Every now and then you run into people who are true masters at what they do. There is a fellow in Cayman I wrote about before who makes beautiful knives from old files and black coral, every knife unique, every one a work of art. As a youngster, I remember a Pomeroon boatman who would navigate the creeks as night fell with a torchlight avoiding all the takubas; he never damaged a single boat. There is a Trinidadian craftsman who uses high tech grinders and polishers to make delicate exquisite jewellery from coconut shells; I would put the jewellery in your hand, tell you it’s coconut shell, and you wouldn’t believe me. They leave you in awe, these people, with how good they are at what they do.
Two weeks ago, I met one in my yard. He had come there to cut down a tree close to the fence line. This was no sapodilla or jamoon expression. This was a Royal Palm that my wife had planted some years ago so you know this was a monster. Still young as trees go, this one had reached a height of some 40 feet with a 30” trunk, but it was now a hazard to three of the fruit trees we had planted in the yard; when the palm’s dead branches fall, 
weighing close to 100 pounds, they can decimate the young fruit trees below, so we had to make the tough decision to cut down Mr Royal whom my wife had brought as a seedling from Shell Beach. However, the thing weighs several thousand pounds, and it is two feet from the fence. With no cherry picker crane available how do I get it down without destroying either the fence to the east or the three young fruit trees to the west?
I heard of a tree cutter living in Industry and asked him to come take a look. A wiry-looking Indian man – Vishnu ‘Eggie’ Singh – showed up early one morning, with a long coil of rope over his shoulder, and a wicked-looking cutlass, took one look, puffed on his cigarette and said, “No problem.” Not too convinced by his two-word analysis, I put in, “You sure?” Another puff: “Yeah, boss. I can put this down and don’t damage your fence or your trees. Any damage I pay.” He starts uncoiling the rope. I said, “Wait a minute; you’re not going for any more things to work with?” He smiles at his helper and says to me, “No, boss. I have everything I need.” I’m still kind of leery mind you – I’ve seen these tree cutters in bucket trucks with chain saws and electric cutters – but Eggie is already in motion.
He scrounges about 10 pieces of 1×3 lumber in the yard, I supply him with a handful of 3″ nails and a hammer, and he’s off. He puts my extension ladder against the tree, climbs to the top of it, pulls a 1×3 up by a rope, and nails it across the trunk. He climbs up to that wooden slat, sits on it, wraps his legs underneath to hold him, and nails another slat. One by one, he goes, nailing and climbing, cigarette going. Understand he’s wearing short pants and a ragged pair of flip flops. He has no safety harness – the canvas belt he usually uses is too short to go around the Royal Palm, so he discards it. I’m in shock. “It’s okay, boss, I don’t need that.” Eggie is literally clinging to this tree like a human fly with his legs wrapped around the tree like a pretzel. He drops down a rope and pulls up his cutlass. He is now about 30 feet from the ground clinging to the tree with one hand; with the other hand he’s swinging his cutlass lopping off the lower branches. Needless to say, my heart is in my mouth watching him. I go inside for a drink of water.
When I come back he’s in the heart of the tree; God knows how he got there. He manoeuvres around the heart, holding on with one hand and cutting with the other, sometimes left, sometimes right, until all the limbs are gone. Before he climbs down – my palms are sweating – he ties one end of the long rope to the very top of the tree trunk. Down on the ground, into a fresh cigarette, he starts chopping around the base of the tree, with his two helpers, 30 feet to the north, holding the rope taut. I’m incredulous. “Those two guys cannot possibly steer this tree if it don’t fall straight.” He says, “Don’t worry, skipper. Everything under control.” I’m not convinced. “There’s only 10 feet between the fence and the fruit trees.” He smiles and puffs. “Relax, skipper. We safe.” What is astonishing is that during this entire operation, Eggie doesn’t break a sweat. He’s not even breathing hard. He takes a break from the cutting, drinks some water, lights up another smoke sitting on the grass, and goes back at the tree.
After about 20 minutes’ chopping (the outer shell of the Royal Palm is very tough) the tree starts to rock slightly. He joins the helpers, does a test pull on the rope, comes back to the tree and chops some more. “She ready now,” he tells me. As they start to heave on the rope, it seems headed for the fence. I yell, “Pull to the left.” They move left, pulling hard. The tree comes down like a cannon, hits the ground and doesn’t even bounce; the top of the tree lands 3 inches from the fence. Check the photo on this page. Eggie, who by the way is 51 years old, lights what must be his 10th cigarette. “Ah cuttin’ down tree almost 40 years now, skipper. Ah know wha’ ah doing.”
I guess so.
