Free A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth Page A

without power. Safiya would say that we have that same power, the force of the waves within. She would call it God. He is not so sure.
    â€˜Mum would love this,’ Georgia says. ‘We’ve got to show her. I wonder if there’s a way to get here without swimming.’
    Ahead, about halfway down, he can make out a line of figures; a few are wading in the water. It looks as if they are pulling a net. He has seen this kind of fishing before with Safiya at sunset on Store Bay. He’d made a joke about giving up his job for a simple life as a fisherman. Safiya said, ‘There’s nothing simple about these fishermen. Like you, they work hard to feed their families. Just because they’re poor, it doesn’t mean they’re simple.’
    And he remembers feeling embarrassed, irritated, and fixing his eyes on the busy scene, the young men packing fish into Styrofoam boxes, and carrying them on their heads to the road. They didn’t speak until after they got back to the hotel and hetold her he was sorry. He knew Safiya was right; it was easy to make assumptions.
    Martin and Georgia start down the beach and the wind is blowing through their hair. The sun is now high overhead. They walk on the wet sand, and Georgia flings little pieces of stone into the waves—chip, chip, chip as they skim the surface of the water. He shouts:
Tic, tac, toe, my first throw, three jolly butcher boys all in a row
. And, to his surprise, she joins in, her voice shrill and young:
Stick one up, stick one down, stick one on the old man’s crown
. The white foam rushes at their ankles; it feels cool, and the smell of the sea is strong.
    The men seem to be deliberating over how far they can pull the fishing net up the beach. They look fit, especially the front man who is calling the shots; his black, lean body gleams with sweat. Behind him are three younger men, and then an older man in his seventies, perhaps; his legs are bowed, his skin hangs like a suit. A Rasta man with waist-length locks fools around in the middle of the line, cocking his leg out to the side. He is singing something familiar. Martin gives a friendly wave and offers a hand.
    Georgia watches as he takes grip of the rope. There is a rhythm of sorts—reach, pull and hold. Reach, pull and hold. Reach, pull and hold. And so it goes. Part of the net is exposed on the wet sand, a kind of horseshoe shape in the bay. Bobbing out in the sea is a pirogue, and he is guessing that the owner of the net owns this boat. Is it the pirogue that drops the net out there? Who knows how long it will take to haul the thing in. A couple of dogs are lying on the other side of the fishing line. One has long dark teats hanging from its bloated stomach. Theother, prettier dog seems more alert, ears up, nose held high. The two pick themselves up and move with the men along the beach.
    â€˜Hold,’ says the front man. Then again, ‘Hold!’
    A couple of younger men, more like boys, watch from the side. Then one of them steps in front of Martin and takes up the rope. The other smokes a cigarette and sits by the rocks.
    The rope is heavier than he’d thought and unwieldy, and the beach seems to rise, a gradual slope. If he did this every day, his hands would get rough—his soft, English hands. Gentleman’s hands, Safiya says. Like his feet, they need to toughen up.
    â€˜Pull,’ the front man shouts, and suddenly there is the entire net and he can see the caught, trapped fish, the glittery splattering bits of silver as they jump on top of one another. Their job is done. The sand here is soft and powdery like hot flour. Martin hops to where it is cooler; the front man thanks him with a high five. ‘Nice work,’ he says, to Martin. And Martin feels good; he feels alive. This is how we are meant to feel all the time; he is certain of it. Go with the flow, the young people say. And why not! He must seize the moment.
Carpe diem!
There is only