EARLY MEMORIES PART 2

Diving with Dad was one of the things I cherished more than anything as a young boy. In the summers after the divorce, we would be sent to our father’s island retreat for a few weeks… or should I say as long he could tolerate us. We were a handful, and my brother Graeme was sent home more than once for bad behavior. Graeme has always been a free spirit and acted out with the slightest provocation.

Every summer without fail on arrival, Dad would pull out his buzz cutter and give us all a crew cut. Much to my mothers’ chagrin, but I think he did it to piss her off actually…and it clearly worked. I returned home every year to the same complaint. Notwithstanding, I didn’t give a damn because it always came with a bribe that included some treats, otherwise absent in my controlled diet at home under her rules. I always looked forward to the summer holidays spent on Trunk Island. A small island that sat in the middle of Harrington Sound. This was an enclosed body of water other than one narrow opening to the inlet leading to the North Shore called Flatts Bridge. The current as we went through it in the speed boat was epic with the changing tides. Going through them was not unlike the character of a fast-flowing rapids, and our small boat strained against the pressure of a full oncoming tide. The bow high in the air, the boat wavering as the current smashed along the sides erratically while Dad steered, constantly adjusting from the aft engine controls. The engine screaming in protest as his added weight was not exactly helping matters. With the tide in our favor it was like a circus roller coaster ride, fast and exciting. How we loved this aspect of summer life, the simple things.

Every day we would go fishing in the deep or diving the sandy shallows near the shoreline for food. I remember Dad standing waist deep in the shallows after dropping and securing the sand anchor, spit cleaning his mask and putting on his flippers while imparting a few pearls of wisdom to his youngest…me! I mimicked his actions like a mini me as I stood next to him neck deep. I was growing and about ten at the time. His words resonating as I followed his instructions, often demonstrated by practical example.

“Andrew my boy, first I am going to teach you how to collect Calico clams…I know you love them, but it is high time you learned how to get them for yourself.” Then motioning for me to follow him as he swam out a little deeper. The water was about ten to twelve feet deep now. He pulled up his mask before breathlessly spurting, “Follow me down and watch what I do,” then replacing it before descending straight to the sandy bottom. I followed, and once at the sea floor he pointed to two holes about half an inch apart, each hole about a quarter of an inch. I nodded my head in acknowledgement. He then put his finger near the holes, and they collapsed as if by magic leaving only the faintest outline. Then curiously watching him as he slid his forefingers into where the holes had been and scoop up a Calico before presenting it to me. Its shell was like glass to the touch, and the brown and beige checkerboard pattern a marvel of nature. We were facing each other smiling. I understood. Once on the surface he pulled up his mask again and garbled, “Your turn now… and keep them in the lining of your trunks so you don’t have to swim back to the boat every time,” then pointing for me to get to work. I was a very good swimmer, the sea my happy place. Seconds later I was surveying from the surface before diving down to collect my prize. The first one was a struggle as I searched with my fingers not fully grasping there was a technique. But I soon learnt that you slid you fingers nimbly following the collapsed holes until you felt the shell, then extracted it. At first it was one clam at a time, but once I got into the rhythm of it, I was looking for a second and ever a third in one breath. My trunks now burgeoning as I swam back to the boat awkwardly scaling the engine trim to get back on from the stern well. Then, I squatted, pulled the lining of my trunks away from my leg and out dropped about fifty clams. Dad had collected at least double. A feast in the making.

As we pulled anchor he suggested, “Maybe we should go out between the islands in the grassy area and see if we can find a few scallops. What do you think matey?” His eyes smiling as he winked at me.

“Yup, good idea Dad. I love scallops when we have them the way you do it,” I answered savoring the idea. We then putted over and anchored in his favored spot before he prefaced the dive with a little demonstrative lesson.

“Now look here bie… and pay attention! Do not, and I mean do not put a scallop in your drawers because unlike calicos that stay closed, a scallop will snatch your little mate down there…and that would hurt. You might lose it,” he laughed. He then jumped over the side, now holding onto the gunwale. Looking up he furthered, “When you find one…I’ll show you how… come back to the boat and drop it in the stern well,” he then pointed to ensure I understood exactly where to put them. And without another word his mask was on, and he swam along the surface in search, scanning the bottom. I was next to him now, side by side when he pointed down and looked at me. I peered down but saw nothing but sand and seagrass. He motioned for me to follow him as we both descended. The water was a little deeper here, about 15 feet plus, so I decompressed a few times on the way down. Dad still pointing until his finger was right over it. Now I could make out its covert hide. All you could see was the faint outline of the three-inch flat side of its shell covered in sand. On closer scrutiny hundreds of small eyes, hair thick tentacles waving in the soft current. He scooped it up, holding both sides as we both went back up for air. Once up he spoke excitedly through his mask and snorkel without removing it. He sounded like a robot. “Now watch this to show you what I mean,” chuckling as he almost gagged with an errant gulp of seawater. I watched as he released the scallop, and as soon as he did, it started flapping to get away. Dad quickly grabbed it and slipped it over the stern to safety. We spent at least an hour in search and collected a few dozen. They were much harder to find than the clams.

That night the moon was full, reflecting a silvery path all the way to where we set up for the feast. A quintessential Bermudaful evening. We made a cedar fire by the beach on a grassy knoll overlooking the Sound. Then, we set a pot of seawater on a makeshift cooktop to stream our clams to perfection. Meanwhile our stepmother Betsey had baked the scallops in the half shell after breading them, dousing them with a splash of sherry and a dollop of butter before baking them in the oven until golden brown, butter sizzling. Then devouring them steaming hot, dueling forks, dipped in a little black rum laced melted butter. There is no description to adequately describe the unique flavor and memorable taste of these freshly caught treats, but ambrosia is the closest measure I can offer. We did this as a family tradition for decades until, the Government banned taking them. Too many Bermudians had caught wind of their delicacy to virtual extinction. Luckily, they are now back to a healthy stock again…but the ban remains in place for their protection. However, the taste of just how delicious they were, is sealed into my memory for life.

Then there was the time on one of our summer vacations to the island, a large hammerhead shark had been sighted and the news spread like wildfire. Dad got wind of it at the marine gas station while we were fueling up our tanks. The attendant looked at him while handing him the nozzle, “Mr. Outerbridge, you hear about the shark?”

“Shark…what shark?” He answered quizzically looking up at him.

“Some bies along Abbotts Cliff saw a ten-foot hammerhead swimming around the Sound. You better be careful out there on the island. It could snatch up one of your bies and have ‘em for a snack,” He chuckled looking directly at me. I gulped at the thought. A ten-foot shark in the Sound was a scary prospect in my young mind as I imagined it getting me.

“Hmmm…I might have to set out a little trap to get him,” Dad thoughtfully answered acknowledging the attendant with a friendly nod. He then stepped off the boat and went into the nearby marine shop to buy a few things. Once back on the island Dad went to the workshop and busily set about making his rig. He had purchased a shiny 6-inch hook with a thick wire leader. The line was a length of nylon rope that would surely hold the monster if it ever was to take the bait. The bait was a half of a speckled hind unceremoniously attached to the hook, and dangling with inviting prospect. We then took the completed rig to the point where the water was deep and the current always moving. The line was coiled as Dad started swinging the baited line over his head in ever widening circles. Then the release as it soared through the air until hitting the water with an audible thud. He then secured the end of the line to the lone dead cedar tree nearby. That would hold it, cedar was like steel! That evening the chatter around the table was palpable with excitement and we went to bed with great expectation. The next morning, we all rushed to the point. Dad tested the line, “Feels slack, sorry you bies, didn’t catch it yet.” As he began drawing in the line before furthering, “Hmm… feels like something took the bait though,” he mused to himself thoughtfully. That piqued our interest, it meant that something big was out there to renew our hopes. Every day we repeated the same action, but we never did catch that shark only in our minds every single day.

Then, very near Trunk Island there sits a very small island where we would often picnic. Its infamous name, Cockroach Island, and for good reason. There were plenty of them scurrying around, particularly when food was present. We would row over after spending the morning in the sparse kitchen at our house on Trunk Island preparing our favorite treats. As I remember it was a large room on the second floor overlooking the wrap around porch attended by a panoramic view over the expanse of Harrington Sound. The floor was raw wood planks dusty and greyed from age. An old wood larder with fly wire stood lonely on one wall. There was a large porcelain sink and drainage board, a few lower cupboards along with an old two door Frigidaire. Then, a bare wood old plank table in the middle where we ate, prepared meals and often had spirited family discussions. That was the extent of it! As I said, sparse and utilitarian at best. Our menu usually comprised of simple things like egg salad, peanut butter and Guava jelly, or tuna fish were our typical preferred fare. All washed down with a thermos full of Kool Aide. Simple, yes…but we could not have been happier.

Often, nearing the end of day, the local mussel man fisherman would return from a day of hauling in his boldly painted rowboat. He would set up his pot on the edge of the nearby shoreline at the base of the sharp cliffs. He would boil his pot full of seawater over an open flamed fire. This is where he steamed open his catch open to bottle for sale. It was close enough to catch our attention, and the smell still lingers, marking a long-gone time into the annals of my memory. Today in evidence there remains a mound of shells feet deep crushed by the passage of time into a veritable man-made beach.

Then, at the end of a day, we would make our small cedar fire as the sun set after an afternoon of swimming and exploring the nearby environs of this little slice of paradise. It was a magical place that holds a dear spot in my heart. It was heaven on earth and just like Mark Twain told reporters when asked back in the day. Those famous words that transcend time when he was asked if he believed there was a heaven while vacationing in Bermuda. His answer simply, ‘You can go to Heaven if you want, I’ll stay right here in Bermuda.’ Those being my exact sentiments to this day!

It was dark and now, suddenly realizing I had been lost in my thoughts for an indeterminable time. I softly returned from my musings and collected myself, noticing the moon was up fully now, casting silvery slivers, dancing like a musical score across the light chop. I sighed at the sheer beauty, pausing to admire it before putting my wet feet back into my docksiders. Now walking slowly back to my vehicle parked a little further down the tracks, lost in the solitude of self. These memories bringing me a sense of peace and place to be cherished for a lifetime

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