By Cyril Dabydeen
The waves surged towards Beachhead Point like a man in a hurry, the heave and roll of great billows rising to a crescendo against the fisherman’s cry above the undulating sea near crab-backed, mollusc-shelled Palmyra. Carl’s eyes skirted the misty chalk-white horizon at six in the morning, then he fixed his gaze on the limb of a courida tree floating down to the beach of habitation. Like a man facing his first baptism of water, he stood expectantly, poised in his small boat. A long-necked crane swooped down, and Carl’s involuntary movement caused his left foot to buckle and splay against the gunwale—as the boat made an almost self-propelled dive. Sprays whipped into his face.
