I had no idea where I was heading when we set sail from Jamaica in the 70s, but I’m glad I’ve returned with my children to remember their grandfather this wayAs we bump along terrible roads in my dad’s hot, noisy buttermilk-coloured Beetle, I’m unable to take in the beauty of Jamaica’s north coast – its waterfalls and gin-clear sea, its lush fern-quilted interior and the majestic Blue Mountains my dad loved.It’s the late 1980s. I’m 15. It’s been nine years since I last saw my dad. To mark our re...