As we made our way to Treasure Beach yesterday, the road told a story all its own, one of contrast, loss, and quiet perseverance. At first, everything looked deceptively normal. The upper stretches of the community, set further inland, showed only faint traces of the storm’s passage.
But the closer we drew to the sea, the more evident the devastation became.
Fallen trees lay across streets like barricades. Pools of standing water, wide enough to be called new ponds, had swallowed homes and cut off parts of the road, blocking access and forcing drivers to cut new paths through people’s backyards. What was once familiar terrain had become a maze of detours and hazards, even for locals.
Still, when we finally reached the family we came to see, we were met not with despair but with open arms. Warm smiles, hugs, and gratitude greeted us, a disarming grace in the face of so much loss. We found ourselves adjusting our own demeanour to match their hopeful smiles.
A Young Mother Holding the Centre
We had come to deliver supplies to a young mother of three who heads a multi-generational household; her children, mother, grandmother, brothers, and two uncles all share a small home that had been battered once again by the storm.
Their story was heartbreakingly familiar. They had only recently repaired their roof after Hurricane Beryl last year. When Hurricane Melissa came, it erased their efforts, undoing what little progress they had made. Now, all the family members sleep in one small bedroom, while the rest of the house remains in disarray. The mother described how they sleep ‘sideways’ on the bed to ensure everyone fits.
Despite everything, they radiated an extraordinary calm. At first, they seemed almost too cheerful, too composed for people who had lost so much. But as we observed their interactions and listened to them share their story, it became clear: this wasn’t indifference. It was survival. It was the steady resolve of a family that has learned, again and again, to endure. It was a reminder that grief and joy can coincide, and that their decision to maintain hope did not diminish their immediate needs.
Life in the Dark
The storm’s destruction wasn’t confined to the homes. Downed power lines sagged across the roads, silent reminders that electricity and running water would be gone for weeks, perhaps longer.
This new darkness has profoundly reshaped daily life, especially for the most vulnerable. For the elderly, it means immobility and fear at night. For mothers, it means sleepless hours with restless children crying in the still, mosquito-thick heat.
“In normal times,” the young mother told us, “we’d have the fan on, and the children would fall asleep quickly. Now it’s too hot. The mosquitoes won’t stop. None of us can rest.”
Hygiene, too, has become a challenge, especially for women. She spoke shyly about how uncomfortable she feels without access to water for bathing and washing, particularly during her monthly period. She worries about body odour, about losing her dignity in conditions that make privacy and cleanliness almost impossible. Occasionally, they ‘take a bath’ in the ocean, an alternative that only adds to the unbearable heat as the salt lingers on their sweaty skin.
These are the quiet burdens that rarely make the headlines, but they shape the emotional landscape of every woman living through crisis.
An Economy on Pause
As we continued through Treasure Beach, the wider picture came into focus. The villas and guesthouses that line this stretch of the south coast, usually alive with visitors and laughter, now stood damaged and deserted.
These are not just tourist spots. They are the heartbeat of the community. Nearly everyone here depends on them in some way, as cooks, cleaners, gardeners, drivers, or suppliers. Their closure has rippled through the local economy like a wave. Farmers who supply produce, taxi drivers who shuttle guests, and small shopkeepers who rely on visitor traffic now face deep uncertainty.
Even Jake’s Hotel, the iconic local landmark, suffered heavy damage. A manager we met there shook her head wearily. Hurricane Melissa, she said, struck just sixteen months after Hurricane Beryl, and only two weeks after they had reopened from a short renovation break. The frustration was palpable.
“It’s becoming harder each time,” she said quietly. “You rebuild, you reopen, and then it happens again.” When asked whether they would reopen once more, the answer was a resounding yes. “The community needs us,” she added.
‘Hurricane Melissa Came for the Coast’
Many residents insisted that we visit the shoreline to witness the impact of Hurricane Melissa on the coast firsthand. When we arrived, we were met with heartbreaking scenes, massive trees uprooted and strewn across the sand, and large chunks of concrete that were once pathways and sea walls now lying scattered like broken memories. These fragments stood as silent markers of what once existed. In some places, no visible trace remained of the structures that had occupied those spaces.
That was the case where Eggy’s on the Beach and Ki’s on the Beach, two of Treasure Beach’s most beloved dining and gathering spots, once stood. One community member described Ki’s as “the living room of Treasure Beach,” a place where everyone gathered to eat, laugh, and celebrate life. Now, it stands erased by the sea. At Eggy’s, the destruction was even more haunting: the restaurant’s foundation is gone, replaced by the exposed graves of the owner’s grandparents, laid bare by the force of the storm.
And yet, amid the wreckage and loss, every conversation we had was grounded in hope. Residents spoke not only of what was lost but of what could be rebuilt. They reminded us that they still had life, and with life comes the will to begin again. The spirit of Treasure Beach is anchored in this shared resolve, this quiet insistence on renewal.
That collective strength has long been the foundation of this community. It is visible in the way neighbours have mobilised, teams moving from house to house, clearing debris, sweeping out flooded rooms, and drying soaked floors. It is reflected in the generosity of guesthouse owners who have opened their doors to shelter displaced families, offering access to electricity, water, and a place to charge phones and reconnect with loved ones.
Every act of care reinforces the deep social bonds that define Treasure Beach. The woman we delivered supplies to told us earnestly that it didn’t matter whether we had brought her three tins of sardines or three dozen, she felt a duty to share whatever she received with others in the community.
This is the soul of Treasure Beach, a place sustained not only by its beauty and beaches but by its unity, solidarity, and the vast social capital built over generations. In these hardest of times, that collective spirit is both their refuge and their pathway to recovery.
The Long Shadow of Climate Change
This is the new rhythm of life in coastal Jamaica, recovery and rebuilding on repeat, each storm leaving deeper scars on the land and in the minds of our people. Climate change is not an abstract concept here; it is a lived reality. The sea creeps closer each year, the storms come faster and stronger, and communities like Treasure Beach pay the price.
Yet amid all this, there remains a remarkable spirit of resilience, a refusal to surrender. Families share what they have. Neighbours clear debris together. Smiles greet strangers carrying relief supplies.
But the truth remains: these communities are doing the impossible with far too little. Their resilience is not a luxury; it is a necessity born of neglect.
Driving back from Treasure Beach, past the broken roads and fallen trees, one thought lingered: the people here will rebuild again, as they always do. But without real support and sustained investment in climate resilience, they will be forced to do so again and again, each time starting from a little further behind.
