Eleuthera Shuttered Window

I’m balanced on the low coral‑stucco wall of a cottage in Governor’s Harbour, Eleuthera, spring of ’82. Trade winds slip through a single open shutter, nudging a gauzy curtain just enough to hint at life unfolding inside. The roofline — a sun‑bleached triangle against Bahamian blue — feels less like architecture and more like an eyebrow, gently raised. Lean closer, it seems to say, listen.

Even now, whenever I see a roofline crowned by an open shutter, I’m back on those narrow lanes of Eleuthera.

Every cottage on this lane keeps its shutters flung wide. Not for tourists, not for show, but because island houses refuse to seal themselves off from the world. No panes of glass damp the view — only cedar louvers painted hibiscus red or conch‑shell pink, thrown open to funnel breeze and birdsong. You taste the sea’s salt sting, smell frangipani drifting over limestone fences, hear the lazy slap of waves against the quay. In the instant when the curtain lifts and settles, the house itself seems to inhale, and for that heartbeat you’re welcome inside its lungs.

My Canon A‑1 rests in my lap. Years of practicing the Sunny 16 Rule have trained my eye: Kodachrome at ASA 25, ¹⁄₁₂₅ sec at ƒ/8 beneath uncompromising Caribbean sun. I raise the camera, frame roof peak, shutter, and drifting fabric, and wait. Wind billows the curtain — click. Thumb the advance lever. Another swell — click again. Behind me a scooter buzzes, and a vendor’s laugh floats down the lane, bragging about grouper so fresh it almost swims to the plate.

A third puff of wind lifts the fabric higher. I wonder what sketches of life play out beyond that window. Maybe someone is writing letters on blue aerograms. Maybe a child is tracing condensation down a bottle of Goombay Punch. Or maybe the room lies empty, the house itself pausing to cool its bones before noon heat settles like wool.

I lower the camera and simply sit. Light drapes the stucco like silk; bougainvillea tosses pink confetti into the breeze. A gecko slips across the wall, pauses as though approving my composition, then disappears. I check my watch — nearly time to head toward Palmetto Point. As we walked the narrow streets of Governor's Harbor, Mom mentioned to me and Sis that we were having pizza at Mate & Jenny’s tonight, the little cottage café on the road to the pier, famous for its crunchy conch‑topped pies. We’d order one large, douse it with bottles of Matouk’s Calypso hot sauce standing sentinel on every table, and laugh when the heat ambushed our sinuses. Just the memory warms the throat.

That coming supper adds flavor to the frame I just made. Island architecture, ocean breeze, and the promise of conch pizza — all of it flows together, each detail seasoning the next. Some photographs shout; this one whispers. It reminds me creativity doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it drifts, light as a curtain in a trade‑wind afternoon, waiting for someone still enough to notice. Even now, whenever I see a roofline crowned by an open shutter, I’m back on those narrow lanes of Eleuthera.

When screens glare too bright or deadlines tighten, I picture that roofline, that open shutter, and the curtain lifting like a sigh. I taste Matouk’s on crisp crust and remember that good light asks only to be welcomed — that perspective can arrive on the breeze long before it lands on a page.

Which view do you return to when you need perspective?

— Lawrence

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