07/23/2026
Slide 1
Last week, I met a little girl whose eyes have stayed with me.
Slide 2
Only later did I realizeā¦ eight years ago, I may have photographed her as a baby in the same sea.
Here is the story ā¦
Eight years ago, I stood on Bob Marley Beach and photographed a woman holding a baby girl in the sea. It was a simple moment. A woman introducing a child to the water that had shaped generations before them.
I didnāt know then that this woman was Camala Thomas, and that she would one day become one of the strongest voices defending this community. Or that the beach itself would become the center of a struggle over land, development, and belonging.
When I returned last week, I photographed another little girl.
I donāt know if she is the same child.
Perhaps she is.
Perhaps she isnāt.
But when I look into her eyes, I canāt stop wondering about the future waiting for the children who call this shoreline home.
Along Jamaicaās southeastern coast lies a stretch of beaches youāll never find in the glossy photos selling paradise.
The land here is harsh. Arid. The soil crumbles beneath your feet. Riverbeds lie dry for months. The sea is wild and restless, meeting a shoreline of black sand, rock and pebbles rather than the postcard beaches Jamaica is known for.
Perhaps because of that, these beaches remained something rare. They remained ours. Or so we thought.
I grew up coming here alongside fishermen, artists, surfers, wanderers, and the Rastafarian community that made this coastline home after being displaced from inner city Kingston decades ago. We believed these shores would somehow be sparedātoo rugged to commodify, too sacred to fence off. This was a place where Bob Marley came to swim, play football, run, and gather in Nyabinghi.
The sea here has always sung a different song.
It carries a kind of mysticism that nourished me all my life. This isnāt just a beach to me. It is my memory. It is my childhood. There is ancestry woven into this shoreline.
When I returned recently, I walked into the water and called my brotherās name.
Matthew.
Matthew.
Matthew.
The sea held him the way it always had. It washed over my grief as if memory itself were saltwater.
And yetā¦tides arenāt the only things that change.
Contracts are signed. āProgressā arrives with polished promises of prosperity. But I worry for the people who have cared for this place for generations. The families who raised children here. The fishermen. The elders. The community whose roots run deeper than any title deed.
At the very same time, the shoreline itself is disappearing. Rising seas. Extreme heat. Drought. The beach is retreating before our eyes.
So the question is larger than development alone.
It is about what we choose to protect.
When I met this little girl, I couldnāt shake the feeling that her eyes were asking something none of us can afford to ignore.
One day, people may come here and admire what has been built. I only hope they remember what stood here firstāthe laughter of children, the songs of fishermen, the prayers of Rastafari, the memory of Bob, and the generations of people who have loved this place long before it became valuable.
Because the greatest inheritance we can leave our children is not simply land. It is belonging.
