After 90 minutes on the road, I’m having an upside-down flashback to my childhood: My parents are asking, “Are we there yet?,” and I’ve been telling them, “just five more minutes” for the last half hour. Finally, at the end of Fortlands Road, just before it drops into the Caribbean Sea, a tall gate guarded by a cannon announces that we’ve arrived at Fortlands Point. Inside the compound there are more cannons along the driveway. Discovery Bay — first named Dry Harbor by Columbus who, on his second voyage, couldn’t find fresh water when he landed here — was an important port for the Brits when they took over from the Spanish. They built a fort and barracks hereabouts that bristled with some of these same cannons.

At the end of the long brick drive, we’re greeted by Desrine, the head housekeeper, and her assistant, Paulette; Gary the head butler and his assistant, Amos; and Pauline, who will be our cook. They escort us through the tunnel-like entranceway that the villa’s owner, a prominent seventh-generation Jamaican, added to enhance the fortress feel. At the far end is a small courtyard with a fountain and lily-padded koi pond. “Fishy!” says Brendan as he tries to squirm out of his dad’s arms and join them in the water.

From the back of the procession up the cut-stone ramp that leads into the villa I hear what sounds like a chimpanzee sing-along, a chorus of “oo-oo”s and “aah-oo”s. When I make it to the doorway I understand. All eyes are immediately drawn to a wide set of French doors, then across the lawn to the bright-blue Caribbean beyond. Through another large doorway on the west side lies the even brighter-blue pool, with the calm, dazzling waters of Discovery Bay beyond.

Desrine takes us on a quick tour. Inside, there’s no fortress feel. The 10,000-square-foot villa is warm and welcoming; spaces are grand yet not ostentatious, designed with intimate dimensions and finely appointed: Brazilian teak floors; Jamaican cedar shutters, doors and balconies; a staircase hewn from rich mahogany. Every hard surface is porcelain tile, hand-cut stone or slate. There are seven air-conditioned bedrooms — all with views, two with balconies, one with a garden patio — on four levels, and a family room complete with a big satellite TV and a video collection.

Everyone is tired from the journey, but there’s no thought of napping. We charge up and down the staircase — choosing rooms, stowing luggage, visiting everyone else’s room, rushing back to put on bathing suits. By the time we all meet up at the patio bar, the guys — it’s hard to think of these friendly young men as butlers — have set out salads and a big platter of fried fish, along with chicken fingers for the kids.

After lunch, Sandi and I test the water in the hot tub, which spills over deep blue tiles into the pool, and then walk down onto the broad lawn of spongy grass. Bougainvillaea, crotons, impatiens and star of jasmine grow in clouds of color at the side of the house. A stand of casuarinas creates a shady spot at the edge of the ocean, and a sprinkling of palms and sea grapes give depth to the 2.5-acre property. Just past a gracefully spreading almond tree, we walk down onto the villa’s private beach, where a heron is hunting at the water’s edge, staring intently at little ghost crabs that scuttle in and out of sandy burrows. Meghan catches up to us down on the sand and spots the bright yellow boats. “Uncle Bob, I’ve never been on a kayak before.”

She sits in the front of the two-seater as I drag it down the beach and into the warm water. Once she has instructed me on how not to rock the boat, we paddle into the bay. Small swells roll in from offshore, but Discovery Bay is protected by a thick reef, which breaks the waves and creates a marine-life wonderland. The water is very clear and Meghan is soon spotting fish. “What’s that one? That one? How about that one?” I tell her we can go snorkeling one of these days and meet them all up-close. “I’ve never been snorkeling before,” she says. “But I want to try.”

Back at the patio bar after the fantastic little voyage, I sink into one of the plump couches and catch up with my parents below the spinning ceiling fan. Gary — the butler, not the brother-in-law — blends a pitcher of piña coladas for us, and my dad uses up his one allotted, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” Carol comes through carrying Brendan, who’s wearing a floating swimsuit that makes him look like he’s smuggling bricks of Velveeta. Brendan’s dying to get to the pool, but he wants his best buddy to come, too — so Pop-Pop pours his piña into a plastic cup, puts on his big sun-beating safari hat and jumps in. An hour later, with a thunderhead climbing above the hills south of the bay and starting to spit lightning, Mom-Mom calls the boys out of the pool. Brendan fights like a barracuda to stay in, but the promise of a Thomas the Train play session lures him out.

Not only does the villa completely cover all our needs, but two calls even fulfill our wish-list. Linda Smith finds us a sport-fishing boat, and the captain says he can motor right up to our seawall tomorrow morning. My second call is to Carolyn Jobson from Jamaica Inn’s Kiyara Spa, one of the island’s best. We make arrangements to turn the villa into a spa as a special Mother’s Day present for the ladies. I even assure Jobson that we menfolk will drag ourselves away for, oh, about six hours ... eight if the fish are biting. The last detail for the perfect day is handled by Desrine, who knows a good nanny named Charm. How can you go wrong with a nanny named Charm?

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