The next day I head to Prickly Pear, a pair of uninhabited islands six miles offshore, where Anguillians come to laze on the hot, white sand and swim in the incredible aquamarine sea. Snorkelling reveals nurse sharks and barracuda weaving through rock formations beside sunken shipwrecks.
I order a whole grilled snapper at Johnno’s beach shack, where finches flit between the tables. The owner tells me about how his first bar was built from the wood of dozens of rum barrels, and how he used to fish from Monday to Saturday then cook up a storm for long lunches on Sundays. He is also the only father of triplets on the island.
Johnno made me swear I’d go to a Sunday jazz session at his mainland outpost, Johnno’s Beach Stop. When I drop by it‘s rammed.
I’m now beginning to recognise people and they greet me like an old friend: the boatman, Johnno’s three identical daughters. The lead musician, Sprocka, turns out to be Daisy Wong’s son. This kind of thing happens all the time here.
On my last day I am at
on Rendezvous Bay. There’s a hand- painted surfboard on the root plus a few Christmas decorations and giant shamrocks from St Patrick’s Day parties. I sit on the sand eating barbecued chicken legs. The band is playing Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Night Nurse’. A guy with a saxophone joins in. Garvey stops by for a chat. The sun dips lower. I go for a swim behind the break. On my way up the beach I ask the waiter, Teak, when they shut up shop. ‘Not until everyone’s had enough,’ he smiles. It was going to be a long night.
