“Beaten on us, thrown us in jail and placed Jessie in the care of social services until a court date came around – finally came around, that is.”
“But we’d done nothing.”
“Doesn’t matter. Give young men weapons and put them in a position of authority, and the power goes to their heads. Wearing a uniform doesn’t make you the smartest cookie in the jar. Think how it is in war.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Listen” – he put his arms around the two of them – “I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. Okay?”
“Bear too?” Jessica waggled her furry friend.
“Bear too, honey.”
As Jessica tucked Bear into the bunk beside her that evening, she repeated the sentiment.
- 34 -
Al Mohzerer’s pickup rolled down the rocky track out of Azila. Stacked under a tarpaulin were two hundred blocks of prime merchandise destined for small-business owners in Tangier, who jumped at the chance to supplement meager incomes by peddling Golden Monkey to tourists and other customers.
Dark clouds gathered around the mountain peaks as long-awaited rain looked set to bless the fertile plains once more. Local urchins ceased playing games in the road and scurried off to the side, for young and old knew better than to get in the way of the Grower.
One of the village’s flea-ridden mutts was not so lucky. Too fixated as it gnawed on the remnants of a road-killed macaque, the puppy looked up just as the truck bore down on him. Al Mohzerer had no intention of swerving. Displays of kindness to humans were rare; an animal had no chance. Under the darkening sky his ugly scar could easily pass for a grin as the little dog yelped and a rainbow of intestines spewed across the dirt.
Naseem encountered numerous checkpoints on the mountain pass, but the police waved him through, for they would never question the Grower. Besides, cigarettes, alcohol and other contraband coming in the opposite direction from Europe formed the focus of their searches, not an innocent weed boosting the local economy. Still, it didn’t hurt to tip a token amount of baksheesh to some of the more senior officers, many of whom Al Mohzerer had known since childhood.
As the pickup neared Tangier, the weather cleared and minarets and sparkling white roof terraces came into view. The familiar stench of rotting food and sewage spiked with frying meat and vehicle fumes permeated the afternoon heat. Al Mohzerer threaded his truck through the city’s maze of backstreets, past peeling pastel-painted premises – butcher’s shops, hardware stores and other family-run businesses – and under crumbling archways, narrowly missing the multitude of street vendors crowding the route.
Upon reaching the old town, he pulled into a walled courtyard and stepped out to the more inviting fragrance of exotic spices blended with caramel, almonds, perfume and incense. His customer, Old Man Ali, had owned a carpet shop in the medina as far back as Al Mohzerer could remember.
Old Man Ali’s shrewd character and keen business acumen, combined with a genuine interest in people, put Al Mohzerer on edge, despite their lengthy relationship and a family connection spanning generations. Altruism was not a concept the Grower understood. For him, you were only nice to others if you stood to gain something, the carpet seller’s near blindness doing nothing to diminish his mistrust.
The old man’s partisan approach had seen him through ninety-plus years, good times and bad, conflict and upheaval, his milky eyes not a barrier to selling the carpets for which he cared passionately. A simple smell and touch told him all he needed to know – weave, dye color, manufacturer and whether the product was handmade or machined.
Al Mohzerer parted the beaded fly screen to find the proprietor drinking tea with a large European man wearing garish yellow shorts, a vest and flip-flops and sat sweating profusely atop a pile of intricately woven prayer mats. The Grower’s antennae pricked up. He took an immediate dislike to the infidel, yet years of cunning saw him hide his suspicion, leaving only a hint of contempt in his reptilian gaze.
Following introductions, Al Mohzerer took a backseat, feigning disinterest in the English banter yet taking in every word, noting the fat man was drunk and that the flashy timepiece on his podgy wrist was worth ten times the Berber’s own salary. The carpet seller took a long pull on a hookah pipe, the apple tobacco smoke bubbling up through water trapped in its cherry-red glass bowl.
“So how is the boat?” he asked gently.
“Sietske’s fine,” the fat man replied. “My savings, plus the money I make when I off-load this in the Canaries” – he patted the plastic bag at his feet – “should pay for some repairs, you know?”
It was an unusually large purchase for the Dutchman, but he had a plan.
“Six kilos of Golden Monkey will bring you a fine price, my friend – far greater than in our poor land. And when do you sail?”
“In the morning. With any luck I will be in Las Palmas for Wednesday.”
“May Allah bring you fair winds and blue skies.”
As the European walked back to his boat that evening, having sunk several more beers in his favorite restaurant, he did not notice a man with a cruel facial scar following him.
- 35 -
Marcel tied Sietske up in the marina in Las Palmas, not bothered who occupied the berth or – more to the point – who had paid for it. He didn’t intend to stay long nor report his arrival to the harbormaster. His sole concern was handing over the consignment of pot to his trusted source and setting sail for the nearby island of Tenerife to catch up with Hans, Jessica and Penny. The mere thought of seeing them again filled him with the warmth of acceptance.
Rather than walk out of the marina’s main gate and risk a confrontation with officials, he unstrapped Sietske’s tender, dropped it over the side and transferred the all-important contents of the rubber fender into a white plastic bag. With a set of oars retrieved from the cabin and clutching his shipment, he lowered himself into the tiny dinghy, which immediately threatened to sink under his weight.
Singing to himself as he rounded the harbor’s protective wall – “Marshell rowed the boat ashore, ha-ley-luuuuu-yah!” – he’d never felt so on top of life, yet to anyone witnessing the spectacle of a twenty-stone man in a yellow vest and shorts crammed into a yellow inflatable with toy-sized paddles, he looked like a rubber duck with issues – issues observed through binoculars ever since Sietske arrived in port.
Marcel dragged the tender above the high-tide mark on the shore and set out to find a pay phone.
“Quieres comer comida del norte de África?” he asked. “Voy a traer seis amigos.”
The invitation to eat “North African” food with “six companions” was all that needed to be said.
Bar Macondo was half-full at this time in the morning, a mix of Canary islanders and tourists enjoying seafood platters to the sound of Spanish romantic pop serenading in the background. Yellow-and-blue umbrellas pinned round tables to a large wooden deck surrounded by date palms, the view across the promenade taking in golden sand and the inviting blue water beyond.
After ordering a beer from a bartender in siesta mode, Marcel sat opposite a local man so engrossed in his Wi-Fi connection he didn’t bother looking up. Coincidently, he too had a white plastic carrier at his feet.
The big man sunk his Dorada Especial in three gulps, swapped bags and left the bar’s congenial atmosphere, the alcohol dulling the possibility their transaction might not have been hush-hush. He rowed back to the yacht and stowed the best part of twenty thousand euros, along with the rest of his savings and party drugs, in the keep-safe rubber fender, which he left lying innocuously on deck.
Filled with bravado, Marcel went to pay the mooring fee and present his paperwork to the harbormaster, knowing he needed to fill up from the marina’s diesel pump and take a cab from the main entrance to go food shopping.
“Did you radio ahead, señor?” The official’s eyes narrowed.
“Ja! Sure did, man. I spoke to . . . Miguel?”
“Miguel doesn’t work
here anymore.”
“Oh! Miguel . . . Manuel . . . Er, I had a few beers, you know?”
The harbormaster was further unimpressed to learn that Sietske occupied Growing Old Disgracefully’s berth – but fortunately for the Dutchman, retirees John and Margie Grenson had decided to spend the week anchored off Lanzarote.
- 36 -
Enjoying fair winds, Sietske made good progress northeast to Tenerife the next morning, but an afternoon lull saw her sails flapping back and forth with indifference. Never one for passing up the chance to relax in the sun, Marcel went below to roll a couple of doobies and mix a jug of his preferred potion, whacking up the volume on Led Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker” as he did.
As Marcel prepared his vices, pausing regularly to slug Havana Club, he heard the sound of an outboard engine grow louder. He assumed it was local fishermen, who bravely – or foolishly – thought nothing of motoring ten miles offshore in their aging skiffs to secure a catch. With the booze taking hold, cradling him in a sentimental caress, Marcel fell into a daydream. He pondered where to head after his stop-off in Tenerife. Ordinarily, he would return to the Dam and spend chill time with friends before sailing Sietske south to commence the hash run once more. But there was something about the Larsson family and the delightful Penny he had not experienced in a long time. They make me feel good about myself. Hell, Hans even invited me to visit them in the States.
Marcel sparked one of the blunts, took a long pull and was halfway through exhaling when his musing hit home and he came up with an idea.
“Huhph!” he coughed. “Sietske, my dear, we are going to Maine!”
It made perfect sense. Hadn’t Penny said she would love to visit too? Perhaps he could buy her an air ticket, or better still, she would meet him in South America after skippering for the Parisian couple and they could sail north together.
Yes!
He started putting a plan together, shaking and sweating more than usual. How about spending time in the Caribbean en route? They could stop off at his hero Bob Marley’s birthplace – wasn’t it Jamaica where the weed was so strong it rendered you incapacitated?
Marcel rifled through his CD collection, interrupting “Bring It On Home” to play “Buffalo Soldier” at full volume.
And Cuba – Cuba libre! – Che Guevara sailing from Mexico in 1956 on the leaking cabin cruiser Granma with only eighty-two men to overthrow the puppet Batista and his corrupt regime. The place where Hemingway wrote The Old Man and the Sea, the lonely fisherman finding inner peace battling his demons, along with a mighty marlin, on a mightier ocean. Now there was a guy who could write! Could drink his weight in rum and still knock out a literary classic!
Marcel had dreamed of visiting El Floridita, the bar in Havana where Hemingway knocked back glass after glass of mojito while discussing the Great American Novel with friends. From there they would travel to the Florida Keys and up the Treasure Coast, taking care Sietske did not join the numerous Spanish galleons that had foundered on the perilous reefs, their holds weighed down with doubloons still searched for by fortune seekers today.
And how about pulling in to Sebastian in Florida to meet his old mailman chum who now owned a skydiving center there? Plummeting through the air from fifteen thousand feet was on his bucket list – actually, the only item on the list, but that was about to change.
It has to be done! Marcel screwed the cap back on the bottle of rum.
Above the sound of “Redemption Song,” the noise of the once-distant outboard engine became too loud to ignore. Marcel felt a bump against Sietske’s hull. He grabbed the schooner of cocktail and went up through the companionway to investigate.
A dark-skinned man, barefoot and dressed in ragged denim shorts and a filthy New York Yankees vest, stood in the cockpit pointing an AK-47 at him.
“I don’t suppose I can offer you a mojito?” were the Dutchman’s last words.
- 37 -
The tourist haven of Tenerife proved to be every sailor’s dream destination. Hans, Jessica and Penny enjoyed long sunny days, walks on palm-fringed beaches, local tours and delicious food, all the time looking forward to Marcel’s arrival.
“How do you fancy diving on a reef, shipmate?”
“Hmm!” Jessica gave Penny her excited I’ll do anything you do look.
“Do you know much about reefs? Have you dived on one before?”
“I haven’t dived on one before, but I’ve seen pictures in my books. It’s rocks and flowers and red and yellow fish and blue sea.”
“Good girl! And do you know what those flowers are called?”
Jessica shook her head.
“They’re corals, made by lots of little animals, known as polyps, that eat seaweed and other little animals. They spit out the bits they don’t like, which build up over the years to create the pretty rocks.”
While Penny and Jessica pulled the dive gear from under the bunks and kitted up, Hans sailed Future a few miles up the coast to a reef known locally as Rainbow Mountain, giving a clue as to the myriad of colors awaiting the girls. One of the dive centers in Santa Cruz recommended the site in view of its shallow depth and good visibility.
A number of buoys bobbed in the turquoise water, the island’s conservation society urging boats to make use of them rather than drop anchor and damage the fragile coral below. Penny conducted a dive brief, and she and Jessica went through their checks. Hans would remain on board as surface cover.
“Out of air signal, honey?”
Although a qualified scuba instructor, Penny understood the importance of agreeing buddy-to-buddy communications, which varied between dive-training organizations, as well as countries and individuals.
Jessica chopped a hand against her throat.
“Air pressure?”
She tapped two fingers against her forearm.
“Watch me.”
The little girl pointed index fingers at her eyes.
When Penny was satisfied, she said, “Watch this!” and did a spectacular forward roll off the yacht’s stern.
Hans chuckled.
Jessica clamped her mask and regulator in place with one hand and her weight belt’s quick release buckle and instrument console with the other and leapt after Penny. They regrouped for a final check and then sunk below the surface of the warm water.
Immediately apparent was the reason why locals called the reef Rainbow Mountain. As opposed to the coarse black volcanic sand the island was noted for, the sand here was fine, almost white, making the vivid pigment of the coral stand out all the more. Fan, staghorn, table, star, lettuce and other similes used to describe the calcium carbonate built up over millenniums were instantly ascribable. It was easy to see why biologists refer to coral reefs as the rainforests of the sea, each organism playing a unique role in perpetuating the delicate ecosystem and balancing the planet’s biosphere.
Elkhorn coral lined the outer edges of the reef, protecting it from the Atlantic’s crashing waves. Brain corals acted as cleaning stations for gobies and other small fish. Coralline algae strengthened the reef’s structure with limestone deposits, and so Mother Nature ran her course.
Not surprisingly, the reef spawned an abundance of marine life. Brightly colored fish – porgies, damsels, jacks – hovered in schools in the current. Puffers, wrasse and basslets zipped between crags. Moray eels, crabs and octopi hid in dark crevices. A stingray glided toward them. Bigger than Jessica, the attention-seeking fish allowed the girls to tickle its soft white underbelly.
Finning along with the little girl, Penny felt utterly contented. The previous year she had skippered for a group of Scandinavian scientists on an expedition to Antarctica, sailing from Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego – the Land of Fire, on the southernmost tip of Argentina – for a seven-day crossing of the treacherous Drake Passage. They encountered icebergs the size of small countries and waded through vast colonies of adelie penguins in the South Shetland Islands before venturing into the Antarctic Circle to dive in the continent’s p
ristine waters, snorkeling with leopard seals and watching orcas hunting in pods. Exploring the rugged white wilderness had been the experience of a lifetime, something Penny never dreamed to surpass, but being here now floating hand in hand with her friend through the coral idyll easily beat it.
A large shadow on the sand interrupted Penny’s thoughts. She looked up expecting to see another stingray, her delight turning to horror as a seven-foot-long bull shark cruised just feet above them. Ordinarily, Penny would not have been overly concerned, despite the shark’s reputation for attacking humans, but with its pectoral fins pointing downwards as it cut an abrupt zigzag pattern through the water, she could tell the animal was in hunting mode.
Ascending was out of the question. Their silhouette might prove too tempting for the predator. Instead, Penny placed an open hand on her head in the shark signal, followed by thumbs-down for “descend.” She didn’t want to alarm Jessica, but it was important her buddy knew what was happening to prevent panic.
Penny made a finning sign with her index fingers and pointed to the entrance of a small cave at the base of the reef. Amazed at how calmly Jessica carried out her instruction, she followed behind, relieved to find it large enough for both of them.
After checking Jessica was okay, Penny turned to face the danger, pulling her knife from its sheath. She knew not even the sharpest blade would penetrate the skin of this prehistoric killing machine, though a well-placed jab might serve as a deterrent. She prayed the bull shark would lose interest, but instead the angry fish swam in ever-tighter circles, getting closer each time before veering off at the last moment. It would not be long before the beast took a test bite of her with its fearsome jaws or their air ran out. Penny would not risk either scenario.
As the bull shark commenced another circuit, Penny put a plan into action, signaling for Jessica to take her emergency regulator. Jessica complied without hesitation, swapping to the yellow octopus spare, as she had done with her father hundreds of times before.