Mac, Big Mac, was a large man.
Black curly hair, but little of it, on the top, blooming downwards to splendid sideburns peppered with white hair -- but only a few. A wooly walrus-mustache of delightful prodigitity, with a crotch tickeler bottom spout of hair on his lower lip -- immersed like the island we are on, by an expanse of five-O’Clock sea stubble of white pin pricks -- the light reflecting off breaking waves -- set against his cured complection.
The Eyebrows and Eyes speak of a Younger Man, a Different, More Vigilant Man, more watchful then the buccolic cheek, chin, and jowls had previously suggested. The cornea is red and pink, mildly cooked from the sun’s constant glaring.
Squinting always at always the Horizon. Reflecting sunlight fromn crystalline seas and bleached beachs of Belize into the eyes dark portals -- Iris’s without visible pupil’s.
Who have peered into a decade of bright horizons, beneath the bright sun, upon scintillating seas.
“Hello” He said to me when I first met him.
a little while later he said:
“This Island was not owned by the Government, you Know. It was used by VIP’s. Drug VIP’s. This was a Drug Cartels Island. The houses were for their guests and their enjoyment. They also used it to Process and exchanges bribes with Customs Officials. For whatever reason, someone was not paid off, and they Government seized the island. And all those cement fottings, and wood piles were cabana’s but the Government just left the island, and kept a house there, or two, for Groundskeepers to live on.”
“They Even!” he intoned to me excitedly, “sold guns to the Government!”
“Bah” I said, “they always do!”
“Yah,” he chuckles. “People say I’m gay because I live out here.” he said surrealy and without context.
He continues: “On the side of this beach, on this island. They say that because I am out here alone I am gay. But the Girls here! The Whatamalean Girls: they have fine asses” as he makes a vague hand gesture which might have once been an imitation of a guy grabbing a girls butt cheeks from behind, but it was made by a sunbleached man, with some demons in his cloest, out on this island for a reason, and this type of man makes the hand gesture in a different, more resigned way which adds a new level of understanding in regards to the meaning of that particular organism of Gesture, i.e The Man Grabbing Butt Cheeks, Aggresivley Gesture.
“But they are not here” he said. “They come later in the year”
“Yes, they always do!” I said forlornly.
Conversation moves on... to Sea Turtles... of mothers who lay 140 eggs.
Of babies turtles, smaller then the palm of my hand crawling out following the moon to reach the sea: mad dash.
Mac hold’s his hands cupped in front of him, telling me how he carries the wayward ones to the sea and how they squirm and rush forward, “Full of Life, Full of Purpoise, wanting to reach the Sea.” Mac, Grizzled, becomes soft. I do to. We are both visibly moved by his story, by his passion: I pat him affectionately on the shoulder and say: “You’re a Philosopher. This is good.”
I bid him a heartfelt, and deeply empathetic goodbye, but he in jubiliation points out a school of Bone Fish in the shallows in front of us.
“The Whatamaleans come and catch these fish and use them for bait for larger fish, I have to keep them away. To protect the Bone Fish. It is part of my job too”
“Ah! The Whuatamleans” I say.
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