My uncle saw a mermaid once. He told me he was returning from a solo fishing expedition on a solitary rock off Anguilla's Prickly Pear Cays called “Big Flirts” and spied the strange creature sunning herself on a smaller rock a few hundred yards away and appropriately called “Little Flirts”. He said she was combing her hair with a shark’s jawbone and wore nothing above the waist. He said she invited him onto the rock for awhile and then taught him a few swimming tricks in which she had the decided advantage of having a tail rather than two feet. Best of all she taught him how to kiss under water.
I was 10 years old when I heard that story. It was night time, a few days before Christmas, and my uncle was in a good mood. His son, my cousin, was with us and he too was engrossed with the story although I suspect he had heard it before. Looking back after all these years I have wondered whether the names “Big Flirts and Little Flirts” had anything to do with his inspiration. But I remember that the rest of what could have been a very interesting climax to the story was interrupted by the arrival of his good friend Winston, who suddenly appeared at the kitchen door. He, Winston, or “Ninta” as he was called, was already under the influence of “pre-Christmas cheer” and was in an even better mood than my uncle. In no time they were both bellowing out a new and yet unheard version of “It came upon a midnight clear” at the top their lungs and stories of mermaids and flirting had disappointingly receded.
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| Anguilla's Prickly Pear Cays |
I was 10 years old when I heard that story. It was night time, a few days before Christmas, and my uncle was in a good mood. His son, my cousin, was with us and he too was engrossed with the story although I suspect he had heard it before. Looking back after all these years I have wondered whether the names “Big Flirts and Little Flirts” had anything to do with his inspiration. But I remember that the rest of what could have been a very interesting climax to the story was interrupted by the arrival of his good friend Winston, who suddenly appeared at the kitchen door. He, Winston, or “Ninta” as he was called, was already under the influence of “pre-Christmas cheer” and was in an even better mood than my uncle. In no time they were both bellowing out a new and yet unheard version of “It came upon a midnight clear” at the top their lungs and stories of mermaids and flirting had disappointingly receded.
When I was finally put to bed, I lay staring at the dark ceiling for what seemed like hours, and after all those years am still struck by the power of stories. In one night, I heard a strange new one and was reminded of another, 2000 years old.
By David Carty
