Grey clouds held the promise of rain. I watched them pile up as the clock turned to eight-thirty, then nine.

“Still playing the waiting game?”

I wondered what it looked like to Mr. D. He’d seen me arrive with a different guy every day and now I was waiting to be picked up by yet another man, even if it was a ranger.

Shortman and his companions arrived five minutes later. He apologised but he wasn’t serious. Neither was I.

“It’s Saturday. Time for liming!”

With that we were off to d’Hammerhead Bar.

“Look at that moth,” Shortman said, grabbing my arm. It sat under the ceiling like a painting, each wing the size of my hand. The jungle had come to the bar. It was time to leave.

We drove up to the RAMSAR sign that marked the Protected Area. The man who knew the swamp lived right next to it. His name was Bobby.

He showed me his catch of calalloo crabs and cascadoo. The crabs sold out before we finished lunch, prepared by Shortman who maintained that Trini men were the better cooks.

A refreshing outlook.