This post continues our winter vacation, a few days into the cruise. On our fourth day on board, we stopped at our second port: Falmouth, Jamaica. Here we would have our longest onshore activity, and one that all five of us would do together. CZ had come to Jamaica as a young adult and loved visiting Dunn’s River Falls, and wanted to experience it again with her son, Little CZ. C and I had visited Jamaica for a week in December 2018, when C was nearly seven years old. At that time, we joined a tour that included Dunn’s River Falls, but we opted not to climb. Now that the kids were old enough for the adventure, we hoped us adults weren’t too old!

We had booked a seven-hour shore excursion, though, like so many cruise-organized tours, it began with the familiar half hour of staging and instructions in the ship’s theater before we were led off together and loaded onto buses. We were told the drive from Falmouth to Dunn’s River Falls would take about an hour. Everyone was in good spirits—chatting, speculating about the climb, and looking forward to the day ahead—and we didn’t really register the time when we arrived. We were ushered off the bus, funneled through ticketing, and then into the Falls area itself. From there, we were divided again into smaller groups of around fifteen people, each assigned a guide who would lead us through the maze of slippery rocks and fast-moving water, up the tiered terraces of the Falls.

It had been overcast as we disembarked the ship and drove to the Falls, so we were a little worried the water might be cold. But as we formed a daisy chain with our group and stepped into the thigh-high pool at the base of the Falls, the sun broke through the clouds, and we found the water quite pleasant. And here I will admit: when we visited the Falls back in 2018, I hadn’t just been worried about climbing with a small child—I had been nervous, period. Over the past few years, though, I’ve become braver, taking on more adventurous activities, and I was genuinely excited to climb the Falls.

It was so much fun! Our guide took us slowly. There were spots where he led us up one route, only to recalibrate and take us another way. There was a lot of laughing, plenty of tentative foot placement, a few close calls, and some slips—but we made it.

But then there was the waiting. Standing around while each family reviewed the tour photos and debated whether to purchase them. It took a while. Eventually, our guide gathered us up and led us back through the inevitable souvenir gauntlet and onto the bus. We piled in and headed toward our second destination, the Blue Hole. What should have been a 20-minute drive felt longer.

The Blue Hole is a beautiful place: a natural limestone river sinkhole filled with aquamarine water, framed by lush greenery and fed by a series of small falls. It’s the kind of spot meant for swimming, rope swings over deep pools, cliff jumps, or simply standing still and taking it all in. Once again, we were herded off the buses and grouped together, only to wait for our guides. Having cooled off in the air-conditioning on the drive, CZ and I didn’t want to get back into the water, but we had no opportunity to say so. Instead, we were swept along with everyone else, driven like cattle toward the falls, without explanation.

C, Little CZ, and his dad were up for the adventure. From the upper terraced falls, they jumped into pools—first from around six feet, then from ten—all in preparation for the twenty-five-foot leap beside the largest waterfall. CZ and I stood back and watched, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of C. Not one of them hesitated, and except for Little CZ’s dad, who was good with one go at the big jump, Little CZ and C quickly swam back for another go.

This was our first inkling that the tour was falling behind schedule. Our bus tour guide approached us at the observation point and asked if we were ready to depart. We pointed out that our kids—and much of the rest of our group—were still in the water below. The guide muttered that guests were only supposed to have one go at the jumps, which didn’t seem right. Where was the leisurely swimming in the pools downstream? The rope swing? There was suddenly a push to get everyone out of the water and back onto the bus. This felt odd, given that the only items on our tour were Dunn’s River Falls and the Blue Hole, with an “if time” stop at Reggae Hill. It was now around 1:30 p.m., and we still had more than an hour’s drive back to the ship. With sail-away set for 3:30, we clearly didn’t have time.

But they took us anyway. There wasn’t much at Reggae Hill. There was a lovely view of the river, where other tourists drifted past on bamboo rafts, but we were there largely for an overpriced lunch: a piece of jerk chicken, a cup of Jamaican rice, a fried plantain, and two drinks for twenty-five dollars. There was nothing else to eat and no other food to buy. And we were rushed. They ran out of beverages. Before some people had finished eating—or even received their food—we were already being herded back onto the buses. It was after 2 p.m.

We made our way down the winding streets toward the single road back to Falmouth harbor, only to find it clogged with traffic. We inched along. I fell asleep. I woke up sometime after 4 p.m., and we were still driving. Someone from the cruise ship must have called in a favor, because we were suddenly accompanied by a police escort for our minibus caravan. We arrived back at the pier around 5 p.m., two hours late, and we all hurried aboard.

That evening, we were back on board in time to catch another round of family karaoke. C met another teen girl, and the two of them headed off to the teen club together—the start of exactly what my daughter had been hoping for: making friends on the ship. After that, we settled into an easy rhythm. We each had our own things to do: CZ booked massages or hit the gym; C spent time with the other teens; Little CZ and his dad hung out by the pool; I took long walks around the decks. And then we came back together—sometimes just C and me, watching the ice show or going ice skating; sometimes CZ and I, sharing a trial massage, walking the jogging track, or spending time in the Solarium; and sometimes all of us, meeting for dinner, making candy sushi, or enjoying family karaoke.

On our last day of the cruise—Christmas—we docked at Perfect Day at CocoCay, Royal Caribbean’s private island. It truly was the perfect day. The temperatures had warmed, the wind had finally died down, and the sun shone brightly in a cobalt sky dotted with cotton-ball cumulus clouds.

C and I disembarked early to join a tour to a neighboring island to swim with pigs. I have taken C to pet cheetahs, bathe elephants, hold sloths, and swim with stingrays; it felt fitting to add one more unique animal experience to the list. After a quick fifteen-minute motorboat ride, we landed on another cay, where we were introduced to some of the cutest water-loving pigs imaginable. At first, the experience felt more like a swim-with-pigs assembly line—no personal cameras allowed on the beach, lots of handlers, and interactions that felt a bit forced. But back on the deck, things relaxed. Tourists, guides, and pigs alike chilled out, and it turned out to be a lot of fun.

Back on Coco Cay, C met up with some of her teen friends from the ship, while I joined CZ, Little CZ, and his dad for lunch and then spent the afternoon on one of the beaches. In the afternoon, C rejoined us so that she, Little CZ, and I could do the island’s ziplines. It felt glorious to be warm, safe, and among friends in such a beautiful place. I wished we could have spent another day or two there.

We reboarded the ship in the afternoon, eager to make the most of the little time we had left. CZ and I took on the twin waterslides—the kids refused to join us, but we wanted to be sure we had tried them at least once. Afterward, we sat at the back of the ship overlooking CocoCay as the sun set and, eventually, the ship cast off, pulling away from our final stop and beginning the slow steam toward home.

That evening, all five of us dressed for Christmas dinner and then headed down to the theater for the finale of family karaoke. C peeled off to join her new friends for their farewell teen party. It ended at midnight, when she sat with two of her ship friends in the open doorway of our cabin—first laughing, then whispering, and finally, crying their goodbyes.

The following morning, we disembarked in Port Canaveral. None of us was quite ready to say goodbye to CZ, Little CZ, and his dad, so the five of us headed instead to the Kennedy Space Center. My only previous visit was as an infant with my parents. C had never been, but after two summers at Euro Space Camp and earning her Astronomy and Space Exploration merit badges through Scouts, I thought she would appreciate it.

The place is enormous—140,000 acres in total, though the visitor complex covers “only” seventy—and we quickly realized that six hours would barely scratch the surface. We wandered through the Rocket Garden before making our way to the Space Shuttle Atlantis building. After a short film on a massive screen, the doors opened dramatically to reveal Atlantis itself, suspended in a darkened room as though still in orbit. It was quietly breathtaking. There is enough in that building alone to fill a day—interactive exhibits, a shuttle launch simulation, even a slide—and we lost track of time entirely. By the time we boarded the bus tour to the Apollo/Saturn V Center, with a stop at the Gantry at Launch Complex 39, the afternoon was already slipping away.

At the Apollo/Saturn V Center, we ate lunch beneath the massive Saturn V rocket and watched the stage-and-screen presentation on the Apollo 11 launch. It was an ambitious way to spend our final hours together—rockets, spaceflight, and human daring—before returning to our condo in Jacksonville for one more evening with my aunt. The next day, we began the long drive back to Washington, D.C., each mile carrying us north, back toward winter.

It was the kind of vacation I needed at the end of a hard year—simple, grounding, time with close friends and family, and full of the small unpredictabilities that make a trip its own.