Coast Guard at Sunset April 4
Sardines rise in a frenzy to devour some pieces of trash floating by—bread slices, half a corn cob, and something that looks like a sushi roll. The female turtle swims below me, refusing to surface, grazing on the grass among the boulders. She extends her mosaic head from a mossy shell as big as a flexible flyer, gracefully waving chubby flippers like Shelly Winters on the capsized Poseidon. She looks up while she feasts, meeting my eyes, or maybe the refracted vision through the green turbulence fools me. She will not rise to draw breath. A few bubbles percolate up, although not from her hawksbill. I am told that turtles can respire through the anus, but this one apparently only exhales.
A partly covered 16-footer sits low in the water and approaches slowly, close to shore. The six aboard are packed tight on deck cramped with equipment, some dressed in black, two wearing camouflage bucket hats. No life jackets. These guys are big and fit. One stands up and almost sinks the vessel before raising a pair of binoculars. A large assault rifle hangs from his shoulders. They could be smugglers, hitmen, pirates, kidnappers, or merely fishermen with guns.
The captain cuts the sputtering motor fifty yards away, and the men scan the grounds of The Towers. The guy with binoculars inspects my building, to the north, and I resist the temptation to yell, from the east, “Hey, I’m over here.“
The engine starts again, and the boat proceeds toward me at low throttle. I happen to be the only person on the sea wall today, as usual. Suddenly I feel conspicuous holding my own binoculars. I do not dare make direct eye contact until I figure out who these people with guns really are. Only when they get close do I spy the badges hanging from their necks. They are Coast Guard, I think, but undercover, insofar as their ragged little cruiser is unmarked and looks decidedly narco-nefarious.
I hazard a glance and see they are all looking at me now. I give them a thumbs up, receiving nothing in return but skeptical stares. They slow as they pass, then stop. Are they going to invite me to join them for sightseeing?
“How’s yuh day?“ I say with a stupid Trini accent, as if they might find it easier to accept me.
“What yuh lookin’ for?“ replies Camo Man, motioning toward my spy glasses with his head. Trini’s take their camouflage very seriously, such that only certified military can wear any. Even tank tops and cargo shorts are against the law—even during Carnival—such that ill-attired tourists occasionally get stopped at the airport, as if they have arrived to start a coup. No doubt, this guy in front of me is dressed for business.
“Birds, mostly.“ Usually men chuckle at this.
“What kind?“
Really? What kind? Are we talking about birds? Is this an interrogation, across twenty feet of seawater? I say, “Naturally, the national bird of Trinidad, the Scarlet Ibis.“
The captain cracks a wide smile. If he knows anything about the Ibis, he knows I have zero chance of seeing one here, unless birds are supposed to be women. Even so, I have been caught in a white lie.
The man standing is not amused. “Yuh see anythin’?“ He is not asking about birds or women. I shake my head and give another dumb thumbs up. They speed off without another word, skimming the waves in a wide turn before heading directly into the sun, back to port on Chaguaramas Point. It would seem that this security detail was not on some routine patrol. They cruised straight to this spot, stopped, investigated, and promptly left—as if they were looking for something, or someone, here at the seawall of my homestead.
But I will say no more, no, not to them. Certainly nothing about my flatulent turtle.