Port Royal

Jamaica, 1960 Ignoring the local reliquiae— neoclassical arches in ruin, courtyards, their fountains toppled, prados flourishing in prickle-weed, esplanades no longer level enough to collect rainwater, much less respect for the Imperio de España tarnished by an islander’s mock-British accent— two fisherman returned at sundown. Antiquaries themselves, these fishermen schooled in the currents, the tide, the tunneled limestone of the coral reefs, preferred the graceful curves of the £. At the landing, five children, single file, marched away the birds like soldiers, the learned lyrics escaping their lips: Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves.