Among the many remarkable friends I’ve made over the years, one stands head and shoulders above the rest. I first met him on the rocky shores of Castanheiras Beach, in Guarapari. There he was, fishing with a sharpened bamboo stick, like some sort of native hunter, which promptly earned him the nickname “Sniper of Espírito Santo” from a group of mates who took great pleasure in winding him up — a nickname he absolutely loathed. His family, who always held him in the highest regard, called him Etevaldo (after that chap from Castelo Rá-Tim-Bum).
The maddest part? The bloke was actually rather good at it. On dozens of occasions, we feasted on freshly grilled fish over hot coals, washing it down with beers bought from the “Sonho Lindo” kiosk, run by Mr Manoel and Mrs Laura, right there on the very same beach where he fished.
Etevaldo was relentless — flat broke, not a penny to his name — yet somehow, against all odds, he made his way abroad, studied (heaven knows how), graduated, and went on to become a successful international businessman. Needless to say, by his side at all times was a truly remarkable woman — brave, optimistic, and utterly steadfast — his wife, known affectionately among close friends as Mrs Ounce.
Years later, we bumped into each other again and picked up right where we’d left off. One day, Etevaldo invited me to join him for a round of golf with an American billionaire who was keen on investing in his company. I had to exercise serious restraint not to call him “Sniper” to his face.
We politely offered the American the first shot. I took the second — deliberately underwhelming, mind you — and then Etevaldo, ever focused, stepped up for the third. He wound up his swing, turning his body a good three times before letting it rip.
What he hadn’t noticed was the American briskly crossing right in front of him at that exact moment.
The ball struck the poor chap square in the midsection with alarming precision, while the club itself caught him rather unfortunately lower down. The effect was immediate. His cheeks puffed out crimson red, his eyes bulged in disbelief, and he staggered about like a rodeo rider barely holding on, before collapsing onto the grass, clutching himself in utter despair.
As the course sloped downward, he began rolling — quite rapidly, in fact — shedding along the way his glasses, cap, phone and anything else not firmly attached. Despite the valiant but futile efforts of the staff to catch him, he gathered speed and ultimately came to an undignified halt among a cluster of trees at the far end of the course.
I turned to Etevaldo and said, “You’d better pray that the ‘sniper’ part of your dreadful nickname works in your favour and the chap remembers nothing of this — otherwise, you can kiss that investment goodbye. Now let’s make ourselves scarce before the police and an air ambulance turn up.”
Etevaldo thought long and hard — far too long, in fact — and some 32 minutes later, he was at the airport, bags in hand, heading off to an undisclosed location somewhere in Southeast Africa… or so I believe.
Despite reportedly appearing on wanted lists across several major police forces worldwide, he’s yet to be found. Last I heard, he’s living in a crouched stance somewhere, disguised like a native hunter, bamboo spear in hand, adorned with war paint and accompanied, as always, by his loyal companion.
Near his new home, Etevaldo has opened a small golf school, proudly bearing the slogan: “One swing can change your life.”
And life, as they say, goes on.
These days, he’s doing rather well for himself exporting yams. Over there, they call him: “Etevaldo, The Cabra.”
— Written by Helio Faria Junior
