I am a traveller and my various areas of work require me to leave this land of my birth frequently but usually not for long. Much as I love leaving, I am thrilled to return to the rock where I have designed for myself, a quality of living that is pretty much like that of a tourist. I begin everyday in a very special place, with the almost daily fulfilment of a rainbow of promise.

This is indeed Rainbow City and I get to witness that promise on Crocus Bay at dawn. Sometimes I take sides when the sun and the moon battle for daylight over Crocus Bay and I never fail to give thanks. On my more familiar home islands there is always a place that personifies the spirit of the land that gives a sense of place. In St. Kitts it is Fort Street; in Nevis it is Main Street; in Dominica it is Grand Bay; in Trinidad it is San Juan Market and in Anguilla, for me that place is Crocus Bay.

Crocus Bay is not Shoal Bay, nor is it Rendezvous, Meads Bay or the Cove. It is our very own home grown Bay, our front yard and those of us who frequent it regularly, share a bond not only with each other but with the bay. It cannot be characterised as a tourist beach because on the bay there are usually the regulars, other Anguillians, and visitors staying either at Lloyd’s Brooklands or elsewhere, who have discovered the Spirit of the Bay. Now that the bay is blessed with the presence of Queen da Vida, the pool of new discoverers is expected to grow. The regulars include fishermen for whom I would vote for if they would run. They are a group of self-employed and therefore self-assured, mostly men. Occasionally there is a fisherwoman. They always know what is going on in the country and are never short of ideas for better governance and better government too. This morning, one of them went out and caught a puppy shark, just so. I learned that when they are that pale, light greenish colour they are called “lemon” sharks. I’ll say a little more about that later. Other regulars are all ages and they come from all walks of life and some are there before the sun comes up. This is Anguilla so there are usually a few relatives in the mix. When someone does not show up, we find out from each other out of concern to ensure that there is nothing wrong.

Now you have to understand that Crocus Bay is the bonus for doing Crocus Hill. One of my favourite cousins is quite slim and fit and I promise that one of these days in another life I am going to run up Crocus Hill with her. Another runner up, in the same profession too, looks like someone with whom I always want to be friends and with whom I never want to get into a fight. A third runner up also has that powerful look that makes me think a real man is a man who can run up Crocus Hill. Sorry all you brethren out there who haven’t even tried. Consider yourselves invited. I guess David Lloyd must be a superstar – long time I haven’t seen him running up the hill but he can do it backwards.

What is so special about this bay on which I have the best start possible to my day? I could wax historical and tell you all about 700 Frenchmen who landed with De la Touche on 21 May 1745 and who were whupped by Governor Hodge and his militia of 150 men. Or I could tell you about the Momson and Uncle Willy boat race held there traditionally on New Year’s Day. Or I could tell you about De Chan and its colourful owner who is anything but Cool when it comes to boat racing. When you listen to his radio commentary you will understand that his breadth of knowledge has something to do with Crocus Bay. Or, I could use the description found in one popular publication which says, Crocus Bay is “Good for swimming and snorkelling. Fishing village so not as private as most beaches. Restaurant and bar.”

I could talk about the way my children used to frighten me with tales of swimming out to the Bear’s boat and jumping off it with his permission when I could not explain how and when they had learnt to swim. I still cannot, and so I probably impress only myself with my belly flops, my dog paddling, my weightless motions in the water up to my neck and no further and, best of all, my fine floating on my back. To others I may be a whale but I feel like a fish – a fish that cannot swim. I will learn to swim. I will learn to swim in 2010.

Much as I love the water, I practice some avoidance of looking before I enter because there is breakfast taking place all around us. Just beyond my spot there are fairly large dark shapes sometimes chasing smaller dark shapes, sometimes leaping right out of the water. I don’t mind the little schools swimming around me but I hope that the bigger ones a little further out are more enticing breakfast prospects. No matter how relaxed I am, there is always an eye looking for that menacing fin which would automatically be accompanied by the da da, da da, da da, da da of the Jaws soundtrack in my head. But I do not dwell on such thoughts. All them critters out there had better learn to share the bay with us and we would be better off remembering the necessity of being humble and polite when visiting someone’s home. The sight of our little lemon-coloured friend this morning was enough for me thanks.

Last year I was in Ghana when those unusual ground seas washed up the rocks and boulders on Crocus Bay. Someone knew that I needed to know and called to tell me not to expect Crocus Bay to look the same on my return home. Most of the boulders had been removed by the time I returned but I was still amazed. It was a completely changed beachscape. There were rocks where my personal beach used to be. But then I grew to love the rocks at Crocus Bay. I would marvel at their shapes and hues and designs. I started taking them home but they were simply not as vibrant in my bathroom so I’m leaving them on the beach now. My beach is as dynamic as any other so it is recovering and sand is now being replenished where there were only rocks. There is still a layer of rocks in the foreshore though and one has to step carefully or stumble over these to get to the layer of sand in the shallows just beyond. One day we will get our beach back.

Apparently not everyone loves Crocus Bay the way I do. I know that the man who just stepped out of his busted up sandals and left them there last week doesn’t love her that much. I know that whoever left the Pampers and the Styrofoam and the beer bottles really do not care because I fail to believe that the littering can be so mindless. I never knew how much the hills surrounding Crocus Bay meant to me until they began to be transformed by concrete. Anguilla thinks that concrete is synonymous with development but if Crocus Bay were really mine, when I lift mine eyes to the hills I would see only green or maybe brown. In addition to the litter the only thing that could spoil my morning, is the sight of those XXX, *****, goats. I think they sleep in those hilly crevices and come by me for breakfast. But you know what? Not even those goats will spoil my love affair with Crocus Bay as I reluctantly emerge from the water, huffing and puffing my way up the hill, fully energised for another blessed day and ready to soak it all up again tomorrow.

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