Sounds dull eh?
It was a fine Saturday morning, great temperature and conditions for playing a quick round of golf with a couple of friends.
The scene, the St. Andrews Golf Club in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad where I had been holed up for a few months, without any complaints more than a few years ago.
Edgar, another Canadian who was a teacher, was already in the clubhouse and we expected to join Bert, a local guy and golfer whose game pretty well matched ours, which meant high handicap and laughs. Bert sent word he had work to finish up, so wouldn’t be joining us. So, Edgar and I made our way to the first tee with the blessing of the club starter who was quite willing to let twosomes or threesomes take to the course on the not-too-busy days.
The club had rules … no golf carts, but very good caddies, ranked in order of their skill sets. We knew several and considered them partners as well, not just club carriers. So we hooked up with a couple of the regulars and off we went.
Just as we were making our way to the first tee, the starter hailed us, shouting out that there was another guy, just arrived who was from out of town, looking for a game, and would it be okay for him to join us?
Sure, why not?
Our soon-to-be golf partner was a smooth-looking, middle-aged guy with a refined British accent and what appeared to be a good sense of humour and not a great golf game, or so he said. So that made him a perfect partner.
Off we went in various directions from the tee. One ball soared into the rough, one into a tree line and another actually on the fairway.
By the third hole, we were all quite relaxed. Edgar and I had emitted a couple of expletives that we considered necessary as part of the game when one’s handicap is in the two-figure category.
We were now exchanging information with the new guy and how we had come to the island and what we were up to.
“So what business are you in?” Edgar asked the gentleman from Britain, who, we didn’t think had issued any expletives, even though his game was on par with ours.
“Insurance,” the guy replied rather succinctly, as his caddy, a guy we had not recognized, nodded in agreement.
“What kind of insurance?” I asked.
“Mostly fire,” he said with a smile. “I keep rather busy.”
“I would think so, also kind of exciting when it comes to investigations,” I suggested.
“You bet,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.
He then turned the queries around and asked us about what we were up to, so we exchanged more information and off we went. More swearing by Edgar and I, and a lot of laughing and occasionally the launching of a good golf shot.
We ended the game on a solid note of friendship, went to the clubhouse and the Brit bought us a couple of rum-based drinks, our favourite, and ordered one for himself.
More easy conversation about the game, the island we had grown to love and Edgar moved toward the bar to buy the next round, but the Brit refused the offer, saying he had some work to do, so he left rather promptly with a wave and another thank you for letting him join us. It was our pleasure really, we said.
After he left though, we wondered out loud what a British fire insurance salesman or investigator had to do in Trinidad. Strange, but we shrugged it off. It was obvious it had to be something substantial for him to fly all the way from the U.K. to Trinidad to take care of business.
Fast forward to the following Monday afternoon. The sun catches both Edgar and I in the same clubhouse. He’s reading the newspaper catching up on local and international news.
There, on the front page of The Guardian is a photo and article about the Anglican Archbishop paying a visit to the local churches and leading a formal service in the largest church with his flowing robes and vestments plus crosses galore.
Edgar starts to read the article and I’m looking over his shoulder since something catches my eye.
“Geez, he looks a little like that guy we played golf with on Saturday,” I said.
“Ya, and his first name is the same. Oh no, do ya think?”
“Yep, I think he’s our guy,” I replied.
“Oh crap, all that swearing we did, and what other sins did we commit?”
“I’m sure he’s heard it all before,” I said, trying to convince myself as well as my friend that all was well. “But maybe I better learn how to take photos of brimstone, just in case,” I said referring to part of my business that involved photography.
“Well, we did have fun with the Bish,” Edgar laughed. “And the Lord wasn’t any kinder to him than he was to us, in fact, I think my score was better.”
“I’m guessing he has bigger fish to fry than two stupid wayward sinners from Canada,” I suggested, hopefully.
So we read the story, thinking that perhaps the Bish was staying over and looking for another golf game so we could make amends.
We then considered the possibility that perhaps his caddy was actually a security person or part of the required entourage, not a golf expert. But we hadn’t noticed or cared about that, being too absorbed in our game and visit.
Alas, the Bish was on his way back to his homeland while Edgar and I played another round that paid tribute to our handicaps and when Bert showed up, we were happy to inform him that his replacement on Saturday had better worldly credentials than he would ever achieve, but fortunately the Brit’s golf game was no better than his. There was no divine intervention to worry about and we could now say that with some authority. The Bish was a 15 handicapper just like the rest of us sinners. There’s something comforting in that isn’t there?
