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

Paul loved it that so few of the dhows were motorised. The tourist trade was helping to sustain the lateen rig — mzungus preferred the romance of sail. There were dhow ferries and dhow airport shuttles, dhows acting as motorised taxis and as pleasure craft.

Paul spent hours simply watching the vessels manoeuvring in the Lamu roadstead. He never grew tired of it, especially when the wind was strong and skippers’ skills were tested in the confined waters. Back and forth the dhows would fly, tacking and gybing, their sails crisscrossing his field of vision like mutant question marks. Spider-like, the crew would hang far out over the water, often without a rope for safety. During a gybe, there’d be a flurry of activity as ballast was shifted, the yard swung and the outrigger plank passed from one side to the other. Sometimes, particularly if the wind was light and the distance to be sailed on the opposing tack not too far, a skipper might elect not to swing the yard and continue with the sail backed against the mast, a dangerous manoeuvre as a strong gust could bring the whole rig down on top of him.

On one occasion, a crew member makes a hash of things, snagging the sail round the top of a mast. The sail begins to flog, rifle cracks echo across the channel. Heads look up all along the promenade, advice is shouted, a joke about shoddy seamanship is bellowed from a rowing boat. Eventually, a foredeck hand shins up the mast to free the sail. The dhow keels over with too much weight so high above the centre of gravity. Water pours over the gunnel and the skipper barks a command. The masthead monkey drops to the deck like a stone and the dhow rights itself. Capsize is narrowly averted. Derisive comments are shouted from the shore, no doubt having something to do with where the crew learnt to sail. A few minutes later the dhow slinks into the anchorage, the men bailing sheepishly, the sail still flogging. There’ll be plenty of jokes at someone’s expense in the mosque this evening, you can be sure.

Afternoons were a quiet time in Lamu when locals withdrew from the streets and took their siestas. In the early evening, when the air began to cool, people reappeared. Friends and family visited each other, thronging the promenade, playing games and chewing betel or khat. Women filled the shops and the sound of animated gossip poured into the lanes. Paul loved Lamu at this time of day and usually took a stroll before supper. All along the waterfront, groups of men in long white kanzus and embroidered kofia skullcaps stood chatting. Again and again, Paul caught the words ‘Bin Laden’, ‘Bush’, ‘Taliban’. The imminent attack was on everyone’s lips.

He’d often find a bench on the promenade and watch the Lamu world stream by. On one afternoon, a squadron of little boys took to the water below him. Some played with toy dhows made of wood with plastic sails. A pair of twins wearing water wings helped push an overloaded motor dhow away from the jetty. Other children hung on to its fenders and were dragged some way into the roadstead before letting go. One lad even clasped the bows between his thighs and, clinging on tight, was propelled backwards through the water like a living figurehead. Water babies all, he marvelled.

When the tide came in, there was an ad hoc diving competition off the end of the pier. At times it looked as though it were raining children as little bodies dropped from the sky like gannets in a feeding frenzy. A screaming infant, barely out of nappies, was hurled over the edge by a laughing boy. Paul leapt to his feet, ready to perform a rescue, only to see the spluttering child bob to the surface, shouting with delight. The tiny tot scrambled back up the steps and picked on someone even smaller to toss into the drink. International strife seemed a million miles from such happy scenes. How long, he wondered, could such innocence last?

Paul set aside a full day for visiting the Lamu Museum, housed in a rambling three-storey villa on the waterfront. Exhibits presented the history of Swahili city-states. Paul wandered through the rooms, dutifully taking notes. He soon grew bored by the tiresome descriptions of building styles and furniture and his mind turned easily to Hannah. He caught himself writing her name over and over in the margin of his notebook. Trying to snap out of it, he found an information board about building materials. Soft, reef coral is used for lintels and carved elements, he noted. Hard, terrestrial coral goes into foundations and walls. Hannah, why are you so hard, hard like terrestrial coral? Ceilings are carved with plaster friezes, floors are covered with carpets whose decorations often depict Arab society. Below the floor you’ll often find an earthenware pot in which the fingo lives. This beneficent jinni guards the home against those with evil intent. Like an unwanted suitor, come to steal her away? A suitor who is, quite frankly, so many of the things you’re not.

Hannah, Hannah, why did you have to go? They could have been here in Lamu together. She would have loved this place. Paul trailed through the rooms, absent-mindedly photographing the items on display.

He climbed the stairs to find the top floor dedicated to Swahili seafaring, its rooms crammed with model boats. This was more like it. Some of the captions were long out of date, still referring to ‘the current export of mangrove poles to the Gulf states and Persia by dhow’. There were miniature booms, sambuks and baghlas, and one large replica of a magnificent, double-masted jahazi which traded with India until 1944.

Perking up considerably, Paul noted the specs and drew sketches. He knew his notes were getting too detailed