Wheaton’s Way

It’s hard to believe, but in August my family will be celebrating 50 years in the Cayman Islands.

We moved here in 1975, and fell in love with the place – as so many do. We first stayed at the old Holiday Inn (now the site of The Ritz-Carlton), and I remember the chairs in our rooms with white PVC pipe frames and lime green material. The swimming pool was a dream come true for us as kids, with its little bridges over different sections, and just a stone’s throw from the powdery white sands of the beach. All a bit of a far cry from the pebbled coast and chilly waters of southern Ireland, where we had lived before the move.

My parents found an apartment in town, not a far walk from the wonderful Wholesome Bakery, where a patty and milkshake combo was the food of kings. We got to know lots of local families through church, school and the rugby club – it really was an idyllic life, particularly when we started renting a house in Sun Sand Cottages on Seven Mile Beach. The cottages are long gone. They were in the now-Piper Way area, and I think our monthly rent for a three-bedroom house back then was about what we’re presently paying for a dozen eggs.

Okay, an exaggeration, but still – you’d get an outhouse for that money these days.

I know it’s a mark of getting older, but I do find myself remembering how marvellous it was when I was growing up here. Being able to walk the beach with no towering buildings along it; leaving doors unlocked without the fear of burglaries – the usual stuff that anyone over the age of 50 witters on about to bored teenagers. At times, like others, I worry that the Cayman of yesteryear is gone, but then something happens to remind me that – at its heart – it still has that small community feeling that drew my family here in 1975.

We have had an indoors PO box in the George Town Post Office since we moved to Cayman. It’s one of my favourite buildings in the capital, along with the others that Captain Rayal Bodden built (Elmslie Memorial Church, the George Town Public Library, and Constitution Hall). It has that wonderful timber ceiling, designed by a skilled shipbuilder, and the stacks of letter boxes have been around for ages.

When there was less traffic, and my Dad was working in town, it was a very convenient location from which to pick up mail. But now none of us work in the area and, of course, there have been all the roadworks, plus many more cars on the island. It’s difficult to find parking, as you know. When we got the notice to pay our annual fees this year, we wondered if we should continue renting the box. Most correspondence is electronic these days – could we really justify keeping it?

But I couldn’t let it go. It was such a big part of our history in Cayman – it was how we got all our Christmas cards and letters from friends and family overseas. When we were kids, our grandparents would send British comics like ‘Dandy’, ‘Beano’ and ‘Bunty’ to us. Dad would come home from work with the instantly recognisable brown paper-wrapped tube, and we’d race to grab our favourites. That box has held a lot of memorable content over the years, much of it sent with love.

You could ask why we don’t move the address to, for example, the West Shore branch, where we can check our mail 24/7 instead of working around opening hours. Much more convenient for our lifestyles, and no parking issues.

Nope, can’t do it. I’ll rent an additional, but not a replacement. I think we almost consider it a badge of honour to have a box in such an historical building. In January, we paid rental up front for two years. I’m sure it’ll be the same case in 2027.

You’ll be prying that key from my cold, dead hands.

Earlier this week, I had to go into town to pick something up from a local shop. As I got a good parking spot, I figured I’d go and check the mail while I was at it. It had been a few weeks since the last time.

I hope others are better than I when it comes to navigating the new traffic path in the area. Apparently, as soon as I’m walking on any kind of paving stones, I consider it to be a pedestrianised area. Not the case for that ‘revitalised’ part of George Town between Old Havana Cigars and the post office, where I nearly got squished by oncoming cars.

Anyway, I survived to write this column.

I went in; admired the interior of the building, as always; chatted briefly with the friendly, smiling staff; and got the mail. I sifted through the letters, and found one that shouldn’t have been in there. The box number on it was way too long, so I handed it to one of the counter attendants. It was only then that I realised the letter belonged to work colleague and friend, Shanda Gallego. I told the attendant, who asked if I happened to know what box number Shanda had. I didn’t, but I said I could call her. So I got her on the phone, she gave me the correct number, we wrote it on the envelope and the staff said they would put it in the correct box.

I know that the above must seem like a really minor thing, but it instantly reminded me of the small-town neighbourliness of Cayman. The attendant could have just put the envelope in the ‘wrong box’ bin, and waited for it to be identified and redirected, but she was happy for me to give tracking down my friend a try first. In a big city, what were the odds that I would know the person on the envelope? What were the odds that the staff would be willing to make that effort, when it would be so much easier to just have it returned to sender and let it be someone else’s problem?

I thought back to when I’d call a phone company on the island (through landline, of course, and all staff worked in Cayman) or some other service provider, and as soon as I gave my name, they’d ask how my parents were doing. Was Mummy still teaching? Was Daddy still working for that firm? They hoped we were all doing well. Most of them immediately recognised my voice. There would always be a “God bless” at the end of the conversation.

I can’t recall who in my family thought of it as a fun theatre skit, but they imagined tourists renting a car along with a local GPS. They’d plug in the name of a destination, and the GPS would give directions as we would have been given them in the ‘70s before road signs really kicked in.

“You take the first turn by where Mr. Astley’s old house used to be, then past two lefts until you see the wooden bin up ahead where you bear right at the pile of conch shells … .”

Things are definitely changing around here. There is lots of new construction and some areas are unrecognisable from when we first moved to the island 50 years ago. But thankfully we haven’t lost everything that makes Cayman what it has always been: Home.