14. Knight and Day at Prospect Reef

This is the most visited site on my blog.  There have been twice as many visits to this page than there have been to any other.  

Yesterday I got an e-mail from a visitor in Keene, New Hampshire USA, asking if I am a realtor (estate agent).  She said that it reads like an advertisement written by somebody trying to sell a property in the Prospect Reef complex.

I'm not and it isn't.  When I wrote it in April 2010 we had already sold our cottage and were looking forward to returning to the UK in July.  Prospect Reef really is as idyllic as I portray it.

TW    March 31st 2013

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This is a plan of Prospect Reef

We live in number 5, just 50 yards from the Caribbean Sea. I think that we live in one of the four or five best houses on the island. 

It is nowhere near the biggest or the grandest or the best appointed but it has the most wonderful location and nice neighbours.

This is it:

The grounds, which are communal and beautifully maintained contain a freshwater swimming pool and a tennis court.  

We have several palm trees and many tropical bushes, shrubs and flowers. Off shore the sea is usually flat calm and so shallow that you can wade out for the fifty or so yards until you reach the coral reef.

This is the view from our porch:              

The boat (it’s not mine) is just beyond the reef.  It is in 3000’ of water as the sea floor drops precipitously at the reef edge.

The pool with the sea beyond: 

We live on a ridge 17’ 6” above sea level.  Height is important in Cayman.  A development near us has just gone on sale with the words ”and at eight feet above sea level – safe,” in its advertising blurb.   (Hurricane Ivan did dreadful damage to many coastal properties in 2004).  

The highest point on Grand Cayman is only 57’.  Actually, it’s not the highest point on the island - the rubbish dump is.   Apparently, as a cruise ship approaches, the first glimpse that passengers have of Grand Cayman as it appears on the horizon, is Mount Trashmore, as it’s known.

The properties immediately surrounding us are all owner occupied and apart from number 9, which changed hands in 2008, they have all been occupied by the same people since we moved in nearly five years ago.

A knight of the realm lives in a nearby condo.  I usually see him at least twice every day.   He walks along the path between our house and number 4 on his way to where he parks his car.  

In almost five years we have never spoken.  We have never even exchanged glances, as he never looks up as he passes about ten feet from me as I sit on our porch.

A year ago, I confided to Caroline that I only had two ambitions left in life.  One was to have a letter published in The Times and the other was to have a conversation with Sir Alan.  

On Friday January 29th this year I achieved the first of them and on Wednesday March 10th I accomplished the other.  Except, neither Caroline nor Josie, our neighbour at number 9, agree that I did.

It was the AGM of our strata (the management body of our complex).   Under AOB I raised the matter of the difficulties visitors have in finding a particular property because the numbering doesn’t follow a logical pattern throughout.  For instance, if you were looking for number 14 and were standing outside 13, you would assume that it was close by.  In fact, it is as far away as it could be.  

People commented and I made a follow up remark.  Then Sir Alan spoke, responding to something I had said.  Then I spoke again. 

To me that is a conversation.  Not to Caroline and Josie it isn’t. 

“Did he look you in the eye as he spoke?” asked Josie.  “Err, no.” I mumbled, already feeling deflated.  “Then it wasn’t a conversation,” said Caroline.  “At best it was an exchange,” agreed Josie.  Maybe they’re right.

This morning I was standing on the grass between our house and number 9.  It was 7:05 a.m.  I was talking to three boys who live here.  One of them is Josie’s son and the other two are his friends.  

They are all about seven years old and seem to run their lives by the sun.  They get up when the sun rises and I presume that they go to bed shortly after sunset.  

At 6:15 a.m. there was a hammering on our door and I opened it to see the three of them carrying a plastic washing up bowl containing various rocks, pebbles and shells.

“Want to buy something?” they said chirpily.

“Blimey!  Do you know what time it is?”

“No, but I can go and ask my Mum,” said Huck.

“Come back in an hour,” I said and they did.

These three will probably do very well in the future.  They certainly know all about profit and sales technique now.  They often set up a stall outside number 9 with a big “FOR SALE” sign next to it and attempt to sell rubbish to passers-by.  

However, there aren’t any passers-by.  Their location is the worst on the island.  Once Sir Alan or I have turned them down they might as well pack up because they’re not going to see anyone else.

But they don’t pack up.  They sit there on their little stools and stare dolefully at Caroline and me as we sit on our porch snoozing, until she bullies me into going over to buy something.  

They have an interesting sales practice.  Even though items are priced in dollars and cents, they will not accept coins as, “we have holes in our pockets”.   So, an ugly, plain, ordinary stone priced at 13 cents, is in fact a dollar and an uncracked, unremarkable, unchipped shell will be available for $2.

Recently they have diversified their business into car–washing.  

“How much?” I asked Huck.  “I don’t know yet,” he said.  

He got into a huddle with Jesmond and Israel.  I waited expectantly.  When they broke up it became clear that Jesmond was the chief negotiator.

“Ten dollars an hour,” he announced.

“An hour!”  I said.  “How long is it going to take you?”

“I dunno yet.” He said and then looking grave and concerned, “We haven’t done one of these before and it’s a big car.” (It’s a Honda CRV)

“I’ll give you eight bucks,” I said “and it shouldn’t take you an hour, even if you do a really excellent job.”

“Fifteen,” he said.

“Nine fifty,” I suggested.

“We don’t take coins.”

“OK, ten,”

“Each,” Jesmond said, emphatically.

“Bugger off,” I countered, wittily.

Then I had a thought.  Not one of the three of them is five feet tall so how, I thought, would they be able to do the roof?

Jesmond’s response ended negotiations.  “We don’t do roofs.”

“OK,” I said, “will you start now?”

“Not yet.  We’re on a break,” said Huck.

True Caymanian boys!

Back to the story: This morning, while we were standing in the first light of the day with the sun just peeping over the horizon, haggling over the value of what was almost certainly a piece of chipped paving stone and not the “very rare and valuable” Caymanite that I was being assured that it was, Sir Alan came by.  

He was walking briskly with his head down as usual and even though he was about to pass only some two feet from me, I knew that I would not receive any kind of acknowledgement.

I reckoned without Huck. 

“Excuse me, is it true that you’ve been knighted by hermajestyqueenelizabeththesecond at Buckingham Palace?” he asked.

Sir Alan slowed.

“Mmmmmm.” He grunted.

“That’s cool,” said Jesmond.  “Did she put a sword on your shoulder?”

Sir Alan said nothing but stopped and almost smiled.

“Did you sit on a horse and wear a helmet?” asked Israel.

Sir Alan really did smile at that and very nearly laughed.

“Good morning,” I said breezily.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, certainly and definitely flashing me a fleeting glance.

I don’t care what Caroline and Josie say.  Mission accomplished.   We had a conversation!  

What shall I do next?