Swipes and Struggles: A Coastal Connection

Since my high school sweetheart migrated hastily to work, I found myself swiping right on Tinder with a regularity I would be slow to admit. One restless night, as the unyielding drone of late-night traffic bustled outside my window and the light from my phone bathed my face, I was adrift in a sea of profiles for a much-needed distraction from the gnawing sense of loneliness and boredom that had become all too familiar to me, especially at this time of night.

My attention was snagged by a strikingly chiselled man with starter locs whose mischievous grin seemed to promise adventure. Marcus identified as Ital—a lifestyle choice that resonated deeply with me, given my own commitment to a vegan lifestyle and my goal of eliminating junk and processed foods from my life. But it was his stated insistence on cultivating meaningful experiences and building a genuine connection before getting physical that truly captivated me. It felt like a rare and refreshing approach, especially in an online dating landscape where I dealt with more ghosting than Dovecot Cemetery. Thus, the idea of exploring a deeper, more authentic connection sparked anticipation within me. I hastily accepted his suggestion to meet at a nearby protest in a few days time.

The protest was aimed to halt the intended displacement of yet another coastal community in Jamaica to make way for more resorts—that local residents would be bereft to own or afford. This issue was not just a current concern but was deeply rooted in Jamaica's colonial past as the so-convenient Beach Control Act of 1956 played a significant role in shaping the tourism industry by prioritising foreign investment over local needs, leading to the destruction of natural habitats and the erosion of cultural heritage. The idea of joining him at such a meaningful event felt serendipitous. I figured this encounter would be ideal to recount on our wedding day—a first date amid such an impactful cause.

On protest day, the blazing sun overhead showed its support for both my intentions for the day by casting a golden haze. I took a moment to appreciate the hand-painted placards were both humorous and poignant, highlighting the exploitation of tourism and the lingering shadows of colonialism that still loom over Jamaica. As I scanned the chanting crowd for Marcus, my heart raced with anticipation. But when I finally spotted him, something felt strange. “Hi,” I greeted him, but my smile faltered. He looked somewhat younger than I expected. His locs, a defining feature in his photos, were conspicuously absent, and his frame was notably slimmer than I had anticipated. He gave me a surprised grin, “Wow! You look just like your pics, just without makeup.” I felt a pang of disappointment and suspicion but brushed it aside as we plunged into the heart of the protest.

Amidst the cacophony of voices, signs caught my eye with phrases like: "Cultural Commodification is Modern Colonialism! Tourism Profits Go to Foreign Investors, Not Us! We Don’t Want Beach Access Only Through Resort Jobs!" A passionate protestor took a megaphone and began describing how high cost of paradise was borne by the local communities, who suffered from environmental destruction and cultural erosion.

We shared a vibrant half-hour chanting slogans, then someone shouted, “Babylon!” and the atmosphere shifted instantly to one of panic. The legion of police officers was menacing. Marcus grabbed my hand, and we expertly weaved between protesters and officers, all while my heart threatened to leap from my chest. My right slipper burst off my foot in the chaos, but there was no time to retrieve them. We veered from the street into a narrow alleyway, neglecting to duck under a clothesline strung with vibrant, drying garments. I couldn't help but laugh despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, while Marcus tried to hurriedly gather the clothes as best as he could without reassembling the clothesline.

We walked in silence as sirens blared ever more distantly. Upon reaching a river, we succumbed to the cool water's invite of refuge. The thrill of our escape had us both exhilarated, and we found ourselves lost in a spontaneous moment that only seemed to solidify a connection between us. I was almost grateful that the police had impacted my date in this admittedly predictable way.

As we were leaving the river to head to a nearby bus stop, my vegan date not only stopped at a street vendor for jerk chicken and bread, but then proceeded to offer some to me. I was bewildered, which seemed lost on him as he mentioned casually, “I’m going to head out with my driver soon, but it was great to link up.”

The spark I had hoped for seemed to dim as we prepared to part ways. A familiar-looking sleek black car pulled up and Marcus waved enthusiastically, “Dad! I was at the protest with Sage!”

I froze, turning to face his father, who stepped out of the car with a bemused expression. “I’m not Sage,” I said, with confusion and embarrassment mingling in my tone. “I’m Opal.” I was used to strangers confusing me with my sister since she commandeered a swimsuit design account on TikTok.

Marcus’s father looked at me with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. “So you stood me up, Opal,” he said, his tone dripping with irony.

Marcus, still clueless, looked between us. “Dad, this is not Sage?”

“What a mix-up,” his father replied with a chuckle.

“You wouldn't like to know how much,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity while stifling a laugh.

With that, his father gave me one last, piercing glance before climbing into the car. Marcus followed, waving awkwardly. As they drove off, I stood at the bus stop in a mix of sunshine, relief and absurdity. With a resigned sigh, I sent yet another hopeful message to my ex, trying to bridge the widening gap between us. After seeing it go unread, I returned to Tinder's vast sea of profiles, feeling a familiar mix of frustration and loneliness.