important
files.
Travel visas would not be an issue, but Hans still had to
make sure the yacht’s paperwork was in order ready for inspection by harbormasters
in the ports they intended to visit. He had the relevant tide tables and an
almanac detailing the Atlantic’s predicted conditions, together with a list of
meteorological websites and frequencies for weather bulletins in the regions
ahead. Giving a rough estimate of their arrival time, Hans emailed yacht clubs
and marinas along their route to reserve moorings.
After buying scuba weights and fishing tackle in a nearby
sports store, they provisioned the yacht with dried and canned victuals and
enough fresh food to last them until reaching port in France. Penny helped, her
knowledge of seafaring staples and British supermarkets making things a lot
easier.
All Hans had to do now was take Old Glory from his suitcase and
replace the English ensign flying astern.
Finally, they went to say good-bye to Old Bill, a tinkling
bell above the chandlery door signaling their entrance. On bended knees, Bill
stroked Jessica’s cheek and pressed a good-luck gift into her hand. It was a pocketknife
with a tiny silver anchor screwed to its ebony handle.
Her face lit up.
“Remember, don’t cross the Biscay without a five-day window,
and be sure to give her plenty of sea room when you do, mate.” He winked.
“Aye aye, skippa!”
“Aye aye, me little hearty. And fair passage to ’e.”
When Hans and Jessica left, Bill flipped the sign in his
window to “Closed,” then went into the backroom and poured himself a shot of
rum. He massaged his gray-stubbled chin, knowing he would miss that nice
American and his kid.
- 14 -
“ I t
is our time,” Ahmed whispered, gathering his few possessions in the darkness. “There
is no going back.”
“Our future is bright.” Mohamed retrieved his knife from
under the mattress.
“Inshallah.”
Using a key stolen by one of the younger children on a “visit”
to the Yazza’s bedside, Ahmed unlocked the dormitory. He felt nauseous, though
unsure why.
Mohamed pulled a box of matches from his pocket. “Let’s get
the others out and torch this devil-forsaken fleapit while the filthy pigs
sleep!”
Ahmed chuckled, having gotten used to his friend’s
impetuousness over the years.
“Not now, brother. Their time will come. Inshallah.”
They hightailed into the night.
Heading in no particular direction, the boys soon found themselves
walking along narrow cobbled streets deep in Tangier’s Old Town. Water trickled
down dank mossed walls as the faint sound of laughter emanated from underground
taverns. In the glow of a streetlight, a scruffily dressed boy stood looking up
and down the road. He appeared on edge, stepping from one leg to the other as
the two of them approached.
“Salaam alaikum,” Ahmed greeted.
“And may peace be upon you too,” the boy mumbled, staring at
Ahmed’s palm for a moment before accepting it.
“What’s your name, friend?” asked Mohamed.
“Faar,” said the boy, which meant “mouse.”
Mohamed wondered why Faar stood here alone in the middle of
the night but didn’t ask, instead letting Ahmed explain their plight.
Faar’s timid brown eyes flicked alternately from Ahmed to
Mohamed, until eventually “Come” he said, leading them down a winding alleyway
and across a patch of wasteland. He stopped next to a pile of rubble overgrown
with weeds and lifted up a sheet of rotting plywood to expose an open manhole.
“Down, down,” Faar ordered, scanning the area like a soldier
on patrol.
Clinging to the iron rungs of a service ladder, the boys
descended into what at first was pitch-black silence, but nearing the bottom of
the shaft they began to detect the flicker of firelight as the stench of human
excrement and hushed conversations floated up to greet them. They stood at the
base of the ladder, their vision adjusting to the dark in the cavernous space.
“This way,” said
files.
Travel visas would not be an issue, but Hans still had to
make sure the yacht’s paperwork was in order ready for inspection by harbormasters
in the ports they intended to visit. He had the relevant tide tables and an
almanac detailing the Atlantic’s predicted conditions, together with a list of
meteorological websites and frequencies for weather bulletins in the regions
ahead. Giving a rough estimate of their arrival time, Hans emailed yacht clubs
and marinas along their route to reserve moorings.
After buying scuba weights and fishing tackle in a nearby
sports store, they provisioned the yacht with dried and canned victuals and
enough fresh food to last them until reaching port in France. Penny helped, her
knowledge of seafaring staples and British supermarkets making things a lot
easier.
All Hans had to do now was take Old Glory from his suitcase and
replace the English ensign flying astern.
Finally, they went to say good-bye to Old Bill, a tinkling
bell above the chandlery door signaling their entrance. On bended knees, Bill
stroked Jessica’s cheek and pressed a good-luck gift into her hand. It was a pocketknife
with a tiny silver anchor screwed to its ebony handle.
Her face lit up.
“Remember, don’t cross the Biscay without a five-day window,
and be sure to give her plenty of sea room when you do, mate.” He winked.
“Aye aye, skippa!”
“Aye aye, me little hearty. And fair passage to ’e.”
When Hans and Jessica left, Bill flipped the sign in his
window to “Closed,” then went into the backroom and poured himself a shot of
rum. He massaged his gray-stubbled chin, knowing he would miss that nice
American and his kid.
- 14 -
“ I t
is our time,” Ahmed whispered, gathering his few possessions in the darkness. “There
is no going back.”
“Our future is bright.” Mohamed retrieved his knife from
under the mattress.
“Inshallah.”
Using a key stolen by one of the younger children on a “visit”
to the Yazza’s bedside, Ahmed unlocked the dormitory. He felt nauseous, though
unsure why.
Mohamed pulled a box of matches from his pocket. “Let’s get
the others out and torch this devil-forsaken fleapit while the filthy pigs
sleep!”
Ahmed chuckled, having gotten used to his friend’s
impetuousness over the years.
“Not now, brother. Their time will come. Inshallah.”
They hightailed into the night.
Heading in no particular direction, the boys soon found themselves
walking along narrow cobbled streets deep in Tangier’s Old Town. Water trickled
down dank mossed walls as the faint sound of laughter emanated from underground
taverns. In the glow of a streetlight, a scruffily dressed boy stood looking up
and down the road. He appeared on edge, stepping from one leg to the other as
the two of them approached.
“Salaam alaikum,” Ahmed greeted.
“And may peace be upon you too,” the boy mumbled, staring at
Ahmed’s palm for a moment before accepting it.
“What’s your name, friend?” asked Mohamed.
“Faar,” said the boy, which meant “mouse.”
Mohamed wondered why Faar stood here alone in the middle of
the night but didn’t ask, instead letting Ahmed explain their plight.
Faar’s timid brown eyes flicked alternately from Ahmed to
Mohamed, until eventually “Come” he said, leading them down a winding alleyway
and across a patch of wasteland. He stopped next to a pile of rubble overgrown
with weeds and lifted up a sheet of rotting plywood to expose an open manhole.
“Down, down,” Faar ordered, scanning the area like a soldier
on patrol.
Clinging to the iron rungs of a service ladder, the boys
descended into what at first was pitch-black silence, but nearing the bottom of
the shaft they began to detect the flicker of firelight as the stench of human
excrement and hushed conversations floated up to greet them. They stood at the
base of the ladder, their vision adjusting to the dark in the cavernous space.
“This way,” said
Similar Books
