Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

outcrop, Paul noticed a number of craft anchored in its lee. Husni explained that fishermen often sought overnight shelter at this oceanic rendezvous spot.

‘You want to stop at Ziwayu and sleep on the dhow?’ he asked. ‘Or you want go for Lamu?’

‘How long will it take?’

‘We won’t make it before dark. Maybe nine o’ clock tonight.’

The wind was freshening and the sea getting rougher. Paul knew they had no navigational instruments, lights or safety equipment, but he didn’t fancy a night sleeping on the narrow thwart of a tossing dhow. He reckoned his shipmates were experienced enough night sailors.

‘Ziwayu won’t be nice in these conditions,’ he said. ‘Let’s push for Lamu.’

The ocean grew moody as evening approached. Ramparts of grey cloud lined the horizon. Ahead of them, the coral outcrop of Tenewi ya Yuu was bathed in orange sunlight. The rocks, carved by wind and water into the shape of two lateen sails, glided past them to starboard. They looked like dhows frozen in the act of running aground.

‘You can just see Lamu, there, in the clouds,’ said Husni, pointing over the port bow.

Fabled Lamu. Kiwa Ndeo, the Proud Island, as it is known to sailors and poets. Here, at last, was the archipelago Paul had yearned for, the Seven Isles of Eryaya. Unspoilt, uncorrupted, far from the beaten track, an archipelago of ancient towns and overgrown forts, mangrove creeks and pearly beaches. More than anywhere along the African coast, this cluster of islands was the home of seafarers, a living piece of maritime history. Here at last was the sawahil, the heartland of the Swahili. Paul felt a surge of elation. Lamu. Lamu at last.

The sun dissolved into the mainland like melting butter, followed by an eerie twilight. The wind turned chilly. Then, quite suddenly, the light was gone. The swells grew more threatening in the dark. Their sail billowed like a black wing, blotting out a triangle of stars. Fayswal was racing headlong into troughs whose depth Paul could no longer discern. He began to shiver. Hannah had returned with the darkness. If only he could shift the ballast, change tack. Why did the touch of a woman mean so much more when at sea, he wondered? Was it an inheritance borne by all sailors?

Fayswal was beam-on to the set of the ocean, riding the crests awkwardly, dropping heavily into troughs, blind to what they may hold, for the night was now black as charcoal. Having foregone the barracuda, Paul’s stomach growled. Spray coming over the bows set his teeth chattering. The sailors’ occasional laughter at some witticism in Swahili only served to isolate him further.

A tangerine moon interrupted his thoughts. Briefly unhinging itself from the cloud bank, it bathed Fayswal in pale light. The sea fizzed with lunar sparkles. Lamu appeared close, a dark, upturned dish on the water ahead. Paul noticed they were bearing away, keeping clear of the reefs and mjabalis lining the entrance to the channel that separated Lamu from Manda Island.

The spring tide was ebbing fast to reveal shoals to port and sandbanks to starboard. To make matters worse, the swell had increased. Fayswal bore off on to a dead run with the wind directly behind her, aiming at the middle of the channel. Lamu’s feeble lighthouse beam provided no help in ascertaining their position, and errant fishermen, Husni told him, had stolen the solar panels from the leading lights which once marked the entrance.

With the ebbing tide, there was now less than a fathom’s clearance over the banks and waves broke all around them. ‘Those are the Mtanga wa Papa shallows in front of us,’ said Husni. ‘In some places it’s only three feet deep. We must be very careful. When the swell is big, it sucks dry.’

Paul’s sailing companions, so animated and chatty only minutes earlier, had fallen silent. The lateen flogged as Omar spilled wind, slowing their progress and trying to get his bearings. Husni was up in the bows, peering ahead. The black outline of the island drew closer.

Something made Paul look astern. What he saw made his hands clench the rail in fear. The dark shadow of an enormous wave slid towards them. It jacked up and exploded into white with a loud crack. Husni screamed something. Omar started to push the tiller for a gybe to bring them into deeper water, then realised it was too late. The wind had all but died and they were bobbing helplessly. The line of white water bore down on them, spitting spray and foam. Everyone braced themselves, hanging on to thwart or rail. The roaring filled their ears. Paul closed his eyes.

It felt as though they’d been boxed by a giant fist. Water smashed over the stern and into the bilges. The dhow was given an almighty shove and they shot ahead of the wave like a cork, ploughing along and kicking up improbable bow-wave sheets. Omar and Swaleh held on to the tiller, trying to keep her straight. If the dhow slewed round, they would broach and capsize. But Fayswal rode the slope like a surfboard. The crew held on tight, wide-eyed. As the wave lost its power, they broached hard and cleaved through the froth, taking a torrent over the leeward rail.

By now they were perilously close to Lamu’s shoals. Paul grabbed a pot and joined Kijoka, who was already bailing furiously. The rest scrambled into position for a gybe. After a slick turn, hastened by fear, the dhow angled across towards Ras Kitau on the Manda shore, away from the shallows. The ebb was against them, but the breeze was picking up and they were able to claw free of the surf.

But which was the right course? Omar was finding it difficult to keep the vessel on a dead run in such a lumpy sea. Husni couldn’t afford securing the lateen at three points in case they needed another