East of Suez by Howard Engel Page A

with something?” His English was hard to place. It could have been American or British, but overlaid with the speaking of local languages and cleaned up so as to remove most of the signs of origin. There was no Scottish or Irish about it, no more could I detect either New England or the American South. A mid-Seven-Seas accent. He looked about thirty-five or forty, but I could be wrong.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. The bright light outside makes this room very dark. I’m looking for a trip out to the reef to do some scuba diving. I was given your name, this address, I mean, at my hotel.”
    “And which hotel might that be?” he asked, still smiling. I’d no recollection of the name, but I had it written down in my pocket. Fishing out the card, I read off the name as quickly as I could.
    “Ah, yes. I know it well. When were you wishing to go? How many people might be in your party?”
    Of course, I had considered none of these questions and felt as stupid as I looked standing there. “I haven’t made any solid plans. I just wanted to see if you still did this sort of thing.”
    “Oh yes. We have been taking tourists out there for many years. There is a seven-thirty morning boat and one at two in the afternoon. The divers go to two different locations at the reef: there’s the naturalist dive and then the wreck, an old ship that broke up on the reef. This is still in the season, but you should have no trouble getting on a boat as soon as the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, if that would be quite convenient.”
    “Good! Better than I could have hoped. I’m traveling alone. I’m a party of one. How long is the dive?”
    “The trip to and from the reef takes half an hour each way. You will need to have at least forty-five minutes of air in each of your tanks. There will be a compressor on the landing stage for refilling. If you go at seven-thirty, you won’t be back here until about ten-thirty or eleven. There is a canteen for light refreshments.”
    “Should I make my arrangements now?” I reached for my passport and wallet with its credit cards.
    “You may make all of the arrangements now, Mr …”
    “Cooperman.” I presented my passport.
    “You are not an American?” He said this with mild surprise.
    “No, I’m from Canada. As you see. Lots of people have to wait for the give-away words like ‘doubt’ and ‘about.’”
    “I have a degree in engineering from the University of British Columbia. I know western and central Canada very well. My name is Henry Saesui, Mr Cooperman. And I will see to all the arrangements for your visit to the reef. May I suggest the morning trip? That avoids the worst of the heat. You’ll want to get a strong sunblock for your arms, face, and neck, Mr Cooperman.”
    “How early is early, Mr Saesui?” I know he had told me, but my mind had not retained the information.
    “The dive boat leaves the jetty promptly at seven-thirty. I hope that will not be too matutinal for you?”
    “Oh no ,” I lied. “Just matutinal enough.” One thing about having a flawed memory is that I’d quickly forgotten the rude awakening that was in store for me.
    “You must arise with the sun if you are to discover our country as Sir Stamford did.”
    “Who?”
    “Sir Stamford Raffles, you know.”
    “I’m going to read up on him .”
    “Have you gone scuba diving before, Mr Cooperman?”
    “I’ve done some snorkeling in fresh water. A few years ago, I did a short open-water course on underwater equipment down in Florida. I’ve brought my certificate and log with me.”
    “Excellent!” My papers fell into well-worn fragments as he tried to unfold them. The wear came over time when I carried some of the papers along with other things in my wallet, just in case I got lucky. “You are an experienced diver. I haven’t seen papers like these in some time.”
    “I’ve always wanted to do the real thing at a place like this,” I said, to cover my embarrassment