Every now and then you run into people who are true masters at what they do. There is a fellow in Cayman I wrote about before who makes beautiful knives from old files and black coral, every knife unique, every one a work of art. As a youngster, I remember a Pomeroon boatman who would navigate the creeks as night fell with a torchlight avoiding all the takubas; he never damaged a single boat. There is a Trinidadian craftsman who uses high tech grinders and polishers to make delicate exquisite jewellery from coconut shells; I would put the jewellery in your hand, tell you it’s coconut shell, and you wouldn’t believe me. They leave you in awe, these people, with how good they are at what they do.
Two weeks ago, I met one in my yard. He had come there to cut down a tree close to the fence line. This was no sapodilla or jamoon expression. This was a Royal Palm that my wife had planted some years ago so you know this was a monster. Still young as trees go, this one had reached a
