I didn't know what time it was when I awoke that morning; I only knew that it was really early. Having spent most of the day before traveling, and having spent the afternoon and early evening drinking the better part of a case of Red Stripe beer, we had gone to bed very early the night before. The bedroom was dark, but the light from the living room permeated the curtains on the bedroom doors. My first thought was that we had forgotten to turn off some lights in the living room or kitchen before we went to bed. The bedroom and bathroom was the only part of the suite that was air conditioned, which gave one the feeling of being in a little cave ... a quiet and cool refuge, detached from the warm, moist tropical setting in which we were sleeping.

I opened the living room door. The soft light shone through the louvered walls and doors creating a pattern of parallel stripes of subtle light that covered every surface in the living room. Opening the folding doors on the west end of the suite, I stepped out onto the balcony, looking in amazement at the wondrous sight in front of me.

In the black sky, a brilliant, full moon hung over the sea, illuminating the rippling water in bands of various shades of grayish blue as the gentle waves made their way to the white sand of the Negril beach below our balcony. The sea breeze was constant and strong. I opened the rest of the balcony doors flooding the living room and kitchen with early morning moonlight.

Knowing that dawn would not break for a couple of hours, I brewed a pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and settled into a comfortable wicker chair to enjoy the full morning moon. It was the first of November, 2001 -- low season anyway, but with few people traveling so soon after the terrorist attacks of September 11, there were very few tourists in Negril. We were the only guests in this little 13 room hotel on the beach. I decided to take advantage of the fact that I would not be disturbing anyone, and brought our boombox out to the balcony.

One of the things that my wife, Ritsuko, and I both love about Jamaica is the wonderful music. Jamaican people love music, and it is so much a part of their culture and everyday lives. I tuned the radio to IRIE-FM, where there is always good programming. It was gospel hour. I got a fresh cup of coffee, and turned up the volume. The rich aroma of the freshly brewed coffee filled my nostrils as I relaxed, sinking down into the comfortable wicker chair. Rows of billowing clouds passed through the sky, moving toward me from the horizon, creating an effect of alternately bright and diffused layers of light from the big round moon. Layers of harmony poured forth from the speakers to my ears, invading my subconscious with the soulful sound. I am not a religious person at all, in fact if I were to be classified, agnostic would be the best definition of my belief or lack thereof, in that I do not know or presume to know the answers to the great unknown often explained by the existence of a deity of one sort or another, and I am comfortable with my unknowledge. But I love gospel music, especially when sung by people who have the belief. It feels good to hear, even if you don't understand the words, and that morning the lyrics were mostly patois, so I couldn't understand the words. Absorbed in the moment, I was glad that I couldn't understand the words in that there was nothing to be processed on an intellectual level. It was just a pure soulful feeling engendered by the superbly crafted lyrical harmony and intonation of the artists.

I suppose that the music was rather loud. After a while, Ritsuko walked sleepily out onto the balcony and pulled up a chair next to me, as she confiscated my cup of coffee for her own pleasure. We settled in for the rest of the moonset, letting the vibes of gospel music, performed in a language unintelligible to us both, envelope us in a warm glow as we basked in the cool sea breeze and the light of the setting moon.