I repeat myself, just to be clear: "Uhhhhhh." This is a nude beach and if you're going to be here, you've got to remove your trunks. "Come on, mon," says the woman, a smiling but earnest young Jamaican dressed in staff whites. And I'm just beginning to think that the Hedonism II resort is more lovely than lively when the lady in the uniform tells me to take my pants off. Every vine is lush, every breeze a caress, every bloom a new waft of tropical perfume.
It's a garden of earthly delights, this whispering cove on Jamaica's western tip. The air over the sand is shot through with white morning sun, but under the trees it is dappled and cool.
The garden walls are capstoned with Technicolor blossoms, any one of which would look at home on a glass of rum punch. The palms dance over the beach in necklaces of bougainvillea and hibiscus.
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