In Anguilla there is a shade tree right by where the rocky ledge that holds Malliouhana Resort meets one of the world’s finest sandy beaches, Meads Bay. Under this tree is a little white row boat over turned and resting in the sand. It disappears early in the morning, but without fail, will be returned to its place before sundown. The boat belongs to Evans.
The day I met Evans struck me as profound and its meaning hasn’t diminished any over the last couple of years. I am certain it will not ever lose its magic in my mind. It was a moment in time that dragged out longer than the measured minute. The words passed between this old man Evans and I bounced along on something other than just air. The sea stretched out longer than to the horizon. There was something eternal about meeting Evans. An echo of a thought kept bouncing back and forth through the caverns of my mind. There was a little bit of God on this beach with me and Evans. I knew I’d meet this moment again, when all was said and done and I reviewed my life, deciding if I was proud of myself, judging whether or not I ever got the hint.
It was a rare day, one that included my mom and sister since they had come to visit me on the island. The two of them leaving Anguilla without savoring Meads Bay, with its blindingly white, fine sand and crystal turquoise water that creates a striking horizon againt the sky, is not a good idea.
Imagine this: You close your eyes. You are standing in warm powder white sand, with your feet sunken to the ankle, hearing the waves crash loudly and fade as they wash back into the Great Atlantic, and as you open your eyes, you squint due to the glare of the sun on the white sand, the crystal refractions of the water, and the sheer intensity of the concept of forever in front of you. You are possibly the only one on this beach. You are alone with massive ocean water in front of you. No noise besides that of your breath, your heart beat, your quiet thoughts, and the nautical sounds of wind and water. Perhaps a seagull is bobbing in front of you as it looks for lunch. The next shore north of here is Greenland. This is the scenery that evokes the word paradise in so many minds.
We were happy, giddy with girly delight; all three of us girls were frolicking about in Earth’s rendition of heaven and Meads Bay was a divine idea. It didn’t take long before we were splashing about and swaying and floating in the anything but threatening waters. I had drifted toward the rocks, away from my mom and sister, when I came up for a breath and saw the subject of my curiosity for the past 7 or 8 months. The little white row boat was humming right toward me. Oddly, the row boat was motorized. I waited and watched as the boat pulled up next to me and then passed me toward the shore with a friendly nod and soft smile from the man directing it. It was all surreal. From nowhere, in that giant ocean, came this little man in his little boat and he puttered right past me as if I were in traffic back in the States. I watched him intently.
He anchored himself, and climbed out of the boat, his legs looking so frail that I was itching to go help him. He had old faded blue shorts on and a back brace and some straps that looked a little bit like suspenders. He was so dark. In a landscape of the intensely bright, my eyes gravitated to him in all of his depth and darkness. He was such a contrast. He removed the motor, which looked heavy, from the back of his boat and dragged it up the shore and up the slight hill to his shade tree and came back to his boat to grab his coolers. I was near him now and spoke out.
“Do you mind if I help you?”
Evans looked at me and with a wisdom that allows humility said he didn’t mind. He and I together carried his very heavy cooler to be placed by his motor. And then we carried another. And then, the big job. We laid slats in the sand to make parallel tracks, fetched the boat, and pushed it up on the tracks so that it glided across the top of the sand. We did this time and time again until the boat reached its place by the shade tree. I looked at Evans and asked him how he did this by himself. He said he just did and that he did it everyday of his life- unless a hurricane was coming.
Evans and I talked for a while. He showed his fish to me. They were colorful, shades of blue and purple and some speckled, some red. He named them and I pretended to be impressed by the names. I knew nothing of fish. He asked me how I liked Anguilla and told me how to go about becoming a ‘Belonger’, one who is not a visitor, not an Expat, but one who truly belongs to Anguilla and is accepted by the Anguillan people. Stories were told of how he used to go dancing at Sandy Ground, the main port area, but how the “young people” had become so rude and violent that it wasn’t fun anymore and so he stopped.
He looked at me with eyes that were tired, but wise. They were blue and foggy just like a puppy that is too young to see. The whites of his eyes weren’t so white anymore and his hands and feet were worn and tough and his legs, bowed. His walk was one of improvisation. His back didn’t bend with ease. But, when I told him I wanted to give him a ride in my car up the hill to his house, well, that body of his walked right back to the water and he did a mild belly flop into the cool water. He splashed with me like a young child and smiled and the two of us were friends for that moment in time. A twenty seven year old American girl laughing on a beach with a ninety year old Anguillan man, and not a difference could be felt!
And so, it ends like this: I sat on Evans' back porch step after we unloaded his motor and his coolers of fish and he introduced his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to me. He gave the fish to his son, who would be preparing them for dinner at the restaurant they operated next door to their house, and he left me for a moment to go around the back of his typical Caribbean house. In his hands when he returned was a paper bag with six hand-picked nautilus shells that he found in the sea. He washed the shells and gave them to me for helping him. He noticed I didn’t know what to do with fish, so instead of giving me a few of his fresh catches; he bagged the treasures he collected while out in the ocean fishing. He told me he would fish and when he looked down in the water, if he saw beautiful shells, he would stop and dive down for them and bring them back and give them a nice polish. He showed them to me like he had his fish, with such a gleam of delight in his eyes.
It was only a matter of hours, but I had learned, related, had given, and had gotten a whole lot with Evans. He was worn but elegant, old but young at heart, and in him I saw a little bit of God. He is my Evans Almighty; a reminder to take pride in simple things, an example of what one spirit can achieve all by itself even in a sea of obstacles, and the giver of a gift that symbolizes what you can find along the journey if you simply look around.
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