crowded city behind.
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Negril - 1972
The next destination was a little village called Negril. Present day it is packed with condos, 5-star resorts and high priced Tiki bars. In ’72, it was a very low-key beach with a few hotels/motels, ocean-view bars, and houses that looked like huts nestled into the rich landscape.
Our spot for a day would be in the home of a beautiful Jamaican family. They opened their doors to us with a smile welcoming one and all to sit, relax, eat, and sleep for as long as we liked.
I don’t know who planned our trip, but my travel buddies were not dumb. Most of them were in the final years of college some studying for their law degrees and a few finalizing their medical studies.
This was a lifetime away from reality and traveling for maybe their last days of freedom and responsibilities that would forever change their lives. So they came and they played and experienced a week on the island that no one would ever forget.
The Jamaican family we stayed with showed us Caribbean hospitality at its best.
The Jamaican smile is contagious for when you feel the warmth radiating through you it somehow touches your heart making you feel whole and happy all over.
The sincerity of the people is somehow transferred to their food. We were offered dishes that looked simple but tasted amazing, filled with exotic flavors accented by fruit and spices fresh from the island.
If you ever dreamed a dream and went to a place that was perfect and untouched by progress, it would have to be Negril in 1972. This Caribbean village was as close to paradise as I have ever been.
The soft breezes, blue skies, and crystal-blue water going out past the tide forever hypnotizes you and makes you feel whole and human again.
During the day, I sat at a small tiki bar taking in the warmth of the area and let the salt air heal my soul. Gazing out over the ocean and the beauty around me I only got up when I felt the urge and would wade out into the water sometimes going a half-mile before it got to the top of my shorts.
Evenings were gentle and quiet and soft breezes came and kissed me to sleep as I tucked myself into a clean Jamaican bed. Falling asleep I listened to the crickets and night birds as they whispered to one another throughout the night.
When morning came our group begrudgingly got up and split into three different parties heading to separate destinations and agendas on the island.
My group consisted of Stan, Bill, and Joe. We traveled back to Kingston to rent a car for further fun and adventure. That’s when the trip started to turn into the Jimmy Cliff movie.
We no sooner got into town when a street person befriended us and offered us “ganja” cheap. Cheap was five dollars for a “splive” about as big and fat as the largest cigar you have ever seen.
Everything looked fine except we had to trust him and follow him to a hut somewhere through town and the heart of the ghetto.
One of the gifts I have in life is great instincts about people and the events around me.
My instincts kept me from death a year earlier in a hotel room outside of New Orleans where I ended up in the bed of a pretty lady who let me stay the night only to find out her husband and friend were Big, Black, and very Bad (see below “Dancing with Hurricanes”). They helped me to navigate through a number of hurricanes and many fights and to avoid fights throughout my life.
The instinct radar of trouble was off and we calmly followed our new friend who took us safely through the poorest sections of Kingston into a hut/house where another smiling native welcomed us and asked to us relax and have a seat, which in this abode was the floor.
As our host came back into the room he kept smiling carrying with him the biggest joint I had ever seen in my life. Its cost was just five dollars.
He said we could leave, stay, or smoke. We were welcome to do what we wanted…SO WE LIT UP!
Including our host and street friend there were four of us. We were determined to not take any ganja with us so we smoked and smoked and then smoked some more.
I lost my sight, my hearing, and my balance that day, but we smoked some more and when we were done we somehow staggered our way through the maze of huts miraculously finding the streets of Kingston once again.
At that moment, I noticed the people around me. They all seemed very nice. Many begged for money or hawked goods and most just enjoyed hanging out and being human. Some would walk with us always smiling with a glaze of happiness on their faces. Maybe it was just me, but it seemed like the majority of them were really stoned and just enjoying life.
I somehow understood that this is how they lived every day in Jamaica.
It was also an instant of clarity and the language of the island made sense to me as I started to understand accents and sentences better.
Prior to that I couldn’t understand what people were saying. Their dialect did not make much sense. Everything they said sounded like French or a Pig Latin English of some kind.
From that moment on, communication was not a problem. Everything was cool—“MON.”
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Working in the concert world sounds glamorous and it is, but my part was hard work—long hours and the promoters low-balled me whenever they could.
My weeklong trip to the island consisted of about $200 in spending money so a group trip helped the budget greatly. We all put together funds for food, housing, and vehicles. It was imperative to rent a car.
Walking down the Kingston street giggling we ran into our buddies who had already secured our rental for the week and when they saw us they laughed long and hard for they knew where we had been and with that we took off on our island adventure.
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I grew up riding the highways of adventure. High School nights in Ewing meant riding all night with my buddies Paul, Kim, Danny, Ralph, and sometimes Mike and Billy. We would chip in and cop cheap grass at McDees, go up and down Gravity Hill or cruise through Washington Crossing Park in the pitch black of night.
Mike and Kim were so proficient with the hills and brakes that they would speed up and down the Crossing at 50 to 70 m.p.h. timing the end of the descent and braking at the very last minute in front of a huge oak tree. Even though I knew each time where we were heading, life passed in front of me freezing me in fear knowing I was going to die on impact.
I remember laughing and screaming a lot.
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For me Jamaica was another exciting road trip. My friends let us know me they had also copped weed and produced a huge bag of it, which we promptly lit up on the road.
The first lesson in traveling is to never, ever let the navigator read the travel map when stoned. Since we were all stoned including Bill the driver, we hopped around the roads of the island laughing and giggling hoping that we were going in the right direction.
We were not.
It must have been the map or the stoned map readers (us) but when we left small villages and huts the road turned into dense jungle-like vegetation, but still contained a road of some sort. We kept going. Only the road kept getting smaller and smaller and when the jungle started to swallow us we finally
ran out of road and almost drove into a small creek sitting where the road should have been based upon this Jamaican map that the rental place gave us.
The map said GO - the road said NO. We looked at each other sheepishly with disbelief.
The map showed the road that we thought we were on cutting through the middle of the island (60 mile long). This road ended somewhere in the jungle with no civilization in sight.
Slowly we back-tracked which meant driving in reverse for awhile where we found the answer to our problem making a zig instead of a zag which wasn't on the map and drove towards our destination - the half-way point up the mountain.
Seeing a fort in the distance meant our halfway point was close and as we got closer to the fort it looked inviting and friendly.
We lit up another joint to enjoy the view of our surroundings.
Our little world stopped with a shudder as we noticed dozens of Jamaican soldiers carrying rifles, machine-guns and machetes securing the fort.
You have never seen four white long-haired men move so fast in your life as we tried to be cool and lose the joint we were smoking and hide the bag we were carrying while approaching soldiers with guns who happened to notice us ALL in the same moment.
In the past I have gotten out of a lot of danger by looking my enemy in the face and smiling. In 1972, I was very non-violent and anyone with a gun reminded me of death and dying. I was too scared to cry so I did the next best thing and decided to smile and wave telling my friends to do the same.
If the fort police thought we were any threat this vanished when they saw four crazed tourists driving a beat-up rental car smiling and waving at them.
I was born in the historic town of Trenton where George W. and his crew surprised and overtook the Hessians after a famous crossing over the Delaware River one Christmas morning.
Loving history and the people that changed our world with their deeds was an important part of how I grew up.
Our house in Ewing was decorated in mahogany and dark woods of the period accented with peacocks and people riding on horses. There was a replica flintlock over the fireplace reminding our family of an old letter my Aunt Margaret found which traced my mother’s side of the family directly to the explorer, Daniel Boone. I am supposed to be a cousin, which I guess has helped because I never get lost once I find my destination (as long as there is a gas station to point me in the right direction). I traveled a lot of the U.S. and Canada this way.
My grandmother, Nana, lived alone in Washington, D.C., a widow for years who became my second mom. She often took me down into the heart of the city showing me her world and taking me everywhere in town.
I got to know D.C. like the back of my hand falling in love with and respecting our nation through her eyes.
So naturally my first instinct was to stop and explore this Jamaican Fort and to find out its significance through the local natives, but we did the right thing at that moment...we quickly drove away.
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My head was still spinning when we finally got away from the fort on the mountain and the wheels in my brain began to fall back into place as the true reality of our surroundings started to make sense once again. I was Free—away from machine gun carrying soldiers and in Jamaica looking for a place called Paradise.
The jungle surrounding our rental parted soon and all I remember going down the mountain was the beauty of the sky in a forever-deep blue. Coconut, grapefruit, and palm trees sprung up everywhere. The temperature of the air was perfect.
I noticed another smell other than the aroma of gunja that was in our rental. I looked out the window and took a deep breath of salt air. The deep blue of the ocean appeared in the near distance and my heart felt more alive by the second. Our next destination was nestled somewhere between Negril and Alligator Bay.
Paradise lay dead ahead as I saw the Welcome to the Long Bay Motel sign that beckoned us to pull in.
Instead of traveling around the island we cut through the middle to reach the other side, which landed us half way up the coast in a small village where the motel lay.
Once there the rhythm of Jamaica found me (once again) and I was at peace just like I was in Negril. The owners, chefs and workers at the motel named after the town embraced us like family—welcoming us with smiles, laughs, drinks, food, and shelter for as long as we liked which unfortunately was just the one night, but it was a day and night as close to heaven as I have ever been.
For $20 each per day we could eat and swim to our hearts content. Together we shared a cottage just a few yards from the beach. We talked and laughed all night with our hosts and I don't remember falling asleep. All I remember is the sound of the ocean and the smell of the air softly putting me into coma of island contentment.
The next morning I awoke feeling refreshed and eager for an island adventure.
A picture of a Jamaican brochure came to mind! It showed a man and woman happily riding horses next to the waves on the beach.
So I inquired with our hosts at the beach motel to see if riding like this was possible. They said “anything was possible in Long Bay” and pointed to a hut next to the beach.
My hopes of adventure were high as I bounded over to it, excited to see the horse I would ride.
An older Jamaican man came out and pointed to a beat up sign that offered rides - $3 for 30 minutes on the beach. He proudly pointed to the stable consisting of two flea-bitten donkeys champing on hay, oblivious to life. The man said they were very friendly and would take me for a nice ride on the beach.
I shrugged and mounted the one closer to me and headed for the beach entrance just a few yards away.
Wearing cutoffs and no shirt with my long blonde hair flying in the breeze must have been a sight that day. I was sure I wasn’t going to be picked as the photo child for next year’s travel brochure, but it was fun from my perspective.
The only problem was the donkey had other plans and kept trying to go in the opposite direction from where I was leading him.
When he walked down the beach he had two speeds, Slow and Very slow. It took forever and a day to get near the ocean.
Near us I saw a family outside of their little cottage hanging laundry. So did the donkey.
Now my bitter enemy in life.
Nothing phased this beast and with me yelling and kicking his sides he calmly walked to the small yard and wrapped himself up in the lady’s laundry including the line she used.
Each step the donkey took made things worse.
If there was any peace in Long Bay that day it ended when the lady of the house started swinging her broom yelling and screaming at the donkey and me defending her prized whites. Jumping down off the beast I somehow tugged, pulled, and dragged him out of harm’s way apologizing and swearing in the same breath.
Finally, I pulled the donkey out to the beach and ran back to its owner asking him go get fetch his stupid pet. I was too embarrassed to ask for a refund.
With the donkey experience behind me, I ran to catch up to my buddies who were already packed and saying good-bye to everyone at the motel.
By now everyone in town had heard about my ride on the beach. Thinking of the sight it must have been loosened me up and I laughed as well. And then unfortunately it was time to leave our Jamaican friends.
The smiles, hugs, and hospitality they gave us in Long Bay still sends a warmth through my heart. I vow each winter to return to that peaceful place.
Montego Bay was our next stop and as we entered the city it was alive with tourists. My buddies went on a side trip to somewhere, and I stopped to relax at a cafe along the beach inside a beautiful white hotel.
Looking to blend in and relax, I bought the New York Times and proceeded to have a cup of coffee, which was poured by smiling workers dressed in white.
Each sip from the cup tasted like an elixir from heaven.
That day I found the magic of Jamaica’s Blue Mountain coffee, which the cafe poured freely. A thick mixture of milk, coconut, and sugar accented each cup. It must have been made by the gods for I have never tasted anything so good in my life.
After the first cup, I felt like I was floating on a cloud. Enjoying several more cups I left smiling.
Near the sailboats I found my friend, Bill, and we hung around talking with the natives, which was fun now that I could understand their language. In a little while we were inspired for another adventure and decided to get a closer look at the laid-back Marina.
Looking up I noticed a rental sign and thought it would be a terrific day to ride the ocean waves.
My experience with sailing is limited, but I am comfortable on the open water.
Two years earlier, I spent part of the summer cleaning, painting, and sailing my friend Bruce’s (from Tom’s River) 25-ft wooden schooner.
Docked in Coconut Grove we met, drank beer, and worked for weeks on that old boat finally making it seaworthy. We would leave at noon and return at dusk sailing and swimming with porpoises and dolphins all day.
This vision of freedom on Bruce’s boat danced in my head as we pushed off and into Montego Bay.
Maneuvering around a few smaller vessels in the bay we were almost free and into open water when something came alongside us lightly scraping our bow.
I jumped when I saw two big Jamaicans yelling at us just a few feet away.
The quick hit made us fumble the lines, shift our weight, and sink us all at the same time.
Underwater for a moment I shot up for air like a crazy man and instantly looked for my friend, Bill, and the boat we were in just seconds before.
By now we were both white with fright and started yelling at the Jamaicans who were already yelling at us and I wondered how we would get out of this mess in one piece.
Looking over I noticed the bottom of the boat and the sail nowhere in sight.
Yelling and cursing a Jamaican girl pushed her companion into the water screaming that he should help us.
Swimming beneath me I didn’t know if he was going to help or drown us. He came up for air and kept diving towards the mast finally freeing it from the sand where it was very stuck. The little rental popped up and innocently sat in the water like nothing had happened. The Jamaican had somehow freed the mast from the bottom.
Bill and I quickly swam to shore with boat in tow.
Jumping on the dock I handed the rental captain the rope to his boat and walked away dripping wet being careful not to make eye contact.
I did hear him ranting a bit as we quickly left the area.
My only thought was to get dry.
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LOOKING FOR MARLEY
Bill and I basked in the warm sun for a long time until we began to feel somewhat human again. Enjoying the sun some more we hung out waiting for more friends to join up. This is when a Jamaican named Ray stopped by and started to play his guitar.
At first we ignored him then slowly started to enjoy the island sounds he was producing. Turning to us with a big smile he proclaimed that one day he would be a big recording star.
I was polite but to the point and told him the only musician I wanted to see was Bob Marley. “Have you heard of him?” I asked. Ray smiled the biggest smile yet and told us of the many recordings he had made, which were from the same studio that Marley used. He asked us if we wanted to go there. I looked up without hesitation and smiled.
So off we went to a beautiful location on the island that housed a state of the art studio with our new friend, Ray. Inside the studio we met a few producers and musicians who were practicing; but my hunt for Bob Marley or anyone remotely famous was to no avail.
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Bob Marley was at this time beginning a new sound of FREEDOM.
His music and his movement were taking off like a storm.
A storm called Jamaican Freedom. A new sound to the world for it was fresh, original and filled every part of your being.
The Day would not bring me any closer to Marley who was probably somewhere in ‘the bush’ singing to his people but I did catch his act in another ‘jungle’ years later.
Stuck in ‘the jungle’ of NYC mid-70’s - Central Park becomes alive with creativity when Spring begins…I was drawn to all of it - the artists, singers, poets and whatnot as I slithered out of my cocoon and my first Winter away from the warm beaches.
In the summer months, great artists appeared and played all night long. I would sit outside the fenced concert arena to take in any act that came to town. The seats on the small hill allowed a great and free vantage point.
One night Marley and Family appeared to sing and play for hours. I don’t remember most of the songs but still smile when I think of the sight on stage. Bob bounced up and down and in and out of each song like a man possessed. Behind him was an entire chorus of singers and musicians who serenaded us throughout the night. Above the stage was the largest cloud of ganja smoke you have ever seen.
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RAY
Everything was “cool Mon” for Ray decided to play more live material and then let us hear his version of “Freedom” that he had recorded earlier in the month.
Ray was impressed with my experience in the music business and when I told him my Elton John story he lit up (see below). The singer had played sessions there along with Eric Clapton and a few other American musicians we had followed throughout the years.
That day we bonded with Ray and discovered a kindred spirit among the natives of Jamaican. His master plan was to either become a super star or to make a lot of money selling pot, which would get him off “the rock.” A dream many of his friends who lived there shared.
The “Prisoner of Paradise” had a plan and he desperately needed his freedom. I didn’t know how desperate he was until that night.
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Leaving Montego Bay wasn’t easy for many reasons, but we had to push on and catch up with the rest of our friends who decided they needed a shower and regular bed in a nice hotel near Kingston.
On our trip there we wondered what had happened to the rest of our travel buddies especially Neal and Leslie who went off into the jungles near Ochios Rios.
Entering Kingston we scraped together the last of our money to rent a suite for the four of us and relax with modern comforts.
Late that night Phil came in with a strange look on his face.
He told us that Ray was in town and wanted to meet with us. I suggested tomorrow some time. Phil said he was down the street behind a building near our hotel. I just rolled my eyes knowing our new friend had followed us and had nowhere to go. So we invited him in.
Ray was Ray the struggling musician with a thousand dreams and he let you know every one of them. That night he laid out a scheme to smuggle out 200 lbs. of pot that would be delivered to our door in Miami shipped directly by boat and then by truck. We would all stand to make a fortune. All we needed to do was to fund the deal in part with half the upfront money. His part was procuring and shipping.
In his persuasive way he almost convinced us.
But it all seemed too good to be true!
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Celebrating New Year’s that year was done running and laughing with the families and the children of the island on a beach near Kingston.
There was music, sparklers, and fireworks everywhere.
We laughed for hours smoked more ganja with Ray and his island friends dreaming of large shipments of pot that would soon make us rich and help Ray get off the rock and into our world on the mainland.
We said good-bye to Ray as quickly as we had met him. It seemed strange and very surreal that our last glimpse of him was near the same jetty that ended the Jimmy Cliff movie, next to the Kingston harbor.
The dream called Paradise ended when we cleared customs and got through another hassle with the government who told us we had overstayed our temporary visa. They gave us two choices they could fine and jail us or let us go back to Miami. So we boarded our flights back to reality.
Relaxing in South Miami again before my next concert assignment I looked up every time a truck drove by or a new visitor would come almost hoping to be surprised by a secret delivery or the miracle of seeing Ray appear in the distance heading up to visit us.
Friends are friends—when you part you often think of them and hope they are doing well.
We never gave the upfront money needed to do the deal, but Ray had so much determination, deep in my heart a part of me thought he might find a way to make it happen for in the end you could tell he trusted us with his life. Or was it the dream he had. The dream he and millions share when they are stuck in poverty and dirt and see or hear about America.
It happens to people everyday around the world when their world disintegrates around them and the only hope they have is to come to our shores. People will do anything to bring it into their lives and Ray was prepared to sell weed and take his chances with the outcome.
We were not going to go down that road with him. It seemed like a bad choice and no truck came and there weren’t any return visits to the island by my friends or me.
We were all too busy chasing our own dreams and living our lives.
I never took for granted my freedom after that visit to the island, but I thought about Ray for years wondering how he was and what had happened to him in Jamaica.
I would bet you my last dollar he found a way to America.
Strumming and singing along the way.
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When I think back I remember my friends where I grew up and the unique friendship we offered one another now swallowed up in our daily lives. It makes the distance grow even greater, but when I do think of them and the life we had in our youth a smile comes to my face and my heart whispers to my soul reminding me to never forget the timeless moments we shared now a lifetime away.
As someone once told me “You don’t know where you are going IF you don’t know where you’ve been.”
I am from Ewing, N.J. - Class of ’69.
I heard from my friend, Paul that the 30-year graduation class reunion played on for three straight days.
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Epilogue
The entire saga of the Jamaican trip ended two months later when I caught sight of our lost colleagues Neil and Leslie who suddenly appeared one day in Coconut Grove.
They both had traveled with us to the island but disappeared soon after we arrived.
Their absence made us wonder about their whereabouts but no one knew a word of where they were and as it turned out the trip to Jamaica gave them a life-changing experience.
They had befriended the infamous Rasta people who live life to the fullest by living naturally off the land.
The beginning of the year is a celebration of the harvest from the year before. Neil and Leslie stumbled into the celebration and stayed on living and playing with their new friends.
The story goes that the celebration lasts for weeks and is held in the middle of the jungle where huts are filled with food, fruit, and ganja.
Tanned and smiling I was so glad to see them and to know they had more than survived but had found real paradise by living with the true natives of such a peaceful and beautiful place.
End of Part Two
TALES OF A SUBURBAN GYPSY
JHENSEL 2008
A Story of Finding LOVE
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Part TwoThis book is dedicated to all the People (angels) who took the time to help me along my PATH.Thanks for your Faith in me and the Laughs we had along the way.
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From: Notes to my Son
A TIMELINE TOWARDS DESTINY!
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SURVIVING is easy...
It’s LIVING that’s Hard!
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THE JOURNEY BEGINS
A bit of advice given to a young Native American at the time of
his initiation:
“As you go the way of life you will see a great chasm.”
JUMP! … “It’s not as wide as you think."
—Joseph Campbell
_____________________________JAMAICA
NEW YEAR’S In PARADISE (1972–1973)
(or looking for Marley)
Winters in Miami and the south are different from the traditional winters I grew up with on the east coast of New Jersey with blown snow, ice, and bundles of clothes.
I moved to Miami for the warmth and beauty of the land where you could swim and tan all winter and wear shorts in February.
1972 was no different in Miami as I sat out on my sunny porch overlooking heavily laden grapefruit and palm trees that surrounded the two acres I rented with roommates near Parrot’s Jungle.
Located near the southern end of S.W. Miami the little house was hidden away from the hustle and bustle of a nearby highway.
Leading you up to the small house was a giant circular driveway. You had the impression that my roommates and I lived in a mansion based on the driveway alone, but it was only a glamorous shack with a few bedrooms, kitchen, and bath. The acreage gave us peace—front and back surrounded by complete privacy.
What I loved about our driveway was the approach. You could hear and see all vehicles as they came up.
You either welcomed them or send them back down depending upon who they were or how you felt that day.
Sitting quietly I could hear the sound of a number of parrots that had just escaped their cages and were now free to roam the trees and bushes of our neighborhood.
Freedom is precious to me and I thought of mine sitting there in the sun daydreaming of an upcoming trip a number of friends had recently put together.
A fantasy week-long vacation spent over New Year’s celebrating the holiday on the island of Jamaica, the heart of the Caribbean.
I pinched myself to remind me of the current date....
Dec. 28, 1972. A smile crept on my face as I kept thinking of the trip with my crazy friends to a mysterious and beautiful island where none of us had ever been to before.
Adding to the intrigue was the movie “The Harder they Come” starring Jimmy Cliff.
If you haven’t seen it—it vividly portrays a musician who battles through the streets of Kingston, gang lords, and busted music deals (two or three people were killed during the actual filming).
Virtually a prisoner in paradise Cliff's plan is to sing his way to stardom and eventual freedom which he almost does but is framed for murder, dying on a jetty in Kingston while his hit song plays softly in the background.
The film’s story and music left a haunting image further fueling my fascination with the island.
From Miami—Jamaica is very close (60 miles) yet an ocean apart. A world and culture so very different from ours, it can’t be explained and one that has to be experienced to comprehend.
I was more than ready to soak in the Jamaican lifestyle but was snapped back to reality with the thoughts of the many things that had to transpire before I could jump on a plane and escape for my week of fun—( 9 men/3 crazy women—Look out, Kingston...good-bye, Miami.)
But not just yet!
Paradise was a day away. A VERY LONG day away…
My job in the 70’s was producing concerts, events, plays, et cetera for the promoters of the day and there was a Holiday music festival today at the Miami Speedway—as usual I was right in the middle of it.
This festival was billed bigger and better than all of them. A vacation would be well-earned, to say the least.
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I dropped out of college in the early 70’s to work with a small band of people that ran a concert company out of Coconut Grove backed by Jerry Powers, the mad genius who invented “The Daily Planet,” Miami’s answer to underground newspapers, and his way to take on the system, make money and get laid—in whatever order.
Jerry’s picture has to be next to the word “slime ball” in Webster’s—for he was one of the lowest and conversely one of the best business people I have ever met.
The entertainment industry has to be the most fearless business there is and Jerry personally knew most of the players in rock‘n’roll during this time.
I love music, especially when it is live and spontaneous. To be able to work side by side with the stars of this era made me feel like a child in a candy store.
This love inspired me to excel in the profession and to work even harder for each show.
For three years we produced concerts almost weekly. Jerry handled the money—I produced the shows and smoothed over all the rough spots.
We made it all work. Producing everyone and anyone missing only the Beatles, Clapton, and The Dead.
If it went through Miami, it went through our company. Events surrounding these days are priceless and some will be told later....
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THE FESTIVAL
The December ’72 Holiday Show was packed with intensity – the event produced as a 12-hour all- day Festival included some of the very best. Many thought it was a dream billing which included The Allman Brothers, Santana, Johnny Winter, Bonnie Rait, ZZ Topp, Rod Stewart, John Machlunin and many more…Powers was hired by Howard Stein’s N.Y. staff to run the ticket sales, advertising, lights, sound and stage construction.
What made this show different from most of the regular concerts was the number of bands (12) and the location, a first for the Miami Speedway.
The intensity level of the event was on high and escalated by Stein’s presence, his first show in the area. If this event were a success his group would bring in more shows to the area, which meant more work for all of us.
If you don't know the name Howard Stein then you didn't go to a concert in the 70's. He was one of the top promoters in the US and only behind Bill Graham in stature.
On any given weekend both companies could easily produce a multiple of shows simultaneously.
Graham's claim to fame was the Fillmore East (NYC) & West (SF).
Stein turned the concert business into a conglomerate and was a symbol for this new and growing industry. At one point, Howard was shown in Time Magazine pictured with his vintage '50's Silver Shadow RR bought with pocket change for $25K., an amazingly high price for the time.
With these kinds of egos involved I stayed in the background as much as possible. His office ate people in business for lunch. To them I was hired help and there to assist only on specific jobs for the show. Normally the entire scope of each show revolved around our small staff.
The Holiday Festival was designed to hold 30,000 to 100,000 people. Our advertising was produced and ticket sales began. We promoted to all markets especially the college crowd who were vacationing in the sun, hopefully our Sun!
Perhaps thinking they might be able to produce a mini-Woodstock in Miami, Jerry and Howard geared up like we were...I handled my jobs checking and double-checking everything.
You have to work with back-up plans to handle any possible situation. My role was equal to a rock ‘n’ roll “Sgt. Bilko” for in the world of live entertainment you have to pull off small miracles so the show can go on.
Just about every week we produced a live concert—90 percent went over well.
Some did not.
The Pink Floyd show at the Sporatorium in the summer of ’73 was more than a disaster.
Most groups arrive the night before a concert and begin setting up early to work out all the kinks by early afternoon.
The Pink Floyd show was different. The technician’s that handled the band were truly wizards of the day. They mastered all facets of life on the road so we were more than shocked when the lead roadie came to us around 1 p.m. to notify our crew that the entire truck with all the stage equipment was stuck somewhere on the highway.
With precious little time for error our company sprung into action. We began finding rental trucks that were close enough for transport. By 3 p.m., we zoomed to the breakdown with a caravan of five rental trucks and lots of men to help.
By 5 p.m. the stage was full of the band’s equipment, which we had loaded and unloaded by hand. At 7 p.m., power was booted up, but all you could hear was a loud hum throughout the system.
By 8 p.m., the stadium was packed and somehow the opening act played but through an undercurrent of humming. At 10 p.m., things didn’t get any better and the promoters asked me to tell the crowd we would have to refund their money.
I gulped and then somehow turned to the mike with the news and was instantly hit with many objects.
In Tampa the next night, the Pink Floyd crew called to apologize. It seemed the overall problem stemmed from one little connection they had missed the night before.
Miami was not a big town then, and you got to know all of the vendors real well. We rented pianos, organs, sound and light equipment, and hired caterers, piano tuners, security guards, stage personnel, and dozens of people who had to be available around-the-clock.
Talking with a vendor at 1 a.m. about a situation for the next day was normal for the business.
Contingencies for each show depended on the group’s “Rider Contract.” This spelled out the specific special needs for each group that played.
For instance the Festival had to provide transportation to and from an isolated area (Miami Speedway) so we decided to find a helicopter that could get the groups in and out quickly and that was large enough to transport ten to fifteen people comfortably.
The problem was that the old army chopper was retired and from the early ’60s it moved no faster than 25 m.p.h. (top speed) was barren and uncomfortable, but somehow the plan worked. We had 24-hour access with dedicated clearheaded pilots that knew our game plan—and back and forth we went from the airport to the speedway—all day/all night—taking off from each site every 30 minutes.
Leading up to the show both of the camps got bitcher and bitcher. From the beginning Jerry’s flamboyant style got him in trouble. He was talking to the media as if we had a South Florida “Woodstock” brewing which created high expectations from everyone including Howard’s group, N.Y. talent agents, and the musicians.
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Ever since the original Woodstock in ’69 any large concert gathering across the country created excitement and was looked at as another special event, which really could never be duplicated.
Woodstock was a magic moment in history, a spontaneous event packed with talent similar to our show that exploded and expanded in scope when groups kept appearing out of nowhere with people coming out of the woods creating a historical once-in-a-lifetime celebration of 500,000-plus people.
The thought of hundreds of people losing it on LSD, massive injuries, rain/mud, babies being born, and general mayhem over three days made me shudder. (Did I mention rain and mud?)
But The Holiday Show did have a real chance for something special to happen.
We brought major headliners that combined good ol’ boy Southern Rock like The Allman Bros, Lynard Skynard and Johnny Winter with newer eastern rock including John Mclaughlin and his Marvesison Orchestra with the jazz/rock of Miles Davis and more totaling twelve acts in twelve hours.
Each group had good airplay and a unique following of fans that we hoped were listening to our ads and media blitz.
Getting closer to the date ticket sales stayed extremely soft creating further tension from all business entities. In the concert business, you could easily make or lose hundreds of thousands of dollars because of a miscalculation.
By now I was in “Survival Mode” and thinking of Jamaica and the “escape” to paradise helped me remain focused as The Show moved along with a lightning intensity.
One of my other positions was coordinating pre-ticket sales for each event. I was a human Ticket-Tron at the time with outlets in twelve to fifteen stores along the southern beaches.
From Palm Beach to the Grove, each store was handpicked to sell directly to its customer base. Record stores, hair salons, T-shirt shops. I knew the owners. They knew my schedule and our money was always on point. There was no room for error as I would carry $10,000 per trip leading up to a strong weekend of music.
The loyal staff we hired was always in place and basically consisted of college friends who loved music and the life of backstage work.
Each concert offered its own flavor and a sideshow of its own. Our crew was right in the middle of everything working side-by-side through each challenge leading up to the band finally walking on stage and performing and ended with the last suitcase thrown on the back of their truck and a few beers or shots before all said good-bye hitting the road for the next town.
Most groups embraced us when they hit Miami.
We provided them a “road-home” and were their support and help on the long, long road of seemingly endless concert dates.
__________________
Despite all the hype, lack of sales, short tempers, and bitterness of the bosses (the promoters), the show must go on and the ’72 Holiday Festival did just that.
With the support of two companies working together I only worked with a few assignments. One was hiring the stage crew and security; the other was to make sure each group got to the Speedway via the copter.
Group after group they came and went and early in the day things went easy.
A small but fun-loving crowd in the day hours relaxed in the sun taking in John MacCaughling, Lynard Skynard, and Poco who all showed up as scheduled and were treated like gold and then were gone.
The great thing about my job was the flexibility it gave me to mingle with friends in the crowd so I could enjoy a song or two then go back to work for awhile.
Throughout the day and into the evening I worked with this routine while getting updates from the promoters on sales while still enjoying the music that lead us into a balmy Florida evening.
_________
Women were always around at concerts and made themselves available.
To restrain myself and to stay focused on my responsibilities was sometimes difficult.
This show was more difficult because I had time on my hands. In-between groups a few girls became acquainted with me obviously so they could get a better view of the show, meet the groups, or whatever.
It doesn’t really matter sometimes and a coed visiting from school (Boston?) treated me very nicely backstage and from that point we hung-out for the rest of the night.
Waiting until almost the last group, The Allman Brothers, I plotted my final escape.
The plan was to get home, rest for a bit, and to get out of Dodge for my dream vacation.
With the coed in tow I boarded a flight to Miami riding with a very stoned Johnny and Edgar Winter Band (the Albino brothers of blues) and headed south in the chopper.
Somehow I got us to my little house in South Miami passing out on my sacred waterbed.
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JAMAICA
There is nothing normal about my life so why would a simple trip to an island be any different.
Waking up after the show I found the pretty coed masturbating over my beat-up and drugged body. I had just worked the last two weeks on the show and back-to-back sixteen to eighteen hour days. Gazing at her with one-eye shut I was stimulated but dead to the world not knowing if I should join her or go back to sleep.
The part of me that knew I would probably never see her again decided to give her a morning send-off she would not soon forget and laying there I whispered in her ear that when it was over she needed to be dressed and in the car in five minutes or less.
We raced back to the Speedway hoping to find her friends who she was meeting up with to go back home.
I then sped to my office to pick-up and cash a check but the hours and minutes were not on my side. Time was growing very short. I had to park, run through the airport, and catch the flight that I thought my friends were on.
I was hoping beyond hope that my buddy, Tina, our devoted secretary, would be sitting pretty as always with my check in hand from the show.
Tina Dupree was the heart of our operation always calming us and giving words of wisdom to whomever would listen. Words of advice that often soothe me even to this day.
Tina was at her desk waiting for me. She knew my schedule better than I did. She pointed to Jerry who was in the office early working on the next paper deadline. Last night’s show was now an after-thought and he was moving on to the next project.
I was far from thinking of work at this point and his delay accelerated my heart. He insisted I fix something in his office before I could pick up my check.
As my heart beat faster I somehow kept it together and did his little assignment (change a lock), sped off in my car, and reached the airport already late for the flight.
By now running on fumes and instincts alone, I asked if the flight could be held for a few minutes and raced breathlessly towards the gate.
The biggest sigh of relief came over me as I boarded the plane and saw all of my travel friends smiling at me—beaming and wondering how I had made the plane which was moments away from taking off.
When I was finally able to take my seat my body collapsed and I feel asleep with a smile.
Sleep didn’t last long as I felt the deep descent of the plane and woke up wondering where I was. I felt victorious and finally free as I looked out the window and saw our prize just below us.
First thinking it was fog I blinked again and saw picturesque puffy clouds part. That’s when I got my first look at the island. For miles all I could see was a deep green surrounded by the rich color of the blue ocean around the island.
Everywhere I looked seemed magical. A hypnotic lure drew our plane closer and closer.
Landing in Jamaica was exciting. We all felt free and alive. The island took on a new life as we touched our feet to the ground.
The airport there sobered our enthusiasm and this trip took on a very surreal quality.
Standing there it seemed we were the only white people left in the world.
________________
The Island run by the British at this time trained the local Jamaican police. With guns in hand they went through our bags one by one expecting to find drugs, body parts, or whatever for they shuck us down and frisked us thoroughly. I really didn’t care though still reeling and exhausted from last night—the concert and the girl made me tired, relaxed, and invigorated all at once.
Our group of young travelers stood out in Jamaica and it didn’t help that I was with two well- tanned blonde ladies and nine long-haired males. We decided to try and escape police reality by telling the girls to keep flirting with any threatening law officials so we could move onwards with our trip.
I firmly believe that a smart, blonde lady could easily rule the world. The island police were caught off-guard as the girls smiles turned them speechless. Any thoughts of hassling us vanished and we quickly left the heat and the commotion of the crowded city behind.
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Negril - 1972
The next destination was a little village called Negril. Present day it is packed with condos, 5-star resorts and high priced Tiki bars. In ’72, it was a very low-key beach with a few hotels/motels, ocean-view bars, and houses that looked like huts nestled into the rich landscape.
Our spot for a day would be in the home of a beautiful Jamaican family. They opened their doors to us with a smile welcoming one and all to sit, relax, eat, and sleep for as long as we liked.
I don’t know who planned our trip, but my travel buddies were not dumb. Most of them were in the final years of college some studying for their law degrees and a few finalizing their medical studies.
This was a lifetime away from reality and traveling for maybe their last days of freedom and responsibilities that would forever change their lives. So they came and they played and experienced a week on the island that no one would ever forget.
The Jamaican family we stayed with showed us Caribbean hospitality at its best.
The Jamaican smile is contagious for when you feel the warmth radiating through you it somehow touches your heart making you feel whole and happy all over.
The sincerity of the people is somehow transferred to their food. We were offered dishes that looked simple but tasted amazing, filled with exotic flavors accented by fruit and spices fresh from the island.
If you ever dreamed a dream and went to a place that was perfect and untouched by progress, it would have to be Negril in 1972. This Caribbean village was as close to paradise as I have ever been.
The soft breezes, blue skies, and crystal-blue water going out past the tide forever hypnotizes you and makes you feel whole and human again.
During the day, I sat at a small tiki bar taking in the warmth of the area and let the salt air heal my soul. Gazing out over the ocean and the beauty around me I only got up when I felt the urge and would wade out into the water sometimes going a half-mile before it got to the top of my shorts.
Evenings were gentle and quiet and soft breezes came and kissed me to sleep as I tucked myself into a clean Jamaican bed. Falling asleep I listened to the crickets and night birds as they whispered to one another throughout the night.
When morning came our group begrudgingly got up and split into three different parties heading to separate destinations and agendas on the island.
My group consisted of Stan, Bill, and Joe. We traveled back to Kingston to rent a car for further fun and adventure. That’s when the trip started to turn into the Jimmy Cliff movie.
We no sooner got into town when a street person befriended us and offered us “ganja” cheap. Cheap was five dollars for a “splive” about as big and fat as the largest cigar you have ever seen.
Everything looked fine except we had to trust him and follow him to a hut somewhere through town and the heart of the ghetto.
One of the gifts I have in life is great instincts about people and the events around me.
My instincts kept me from death a year earlier in a hotel room outside of New Orleans where I ended up in the bed of a pretty lady who let me stay the night only to find out her husband and friend were Big, Black, and very Bad (see below “Dancing with Hurricanes”). They helped me to navigate through a number of hurricanes and many fights and to avoid fights throughout my life.
The instinct radar of trouble was off and we calmly followed our new friend who took us safely through the poorest sections of Kingston into a hut/house where another smiling native welcomed us and asked to us relax and have a seat, which in this abode was the floor.
As our host came back into the room he kept smiling carrying with him the biggest joint I had ever seen in my life. Its cost was just five dollars.
He said we could leave, stay, or smoke. We were welcome to do what we wanted…SO WE LIT UP!
Including our host and street friend there were four of us. We were determined to not take any ganja with us so we smoked and smoked and then smoked some more.
I lost my sight, my hearing, and my balance that day, but we smoked some more and when we were done we somehow staggered our way through the maze of huts miraculously finding the streets of Kingston once again.
At that moment, I noticed the people around me. They all seemed very nice. Many begged for money or hawked goods and most just enjoyed hanging out and being human. Some would walk with us always smiling with a glaze of happiness on their faces. Maybe it was just me, but it seemed like the majority of them were really stoned and just enjoying life.
I somehow understood that this is how they lived every day in Jamaica.
It was also an instant of clarity and the language of the island made sense to me as I started to understand accents and sentences better.
Prior to that I couldn’t understand what people were saying. Their dialect did not make much sense. Everything they said sounded like French or a Pig Latin English of some kind.
From that moment on, communication was not a problem. Everything was cool—“MON.”
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Working in the concert world sounds glamorous and it is, but my part was hard work—long hours and the promoters low-balled me whenever they could.
My weeklong trip to the island consisted of about $200 in spending money so a group trip helped the budget greatly. We all put together funds for food, housing, and vehicles. It was imperative to rent a car.
Walking down the Kingston street giggling we ran into our buddies who had already secured our rental for the week and when they saw us they laughed long and hard for they knew where we had been and with that we took off on our island adventure.
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I grew up riding the highways of adventure. High School nights in Ewing meant riding all night with my buddies Paul, Kim, Danny, Ralph, and sometimes Mike and Billy. We would chip in and cop cheap grass at McDees, go up and down Gravity Hill or cruise through Washington Crossing Park in the pitch black of night.
Mike and Kim were so proficient with the hills and brakes that they would speed up and down the Crossing at 50 to 70 m.p.h. timing the end of the descent and braking at the very last minute in front of a huge oak tree. Even though I knew each time where we were heading, life passed in front of me freezing me in fear knowing I was going to die on impact.
I remember laughing and screaming a lot.
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For me Jamaica was another exciting road trip. My friends let us know me they had also copped weed and produced a huge bag of it, which we promptly lit up on the road.
The first lesson in traveling is to never, ever let the navigator read the travel map when stoned. Since we were all stoned including Bill the driver, we hopped around the roads of the island laughing and giggling hoping that we were going in the right direction.
We were not.
It must have been the map or the stoned map readers (us) but when we left small villages and huts the road turned into dense jungle-like vegetation, but still contained a road of some sort. We kept going. Only the road kept getting smaller and smaller and when the jungle started to swallow us we finally
ran out of road and almost drove into a small creek sitting where the road should have been based upon this Jamaican map that the rental place gave us.
The map said GO - the road said NO. We looked at each other sheepishly with disbelief.
The map showed the road that we thought we were on cutting through the middle of the island (60 mile long). This road ended somewhere in the jungle with no civilization in sight.
Slowly we back-tracked which meant driving in reverse for awhile where we found the answer to our problem making a zig instead of a zag which wasn't on the map and drove towards our destination - the half-way point up the mountain.
Seeing a fort in the distance meant our halfway point was close and as we got closer to the fort it looked inviting and friendly.
We lit up another joint to enjoy the view of our surroundings.
Our little world stopped with a shudder as we noticed dozens of Jamaican soldiers carrying rifles, machine-guns and machetes securing the fort.
You have never seen four white long-haired men move so fast in your life as we tried to be cool and lose the joint we were smoking and hide the bag we were carrying while approaching soldiers with guns who happened to notice us ALL in the same moment.
In the past I have gotten out of a lot of danger by looking my enemy in the face and smiling. In 1972, I was very non-violent and anyone with a gun reminded me of death and dying. I was too scared to cry so I did the next best thing and decided to smile and wave telling my friends to do the same.
If the fort police thought we were any threat this vanished when they saw four crazed tourists driving a beat-up rental car smiling and waving at them.
I was born in the historic town of Trenton where George W. and his crew surprised and overtook the Hessians after a famous crossing over the Delaware River one Christmas morning.
Loving history and the people that changed our world with their deeds was an important part of how I grew up.
Our house in Ewing was decorated in mahogany and dark woods of the period accented with peacocks and people riding on horses. There was a replica flintlock over the fireplace reminding our family of an old letter my Aunt Margaret found which traced my mother’s side of the family directly to the explorer, Daniel Boone. I am supposed to be a cousin, which I guess has helped because I never get lost once I find my destination (as long as there is a gas station to point me in the right direction). I traveled a lot of the U.S. and Canada this way.
My grandmother, Nana, lived alone in Washington, D.C., a widow for years who became my second mom. She often took me down into the heart of the city showing me her world and taking me everywhere in town.
I got to know D.C. like the back of my hand falling in love with and respecting our nation through her eyes.
So naturally my first instinct was to stop and explore this Jamaican Fort and to find out its significance through the local natives, but we did the right thing at that moment...we quickly drove away.
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My head was still spinning when we finally got away from the fort on the mountain and the wheels in my brain began to fall back into place as the true reality of our surroundings started to make sense once again. I was Free—away from machine gun carrying soldiers and in Jamaica looking for a place called Paradise.
The jungle surrounding our rental parted soon and all I remember going down the mountain was the beauty of the sky in a forever-deep blue. Coconut, grapefruit, and palm trees sprung up everywhere. The temperature of the air was perfect.
I noticed another smell other than the aroma of gunja that was in our rental. I looked out the window and took a deep breath of salt air. The deep blue of the ocean appeared in the near distance and my heart felt more alive by the second. Our next destination was nestled somewhere between Negril and Alligator Bay.
Paradise lay dead ahead as I saw the Welcome to the Long Bay Motel sign that beckoned us to pull in.
Instead of traveling around the island we cut through the middle to reach the other side, which landed us half way up the coast in a small village where the motel lay.
Once there the rhythm of Jamaica found me (once again) and I was at peace just like I was in Negril. The owners, chefs and workers at the motel named after the town embraced us like family—welcoming us with smiles, laughs, drinks, food, and shelter for as long as we liked which unfortunately was just the one night, but it was a day and night as close to heaven as I have ever been.
For $20 each per day we could eat and swim to our hearts content. Together we shared a cottage just a few yards from the beach. We talked and laughed all night with our hosts and I don't remember falling asleep. All I remember is the sound of the ocean and the smell of the air softly putting me into coma of island contentment.
The next morning I awoke feeling refreshed and eager for an island adventure.
A picture of a Jamaican brochure came to mind! It showed a man and woman happily riding horses next to the waves on the beach.
So I inquired with our hosts at the beach motel to see if riding like this was possible. They said “anything was possible in Long Bay” and pointed to a hut next to the beach.
My hopes of adventure were high as I bounded over to it, excited to see the horse I would ride.
An older Jamaican man came out and pointed to a beat up sign that offered rides - $3 for 30 minutes on the beach. He proudly pointed to the stable consisting of two flea-bitten donkeys champing on hay, oblivious to life. The man said they were very friendly and would take me for a nice ride on the beach.
I shrugged and mounted the one closer to me and headed for the beach entrance just a few yards away.
Wearing cutoffs and no shirt with my long blonde hair flying in the breeze must have been a sight that day. I was sure I wasn’t going to be picked as the photo child for next year’s travel brochure, but it was fun from my perspective.
The only problem was the donkey had other plans and kept trying to go in the opposite direction from where I was leading him.
When he walked down the beach he had two speeds, Slow and Very slow. It took forever and a day to get near the ocean.
Near us I saw a family outside of their little cottage hanging laundry. So did the donkey.
Now my bitter enemy in life.
Nothing phased this beast and with me yelling and kicking his sides he calmly walked to the small yard and wrapped himself up in the lady’s laundry including the line she used.
Each step the donkey took made things worse.
If there was any peace in Long Bay that day it ended when the lady of the house started swinging her broom yelling and screaming at the donkey and me defending her prized whites. Jumping down off the beast I somehow tugged, pulled, and dragged him out of harm’s way apologizing and swearing in the same breath.
Finally, I pulled the donkey out to the beach and ran back to its owner asking him go get fetch his stupid pet. I was too embarrassed to ask for a refund.
With the donkey experience behind me, I ran to catch up to my buddies who were already packed and saying good-bye to everyone at the motel.
By now everyone in town had heard about my ride on the beach. Thinking of the sight it must have been loosened me up and I laughed as well. And then unfortunately it was time to leave our Jamaican friends.
The smiles, hugs, and hospitality they gave us in Long Bay still sends a warmth through my heart. I vow each winter to return to that peaceful place.
Montego Bay was our next stop and as we entered the city it was alive with tourists. My buddies went on a side trip to somewhere, and I stopped to relax at a cafe along the beach inside a beautiful white hotel.
Looking to blend in and relax, I bought the New York Times and proceeded to have a cup of coffee, which was poured by smiling workers dressed in white.
Each sip from the cup tasted like an elixir from heaven.
That day I found the magic of Jamaica’s Blue Mountain coffee, which the cafe poured freely. A thick mixture of milk, coconut, and sugar accented each cup. It must have been made by the gods for I have never tasted anything so good in my life.
After the first cup, I felt like I was floating on a cloud. Enjoying several more cups I left smiling.
Near the sailboats I found my friend, Bill, and we hung around talking with the natives, which was fun now that I could understand their language. In a little while we were inspired for another adventure and decided to get a closer look at the laid-back Marina.
Looking up I noticed a rental sign and thought it would be a terrific day to ride the ocean waves.
My experience with sailing is limited, but I am comfortable on the open water.
Two years earlier, I spent part of the summer cleaning, painting, and sailing my friend Bruce’s (from Tom’s River) 25-ft wooden schooner.
Docked in Coconut Grove we met, drank beer, and worked for weeks on that old boat finally making it seaworthy. We would leave at noon and return at dusk sailing and swimming with porpoises and dolphins all day.
This vision of freedom on Bruce’s boat danced in my head as we pushed off and into Montego Bay.
Maneuvering around a few smaller vessels in the bay we were almost free and into open water when something came alongside us lightly scraping our bow.
I jumped when I saw two big Jamaicans yelling at us just a few feet away.
The quick hit made us fumble the lines, shift our weight, and sink us all at the same time.
Underwater for a moment I shot up for air like a crazy man and instantly looked for my friend, Bill, and the boat we were in just seconds before.
By now we were both white with fright and started yelling at the Jamaicans who were already yelling at us and I wondered how we would get out of this mess in one piece.
Looking over I noticed the bottom of the boat and the sail nowhere in sight.
Yelling and cursing a Jamaican girl pushed her companion into the water screaming that he should help us.
Swimming beneath me I didn’t know if he was going to help or drown us. He came up for air and kept diving towards the mast finally freeing it from the sand where it was very stuck. The little rental popped up and innocently sat in the water like nothing had happened. The Jamaican had somehow freed the mast from the bottom.
Bill and I quickly swam to shore with boat in tow.
Jumping on the dock I handed the rental captain the rope to his boat and walked away dripping wet being careful not to make eye contact.
I did hear him ranting a bit as we quickly left the area.
My only thought was to get dry.
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LOOKING FOR MARLEY
Bill and I basked in the warm sun for a long time until we began to feel somewhat human again. Enjoying the sun some more we hung out waiting for more friends to join up. This is when a Jamaican named Ray stopped by and started to play his guitar.
At first we ignored him then slowly started to enjoy the island sounds he was producing. Turning to us with a big smile he proclaimed that one day he would be a big recording star.
I was polite but to the point and told him the only musician I wanted to see was Bob Marley. “Have you heard of him?” I asked. Ray smiled the biggest smile yet and told us of the many recordings he had made, which were from the same studio that Marley used. He asked us if we wanted to go there. I looked up without hesitation and smiled.
So off we went to a beautiful location on the island that housed a state of the art studio with our new friend, Ray. Inside the studio we met a few producers and musicians who were practicing; but my hunt for Bob Marley or anyone remotely famous was to no avail.
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Bob Marley was at this time beginning a new sound of FREEDOM.
His music and his movement were taking off like a storm.
A storm called Jamaican Freedom. A new sound to the world for it was fresh, original and filled every part of your being.
The Day would not bring me any closer to Marley who was probably somewhere in ‘the bush’ singing to his people but I did catch his act in another ‘jungle’ years later.
Stuck in ‘the jungle’ of NYC mid-70’s - Central Park becomes alive with creativity when Spring begins…I was drawn to all of it - the artists, singers, poets and whatnot as I slithered out of my cocoon and my first Winter away from the warm beaches.
In the summer months, great artists appeared and played all night long. I would sit outside the fenced concert arena to take in any act that came to town. The seats on the small hill allowed a great and free vantage point.
One night Marley and Family appeared to sing and play for hours. I don’t remember most of the songs but still smile when I think of the sight on stage. Bob bounced up and down and in and out of each song like a man possessed. Behind him was an entire chorus of singers and musicians who serenaded us throughout the night. Above the stage was the largest cloud of ganja smoke you have ever seen.
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RAY
Everything was “cool Mon” for Ray decided to play more live material and then let us hear his version of “Freedom” that he had recorded earlier in the month.
Ray was impressed with my experience in the music business and when I told him my Elton John story he lit up (see below). The singer had played sessions there along with Eric Clapton and a few other American musicians we had followed throughout the years.
That day we bonded with Ray and discovered a kindred spirit among the natives of Jamaican. His master plan was to either become a super star or to make a lot of money selling pot, which would get him off “the rock.” A dream many of his friends who lived there shared.
The “Prisoner of Paradise” had a plan and he desperately needed his freedom. I didn’t know how desperate he was until that night.
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Leaving Montego Bay wasn’t easy for many reasons, but we had to push on and catch up with the rest of our friends who decided they needed a shower and regular bed in a nice hotel near Kingston.
On our trip there we wondered what had happened to the rest of our travel buddies especially Neal and Leslie who went off into the jungles near Ochios Rios.
Entering Kingston we scraped together the last of our money to rent a suite for the four of us and relax with modern comforts.
Late that night Phil came in with a strange look on his face.
He told us that Ray was in town and wanted to meet with us. I suggested tomorrow some time. Phil said he was down the street behind a building near our hotel. I just rolled my eyes knowing our new friend had followed us and had nowhere to go. So we invited him in.
Ray was Ray the struggling musician with a thousand dreams and he let you know every one of them. That night he laid out a scheme to smuggle out 200 lbs. of pot that would be delivered to our door in Miami shipped directly by boat and then by truck. We would all stand to make a fortune. All we needed to do was to fund the deal in part with half the upfront money. His part was procuring and shipping.
In his persuasive way he almost convinced us.
But it all seemed too good to be true!
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Celebrating New Year’s that year was done running and laughing with the families and the children of the island on a beach near Kingston.
There was music, sparklers, and fireworks everywhere.
We laughed for hours smoked more ganja with Ray and his island friends dreaming of large shipments of pot that would soon make us rich and help Ray get off the rock and into our world on the mainland.
We said good-bye to Ray as quickly as we had met him. It seemed strange and very surreal that our last glimpse of him was near the same jetty that ended the Jimmy Cliff movie, next to the Kingston harbor.
The dream called Paradise ended when we cleared customs and got through another hassle with the government who told us we had overstayed our temporary visa. They gave us two choices they could fine and jail us or let us go back to Miami. So we boarded our flights back to reality.
Relaxing in South Miami again before my next concert assignment I looked up every time a truck drove by or a new visitor would come almost hoping to be surprised by a secret delivery or the miracle of seeing Ray appear in the distance heading up to visit us.
Friends are friends—when you part you often think of them and hope they are doing well.
We never gave the upfront money needed to do the deal, but Ray had so much determination, deep in my heart a part of me thought he might find a way to make it happen for in the end you could tell he trusted us with his life. Or was it the dream he had. The dream he and millions share when they are stuck in poverty and dirt and see or hear about America.
It happens to people everyday around the world when their world disintegrates around them and the only hope they have is to come to our shores. People will do anything to bring it into their lives and Ray was prepared to sell weed and take his chances with the outcome.
We were not going to go down that road with him. It seemed like a bad choice and no truck came and there weren’t any return visits to the island by my friends or me.
We were all too busy chasing our own dreams and living our lives.
I never took for granted my freedom after that visit to the island, but I thought about Ray for years wondering how he was and what had happened to him in Jamaica.
I would bet you my last dollar he found a way to America.
Strumming and singing along the way.
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When I think back I remember my friends where I grew up and the unique friendship we offered one another now swallowed up in our daily lives. It makes the distance grow even greater, but when I do think of them and the life we had in our youth a smile comes to my face and my heart whispers to my soul reminding me to never forget the timeless moments we shared now a lifetime away.
As someone once told me “You don’t know where you are going IF you don’t know where you’ve been.”
I am from Ewing, N.J. - Class of ’69.
I heard from my friend, Paul that the 30-year graduation class reunion played on for three straight days.
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Epilogue
The entire saga of the Jamaican trip ended two months later when I caught sight of our lost colleagues Neil and Leslie who suddenly appeared one day in Coconut Grove.
They both had traveled with us to the island but disappeared soon after we arrived.
Their absence made us wonder about their whereabouts but no one knew a word of where they were and as it turned out the trip to Jamaica gave them a life-changing experience.
They had befriended the infamous Rasta people who live life to the fullest by living naturally off the land.
The beginning of the year is a celebration of the harvest from the year before. Neil and Leslie stumbled into the celebration and stayed on living and playing with their new friends.
The story goes that the celebration lasts for weeks and is held in the middle of the jungle where huts are filled with food, fruit, and ganja.
Tanned and smiling I was so glad to see them and to know they had more than survived but had found real paradise by living with the true natives of such a peaceful and beautiful place.
End of Part Two
TALES OF A SUBURBAN GYPSY
JHENSEL 2008
posted by BucksLocalNews at
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