A presidential matter

“Hello. I’m Roosevelt” said Roosevelt.

“Yes, we know. We came to pick up the hat”.

“Oh, right, it’s you! You called this morning. It’s one hundred dollars,” he joked.

Kathy had been upset for weeks because her favorite hat had pulled a disappearance act somewhere on our way south to George Town. It wasn’t so much the hat itself, but the feathers she had attached to it during a solo quest on the Mojave desert. Those feathers had great sentimental value for her, as they symbolized a profound experience she went through during that trip.

Mentally reconstructing the hat movements, we concluded it had likely been left behind in the bar at Little Farmers Cay’s marina. We had enjoyed a great conversation with Roosevelt, who owned not just the marina, the bar and the restaurant, but also the clinic and the housing for the school’s teachers. He’s a direct descendant of the slave who settled on the island after been freed. The slave’s children bought the island from the British crown and later willed it to their descendants, who cannot sell to outsiders.

A month later we were approaching Little Farmers Cay on the way back north. It was a long shot, and it required a small detour, but we tried anyway: we called Farmers Cay Marina on the radio, and inquired about the hat. “Yes, it’s here”, said Roosevelt, as if it was obvious. “I knew you would have to come back someday, so I kept it for you.”

We anchored in the exact same spot we had anchored before, lowered the dinghy, rowed a short distance to the beach, and walked to the marina at the other end of the small island, where Kathy reunited with her feathers. She thanked Roosevelt profusely, hug included. He handed us his marina business card. It read “Roosevelt Nixon, President.” He was born to
be.