Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

yard squeaked skywards. Short strips of coconut rope had been tied to the repaired sail to keep it tightly furled. The doc led the singing of a Swahili shanty as the men heaved.

Oh Allah, fill our great sail with wind.

Allah helper! Allah helper!

Rise up, great yard,

Give strength to our arms,

Swell out, great sail!

The singing was powerful and masculine, even Rafiki’s young voice had found a deep resonance. Paul joined in where he recognised the words. Sweat dripped off the haulers as blocks and halyard creaked and protested. Once the yard was in position, the engine coughed into life. Paul and Taki heaved on the anchor rope, the wet line coiling around their feet as Jamal slid slowly forward. Up came the chain, coated in transparent green weed and then the anchor with its muddy flukes, which they yanked over the bows and on to the foredeck.

Husni prodded the engine into gear and swung the vessel in a wide arc to starboard, close by the island. Paul looked back at Galoh. Farid and Mohamed were standing on the beach, both wearing white kanzus. Paul remembered it was Friday, mosque day for the people of the coast. He made a grand wave, swaying his whole arm back and forth in an arc. The two figures returned the greeting — a slow, almost ceremonial sweeping of their arms through the air. Behind them, the little village seemed a place of timeless peace. Paul felt a pang, an undirected yearning for something he couldn’t properly define. Everyone else was silent, looking back at the shore. Only Husni looked east, seeking the best course through a gap in the barrier reef.

Just then, Farid raised his rifle to the sky and fired three shots. Crack, crack, crack! The hollow sound echoed off the island, rending the morning air. The sailors on Jamal responded, shouting ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The hair stood up on the back of Paul’s neck. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs. The sailors continued calling until the two men on the beach were reduced to tiny white specks.

‘Okay vijana, enough jihad,’ said Husni. ‘That goes for you, too, Paul. Get ready to unfurl the sail.’

The men prepared the lines and mainsheet, and loosened the shrouds on the starboard side. As Jamal chugged through a gap in the reef, the water changed colour from jade to dark blue. Waves crumbled on either side of them. Black serrations showed above the surface and Husni chose his course carefully. Once they were clear, the captain shouted: ‘Chia damani! Sheet in!’

Paul and Taki yanked on the mainsheet and one by one the palm strops parted with a pleasing snap as wind filled the canvas; the sail looked like a shirt whose buttons were being ripped by an overzealous lover. There was a bang of impatient cotton as the lateen ballooned. The two men brought the sail under control, hauling in the mainsheet and taking a turn on a bollard for purchase.

‘Not too much, we’ll be sailing tingi,’ said Husni. He bore off, allowing the breeze to fill the cloud of canvas above their heads. The doc let out an ancient cry:

Let us go, oh Allah,

let our good ship go,

for we are bound for home!

Paul looked to the northeast, his mind filling the sea with a fleet of every kind of dhow that had ever existed. Beautiful ghost ships decked with bunting and silken flags, the horizon studded with a thousand triangular sails. The great armada sailed down the sunlit sea towards them. Mighty baghlas with horned figureheads and tall spreads of canvas, Indian kotias flying extra jibs and kites, date-laden booms from Kuwait and sambuks with proud scimitar bows from Oman and the Red Sea. And in the centre of the fleet, a mtepe, leaning gracefully to the breeze.

Jamal picked up speed and, for a moment, rode a swell. White water boiled around the prow and gurgled down her flanks. The men were looking around, smiling at each other. This band of blue-water brothers was back where they belonged, thought Paul, returning home to lives that followed the rhythms of Islam, the rhythms of wind and ocean.

Husni was looking south, a firm set to his jaw. A man of the sea, not of the land and its complications. An older brother trying to undo the mess of a younger sibling. Or maybe a much, much more complicated story.

A gust caught the dhow and she heeled over, bowed for a moment by the force of the wind. Then Jamal responded, accelerating, her prow lifting. She rode a big, Indian Ocean roller, racing down its face. The doc and Rafiki were in the bows, crying out in delight.

‘Is this the Kaskazi?’ Paul asked.

‘Yes,’ said Husni. ‘The summer monsoon is here at last.’

***

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A NOTE TO THE READER

 

Dear Reader,

Thank you for taking the time to read Whoever Fears the Sea. I do hope you enjoyed it. The problem of piracy along the African coast is a perennial one, and the troubles in Somalia have spread to Kenya, West Africa and, more recently, northern Mozambique. The origins of these conflicts are complicated and things are seldom as they seem. I wanted to convey this complexity in my novel, but also something of the beauty of the East African coast and its rich maritime and cultural history.

Strife on the high seas, particularly of an African variety, holds an abiding fascination. Much of my writing involves such nautical themes and my latest novel, The Cape Raider, is the story of a minesweeping flotilla, led by Lieutenant Jack Pembroke, operating off the southern tip of the continent during World War II.

I will be tracking Jack’s story