By Bob Friel

It’s time for a reunion. What happens when you put three generations of family, plus some innocent newcomers, together in a villa on an island far from home? Will it be more sitcom or reality show? Docudrama or heartwarming special? Tune in to find out.

The clincher came when my 67-year-old dad threatened to call and sing “Cat’s in the Cradle” onto my answering machine every day until I agreed to a family reunion.

“‘When you coming home, son?’

‘I don’t know when,

But we’ll get together then, dad.

We’re gonna have a good time then.’”

Nobody needs to hear that. Let’s just say I got the message.

These days, deadlines and demands make time run downhill faster than ever. Meanwhile, parents get older, siblings become distant friends and nieces and nephews consider their aunts and uncles simply voices on the phone. Like most everyone I know who moved away, I get to see my family twice in a good year, and one of those times is Christmas, a blurry donnybrook of parties, presents and prior commitments. So there was no denying that a quality-time reunion was in order — even before the sappy song threat was thrown down. 

I got to pick the place and time, so naturally I chose the Caribbean. A cluster of rooms at a cool resort was my first thought, where there would be something for everyone — the guys could go fishing, the gals could head to the spa, the kids would play in the pool — and we’d all be together for sundowners and supper. But on second thought, what about a villa?

I knew that villa vacations were perfect for romantic escapes. Sequestering with a sweetheart on an exotic isle in a very private home where you’re free to romp around as nature intended always feels deliciously illicit — even those times when it’s not. But a villa for a family vacation? With kids and parents and grandparents? It could work, I figured — as long as I packed a lot more clothes — and it might even have some benefits over a resort.

Zach Stovall

Booking was easy. I considered our requirements: five bedrooms, pool, kid-friendly amenities; added our favorite activities: snorkeling, swimming, scenic drinking; and then conjured a couple of wish-list ideas: fishing and spa treatments. I found good options on St. Barts, St. John and Jamaica, but only the last had the advantage of direct flights from Philly — much easier on the little ones and thus on their parents and grandparents, who all live in Bucks County. So I clicked on the “Family Collection” at Linda Smith’s Jamaicavillas.com website and looked for a property that fit the bill.

One jumped out: Fortlands Point on Discovery Bay. It looked perfect.

That's why I find myself in a cold sweat on the motorcoach taking us from MoBay’s Sangster airport to Discovery Bay. I realize that I’ve set in motion something that’s potentially more social experiment than bonding experience. My family is fairly typical — not the Brady Bunch, but scoring on the civilized side of the Partridge Family/Manson Family curve. On vacations together when my sister, Carol, and I were kids, travel-stress-induced tempers could make our big Plymouth feel more like a circus car stuffed with edgy, sarcastic clowns. Only when we reached adulthood — or as close as we would get — did things become more laid-back. Now, though, we’ve added Carol’s husband, Gary, and their two kids — Meghan, age 5 going on 15, and Brendan, a terror at 2 — and my fiancée Sandi. And since Sandi’s folks had never met my family, I figured this would be the perfect opportunity.

Slide show Cool Caribbean View photos of this easy, breezy, tropical paradise. more photos

What was I thinking, I wonder as I turn around and see Jerry and Ginny sitting in the back, a little wide-eyed, as they’re welcomed by my family with flying bags of Doritos, Cheerios and 20 questions all at once. Our flight was delayed in Miami and no one has had more than three hours of sleep or a meal. I can sense some telltale fraying of nerves.

This, I’m worried, could quickly turn into a bad reality show: Fear Factor meets The Real Gilligan’s Island meets Survivor, except it’s family, so you’re not allowed to vote anyone off the island. We’re stuck together for the duration, all in one house. What if the kids start screaming and never stop? What if I can’t watch my language — Meghan’s already calling me Uncle Potty Mouth. What if Gary throws Brendan up in the air and he hits a ceiling fan? What if our parents don’t get along?

I need a drink. When the driver stops for gas, I jump out and buy a big bag of beef patties and fill the cooler with Red Stripes. “It’s barely noon,” says my mom.

“That’s OK,” I say, handing around the frosty bottles and spicy turnovers. “It’s island time.” I consider slipping a binky full of beer to Brendan, but amazingly, he’s already down with the Jamaican vibe. He gives me a look that’s like: “Irie mon, no problem.” Then he wings a juice box at my head.

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