The Sunday Ride to Bluefields Beach

One of the great joys of growing up in Ramble, Hanover, was going on beach trips.

Back then, transportation was not as accessible as it is today, so a trip to the beach was a special occasion. With close friends and family by your side, the simple joys of swimming and soaking in the sea breeze were more than enough to make the day feel full and unforgettable.

On one such Sunday, a group of children — six girls and nine boys, between the ages of six and twelve — decided they wanted to go to the beach. So one of the boys asked his mother if she could take them. There was only one problem: one car, and fifteen children.

She drove a 1970 Ford Escort sedan.

When he asked if she could take them, her response was the kind only Jamaican mothers could deliver with perfect seriousness and a touch of disbelief:

“How mi ago carry all fifteen a unnu?”

And yet, somehow, she did.

Three squeezed into the front passenger seat. Eight packed into the back seat. Four more climbed into the trunk. Sixteen people in one vehicle, all determined that nothing was going to stand between them and the beach that day.

Nurse, as she was affectionately known, drove with patient care while the children buzzed with excitement around her. The old Escort rolled along, heavy with its impossible cargo, overflowing with laughter, bright voices, and the kind of anticipation that seemed to ripple through the morning air.

People looked on in amazement.

But perhaps the funniest part came when they neared the police stations along the way.

Before passing them, the children climbed out of the trunk and walked by as innocently as they could. Once they were safely beyond them, they piled right back into the Escort and continued on their journey as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world.

That, too, was part of the adventure.

And in the end, none of the squeezing, shifting, climbing out, or climbing back in mattered. What mattered was getting there — the white sand, the beauty of the sea, the freedom of being young, and the kind of happiness that felt enormous even when life itself was simple.

There are memories that stay with us because they were grand. And then there are memories that stay because they were full — full of laughter, friendship, mischief, and the small creativity people used to make joy possible.

For a group of children in rural Hanover, one old Ford Escort and one generous mother were enough to carry a whole Sunday’s worth of happiness to the beach.

Contributed by: Mark Gascoigne