Jamaica: A wedding ring is lost – and a crazy story begins

If you ask me where this story actually started, it would be on the lively streets of the small Jamaican town of Port Antonio. Where very few tourists get lost. In Port Antonio there are no nasty beds and no cruise giants. Here, in the east of the island, travelers immediately notice. Like my husband, who was strolling through the streets on a Thursday morning in early February – and came across Patrick. He had seen the white tourist couple in town for a few days.

Now he wanted to know where the vacationers come from and what they are up to. Just chat. That’s part of it in Jamaica. Nobody seems to be rushed there, you have to bring time for a chat. And for Patrick good stories are indispensable, it seems as if he has a suitable anecdote ready for every situation in life. But this morning we were running out of time, so he said goodbye. In the evening he was in a bar in the bay. Maybe they’ll meet later.

Nobody could have guessed that this chance encounter would become important.

My husband and I are on our way. Bumpy pothole slopes are always along the coast to Winnifred Beach, one of the most beautiful beaches on the island. Fine, white sandy beach, turquoise water, behind them wooden stalls nailed together from boards under tall trees, where dumplings and cold beer are sold. A beach paradise for the locals. We swam, played water polo, chilled in the warm sand – a wonderful day.

Drama on the dream beach

Only in the evening does my husband notice: where is my wedding ring? We rummage through the car, crawl across the floor in our boarding house, all bags are thrown out. Nothing. The ring is gone. And the only possible explanation was disillusionment: he must have lost the ring in the water. Winnifred Beach is not Seven Miles Beach, which – as the name suggests – stretches for several kilometers in western Jamaica. But even a few hundred meters are enough to know: the thing is gone. We’ll never find the ring again.

The ring had only been on his finger since July; I had slipped the delicate piece of gold onto his finger in the church. Certainly, you can buy more jewelry. But that wouldn’t have been the same.

We left our little boarding house bent in the evening to have something to eat at one of the jerk stalls. Jerk is a grilled dish made from chicken, sometimes fish or lobster, from a disused tin barrel. The meat is marinated and then sizzles in the old oil barrels. The result: half grilled, half smoked chicken, usually very hot. There is also rice with beans.

Rings cannot sink

After dinner we stroll down the street to visit Patrick in his bar. He’s clearly in a good mood and wants to know whether we’re in a good mood. No, we are not. “The wedding ring is gone,” I say and my husband holds out his unsinged hand. “How to get away?”, Patrick wants to know. We tell him about our great day at Winnifred Beach and the panicked search for it. Patrick waves the name of the bay away. That’s no problem at all, we’d easily find the ring again.

We stare at him, the poor man must be forsaken by all good spirits. We don’t believe a word of him. Yes, yes, he was sure. The ring cannot sink in the sand. And therefore lie loosely on the bottom of the book. Yes, exactly, on the bottom of the bay. Somewhere there. But he does not give up. Rather, he chats himself in ecstasy. In the end he waves his arms and almost shouts it out: He can’t sink, he can’t sink!

It would be worth a try

Well, is that a good tip – or just the pipe dream of a man who obviously had a few too many joints? “Go there tomorrow morning, right after sunrise. The beach is empty and you can dive in peace,” says Patrick, takes a sip of beer and looks me in the eye. The view is not glazed, but completely convinced. Maybe not a drunk madman after all? Hope germinates in me, it would be worth a try.

The next morning the alarm clock rings when the first rays of sunshine sweep across the bay. It’s just after six. Patrick’s deep conviction that we will find the ring very easily has given way to realistic skepticism. We have no chance at all. Completely impossible, the ring is gone. Still, we throw goggles and snorkels in the trunk and drive off.

The beach is empty, not even the street dogs can be seen. The shacks are closed. The sun has holed up behind thick clouds, the wind blows stronger than on the days before. The waves are also higher. We carefully paddle into the water, the sea bed is searched before every step. Not that you step on the ring and make it disappear into the sand of the bay. We split up and start diving the bay. We discover soft-cut broken glass, shells and a few bottle caps. The sand shimmers golden, like the ring – I no longer believe that we will find it again.

After a good forty minutes, my fingers have shriveled up. Although the water is actually pleasantly warm, I am slowly getting cold. Suddenly my husband shoots out of the water, tears his glasses off his face: “Yes”, he just yells. A small piece of precious metal is held between his fingers.

Prayers at the kitchen table

Lucky – you might think. But when we return to our pension, Lydia is already waiting in the front door. The elderly lady in the brightly colored house clothes and the matching hoods with elastic waistband rents out some rooms in the large house to vacationers. We had left a letter before our search. The ring was gone, we would now look and therefore miss breakfast. May you keep your fingers crossed for us.

Fingers crossed? No, Lydia had instructed all family members – from the grandson in school uniform to the seriously demented father – to pray for us. And so her family sat at the kitchen table and begged God to give us the ring back.

With her arms raised, she runs towards us, takes us in her arms, and has the ring shown to her again and again. Only then does she yell over her shoulder into the open front door that everything is fine again. The Lord heard the prayers, they are now allowed to stop praying. “You are blessed,” Lydia is quite sure.

Looking for Patrick

If I am asked how this story ends, it is not because everyone present loved us. Or we always remove all jewelry before we go into the water. But it ends in a street in Port Antonio. After a huge breakfast of all sorts of unknown vegetables, such as callaloo (a type of native spinach) or ackee, fish, fried dough sticks and slices of banana, we went in search of Patrick.

But we didn’t find him. And so we leave a letter with all the details of the rescue operation at his favorite bar before we leave town. Because one thing is clear: Patrick loves good stories.