A soft-drink can bobs by in the gray dawn water; on the bottom lies a thick orange starfish. In pale patches between beds of turtle grass, bruise-colored medusae loom, seeming to breathe.
A scuttling fish.
Another thing: he put de blame on Brownie for de vibration in dat port engine, and de oil seals leakin, but it were nobody else den him dat struck dat shaft with a sledge hammer to straighten it, in de heat of de day, when he were angry—he were de one did dat.
Oh, I believe dat! He a mule, just like his doddy! You can’t change him!
The mangrove walls of Miskito Cay close off the eastern sky.
Something about dat mon-grove, Speedy. Something lonely.
Lonely kind of day, mon.
I wish I could speak good. De things I feelin …
The turtle crawls are water pens constructed of long mangrove saplings stuck into the marly bottom in five feet of water and lashed with thatch rope, in pens twenty feet square. The saplings rise high above the surface as a protection against storm seas, and each crawl has a gate on one side that can be taken down to water level when turtles are put in or removed.
The gaunt poles of the crawls look bent in the gray wind, and the figures in the boats stand motionless against the sky. There is a catboat from the Adams and two Indian cayucas, which carry thalassia grass used as fodder for the turtles.
The turtlers wear plaited palm hats, the crawl tenders the sombreros of the coast. Most of the Wika men have Indian features in black skin.
Take he away!
The myriad bay-colored shells of the turtles in the crawl are scarred and dull, and the creatures have lost their gliding ocean flight: the crowded pen has made their movements jerky. Cornered, they rush against the stakes.
See dem turtle, Speedy? Some dem leany from bein so long into dat crawl—dey gettin watered. Meat get all kind of slimy. In Cayman we don’t like dem dat way, we likes dem fat, but watered turtle sells fine at Key West.
A big Wika dives beneath the surface of the pen, where the turtles mill. Grasping a turtle by the carapace, behind the head, he slips a noose around the base of a fore flipper, singing out to the men at the crawl gate.
Take he away!
The Adams boat crew deals with the big turtle: the whole pen is a turmoil of white water. The Wika seizes a second turtle while waiting for a noose to be thrown back to him; he leans into a corner, holding it upright, from behind. In pompous strength, he watches, and his dripping head is grim. The upright turtle blinks.
… your two hands, mon! Grob her!
Switch her ass dis way! Dis way!
Easy do it—see my foot?
Up she goes!
The noose is slung back to the Wika.
Take he away!
When the Adams boat is loaded and moves off, Byrum secures his catboat. One by one, the Eden’s turtles are hauled onto the gate, and Speedy cuts the flipper thongs with quick hooks of his knife as the turtle is shoved forward into the pen. Still upside down, each turtle sinks thrashing toward the bottom but quickly rights itself and rushes for the sea, striking so hard against the stakes on the far side that the crawl sways.
See dat? Won’t be pretty long. Couple weeks into de crawl, all dat fine sea color be gone.
Dey pretty, mon. Green turtle pretty. I like de way dey swims among de reef.
Look out you don’t cut dere throat, de way you swing dat knife—won’t swim so pretty den.
Speedy slashes the last thong and shoves the turtle into the pen.
No, mon. I can cut, mon. From school days. If he can’t do nothin else, dis boy can cut!
Byrum socks him on the biceps.
You a hard nigger, mon! I very glad dat we in friendship!
Oh, I a hard one, dass de truth! Hard nigger, mon!
Midmorning. The Eden moves offshore past the Adams, which is laying over one more day because of wind. Byrum bellows across the water to his former shipmates, who lift their hands or chins by way of parting.
Speedy looks for Athens on the Adams deck.
Funny thing he don’t come out, wave us goodbye. (sighs) Havin a shipmate leave de vessel, never sayin goodbye—makes me feel funny.
Prob’ly he too sick of dis domn boat to look at it. You pick de wrong vessel, Speedy! You seein turtles but not turtlers!
Maybe de luck change tomorrow. I not worried, mon.
No, mon. Dis a very poor trip. Boat leaks bad; dis vessel need three thousand dollars just to make her seaworthy. No life jackets, no fire extinguisher, no runnin lights, and dat goddom radio-telephone dat don’t send: I tellin you, it like de back-time days, bein aboard of here. Ain’t like a freighter where you holler Mayday over de radio. Out on dese reefs you holler Mayday till you blue in de face, ain’t nobody to hear. Silent, mon. Just like dem mongrove.
Well, de Adams look very nice.
Oh, she a pretty vessel! She got dat wind chute you seen dere dat suck wind down into de turtle hold; green turtle need dat, cause dey stacked maybe six-deep on dem racks. Pretty near every line on her you got nylon; you don’t see all of dis old thatch rope. (sighs) Maybe if dis vessel had good blocks, wouldn’t be so bad, but ain’t a halyard here, or a sheet here, dat is rove properly. Since she got dose masts cut short, de Eden is ass over backward. All de riggin slack—you risk your neck just to climb up to de crosstrees. (sighs) Too bad you never work aboard of de Adams.
Old Doddy treat me pretty good. I work good so he treat me good. Nobody complainin about Speedy. I works on a drydock. Plenty boats. Work my property. Fifty-five acres, mon. Dey hate like hell for me to go off on dis vessel; dey not wantin me to go.
He always yellin about justice. But dey ain’t only three of us does all de work aboard of dis vessel, and dey nine men gettin shares. Ain’t no justice dere!
Speedy leans back, hands behind his head.
Dey gone to laugh like hell, dey be so hoppy when I gets back to dat sweet land of Roatán.
My intended dere, Miss Gwen, she de child of Copm Ossie. And Ossie, he de father-in-law of Acey Christian. Me and dem two fellas, we gone to get our own turtle boat, we gone to build her. Yah, mon. Dey some bush over dere in Ally Land dat got de last Cayman mahogany. We get in dere with donkeys, mon, and haul it out—dass de plan dat we got now.
Ain’t you de one was tellin me dat dis fishery near finished?
Dass right. But we got it in de blood.
Okay. Dass good. Dass very very fine.
The Eden rolls down past the Nasa Cays and the Alice-Agnes Rocks, bearing west-southwest, on a following wind, for Nicaragua.
South of the Rocks, a silhouette rises and falls in the slow ocean as the green walls move one by one to leeward.
See dat notch dere in de cobberknife? See it? Same black tiger!
Don’t know dat Copm Andrew gone.
I hope dass it. I hope so.
Listen to Mist’ Byrum Watler! Jumpin at shadders!
Vemon relieves Byrum.
Copm Raib? Copm Raib? Dat time I was down to Bragman’s, dem seas was so big dat we had to let go de lines onto de pier. Seas like dat at Bragman’s every day, so de Sponnish say. So I was wonderin, Copm Raib, are we gone to tie up at the pier or are we gone to anchor off?
You had to let go de lines, you say? And dat was a ship of four, five hundred ton? So you would think den … goddom! (incredulous) So why in de hell would you ask if we gone to go in dis weather, in dis wind, in dis much smaller vessel, to tie up to dat dock? Why, I askin you!
Dat why I askin, Copm Raib—
Goddom it, Vemon, you a stupid mon, I tell you dat much! And dat partner of yours, dat Athens—know what he done? Stole Copm Andrew’s knife! Stole a dead mon’s knife!
A silence.
Bragman’s. I been all around dat town. Oh, Speedy well-known dere! I used to run dere on a ship. And Bluefields. Used to run to New Orleans and Texas. Mahogany. And gold. Dey got a gold mine here, inland. Bonanza, call dat place. Plenty gold. Oh, yes. I been runnin down dere a very long time.
>
Got pussy dere?
Might be, Byrum. Prob’ly dey heard about it. (smiles) Oh, Bragman’s a very fine town. Lots of fun. I dance. I am a dancin mon. I hang around de bar. A few drinks—not many. I not get drunk—just fun. Den I go back to my ship.
Well, you take Bluefields, dat a big town, mon, a very big town, and you look and see how sloppy de streets is kept. It de goddom Sponnish, dat is my opinion.
Might be I slip ashore. I got dis condrum I like to use.
I come down to Bragman’s five straight year. I hang around de bar.
Hard to find pussy any more, y’know—get’m older den eight years of age, dey all got something in de oven.
Y’see dat one of Desmond dere? And Desmond tellin me dat his gang of pan-heads had three girls with dem and de whole three pregnant, only one of dem had her baby up dere at Bobel and got infected and died.
Fuck dem dat way.
When the men stare at him, Brown’s lip lifts, baring his upper teeth.
How dat go, Brownie?
Colombia. Igual if dey fat—we fuck. Old one, young one. I fuck una muerta once; después, dey told me she dead by de time I fuck. (shrugs) Igual. I too drunk to know.
Dey all commonists down dere, ain’t dey? Well, in Cayman we ain’t got people acts like dat. In a democracy—
At Brown’s expression, Vemon falls silent.
Ninguno tell me what I fuck. Ninguno. I fuck anything I want. (spits at Vemon’s feet) I fuck you, señor, hay nada de mejor.
Brown looks from one man to the other; they stop laughing.
Ustedes. Tink you better den me? (spits again) In jail. In camp. Claro? Mon got to fuck, verdad?
Brown’s gold teeth appear in a wild grin.
Verdad? Mon got to fuck, verdad?
Arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed, Byrum dances to the sound of his own voice; he makes a quick copulatory movement on each turn.
fun me, soldier mon, fun me …
Speedy clears his throat.
What Brownie mean—well, in all dese countries now, we gettin quite a problem. Malaria got to be a thing of de past, all dem old kind sickness dere, so we got to de place where nobody dyin, and dey ain’t enough of anything to go around. Den people start actin like wild animals. La Violencia. No work, no money, nothin. So all dey carin about is pussy, cause dat all dey got.
Dass it. Dey ain’t even enough of dat!
Modern time, mon. Girls gets knocked up before you gets dere. Mon! De young fellas dey haves now, dey go around in gangs in de night time, and dey finds a girl, mon, dey all grinds her.
Well, Speedy, dey don’t behave in dat manner in Caymans, I tellin you dat much—!
Cause you in de back time, Doddy, dey plenty of water between you and de world. But you just wait a while, you gone to see. Modern time, mon—dey ain’t no place to hide.
Fun me, oh!
Make me feel nice and cool!
His song finished, Byrum laughs.
Dat one Brown grinded, she were cool already—
Byrum? Don’t mess with him, mon. Brown kind of sensitive, some way.
Bad thing about de Goldfield, Copm. Hear dat news?
All de old fleet gone now, save dese ones dat was converted. All de rest been sold away or sunk in storm.
Every one?
Well, let’s see now—keepin it to real turtle boats, de sailin schooners, it was de Goldfield, it was de Adams, it was de Wilson, and it was de Armistice—all built by Arches. It was de R. L. Hustler built by Roland Bodden, it was de Rembro and de Antarus, both built by MacTaggarts. It was de Jemsons, called dat for some of de Bodden children—de “m” was for Melba, I think. Jim Bodden and Sons. Called her de Jemsons. And de E. L. Banks and de Majestic, dat was built by Boddens, too, and another one from Cayman Brae dat dey calls de Alsons, and de Arbutus dere dat used to trade over to Turks Island.
Speakin about de Arbutus now, dere was dat mystery about de way dat she mashed up.
Dass right. She was launched at Georgetown in 1939, de last of de Cayman sailin schooners dat was ever built, and before she could put out, down come de hurricane and wash her ashore right where she had come from. Oh, mon. Well, dey got skids and skidded her down, and after dat she sailed for many years, and den she mashed up for de last time, in a nor’wester. She drag her moorin and she come ashore again, for good, right in dat very same place dat she had come from twice before.
Mystery, mon. Dey calls dat mystery.
Copm Raib, you sayin dere dat de Jemsons were a schooner. De Jemsons were a ketch. Still is.
Dass right, Will. Anyways, de Antarus were sold over to Colombia. Old Providence Island. De Rembro, she were sold over to Old Providence. De Banks were mashed up in West Bay, in a south wind; she went ashore. De Alsons were lost up around de Rosalind Bank—sunk in hurricane. Den de Lydia Ebanks Wilson burned to de water line. (pause) Now, den. De Goldfield wrecked dere at Old Providence. And de Armistice, sunk down at Miskita Cay.
In hurricane.
No, mon. She just sunk down. (grins) One day she just sunk down. It was a plain motter of old age.
Raib laughs quietly by himself. Byrum winks at Vemon.
And de Clarinda. Burned to de water line in de North Sound.
Byrum cannot meet Raib’s gaze. The men shift, or pick at themselves. Hands behind his back, Raib rolls with the ship as the Miskito Cavs rise and fall in the sea behind him. He is smiling.
And de Clarinda. Dat is correct.
Will say de Clarinda were like a wild horse, mon; you had to hold her.
Will couldn’t say anything else but dat; dat were public knowledge. Den, continuin: de Hustler been sunk. Dat were my friend Copm Laurie Bodden. I was over dere to Verrella Cay in 1940, and he had already made one trip to Cristobal with lobsters. Now dat were late September, so I advised him dat he shouldn’t make a second trip because it were into de hurricane time on dat ocean. But he corried a second load of lobsters down to Cristobal, and on his way home he got caught by a storm and was lost somewhere up around Misteriosa.
No, mon, dere was no storm reported. De Hustler just vanished, like de old Nunoco dere, in 1936. Dem two vessels lost in mystery.
Dat so, Will? You know better den me about Laurie Bodden? (sucks his teeth) Sometimes you a goddom idiot, know dat, Will?
A small boat, overloaded, broadside to the seas. Figures wave thin arms.
Gettin so you see dese boats most every voyage—dey crazy, mon!
The Eden circles the small boat. The figures crowding to the side nearest the Eden almost capsize her, and voices fly from round black holes in the staring heads.
Where dey come from? Where dey headed for?
Toss dem a line, den; we drag dem over to Bragman’s.
The Eden wallows in the seas as a towline is bridled to the stern posts. In the boat, the refugees are yelling. On his fuel drum, Brown yells back, then turns away, disgusted.
Se dice que—got no gas!
God Almighty! In dat goddom flimsy cheap old thing, on de bleak ocean, in dis wind—dey crazy, mon!
Crazy or desperate, one. Gone to let dem come up? Look like dey wants water.
NO, mon! Let dem aboard, we gots to feed dem, and we ain’t hardly got stores enough for ourselves! (pause) Dey get water at Bragman’s!
… buscandan ambiente!
How dat go?
Dey come from Bragman’s! Say dey huntin for a chance!
A solitary porpoise, black in the turquoise water. A sea mist in the west.
Parchin hot, mon.
Dass cause we scuddin with de wind.
Let her fall off to port, Vemon.
FALL OFF TO PORT!
What de hell you shoutin for? Ain’t every mon aboard dis vessel settin right beside you?
I know my duty, Copm Raib!
You don’t know nothin! You—DON’T LET HER FALL OFF ANY MORE!
You s’pose to holler, STEADY!
STOP DAT SHOUTIN, VEMON! YOU LETTIN HER FALL INTO DAT LAND TOO MUCH! NOW SAIL DE
SAME COURSE DAT I TOLD YOU!
Vemon mutters for a while. When no one pays attention, his voice rises.
Gone to go ashore myself, get me some pussy. Mon want pussy, he got to go ashore.
Ain’t pussy you after. You ain’t goin.
I goin. I goin, brother. You can’t keep me. I got my papers and I got my rights, ain’t dat so, Byrum? De seaman’s union! Byrum, you know any of dem shippin lines up in New York could use a good mon? Cause I sick of dis shit aboard of here. Should have gone with Athens.
Yo puedo shit by de way you hold me, darlin!
Dere de coast—can see it good.
See all dat smoke? New plontations, mon. Dem half-breeds swarmin over dis domn place, dat used to be de most Godforsakenist coast in all de world.
Late afternoon. Heat-thickened wind, and big bruised clouds.
Near the mile-long pier of Bragman’s Bluff, the Eden casts loose the refugee boat. The refugees sit huddled, rising and falling on the swells; they do not wave.
The Eden anchors off the uttered shore. Great seas driven by the trades across the whole reach of the south Caribbean rumble beneath the pier and crash on the stone beach. On the low bluffs, low huts trail away inland toward low scrub jungle.
The port catboat bangs and pitches alongside as the Captain screeches; he comes running from the deckhouse, still half dressed.
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