The fisherman
Troy turned around and followed the dirt path that led down to the sea. Two men toiled under the generous shade of a majestic old tree, fashioning a lobster trap from netting and whittled branches. Troy turned off the engine and he and I got out. By now we had our routine down pat. In patois he told the men we were looking for people named Crooks…They answered, and Troy translated. Follow the road past the cemetery, they told us, past the store. Share this: Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook Share on X (Opens in new window) X Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)...
Read MoreIn Henrietta’s garden
We had driven back down to Henrietta’s cottage, triumphant in the afterglow of finding the tomb. We ate ackee, cut fresh from one of Henrietta’s trees. Share this: Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook Share on X (Opens in new window) X Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)...
Read MoreThe Cove
I thought of the many eyes before mine that had gazed out over those waters, the desperate souls who had lived in shacks by this shimmering sea, longing for a homeland that lay on a distant shore. Share this: Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook Share on X (Opens in new window) X Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)...
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