Whoever Fears the Sea Justin Fox (books for 8th graders .txt) 📖

sea chest behind the binnacle and brought out a wooden tablet with a string attached to the middle. ‘You hold it out in front of you like this. The lower edge must touch the horizon and the upper edge rests on the star you are observing. The end of the string, pulled taut, is in your mouth. Like so. Knots tied along the string indicate degrees of latitude,’ he mumbled, the string between his teeth. ‘It is all very simple.’

Paul nodded, although he didn’t really understand.

Ahmed spat the string out. ‘Most importantly, a nakhoda must know the mawsim, the season for sailing. We have to know the dates of the monsoon in every different region of the ocean. Getting this wrong could trap you in a foreign port for many months.

‘We must also keep our vessels safe from attack. Only last year we had a narrow escape on the Salalah coast. I anchored close in. A watchman was posted to make sure the local Bedouins didn’t cut the cables and drive us on to the rocks. The guard fell asleep and I woke to find bearded men armed with swords standing over me. The crew were rounded up on the main deck by another band of ruffians. A scruffy sambuk was tethered alongside. The Bedouins demanded my cargo of dates.

‘I told them they were welcome to the dates and all the ghanjah’s money. They merely had to allow me to open my chest. I was desperate, thinking they would burn the ship and sell us into slavery. They crowded around greedily as I took the key from my pocket and opened the lid. In the darkness, they could not see that I was reaching inside for my small musket. I grabbed it, swung round and thrust it into the ugly face of the leader, yelling at the top of my lungs. My crew joined in the shouting and fell upon them. The Bedouins dropped their swords and fled, jumping into the sea and swimming for the shore. We were lucky.’

By now the sun was low on the horizon and the crew had stopped work for the day. They began to emerge on deck in shore-going finery, some of them carrying personal items to trade with Lamu merchants. Paul took this as his cue, bade Ahmed farewell and followed a group up the gangplank.

‘Ja, ja, it sounds like you’re having a ball and all, but stick to the topic,’ said Johan down the crackly line from Johannesburg. ‘It’s all very well doing tons of research, but you’re not writing a fucking PhD.’

‘No sure, I hear you,’ said Paul. ‘It’s just that things are pretty fascinating and I’ve uncovered so much good material. Like those sewn boats you mentioned —’

‘Don’t go chasing stuff that isn’t going to make it into the movie. Listen, I think it’s time you moved to that guesthouse, like we discussed. The place we gonna put the crew up: Ki-something-or-other.’

‘Kijani.’

‘Ja, that’s the one. How’s your budget?’

‘Still okay, although the dhow to Lamu cost a bit.’

‘Remember, no wine, women and how’s your father. Keep the receipts.’

After speaking to Johan, Paul phoned Kijani and booked a room. The guesthouse lay three kilometres southeast of town on the beach in Shela. Johan wanted him to check out the accommodation, negotiate a good deal for the crew, arrange for meals at irregular hours, make sure there was a quiet room to review footage and the like. Paul had a last meal with the Dutch, although he’d be seeing them again: most days they visited Shela beach. Then he packed his bags and ordered a dhow taxi for the following morning.

That night Paul dreamt he was a nakhoda, sailing towards the African coast. An island has been sighted. They approach cautiously and drop anchor beside a calm lee shore. The crew sets off exploring; some busy themselves with washing and mending on the beach while others light cooking fires. He reclines on the sand: it is good to be on firm ground again.

The island begins to move beneath him. How is this possible? Terror grips him. It becomes instantly clear: the behemoth whale has been asleep for an age. So long, in fact, that sand has accumulated on its back and trees have sprouted. But the lighting of cooking fires has wakened it.

With a venting of air like an enormous geyser, a column of foul-smelling water jets into the sky. The island begins to sink and waves crash in from all sides, swamping them. He is engulfed, sucked under.

 

CHAPTER 16

 

An elderly skipper, who introduced himself as Sharif, stood waist deep in the water, holding the bows of the dhow taxi into the wind. As soon as Paul pulled himself and his luggage over the rail, the man shoved off and scrambled aboard. His pubescent grandson was the only crew. The small mashua glided down the channel past Lamu’s waterfront buildings. Sharif was deep into his seventies, had a large moustache and weather-worn face with scrunched-up eyes that had spent a lifetime staring at sunlight on water. He played the breeze expertly, finding the groove of the wind and staying there, no matter its vagaries. Paul surmised that Sharif would have lived through the last years of the golden age of sail in Kenya.

‘Do you remember the booms from Arabia?’ asked Paul.

‘When I was young they used to come, bringing dates, taking back boriti. I went down to Mombasa once, on a boom. It was hard, with my bad Arabic. Big boats. Much power.’

Sharif offered Paul a chance to steer and he immediately commented on the lee helm — the vessel instinctively wanting to bear off the wind. It was something he’d never encountered before.

‘Oh, that’s because of the propeller,’ explained Sharif. ‘When we race, I take it off and remove the engine. I also put up a bigger mast,