"Fundamentally, this is about being part of the community, not about coming down from on high to help the little people," Jason added. "We're about developing the local economy in sustainable and equitable ways." The benefits of this approach were apparent: No armed guards or gates, no one hustling tourists on the beach, and no animosity toward pink, sunburned outsiders.

Since its inception in 1998, the hotel-connected NGO—called Breds, as in "bredrin" ("brethren" in the local patois)—has funded a number of important projects. Foremost among these is an ambulance service with a round-the-clock staff of trained volunteer first responders. "In Jamaica, all the emphasis has been on hospitals or clinics, and there is really no decent emergency response system," said Jason. "Most people are taken to the hospital in private cars, and that can lead to paralysis or avoidable deaths, because people don't know how to clear airways. It's no question we've saved many, many lives." Breds has also built sports facilities and helped supply local schools with books and paper. "But this is not a charity thing," said Jason. "Breds' governing board is all local people."

Jake's and the community of Treasure Beach are symbiotically connected. Although you can hide away by the hotel pool, the way things have been set up draws you instead into the dusty village lanes to meet the neighbors. Many guests return here year after year and have developed close friendships with local families. In other words, the main attraction at Jake's is simply living life in a small, peaceful Jamaican village.

My first night, I made my way down a dark country lane to a local jerk shack—a grill next to a little general store, in front of which sat some plastic tables and chairs. A van parked nearby was packed with speakers that blasted a funny combination of reggae and occasional country music tunes.

"In Treasure Beach we all family. An' when you visit—you family too," said Khani James, a local fisherman. "Dat man, he me cousin," said Khani, pointing to the rugged old dude tending to the smoky grill and chopping up the jerked pork. "She me sista. Disa man me fada. Alla dem is James, mon. We all named James." Khani's patois is so thick that I struggle to understand.

Like the rest of the seemingly vast James clan, Khani has a ruddy complexion and greenish-blue eyes. According to local lore, in the eighteenth century a shipload of Scottish immigrants smashed up on the coast of St. Elizabeth Parish, and the survivors mixed with Africans and local Arawak Indians. The descendants of these three communities are the "red men" of the Pedro Plains—recognized all over Jamaica for their green eyes, "high" complexion, and sometimes blond hair.

Like most men around here, Khani is a fisherman; he goes to sea for days at a time in an open twenty-foot wood-and-fiberglass skiff to catch lobster and groundfish in large wire traps, or "pots." I was told that Breds weighs in on the largely informal planning that governs the fisheries of the Pedro Bank—the fertile fishing grounds that stretch from Treasure Beach to a set of keys fifty miles offshore. As is so often the story in the Caribbean, the turning point was a hurricane, in this case Ivan.