PART OF A COMMENTARY I DID FIVE YEARS AGO. THOUGHT A REPRISE WAS TIMELY UNDER PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES:


It was small scale fishing from their base at Calabash Bay, Treasure Beach that sustained my great-grandfather, Richard 'Sonnie' Moxam (1864-1939), his brothers and their children. That was the legacy he bequeathed to my grandfather Norman Moxam and his 12 children. My father, Carl Moxam, followed, as a matter of course, and did well by his 11 children.

The picture has changed dramatically, however, for those who have followed. Gone is the assurance of a steady income from the sea - those glistening strings of snapper, weighed by mammoth scales, or those giant lobsters destined for tables rich.

Gone too is the bustle and excitement of 'Maakit Day' at Calabash Bay and nearby Great Bay, nestled against the giant Pedro Bluff. Those days when jovial vendors from the Malvern Hills swooped down on the plains for fair exchange with their fisher friends - the former with yam and pumpkin fresh from the vine; the latter with fish a-plenty for the homeward journey up the steep incline.

Legend of 'Pugilist'
Who has not heard the legend of 'Pugilist', the strong, squat vendor, who, with giant basket atop a steady head, would go marching, almost at a run, back up to Munro, at the summit of the hill, just in time with fish, fresh for the boarders' supper? Some of today's beach exchanges are not so benign. Just as fresh, they come by sea - parcels of lead or powder so pure - but with deadly intent or consequences as dire.
The jokes of old are not so ready these days, on the lips of honest men who return from futile trips with nothing to show but mounting debt and more reasons to fret.

So, when next you come for your annual literary fix, at picturesque Calabash Bay, spare a thought for what used to be, and what, perhaps, will be.

The wrath of the dispossessed makes for moving prose and poetry, too.

It is more than 50 years since I lived in Frenchman, but I will always have those memories of 'Maakit Day' at Calabash Bay. Thanks Earl.

I remember, as a small boy in the 1940s, my mother buying fish in Mandeville from a man who had run with his catch all the way up from Alligator Pond.

Now that was a wonderful service!

The man must have been immensely fit to carry it from sea level to 2500ft. Marathon Man indeed. Odd that Jamaica's Olympic achievements lie with sprints and middle distances. There must exist Marathon potential in them thar hills!

As one of the 12 disciples so to speak I feel your pain,I share your grief
I find your piece poetic, indeed, gone are the days when the aroma of a turbot on an open grill,would be all we need for a natural high. Scales were used to weigh the protein from the sea. Much of the produce now, is counted instead.