Geoffrey Jenkins - A Twist Of Sand

A flush came up on her cheeks, already bright with the wind.

"Computation — you remember?" was all she said.

"Are you ready to go ashore?" I asked Stein.

"In half an hour," he said. "I've got the stores all packed."

"You'll have to put up with the surf-boat," I said. "The others got smashed… er — at sea in a blow. I'll send the Kroo boy, he's the best surfman amongst the crew."

Stein's mouth hardened.

"You're going to send us ashore at the mercy of a single kaffir? What does he know about this anchorage?"

I almost felt sorry for Stein then. It was like dropping an unwanted puppy in a bucket of water with a brick round its neck. But he knew too much. The girl — well, I had a plan for her.

"Of course I'm coming," I said. "How far do you think you'd get without me?"

Stein relaxed. I refused to look at Anne.

"Get the boat alongside," I told John. "Detail the Kroo boy to come with me. Get some of the others to load the stuff into the boat. Smack it about."

Stein had certainly helped himself liberally to Etosha's stores. With typical thoroughness he had labelled everything. Jim, the Kroo boy, stood in the tossing surf-boat with its high prow, and the crew passed down things to him. Stein had even roped up some canvas — for a tent presumably. He came up with a Remington high velocity in one hand and the Luger in the other. He was like a child off on a picnic.

"Arms for the man," he grinned. He'd also stuck: i Bowie knife in his belt. "This will stop almost anything," he patted the Remington affectionately. "For person: \I protection, there's nothing at all to touch the old Lugci. Perfect balance in the hand."

Anne had changed into a thicker red sweater and a duffel coat. She was very silent.

Stein knelt down and listened to Johann's breathing.

"Tie his hands and throw him in the boat," he said callously. "He may come round on the way to the to the beach. He may cause trouble if he finds you in the boat also."

Johann was heaved like a sack of potatoes into the boat.

The native crew looked on goggle-eyed. The surf-boat looked very deep in the water, but I thought she would be all right.

I jumped in. Anne stood at the open rail and looked down into my face.

"Come on," I called. "Jump. I'll catch you."

It may have been the blowing salt, but her eyes were wet. The right eyelid was slightly rumpled. She gave a ghost of a smile and leapt lightly down, scarcely making use of my proffered hands.

Stein came last. I noticed the bulge of ammunition in his pockets. Well, he'd need it, every round of it, to get him out alive. You can't shoot the Skeleton Coast.

"Cast off," I said.

"Back in two hours," I called to John.

The Kroo boy cast off expertly. If he was something of a duffer at Etosha's wheel, he certainly was in his element now. He guided the heavily-laden boat expertly as I headed her towards the channel. Our course lay roughly across the causeway, now submerged, to the beach, which meant the boat would have the protection of the sand-bars for the tricky run in through the surf. Since they guarded the beach against the south-westerly swell, it shouldn't be too risky. A dollop of water came aboard and Anne gave a slight gasp. Curva dos Dunas certainly looked more terrifying from the low level of a boat than from a ship's bridge. The surf creamed on every side, but with the boat's compass I took a quick bearing and then headed her almost directly towards the high hill to the north. Once inside the channel it became smoother, and the water turned white with a pale blue backing — like the colour of a Lazy Grey shark. Satisfied that I was now over the causeway proper, I turned the boat directly shoreward.

"How's your surf-riding?" I asked Anne banteringly.

"Not so good," she replied, putting on a brave show, but I could plainly see she was terrified of the line of creaming surf ahead.

"This Kroo boy is as good as they come," I said. "He'll take her in like a ski-boat."

"It would solve a good many problems if we all got drowned," she said sombrely. She shivered inside the duffle-coat, now glistening with a faint film of white salt.

Stein was silent. Johann had given a stir, but his eyes remained shut. The Kroo boy, wearing only an ancient pair of Jantzen trunks, had unshipped the tiller and was steering with an oar. He was grinning with animation. It was a challenge to his skill. The ragged fringe of beard — all southern African natives are vastly proud of even a few wisps of a beard for it is a sign of virility — whipped back across his left cheek.

"I put her ashore — any pertikler place, baas?" he shouted. The boat bucked with the first of the inshore breakers.

"Anywhere you think best," I called back. "Anywhere on that beach."

"Good-oh," he yelled, remembering some sailor's expression.

Now that the beach was closer, I could see that it was not fine sand, but coarse, broken here and there by rocks fretted and polished by the wind.

The Kroo boy yawed slightly. I had not noticed the big comber building up about twenty yards to starboard. But he had, and in a moment we were carried majestically, high above the surrounding sea. Then the nose of the boat tilted downwards and, with the water vainly clutching at both gunwales, rushed at something like twenty knots for the beach.

Anne sank down by one of the seats and closed her eyes, clutching at the wood.

"Steady as she goes," I ordered, quite unnecessarily, to the Kroo boy. The sea had given him life. The underfed figure was proud and tensed under the whip of the wind and waves. The black face, usually sullen and unwilling, had become alive.

The great breaker streamed in towards the beach. If we touched anything, let alone the iron-hard beach, it would tear the planking out like matchwood. Even a strong swimmer wouldn't last five minutes in the maelstrom. But the oarsman knew his job. Suddenly the boat lurched sickeningly to port, into a welter of foam. Another great wave ahead of ours had crashed on the beach and was hurtling itself back seawards. The spindrift, thick as foam, enveloped the boat, and I had to peer to see above it. The boat's motion was stayed like a turbo-prop engine in reverse. She touched once, touched twice. In a second the oarsman was over the side, up to his waist and hauled her in towards the beach. I jumped out after him, hauling on the other bow at a short painter. The sea slopped inside my half-boots. Without looking back — we both knew the menace of that twenty knot wave even a biscuit-toss from the shore — we hauled the boat up on the tough shingle.

"Out!" I yelled to Anne and Stein. Their feet crunched on the beach. We hauled the boat still higher. The Kroo boy and I were panting, and my peaked cap was floating in an inch of bilge-water.

"My God! "said Stein.

"How'll you ever get back?" shuddered Anne^ her face pale.

"It's like Sputnik," I grinned back. "It's much easier going than coming."

There was a nervous air about Stein.

"Get Johann out and lay him here on the beach. Untie his hands," he said rapidly.

I stared at him in surprise. After his earlier attitude, it wouldn't have surprised me if he'd thrown him overboard. Now he was fussing like a hen over a chick.

The Kroo boy obediently hauled him out and laid him on the sand.

The touch of the gritty shingle electrified the unconscious man.

Without opening his eyes, his hands, as if of their own volition, reached out, fingering the shingle. Then the hand moved slowly up the side of the face, as if exploring the beach against his cheek. He gave a terrible scream and sat upright. Thank God his hands are still tied, I thought.

Stein jabbed him with the Remington, while the Kroo boy, aghast at the wide eyes and screaming mouth, like a gutted barracouta, cringed against the boat. I was glad to find Anne close to me.