The big crocodiles went low in the water, those cold, predator eyes just breaking the surface of the swamp.

I was seven. I froze.

James Bond was snookered this time. They had gathered. The tiny island on which he stood was surrounded.

I inhaled sharply, held my breath.

My older brother Matt whispered, ‘Calm down, flip’s sake. He’ll be alright.’

And then my brain exploded.

Bond had leapt forward, one foot onto one croc’s head, the other on another. The monstrous creatures arched around, slammed fearsome jaws together. But he was gone, step-stoned back to shore.

And the music boomed. And I was in pieces.

Forty years later and I’m telling this to Buddy in Jamaica. He runs the Falmouth Swamp Safari Village. No one comes here much from what I can see. Buddy says things are quiet. He smiles, asks me, my wife and two children to follow him.

I’m way too excited as we walk to where they shot the scene, the scent of mangroves and bloody chunks of whatever he feeds those crocs both heavy in the warm, still air.

My wife touches my arm. She’s close to telling me to calm down.

Two minutes later and Buddy’s let me onto what remains of that tiny, disappearing island. No crocs near yet my heart’s thumping. Vivid memory is merging with this vivid moment. I’m seven again.

I collect myself, pick up a keepsake pebble.

Buddy was there when they filmed Live and Let Die. He lived near, a wide-eyed little boy around my age at the time.

On the way out I say, ‘Did Roger Moore speak to you?’

Buddy nods, ‘Yes,’ he says, his tone flat. ‘He said it was too hot and he was scared.’

And, weirdly, I feel disappointed, hauled back to reality by the same man who had made this most surreal of days.

‘But,’ he says, stopping, hands lifting, a smile breaking, ‘then he became James Bond and it was….’ and he takes a sharp inhale, covers his mouth.

And I’m holding my breath too, smiling too. ‘I know,’ I say.