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#1 May 12, 2021 8:53 pm

New Historian
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Never Give Up

The fatal thing is to give up trying – to allow that sense of innate ability to become submerged, turning to a feeling of frustration and then indifference. By so doing we shall cheat ourselves of some of the best things in life. Once started on the road to good craftsmanship there is no knowing where a man will stop. One thing has an odd way of leading to another, interests and accomplishments to grow and thrive by the way. To the end of our days we shall probably still feel conscious of the things we might have done and did not, the things we might have been and were not, but in so far as we were willing to pay the price of achievement, we shall have something to show for having lived.

Darwin F. Samuel, 1955.

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#2 May 13, 2021 8:43 am

Slice
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Re: Never Give Up

Who the hell is Derwin?  Giving up is not in Slice DNA.  Frustration maybe, but never ever give up.  Good words to live by NH.

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#3 May 13, 2021 10:35 am

New Historian
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Re: Never Give Up

Darwin was me Dad, subject of the book:

A reviewer wrote:

This memoir, a touching tribute to the author’s father, is a welcome addition to the Caribbean / Windrush literary scene, telling his family's unique journey with elegance, wit and passion, sometimes painfully so. A Windrush story, but one that didn’t end when they got to England. A single-parent family, but in this version it’s the British mother who abandons the family, thrusting her three sons onto the sole care of their West Indian father. A challenge he readily accepted, embarking on a chaotic journey through the Caribbean, England, America and back again. The book is based on letters, photographs, documents and memorabilia collected by the author's father and stored in a cardboard box he’d liberated from the White Knight Laundry Service, many of which are reproduced in the book. One fascinating inclusion is the 1950 diary of the author’s grandfather, a Peasant Proprietor in the Crown Colony of Grenada, recording a tumultuous year both for his family and the whole island, engulfed in a violent uprising against British colonial rule. The book ends with the tragic death of the author’s father, finding his mother and putting old ghosts to rest. A thoroughly enjoyable read.

Okay so that reviewer was me, but I’m sure the real ones will be just as good!

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#4 May 13, 2021 10:52 am

Dancer
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Re: Never Give Up

..did not read your reply NH.

This is my answer to your 'don't give up'  ..... wanted to be fresh .lo
..................................
New Historian  you are on the right track , good advice to all . ( Samuel ? )
> Faith
Move mountains. lol.
...........

Anyhow ::::  from the book of your 'Tall Tales'    REFRESH us with ... if you please .
Thank you .
...Fighting with the fish on de boat .
... Running from a 'dupee' ... you think
.... Bad weather on de boat

Appreciate it .  lol.

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#5 May 13, 2021 1:28 pm

New Historian
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Re: Never Give Up

The one that (mercifully) got away:

    As we got nearer the coast of Grenada we came across quite a few small fishing boats. The days of sail among Grenada's fishermen are long gone, replaced by the ever more practical outboard engine, and today's fishing boats are almost identical pirogues of about twenty feet. The fishermen nod, we nod back. They seemed to be doing pretty well, so Gerry and I decided to try our hand at a bit of fishing. Neither of us were fisher folk, in fact we both hated fishing, but before leaving Barbados we bought a lure and hand line to try our luck. The bait was a rubber blue and yellow-coloured squid, which struck me as odd because I never saw a blue and yellow squid, but as we were shortly to find out, it obviously worked. We played it out, cleated it off and forgot about it. We had more important things to do. Like tan and rehydrate. 


About twenty minutes later I looked back and saw something thrashing about in the water. I slowed down the boat and we got a better look: jeez it was big. Very big. What the hell was this? Gerry put on his gloves, got his hands around the spool and started to wind the fish in. It wasn't easy; he was fighting all the way. We were impressed by the sheer power of the brute, and it took all of Gerry's not inconsiderable strength to haul him in, after one hell of a battle. The fish would go into a furious frenzy, jumping out of the water and making a big splash so that Gerry could barely hold him. Then he’d play possum for a while, gathering his strength, while Gerry also gathered his.

I watched this battle, entranced. Go on Gerry, get him! Ten sweaty minutes later, Gerry wearily hauled the fish up to the transom of the boat. When we got a good look at him, we were amazed. The thing was enormous! But what kind of fish was it? All we knew was that it was big. Very big. With sharp teeth. Very sharp.
   
But what now? We were so busy fighting the fish, we hadn't thought about what to do when we won. We had no gaff, net or fishing equipment of any kind – we didn’t even have any ice. And what if we got him on board? I had visions of this mad beast inside the cockpit, thrashing, gnashing and wreaking havoc on my boat - and us if we weren’t careful. If we did manage to kill him, then what? We’d have this big, dead, smelly fish on our hands, with no ice and no cooler big enough. We’d clearly bitten off more than we could chew, why couldn't we have caught a nice little snapper, instead of this monster? 

Our immediate problem was how to kill the thing. Pulling the thrashing fish into the boat was out of the question. Gerry figured he’d haul it out of the water and hold it there until it ‘drowned’. So he leaned over the back of the transom, grabbed the backstay with one hand and with the other lifted the frantic fish out of the water. Better him than me, I thought. 

As Gerry lifted the fish up halfway over the transom, we could get a good look at him. He was beautiful. About four feet long with a sleek, glossy torso covered in brown and silver stripes. He seemed to look at me, his mouth snapping at air, and something inside me broke a little. How could we kill this noble beast, with the heart of a warrior?  He began to feel tired. I began to feel bad. I grabbed the camera and snapped a picture.  Just as I was about to cut the line, the fish made a final lunge against the transom. Thud!  He literally bit the boat, leaving a row of vicious tooth marks two feet above the waterline. The line snapped and the fish leapt in a graceful arc, and disappearing into the deep. We saluted him: go well, brave friend.
   
We breathed a sigh of relief. The episode had a morally correct ending. The fish lived to fight another day, and we got a picture, to prove our fisherman’s tale. Months later I showed the picture to some fisher folk, who said it was a wahoo, probably about 40-50 pounds. Which was a very big fish. I hope he’s still out there, terrorizing fishermen off Grenada's west coast.

Big-fish.jpg

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#6 May 13, 2021 4:42 pm

houston
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Re: Never Give Up

New Historian wrote:

The fatal thing is to give up trying – to allow that sense of innate ability to become submerged, turning to a feeling of frustration and then indifference. By so doing we shall cheat ourselves of some of the best things in life. Once started on the road to good craftsmanship there is no knowing where a man will stop. One thing has an odd way of leading to another, interests and accomplishments to grow and thrive by the way. To the end of our days we shall probably still feel conscious of the things we might have done and did not, the things we might have been and were not, but in so far as we were willing to pay the price of achievement, we shall have something to show for having lived.

Darwin F. Samuel, 1955.

Truly inspiring words NH.
Your dad must have been a very wise man.

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#7 May 13, 2021 6:24 pm

houston
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Re: Never Give Up

NH, my Grenadian stepson is a Samuel from the Piedmontemp area. I may have mentioned that before.
Just a bit of trivia.

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#8 May 13, 2021 6:57 pm

New Historian
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Re: Never Give Up

Any Samuel from Perdmontemps is a cousin of mine. And I see you spelled it the correct way! There are two versions of how Perdmontemps got its name. One legend has it the name derives from the French Perde Mon Temps – Waste My Time. But an alternative legend, from no less than my grandfather, holds a different view. The town sits directly underneath a towering volcanic cone, Morne Gazo or Mongozo, and the true name as spelled on his letterhead was Pied Montagne – Foot of the Mountain. I prefer that version.



Endee-Letterhead.jpg

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#9 May 14, 2021 8:02 am

Dancer
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Re: Never Give Up

Good story NH . Movement ,  action , touch of tall tales about it . Is this sucker true . ? lol
But there is photo evidence .  smh  .
N  Historian , you have got to name your 'episodes'  better ,' not no one that got away . ' The Wahoo  ? '
............
............
Your book seems to want to tell a 'current' story , very  apt in today's   'spiking' multicultural world .  And from your description ' an interesting journey ....... but NH , " you gotta get invited to ' Island Dinners '  in and out of the island  NY , TO , London , JCB covention ,   Gree High school old scholars dinner dance. Be a guest speaker.
Spice up some of those  same ole , same ole , Dinner Dances .  Good PR.
....

Canadian , TV , radio  , love those types of stories .  ........Just saying.

A Different Booklist
779 Bathurst St
Toronto

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#10 May 14, 2021 8:50 am

Slice
Active

Re: Never Give Up

New Historian wrote:

Darwin was me Dad, subject of the book:

A reviewer wrote:

This memoir, a touching tribute to the author’s father, is a welcome addition to the Caribbean / Windrush literary scene, telling his family's unique journey with elegance, wit and passion, sometimes painfully so. A Windrush story, but one that didn’t end when they got to England. A single-parent family, but in this version it’s the British mother who abandons the family, thrusting her three sons onto the sole care of their West Indian father. A challenge he readily accepted, embarking on a chaotic journey through the Caribbean, England, America and back again. The book is based on letters, photographs, documents and memorabilia collected by the author's father and stored in a cardboard box he’d liberated from the White Knight Laundry Service, many of which are reproduced in the book. One fascinating inclusion is the 1950 diary of the author’s grandfather, a Peasant Proprietor in the Crown Colony of Grenada, recording a tumultuous year both for his family and the whole island, engulfed in a violent uprising against British colonial rule. The book ends with the tragic death of the author’s father, finding his mother and putting old ghosts to rest. A thoroughly enjoyable read.

Okay so that reviewer was me, but I’m sure the real ones will be just as good!

Wifee collects Caribbean writers. If it is Caribbean she got it.  Where can we get it?

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