African Slaver

Sitting perfectly still, totally relaxed, suspended in space, Brody was 50 feet down, according to the depth gauge strapped to his arm, in crystal clear water, sitting motionless, and waiting. His Rolex Submariner was counting off the seconds; so far one hundred and twenty had slowly ticked past. Free diving is all about relaxing. You stop thinking, sitting in a trance like state, a Buddha hanging serenely in the ocean, holding a six-foot pole with a razor-sharp spear!

His lungs were relaxed and full. Life was all around him in the depths, constant movement and color from every direction. The current was very slightly pushing him to the north east. His body felt warm even at this depth. He glanced up to monitor his position. Clearly visible above, the small wooden sailing craft was safely anchored to the reef. Earlier he had slipped off the boat, swimming until the bottom disappeared into nothingness. Then, after taking several deep breaths, he duck-dived, finning for a few strokes until the lead weights around his waist started slowly pulling him down.

Hassan was sat on the boat, fiddling with the engine nervously, tidying the ropes and sails, continuously glancing at the place where his new customer had just disappeared. The odd couple had met on the jetty a few days earlier. Hassan had spotted this new ‘Muzungu,’ a white guy, jumping off the weekly ferry. Hassan approached, with his best tourist grin plastered across his face, and offered to help the newcomer with the dive tanks and other equipment. As usual, this quickly flourished into finding accommodation, and a bite to eat. Hassan usually earned his daily cash catching fish, but Brody had come to dive. The two shook on an agreement. Brody would hire him, and his dhow with the small rusty outboard, on a daily basis until he left the island. This would also give Hassan a regular stable income for his mother, father, and sister, plus himself. The deal sat well with Hassan. It was guaranteed money, a rare thing on the island. He figured he could also do some fishing while his new customer was down below.

Brody’s watch was still ticking away the seconds. He had about a minute left. He loved it down here. So silent and peaceful, away from the dreams and memories he fought against daily. His lungs started to tighten. He looked up again to the bottom of the boat; it seemed to be getting further away with every second ticking by, but Brody always wanted to push that little bit more, always one more step. He held on, then took careful aim. The lovely coley coley was swimming in circles about twenty feet away from him, interested in this motionless creature just sitting, not swimming, not moving, not breathing. Brody aimed and fired. The bolt from the spear gun was dead on target, just behind the pectoral fin. It went straight through the fish’s heart. Brody’s practiced aim was proving to be unstoppable here. But the water was crystal clear, he could easily see the bottom another sixty feet below him.

The fish was about 12 pounds, a good size. There were a ton of them living off this reef; this one would not be noticed. Brody believed in free diving for fish as it seemed fairer than using his tanks. At least the fish had some advantages over him in this alien environment.

The coley coley struggled, then went limp. They were known for being the least energetic of the large eating reef fish in tropical oceans. Brody quickly dragged it in, then started for the dhow above.

When his head broke the surface, it was still only 07:00, but the temperature was already nearly 100 degrees. He felt the tropical sun burning his scalp immediately. Paddling to stay afloat, Brody threw the line to Hassan, who gratefully took it and started hauling in the dead fish before the sharks got a scent of it.

Hassan shouted, “Hey, Boss, that was long. I thought you had joined the fish and swam away!”

Hassan always hid his fear that his boss and paymaster would disappear over the side and never come back!

He was a Swahili, the coastal tribe of East Africa, born in the water. They were natural boatmen, and could tell the weather, the wind, and tides before they could walk. They knew the best reefs, fishing spots, mooring points, and the finest of what the tiny town had to offer, which wasn’t a great deal!

During their initial meeting, Hassan had taken Brody to a lovely secluded house, or shack depending on the way you looked. It was on an isolated beach and very quiet, with just the wind in the palms, and the waves lapping on the pale white shore. There were no luxuries like electricity. The water came from a well, dug some eighty feet further up the beach, away from the high tide line. The fishing hut was suspended above the water on stilts. The one room, plus cubicle shower out back, was constructed of cut lengths of bamboo, tied together using twine weaved from coconut leaves. Hung just outside the rickety front door was an ancient, smoke-stained hurricane lamp, and inside was a small cot with a mosquito net slung above. That was about it for amenities. Hassan was not sure if it was what his new customer would like, but he had taken it without a second glance.

Brody did four more dives for fish that morning. He had only wanted one, but knew Hassan would be able to sell them in the market. His family would eat well tonight. Brody also knew the Swahilis were so generous he would get more food than he could eat, cooked by Hassan’s mother, so the sentiment was not entirely altruistic.

After the last dive, Hassan coaxed the outboard back into life, which took a while. Brody pulled the big stone anchor off the bottom, and they set off back across the lagoon.

Brody sat on the small wooden deck of the boat, gutting the fish as they slowly headed back towards the village and his new shack. The journey would take about an hour as the outboard had seen much better days, and Hassan was praying over it to last until they reached home. He had gutted so many fish it was second nature; his mind started to wander. He was so lucky to have found this place, a tranquil paradise in the middle of nowhere; he could live peacefully and forget the past he so wanted to lose.

William Brody was born in the UK, in North London on the estates near Wood Green. The place was good enough, an average inner-city suburb, with a large shopping centre or mall to hang out in, and a public school, doctor’s office and post office, all the usual stuff. His mother and father both wanted the best for him. His dad worked for the local council, and his mom in an insurance office on the high street. Life was all right, a bit mundane, but OK. Brody enjoyed school, but was not so good at the education part. Sports, especially swimming, was great, but sitting in the classroom was not so much fun. His reports always said that he could do better and must try harder. The inner cities didn’t have a lot to offer Brody. Inheriting his father’s wild Irish ways, he longed for the outdoors. When the school offered outdoor pursuits or camping, his name was at the top of the list. Every Friday, he would load his bike with camping gear and set off into the evening, not returning until late Sunday night.

Whenever school was too much, he would head down to Canary Wharf on the River Thames and watch the boats go by, smelling the tidal river as it raced in and out. His dream was to join the Merchant or the Royal Navy and sail the seas for the rest of his life; he could think of no better way to spend his days, afloat on the water he loved so much.

On his sixteenth birthday, he applied for the Merchant Navy, but was turned down as his grades in school were frankly rubbish, plus the few scrapes with the law did not help. The next stop was the Royal Navy. The recruiting officer acted the same way.

The Sargent said, “Look, lad, you can go and do better at these exams and come back after a couple of years.”

Brody was not happy. He asked out of exasperation, “What else is there?”

The recruiting Sargent looked him up and down, then said, “Well, lad, you look damn fit. What about the Royal Marines?”

He had not thought about them before. It would be at least near or on boats. One second later, the forms were signed, his dad breathed a deep sigh of relief and handed the lad over to the Royal Marines.

With a jolt, Brody was back to the small fishing boat. All the fish had been gutted and were laying at his feet. The boat was only a few minutes from the small jetty. Hassan expertly maneuvered the dhow up against the wooden poles. They landed the five coley coley on the quay, and Hassan immediately found a basket made from coconut fronds. they seemed to use them for everything. He then raced off along the dusty track towards the small fish market. Brody knew Hassan would get a good price for the fresh fish because the local boats had not left before 04:00 this morning, and it was a good eight hours’ round trip.

Hassan met his sister along the track, and gave one of the fish to take home to their mother for the feast tonight. Since Brody had landed on the island, the family’s fortunes had changed. They were starting to enjoy his company, and the rent from the little house on the beach also helped.

Brody collected his gear and headed off down the beach towards his pad. It would be noon soon. This place would touch 100 degrees Fahrenheit, combined with ninety-five percent humidity. No fans or air conditioning made the situation almost unbearable. His usual pastime during the baking afternoons was to find some shade and slump in a hammock or wander the beach looking for interesting shells. Often, he would meet some local fishermen, sitting on the beach mending nets. Chatting with them was enjoyable. The old men did not have a word of English nor him Swahili, but they were good natured and happy to have someone with new stories to tell. In the way of travellers meeting for the first time, after a while, and using many hand signals and drawing pictures in the wet sand, everything became clear.

The Marines, then the Special Boat Service had instilled in him the importance of learning the language and culture. Mixing with the locals was second nature. Brody sat and patiently learned one word after the other. Earlier in the week the old men had taught him ‘Samaki,’ the Swahili word for fish. He was going to use is new word tonight at the meal.

Right now, all he wanted to do was head back to the little house and take a snooze. Free diving was always tiring. The dull ache inside his head was growing as he wandered back along the soft white sands of the beach to the shack.

Although this was a strictly Muslim island, the elders always managed to find a local drink called ‘Mnazi’ made from fermented coconut juice. When he got to the shack, two old men were sitting on the porch. They had gnarled fingers and hands like tree bark. Once they had been fishermen, but were too old for that hard life now. The two old men spent their days mending nets, sharpening hooks, and telling stories about when the fish were bigger and the ocean was more terrible. They also liked to sneak a drink. With three wives each and who knew how many children, who could blame them! These old reprobates had snuck off and decided Brody’s house was a good idea. The plan was to blame the ‘Muzungu,’ white man, if they got caught.

The ‘Mnazi’ was sweet like treacle. The old men had three small wooden cups with short hollow sticks for straws poking out of the top. The bottom of the straw had old sail cloth wrapped around the base as a filter. ‘Mnazi’ came in ancient, battered gourds and was reverently poured equally into each cup. Pieces of coconut husk floated on top of the milky drink. It did not smell so good either, but it was potent. The trick was to hold your nose for the first couple of shots, then the smell seemed to disappear.

The fishermen had a good haul. Brody knew he would drink too much. The sweet, rough liquid was intoxicating. Brody had drunk his fair share of booze over the years. It had caused problems in the service on more than one occasion, but had all been covered up and glossed over as he was a good soldier. But that was then, and this was now. He was his own boss, no demands rules or regulations.

They enjoyed the drink; telling stories in English and Swahili. As the alcohol flowed, he understood the Swahili much better, and them English. After four hours, they were like old friends. All the gourds were scattered on the sand. The team were just formulating the best plan ever, to steal a boat and head for the mainland for more booze. Hassan came trotting down the path towards them. He was horrified that the old guys had made Brody drink, but they didn’t care and were falling asleep in the house.

Brody was drunk, slurring his words. Thinking he knew what he was saying, he was speaking to Hassan in Swahili that made no sense. Hassan left them to get his food. The plan had been to invite Brody for dinner with his parents, but as they were strictly Muslims, this would not be a good idea.