By Paul Knowles It began like a line from a Dickens novel: “I am your boatman; my name is Cuthbert Snagg.” But this was not the Victorian era in England, it was last month, on an intriguing island named Carriacou. And Cuthbert was no fictional character –he is captain of a small boat, an expert on coral reefs, and the owner of a relaxed beach-front rum bar. Sounds like an almost ideal job description, to me. This day, his assignment was easily accomplished. He was to pick up three travel writers from the pier in Hillsborough, the main port on Carriacou. “Main port” is a relative phrase – Carriacou covers 13 square miles, with a total population of 9,000. Most of them fish for a living; and they fish in boats built on their beaches, in a construction process than includes sacrificing a couple of sheep along the way, to keep away evil spirits and attract luck. I was told that the animal is sacrificed by the local Anglican or Catholic priest, which I still find difficult to believe. Does the archbishop know about this? Carriacou is an intriguing place, existing in a time of its own. This is an island where some of the inhabitants use chlorine to purify their water, collected from the roof when it rains. But others place a school of tiny fish, called “millions”, in their cisterns, believing the fish cleanse the water. This school of thought has its critics among the health officials of Grenada (Carriacou is officially part of Grenada) – the habit is quaint but highly questionable. That’s why, at the table in the little diner’s garden where we had lunch, I ordered mango juice. Only later did I realize it came with ice cubes. But I saw no tiny fish frozen in the ice. And I felt fine as we made our way to the pier, to find Cuthbert Snagg and his water taxi. I wondered, as we climbed aboard Cuthbert’s small craft, if it had been built here, and if it, too, carried blood stains from a deceased ruminant. I decided not to ask. Our destination on this brief cruise was Sandy Island, a small island in Hillsborough Bay. There, the three Canadians were to be dropped to spend an idyllic afternoon, snorkelling, swimming, beach-combing and feeling threatened by pelicans of the most ominous aspect I have ever encountered. They looked exactly like Snoopy did when he enacted his vulture impression, looming down from a branch over Lucy’s head. The pelicans left us unscathed, however. As did the much less menacing plovers and sandpipers who skittered about any part of the beach we were not currently occupying. Overhead soared several frigate birds, a sight one does not see in southern Ontario on a regular basis. Or ever. How often does one have the chance to be one of only three inhabitants (if only in the most temporary sense) of a tropical island? We reveled in it. We snorkeled, floating above (and sometimes among) a wondrous variety of reef-dwelling fish – yellow snappers, groups, sergeant majors (I happen to be able to identify those particular fish, but have no clue about the dozens of other varieties that deigned to allow me to share their world for an afternoon). We swam, We explored sandy beaches that had seen no human feet for at least a few days – the treasure trove of shells, washed up by waves, was amazing; I have my very own conch shell now on my kitchen window sill. The mark I left on Sandy Island – my footprints on a pristine beach – would last only until the next tide. But the mark Sandy Island and Carriacou left on me will remain for a long time to come. Reprinted from tilsonburgnews.com