the water, she swam off down the length of the pool. Connor watched her speed away with the grace of a dolphin and could only admire her resolve. He realized Charley was the sort of person who, when faced with a barrier, wouldn’t stop and turn round; she’d just smash through it. Inspired by her spirit, Connor questioned how he could doubt his own abilities, when Charley with her disability wouldn’t even let doubt enter her mind.
With a new resolve, Connor put his head down and swam after her.
But after only eight lengths he found himself completely out of breath and his pulse racing. Gasping for air, he splashed the last few metres and clung on to the lip of the pool to recover.
‘It’s your breathing technique that’s the problem,’ said Charley as she towelled herself off on the poolside.
Connor glanced over. Blessed with slender limbs, tanned golden skin and beach-blonde hair, Charley looked the quintessential Californian beach girl. Legs dangling in the pool, it was hard to imagine that she had a disability at all.
‘Your stroke is basically fine,’ she continued, ‘but you’re trying to inhale
and
exhale when your head’s above the water. Exhale
under
the water, then when you go to breathe you only have to inhale.’
‘OK,’ said Connor, nodding his appreciation.
Charley put down her towel and pulled herself into her chair. ‘Next time I’ll teach you how to breathe
bilaterally
. That’ll make a massive difference to yourswimming technique. You’ll be able to cut through the water like an arrow.’
Wondering whether he’d heard right, Connor tried to clear his ears. ‘Next time?’
‘Yes,’ beamed Charley, flipping the towel over her shoulder and wheeling away. ‘I can’t leave a job half-finished. Meet me in the pool tomorrow.’
‘What time?’ called Connor as she disappeared into the girls’ changing room.
‘Same time,’ her voice echoed back.
Grateful as he was for her training offer, Connor groaned at the thought of another early morning start.
Why couldn’t my assignment have been on dry land?
Dust swirled in the hot dry air as a white-and-chrome Land Cruiser bumped its way down Hobyo’s unpaved street. In the furnace of mid-afternoon, the Somalian harbour town was largely deserted, except for a few scrawny children kicking a football made of plastic bags.
Sharif, a pot-bellied Somali with a thin moustache, gazed through his vehicle’s blacked-out windows at the crumbling concrete buildings beyond. Some were whitewashed, others matched the dull brown of the road. All were topped with green corrugated tin roofs that had warped under the glare of the African sun.
The driver honked his horn and a goat, bleating indignantly, trotted out of the path of the oncoming 4x4. Turning a corner, the Land Cruiser entered the central square where, unexpectedly, the town was bustling with life. A throng of people crowded outside a two-storey building with flaking yellow walls, pockmarked by bullet holes.
The Land Cruiser ground to a halt beside three other 4x4s that were haphazardly parked in the middle of theroad, their stereos blaring reggae-inspired tunes. Several young men in T-shirts and loose wrap-around
ma’awis
sarongs were slumped beneath a tree, chewing green khat leaves, AK47 machine guns cradled in their laps. They eyed the Land Cruiser with mild suspicion but made no move to investigate.
Sharif clambered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the vehicle, his blue cotton shirt instantly sticking to him in the sapping heat as he strode over to the gathered mob.
‘
Ii warran?
’ he asked a woman wearing a black headscarf.
The young woman, her face dark and smooth as ebony, grinned at him. ‘A ransom payout!’ she replied in Somali and held up a slip of paper. ‘I’m waiting to collect my share. I invested my ex-husband’s rocket-propelled grenade in the company.’
Other fortunate investors, who’d gambled their money, weapons or belongings with the
With a new resolve, Connor put his head down and swam after her.
But after only eight lengths he found himself completely out of breath and his pulse racing. Gasping for air, he splashed the last few metres and clung on to the lip of the pool to recover.
‘It’s your breathing technique that’s the problem,’ said Charley as she towelled herself off on the poolside.
Connor glanced over. Blessed with slender limbs, tanned golden skin and beach-blonde hair, Charley looked the quintessential Californian beach girl. Legs dangling in the pool, it was hard to imagine that she had a disability at all.
‘Your stroke is basically fine,’ she continued, ‘but you’re trying to inhale
and
exhale when your head’s above the water. Exhale
under
the water, then when you go to breathe you only have to inhale.’
‘OK,’ said Connor, nodding his appreciation.
Charley put down her towel and pulled herself into her chair. ‘Next time I’ll teach you how to breathe
bilaterally
. That’ll make a massive difference to yourswimming technique. You’ll be able to cut through the water like an arrow.’
Wondering whether he’d heard right, Connor tried to clear his ears. ‘Next time?’
‘Yes,’ beamed Charley, flipping the towel over her shoulder and wheeling away. ‘I can’t leave a job half-finished. Meet me in the pool tomorrow.’
‘What time?’ called Connor as she disappeared into the girls’ changing room.
‘Same time,’ her voice echoed back.
Grateful as he was for her training offer, Connor groaned at the thought of another early morning start.
Why couldn’t my assignment have been on dry land?
Dust swirled in the hot dry air as a white-and-chrome Land Cruiser bumped its way down Hobyo’s unpaved street. In the furnace of mid-afternoon, the Somalian harbour town was largely deserted, except for a few scrawny children kicking a football made of plastic bags.
Sharif, a pot-bellied Somali with a thin moustache, gazed through his vehicle’s blacked-out windows at the crumbling concrete buildings beyond. Some were whitewashed, others matched the dull brown of the road. All were topped with green corrugated tin roofs that had warped under the glare of the African sun.
The driver honked his horn and a goat, bleating indignantly, trotted out of the path of the oncoming 4x4. Turning a corner, the Land Cruiser entered the central square where, unexpectedly, the town was bustling with life. A throng of people crowded outside a two-storey building with flaking yellow walls, pockmarked by bullet holes.
The Land Cruiser ground to a halt beside three other 4x4s that were haphazardly parked in the middle of theroad, their stereos blaring reggae-inspired tunes. Several young men in T-shirts and loose wrap-around
ma’awis
sarongs were slumped beneath a tree, chewing green khat leaves, AK47 machine guns cradled in their laps. They eyed the Land Cruiser with mild suspicion but made no move to investigate.
Sharif clambered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the vehicle, his blue cotton shirt instantly sticking to him in the sapping heat as he strode over to the gathered mob.
‘
Ii warran?
’ he asked a woman wearing a black headscarf.
The young woman, her face dark and smooth as ebony, grinned at him. ‘A ransom payout!’ she replied in Somali and held up a slip of paper. ‘I’m waiting to collect my share. I invested my ex-husband’s rocket-propelled grenade in the company.’
Other fortunate investors, who’d gambled their money, weapons or belongings with the
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