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

found a secluded spot near a replica Omani fort, complete with turrets and crenellations. It had been built by a reclusive Italian and it was a folly indeed, as the sands of the peninsula were constantly shifting, and who knew what a storm might bring. Like the fantastical mirage it resembled, it seemed the fort might vanish overnight.

Lorike and Paul positioned their towels next to each other, allowing fingertips to touch, brushing an arm or a leg as they got up to go for a swim. Paul found it tantalising and frustrating, like being back in a teenage romance. They both thought it strange the others hadn’t noticed the currents of electricity zinging between them; or maybe they had.

Paul lay staring at Lorike, wishing he could hold her. Beautiful, aloof Lorike; she made cheap clothing look like designer wear; she made silence sound profound. She treated everyone, including the beach boys and insistent touts, with respect and charm. If only he could reach out a hand and undo her bra strap.

The woman who’d propositioned him in Lamu approached their group, her trademark scarlet headscarf clashing with her black robes. For a moment, he thought she was going to ask him again, but there was no recognition on her face. She offered henna painting and showed the Dutch a book of patterns. For a small fee she would decorate their hands or ankles, but they declined and she wandered to the next set of sunbathers. A group of fishermen watched her progress with open scorn and called derisive remarks.

The Dutch took a late-afternoon dhow back to town, leaving Paul with the evening to himself. He had an early supper at a local tavern on the waterfront beside Kijani. From his table on the promenade, he could watch the antics of Shela’s cats scavenging along the beach. The scrawny creatures — lean, feral and Egyptian-looking — patrolled the shoreline with an arrogant gait, acting for all the world like lions of the Masai Mara. Fishermen were scaling their catch and a feline scrum developed, circled by timid kittens and even an inquisitive donkey. A marabou stork, professor of birds, came flapping in with loud wing beats and strode over in his scruffy overcoat to see what could be plundered. He sized up the kittens, but changed his mind at the last moment: not enough meat and too much fuss.

The next night, Paul felt like treating himself to a better meal. He chose Peponi, the grandest establishment on the island. It was reached along a coastal path with water lapping a metre below. In the evenings, with the horizon lightly gilded, Peponi’s terrace was a bewitching spot. Before dinner, Paul sat with his notebook and a glass of wine, Shela’s dhows bobbing a stone’s throw from his wicker chair.

Beside him was a coral seawall topped with rusty cannons guarding the channel; behind lay the hotel’s manicured lawns and tropical gardens. A white sloop with raking lines, dated 1929, was anchored alongside a Mozambican double ended dhow, rare in these waters. Both craft belonged to the hotel.

There was an air of decadence about the place and Paul could overhear conversations about yachts moored in the Cote d’Azur and polo games ‘back home’. The appearance of the odd lord or duchess, wrapped in a kikoi and going native for the summer, only added to the white-mischief atmosphere. Barefoot waiters discreetly monitored the progress of Paul’s drink, while Peponi’s two Staffordshire bull terriers went from table to table, greeting guests in a most affable manner.

‘Bru, thank God there’s some oke here I can actually talk to.’

Doug, at Peponi! He swaggered over and plonked himself beside Paul, ignoring the poised pen and feigned faraway look. ‘Lamu is so effing boring, ’scuse my French. No babes, no nightlife, expensive dope. Anything doing here in Shela?’

Doug’s usual scruffy garb would’ve had him thrown out, but he’d put on trousers and a clean shirt. The backpacker was running low on dosh, so a free drink, courtesy of Paul, wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Dude!’ he exclaimed to the waiter, ‘you’re charging a fortune for this wine and you’re pouring less than half a glass. Ask your barman to fill it to the top.’ He winked at Paul.

The glass reappeared, fuller this time, but still not to Doug’s satisfaction, so he sent it back again. If Paul could have made himself any smaller, he’d have slipped through the gaps in the wicker. Their waiter remained polite and unruffled. Paul tried to read the man’s eyes. The staff had been well disposed towards him, but would they reappraise him? Returning with a brimming glass of Chardonnay, the waiter’s eyes met his with what could have been anything from sympathy to disapproval.

‘Good to see we’re about to nail the fuckers, hey,’ said Doug.

Paul thought he might be referring to the cricket. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked.

‘Nah man, the bombing. We’re going to plaster the Taliban. Soon, man, soon. Bin Ladin will be a rabbit trapped in his own stinking hole. Nowhere to run.’

There was the ‘we’ again. Technically, South Africa — being kind of capitalist, democratic, sympathetic to the West and mostly Christian — was pro-America. But to be placed squarely in their camp was disconcerting. George Bush had said, ‘You’re either with us or against us.’ Paul had taken this to be war-mongering humbug, but maybe Doug was right and some sort of collective ‘we’ was about to bomb Afghanistan.

‘We’ve been patient,’ said Doug, ‘asking nicely for Bin Ladin to be handed over. Now they’re gonna get what’s coming to ’em. Revenge is our right, don’t you think? After what they did to the Big Apple, it’s a no-brainer.’

To change the topic, Paul told Doug about his wish to sail to Somalia.

‘Pirates, dude!’

‘Yeah, so everyone tells me,’ said Paul. ‘But I hear they only really hassle the fishermen. It’s very low-key piracy.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.