Thalassamania, the name of that little place on the Sav road out of Negril was Paradise Yard. The cook/mamager was a woman from Panama married to a Jamaican, so we got Ital empanadas, rastapasta, all kinda ting. The tables were circular attachements at the base of Royal Palms 100 feet high, growing out of the morass. This was long ago and far away, and I knew Rita Marley well, and her now famous kids, when they were tiny, and they stayed the whole winter at Charela Inn, and I dived the then lovely unspoiled Negril reefs with Cecil, and life was an endless dream. We reasoned for hours about Babylon and Rastafari and the shtstem and downpression. A vanished world that will never come again. Jamaica shimmered with a supernatural bluegreen beauty, and parrots screamed and soared through cloud mists deep in the cockpits. Paradise Yard was well named.