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

It was getting late as they crossed the open water between Pate and Kiwayu. The dhow no longer had the protection of a windward island and the sea grew rougher. Waves broke against the palm-frond splashboards, sending torrents of water into the bilges. Rafiki, with his lithe body and youthful eagerness to please, was set to bailing, his dreadlocks bouncing as he tossed bucket-loads of water overboard.

The rescue had put them behind schedule and the sun sank into a mess of western clouds, releasing the occasional beam of honeyed light. It was cold on deck. Even for an old girl, Jamal was coursing along at a tidy lick, cleaving into the dusk. The rigging strained, the ropes were taught as iron, humming like a finely tuned instrument. The short, cross sea created a confusion of soapy crests. A flash of lightning turned the water an eerie green, then a clap of thunder detonated against the dhow. Jamal appeared to shudder from the impact.

Squalls came racing out of the gloom from the southeast. Black clouds, often bearing torrential rain, enveloped them. The vessel leaned over, taking the weight of the wind. Paul grew anxious. Just as he was beginning to think the skipper should drop the sail and continue under motor, they were struck by a squall that tore spray off the crests around them.

The first gust sent a groan through the rigging; the sail quivered as it took the strain. The second hit Jamal with a hammer blow. The mast creaked and canvas thundered. The dhow heeled steeply, water pouring over the leeward rail and through the coconut matting. Pots and pans came adrift in the galley with a crash. Men lost their footing and untethered items bounced across the deck into the scuppers. The air turned to water as rain came at them horizontally.

Husni shouted something, but his words were torn away by the squall. Nuru swung the tiller hard over, trying to point her into the wind, and two figures struggled to release the mainsheet, which had jammed on the quarter post. ‘Allaaah!’ yelled Latif in frustration. Paul stared up at the yard, which was bending like a bow, and reckoned it was about to snap or come adrift. The bulging sail looked as though it might explode into a thousand fragments at any moment.

Jamal continued to lie on her side, water pouring in.

Finally, the mainsheet yanked free, to the thunder of flogging canvas. The gust released its grip and the dhow sat bolt upright, slewing into the wind. As quickly as it had come, the squall scudded off downwind and the crew set to bailing with any container they could lay their hands on. Even the doc pitched in, using his biggest cooking pot.

They lowered the yard, furled the sail and continued under motor. After a while the wind steadied. Enough water had been bailed and Jamal was chugging comfortably towards the sinuous shape of Kiwayu, the white stream of their wake shot through with dancing phosphorescence. Latif began tapping a drum, his long fingers a blur on the goatskin. Husni sang a sea shanty from his home town, and the sailors joined in:

Illa yeo bandari

enda joshi,

dama kuvuta

mikondo ya mayi hupita

nenda nyuma

huya mbele.

To be in port today

we’ll have to steer to windward,

draw in the sheet!

We’ll leave a tremendous wake!

I’ll go aft

to make good speed.

A black mangrove smudge loomed out of the darkness. Nuru was trying to find the right channel, but the keel kept touching bottom as he passed over sandbanks. Each time, with a string of curses and high-rev reversing, Jamal would be worked free and they’d begin probing for another gap in the tree line.

Finally they found the right channel and anchored off a beach near the southwestern tip of long, thin Kiwayu Island. The engine was silenced and night sounds pressed in. Jamal lay in the lee of tall dunes and there was hardly a breath of wind, just a whispering of palm fronds and the slurp of water on sand.

‘What a spot,’ Paul said softly.

‘The island is a sanctuary,’ said Husni. ‘Turtles come and lay their eggs here every year. Until recently, locals hunted them for their meat and dug up the eggs. Then the WWF got involved. Now the whole community is protecting them.’

Somehow, the doc had managed to salvage supper, despite the bumpy run. They gathered around a pot of biryani prawns in the pool of light cast by a paraffin lamp strung from the yard. Paul dispensed with a plate and, copying the crew, used the fingertips of his right hand to make a ball of rice and prawn, propelling the food into his mouth with a flick of the thumb.

‘Today you saw us make one or two mistakes, Paul, but Swahili sailors are usually very good,’ said Husni, taking another handful of biryani. The crew murmured agreement. ‘We can take dhows into places they shouldn’t go and in conditions that even modern yachts struggle with.’

‘Yes, like entering Lamu Channel on Fayswal at night on spring low.’

‘Yes, that was ... interesting. In the Kusi, such a place eats boats. Shifting sandbanks, currents. The tidal range can be four metres at springs, which creates bad rips. A wrecked dhow on the beach can be completely covered with sand in a few days. It just disappears! That is why we prefer the channels behind the islands.’

After a cup of tea and evening prayers, the crew went ashore to sleep in a deserted tree house while Paul and Husni laid out mattresses on the deck. Paul found a comfortable spot between the benches amidships, Husni took the quarterdeck. The air was sticky and heavy with the vegetable scent of mangroves. Sleep didn’t come easily and he lay looking