The Caracol

A couple days ago, I woke up early as usual and made my way down to the wooden jetty that adjoins one of my favourite “spots” on the island. I have always enjoyed these early morning moments of complete solitude where all that intrudes my reverie are the pounding of the waves against the support beams in the water and the morning calls of the birds.

Sometimes the jetty moves, as it did that morning, trying to stand against the force of the east wind that blew with great intensity.  Out across the horizon, the distant surf formed burgeoning clouds warning all vacationers and seamen to keep at bay. This was one of the last days of my vacation, and without having a set schedule, I had been thinking of heading back home, to my boys, to my reality, but the conditions of the water told me that the ride would be rough, and so I decided to stay just one more day.

Sitting there by myself with the rising sun just peeping above the highest rooftops, I started to contemplate my life and its meaning. What was I really doing there so many miles away from home? True, I had been having an amazing holiday, even an exciting holiday, but it was not real life. I had smiled many times during that week, during those last few weeks, as I felt that I had been on an extended honeymoon. It seemed that magic had settled on my partner and me and that everything we touched or did; what we  talked about or mused over, was gilded in gold. He could do no wrong, and all I did was right, but, and there is always a but, it wasn’t real.

I think I have always seen life through rose coloured glasses, of course, I also form quick snap decisions about people and events that may turn out to be entirely wrong.  I suppose I am like everyone else in that aspect, but it does bother me when I dismiss someone because they do not “fit,” or are “not fit to be” my friend. Here is such a story:

Knowing I was completely alone, I was momentarily startled by a voice that crept up behind me; a male voice.  On the island, I have never once felt in danger, and so I only turned around to see who else was up as early as I was.  It turned out to be Tony. I have known of Tony, a short thin man of indeterminate age, as long as I have been visiting the island. Race wise, he would be classified as Caucasian, but the years of sun and sea have baked his skin into a grocery bag brown that contrasts with the whiter skin around his throat. Tony is a vagabond, of sorts. On the many previous occasions that I have run into Tony, he was always ready with an outstretched hand to beg for a beer, or “a strong one.” His physical demeanour and his freeloading had always annoyed me.

As far as I knew, Tony was up for anything, and has offered me coca weed and alcohol (not his of course.) on several occasions, and I’ve had to shout at him to leave me alone. And here he was interrupting my solitude.  There was nothing that Tony had ever said in the past that ever made any sense.  All of his words were slurred over a thick tongue engorged by alcohol, and what he may have noticed of me had to have been blurred through those pus coloured green eyes, but this morning Tony seemed chipper, greeting me with a warm good morning.

I have never been rude, in fact I can say I’ve always been accommodating, and so I lifted a hand in acknowledgment, hoping that my not so effusive greeting would turn him away, but that was not the case, Tony came and sat down adjacent to me.  I tried to push myself against a support beam, mainly because I had not yet brushed my teeth (not expecting visitors at 5:00 a.m., but Tony took that as an invitation to come even closer, until he was sitting right next to me.

Tony was incredibly bright eyed and was full of questions for me as if he had been studying me for a long time. At first I was reluctant to engage in conversation, I most certainly did not want to encourage him to stay too long, and I was painfully aware that my morning breath was whipping downwind to where he sat, but either he didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.

After a few minutes, I  actually cast my eyes over him in curiousity. Although Tony was swarthy, I noticed that he looked clean. His badly stained clothes were old and a bit tattered, but there was no discernible odor coming from him. Though his teeth had been ground down leaving only the most necessary molars,  he didn’t have bad breath. Like many islanders, and “Rastafari wannabe tourists,” Tony did not wear shoes. I watched then as he stretched his knobbly knees out in front of him, with his cracked soles and claw-like nails, digging into the wooden bench.  Tony was settling in for a visit.

“What are you doing up so early, girl?” Given our racial differences and its historical implications, I generally detest being called girl, but sometimes you can expend unnecessary energy fighting a war that has already been won.  Sometimes, things are just not the way you see them, and so I just decided that I would let it slide.

“Taking in the early morning wind, Tony.” He began to laugh and then told me that he always gets up early, before 5:00. He tells me that it is the best time to be alone and think. I furiously nod in agreement, but he seemed unaware that he had intruded on my alone time.

Tony wastes no time in asking me personal questions.  His prying is not gossipy, and I get a general sense that he is just curious. “Who is that tall-ass man I see you around the island with? He real tall.” Tony speaks in heavily accented English, quite like a Jamaican would, and like all of the other islanders he intersperses a smattering of Spanish into his conversation. Most of the islanders are completely bilingual. I choose not to answer his question, but I look over at Tony and he stares back at me knowingly, before throwing his head backwards and letting out a loud belly laugh.  His mirth has caused me to giggle along with him.  Sometimes the answers are obvious; sometimes the questions need not be asked.

I wasn’t surprised that he asked me about J.W.  By himself, J.W. calls a lot of attention with his 6’9″ /6’10” self, with me, well I suppose we appear interesting, but Tony had noticed much more than me and my partner, he had noticed everything about me over the years. He asked about my children, about my work, about my friends. He asked me everything.

After I had accepted that Tony’s olfactory glands were somehow non functioning, I began to warm up and I found myself offereing him insight into my life. Then, as would happen between old friends, we started exchanging information, with Tony being more philosophical than I would have thought.  Tony had ideas and opinions that I would never have known he possessed. He knew more about what is happening in the world than me, a woman of the internet age. He had knowledge of the sea and tides, (warning me not to leave that day.) He had knowledge about plants and animals, about people and places and different cultures. About different types of foods, and how to best prepare them.

He told me tales about growing up on the island, and I understood the world from his perspective, which was surprisingly not as myopic as I had assumed, but like us all, he had his prejudices, and openly expressed his opinions in a place where politically correct speech is looked down at, as another form of lying.. He laughed at how foolish “them Chinese” (Asian) were, pointedly excluding “them” and including me.  He reported how they had come down there and eaten up every last sea urchin, sea cock and sea cucumber. Tony was stunned when I told him how delicious sea urchins really are, (being one of my all time favourite foods), and he vowed that he was going to try them since I had said so.  I guess he gave me his vote of confidence.

We sat like that for over two hours, each one of us topping the other with a story about our life experiences. Tony doesn’t work he says, because he doesn’t need to.  He has property, he has a farm and he has the ocean full of fish. He is a happy man.  We sat like that until the sun rose mightily in the sky, and the distant sound of bicycle wheels grinding into the sandy streets whizzed in our ears. A motor started; a horn beeped; someone passed the street blaring music from his cell phone;  birds skimmed across the glittering surface of the water, and the wind died down just enough for us to see the sandy bottom of the ocean below. It was time to go and I definitely needed my coffee.  We both got up to leave with the east wind whipping our laughter behind us, and yet, the musical sound of our comradery rang louder than any other sound around us.

Have I found a new friend? I don’t know, but as we walked out to where he had discarded his bike, Tony pulled this shell out of his pocket and pressed it into my hands, “This is for you,” he said, “I found it way up yonder on the point. I wish you didn’t have to go back home.”

– The End-

Author’s note: “Caracol”  is the Spanish name that applies to a number of large sea-snails and their shells. Additionally, caracol is a common (maybe pejorative term) that refers to islanders, like Tony, of Caucasian heritage.

Caracol=conch/ conch shell.