Unexpected Manoeuver

I’m convinced there were more mosquitoes trapped inside my net than out in the misty jungle where our rustic cabin lay.

I woke to the persistent, high-pitched whine of soprano insects serenading my ears.

Sleeping on terra firma after more than six moons afloat had felt like a thrilling prospect.

So when the opportunity came to make a temporary land base, we jumped.

I enjoyed the birdsong, the greenness, the dripping tropical flowers, the sweet water showers — but it was hot, oh so hot — and the mosquitoes were just too much, especially at sunrise and sunset.

I miss the boat already.

Anyway, eventually I get round to opening the mosquito net surrounding my bed and freeing the bloodthirsty, winged annoyances.

It’s early, the kids are still snoring away, and the hummingbirds are only just starting their breakfast routine.

I turn on my phone to find two missed calls from Clinton, the zaffer who had greeted us on our arrival.

I find this odd, as it is way too early to attempt phone contact, but we had agreed to have breakfast together this morning, so perhaps he is ringing to inform us of a change of plans.

I prod the captn to keep him in the loop with the latest.

We turn on his phone to discover even more missed calls — from him and his girlfriend.

Something must be up.

Again, we think that perhaps they had to go into town for some final preparations for their imminent departure to sail back to South Africa. They had already checked out with immigration and were waiting for a favorable weather window.

They are probably just ringing to postpone our breakfast appointment.

So captn proceeds to return the call.

From what I gather, it’s her who answers the phone.

Captns face turns stony grey.

Clinton is dead.

Hang on a minute.

What?

(The mind in confused denial.)

How could that be possible?

He is only in his forties.

We just saw him yesterday.

We are going to have breakfast with him this morning.

Surely someone’s made a mistake.

But after a few breaths, my pupils dilate — somehow allowing the news to sink in.

How is that for an unexpected manoeuver from the cosmos?!

Eventually the practical brain starts firing: we need to get to the harbour and support Max (the girlfriend) during this process.

After all, we are the only people she knows in this bizarre corner of the planet.

So, unsure of what we would encounter at the other end, we put the kids and ourselves on the bikes and start pedalling : harbour bound.