He is descended from slave owners. The Bermuda
National Museum records show the names of slaves:
Sussanah, Alice, Jonathan, domestic, washer, joiner, 39,
8, 20, recorded in thin columns, like the space allotted
an African taken from their home, confined and bound
to a sea voyage. Neatly inscribed as if logged in by
a Somerset Sea Captain. Doubly captive, by space, Anglican
name. The wash of history drowning a past as the boat tumbled
waves to maintain a balance. The 1714 diagram of the ship,
the shape of a whale tooth, slave quarters, an inked-in
pattern, the scrimshaw scribbled on ivory by a whaler now
night-watcher on his long journey across the Atlantic.
What can become of this reckoning when such knowledge
resurfaces like a large mammoth circling the deep,
sounding a journey beneath sunlight and oxygen,
floating currents, until it must breathe? What could change
as a spout of water rises when a whale exhales, causes
semitropical seas to form into a Bermuda Easter lily?