Ragged Escape

 

Years later, whenever I was asked to tell this story, I always began with the day before the big rain. I was at Raccoon Cay, anchored in House Bay, on the banks side of the mostly uninhabited Ragged Island chain. They’re in the southern Bahamas, closer to Cuba than Nassau. There’s no house at House Bay, or anywhere else on the island, though there may have been at one time. There are no raccoons on Raccoon Cay either, though I understand there are some in Nassau and Freeport.

It’s amazing how this story has spread from boat to boat, always in person. Folks who know the story don’t talk about it over the radio, for good reasons. I’ve been asked to tell it so many times, in so many shared anchorages, that I decided to write it down to just hand out when someone new wanted it. So here it is.

I had been coming to the Ragged Islands ever since I retired, at at the young age of 54, from my job as a software engineer. It had been a rewarding career, both mentally and financially. When I determined that I had enough savings to last me until I turned 90, there was nothing holding me back. It had been years since my divorce. My adult children were off on their own. So I followed suit and left on my sailboat for parts unknown. So far, my projections of what this kind of life would cost have proven accurate enough. I don’t expect to be needing a job ever again. But that’s all history. You want to hear the story I promised.

I spent that day, the one before the rain, as I spent most days in the Raggeds, swimming or rowing my hard dinghy to the beach and back, hunting for a fish or lobster I could spear for dinner, hiking around the island or lazing in the cockpit with an easy book. It had been more than a month since the last rain and my water tanks were running low. I might need to return to civilization soon, an unappealing prospect. But the wind had come around to the south which usually meant a cold front with showers was approaching from the west.

I filled the two biggest bowls I had with tank water for the few dozen feral goats who were the island’s only permanent inhabitants. The shallow pond they used had gone completely dry and I was worried about them. I felt good about sharing my dwindling water supply with them but I could get more and they couldn't. Either it would rain or I’d return to Long Island to fill up.

I left the bowls at the edge of the dry pond, rowed back to Calypso, my old 38 foot Morgan sloop, and moved to Johnson Cay where I’d be better protected from the SW and west winds that were surely on the way. The next morning the sky turned black, the wind did indeed swing to the west and the rain poured down. I let it wash off my decks for the first few minutes then plugged the scuppers, opened up the deck fills and went below. Listening to that fresh water running down into my two tanks gave me a sweet feeling.

The rain squalls continued for two and a half hours, longer than usual but much needed. As soon as the sky cleared, I returned to House Bay knowing the wind would soon swing around to the north and northeast. Late that afternoon I rowed to the beach to see how the goats were making out. The pond now had several inches of water and the goats were looking much happier. I picked up one of the bowls I had left for them but the other had disappeared. It wasn’t at the edge of the pond where I knew I had left it. Could the goats have carried it off somewhere? That didn’t seem likely. Then I saw the footprints.

They were obviously made by a human. But I was the only human anywhere near the island and the footprints were definitely not mine. I wanted to follow them but it was getting dark. Feeling a bit like a modern day Robinson Crusoe, I rowed back to Calypso determined to solve this mystery in the morning.

#

I had no idea how long it might take to track down the mysterious stranger so I came prepared with a gallon jug of water, half a loaf of bread that I had baked the night before, a flashlight, a book to read, and a sheet that I could use for shade. At the pond the footprints were still there in the muck at the water’s edge. I followed them for a few yards but lost them in the goat tracks heading away from the pond. They were pointed across the island toward the ocean side so I followed one of the goat trails that looked to be going that way.

When I reached the cliff I called out “Hello.” and “Anyone there?” several times but got no answer. Whoever he was he had to be around there somewhere. It’s not that big an island. (Why did I assume it was a he? I couldn’t imagine that it would not be.) I would wait him out. On a sandy spot back from the edge of the cliff I set up camp, draping the sheet across a pair of palmettos, leaning back against my backpack and opening the book I had brought - a favorite Dortmunder story by Donald Westlake.

I sat there for hours, surviving on bread, water, shade and a good yarn. I was certain that if I waited long enough, he would have to appear. It was beginning to look like I might be wrong. Then my eye caught a glimpse of movement. When I looked that way there was nothing, but I felt certain something had moved at the edge of the cliff, disappearing behind it.

I stood on the edge calling out to him. “Hello? I don’t mean you any harm, I’m just curious is all. Are you down there?” No answer.

I started down the cliff and could see that a path had been worn into the limestone. Then I discovered the opening to a small cave halfway up the cliff face. I stood just outside the opening and called out again, in a normal voice this time. “My name is Wayne. I’m from the sailboat anchored on the other side. I thought you might need some help. Is it okay if I come in?” No response.

I peered inside and saw him, crouched as far back into the shallow cave as he could get. He had a knife in one had, it looked like a steak knife. He was brown skinned, extremely thin, wearing only a pair of dirty gray underpants. There were sores all over his body. He was clearly terrified of me.

I wanted to allay his fears somehow. I squatted down, showed him my empty hands in front of me, and spoke softly and calmly. “Do you speak English? Is there anything I can do for you? Are you hungry? I have some bread with me, up above.” At that his eyes betrayed him. “I’ll get the bread,” I told him him, “and be right back.”

I climbed back up the cliff, got what was left of the bread and returned to the cave. So he understood English, or at least the word bread. I squatted again in the same spot where I had been. He was in the same crouch, holding the same knife, but it was no longer pointed at me. I tossed the bread to him. He caught it and began devouring it with a hunger I had never seen in anyone before.

When he had finished, I told him I had more food on the boat. He was welcome to join me. “Would you like to do that?”

He asked “Who are you?” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t identify.

“I’m Wayne Simpson. I’m here on my boat. You must must have seen in anchored off the beach across the island. I come here a lot. I love this island. Now, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here but I’ll try to help you if I can. There’s no one else here but us.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said and slowly stood up.

“Bring that bowl with you. I’m pretty sure that’s mine.”

#

We walked in silence back across the island to the beach where my dinghy was tied to a stake I had stuck in the sand. I rowed him out to Calypso and showed him the ladder for climbing aboard. He went up and I followed, tying off the painter and tossing my backpack into the cockpit. I said “Let’s go below, out of the sun.”

He followed me down the companionway, awkwardly. I pointed to the port settee, suggesting he sit there. He did, looking somewhat sheepish.

“I’m having a beer. Would you like one?”

“I am Muslim.”

I wasn’t sure but I guessed that meant no alcohol. “How about a glass of water?”

“Please.”

I handed him the water and said “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Sir, my name is Ahmed Yasin. I am chemist, what you call pharmacist. My shop is in Kabul. My family is in Kabul. I hope they are.”

“You’re a long way from home,” said Wayne.

“I want much to go home.”

In broken English he went on to explain how he came to be on Raccoon Cay. I wish you could hear him tell the story in his own words. I’m sure you would be as moved by it as I was. What I’ll do, I’ll try to write it the way I remember it, not exactly in his words but the way I heard it. I’ll fix up his English to make it easier for you.

#

This is the story he told.

“Sir, you cannot imagine what it is like to have a brother like mine. He is my older brother, the one who should be looking out for me, but it has always been the other way around. He has never had a real job and is always asking me for money. I should tell him no but he is my brother. He gets involved in every crazy scheme that comes along. He goes from one extreme to another. He has been into politics, into gambling, into religion. Whatever he gets into he always gets in too deep.

 

“It is because of him that I was arrested. I have never done anything wrong in my life. I am an honest pharmacist. I have a good wife and two young children, who are the center of my life. But when my brother called and said he was desperate, that he needed me to bring him some money, that he had to have it, I did what I always do. I went to the bank, got the money he needed, and drove to where he was staying. He is my brother.

 

“When I got there he introduced me to some friends who were staying with him. They seemed even crazier than he is. I had only been there a few minutes when these guys in brown uniforms broke down the front door and burst in pointing guns at us, and yelling things we could not understand. My English was not so good then.

 

“I do not know what could be more frightening than facing armed men who look both enraged and scared at the same time. The veins in their foreheads were throbbing. Their eyes were darting everywhere. They were so intense, and yelling, yelling, furious that we were not doing what they wanted, but we did not know what they wanted.

 

“I told my brother and his friends to lie on the floor, as I did. I think it saved us. The men dragged us out, stripped us naked, threw us into the back of a truck, and took us to a prison where we were put into separate cells. I do not know what happened to my

brother and the others. I have not seen them since. Every day someone would drag me out of my cell and ask me questions that made no sense to me, even though my English was improving. They beat me. I would have told them whatever they wanted but I never knew what that was.

 

“They moved me to another prison, then another. Three years ago they moved me to the prison at Guantanemo. They kept asking me the same questions and I gave them the same answers but they never believed me. I asked when I would be allowed to go back home to my family in Kabul. They said when they are through with me. I asked when that will be and they said maybe never.

 

“I had to find a way to get out of there. I would try to escape even if I died trying. I

could not spend the rest of my life there.

 

“I learned as much English as I could from the guards. They were friendlier than the interrogators. There was one, Jake Offut was his name, who said he was from a place called Kentucky. We talked about medicinal herbs. He had a grandmother who knew all about such plants. She passed some of what she knew onto him. I was the first person Jake had met, since enlisting, who was interested in the same thing. Jake often accompanied me around the grounds, discussing the various plants that were found there. By then, all of the guards had come to realize that I was no terrorist, no threat to them or the US, just a guy who had been torn, unfairly, from his home, his work and his family. The guards allowed me to wander about the compound but always with at least one guard keeping an eye on me.

 

“There came a day, late in the afternoon, when the guard who was responsible for keeping track of me was distracted by a disturbance elsewhere in the compound. I saw my chance and headed down to the shore where I hoped I might find a way to escape. I spotted a wooden cargo pallet washed up on the ironstone shore. I tossed it into the water, climbed on and pushed myself away. It was beginning to get dark and the current was carrying me away from shore. I ripped one of the boards off the pallet and began paddling.

 

“The currents carried me here, to this island, though I had no idea what country this is. I washed up on the beach and discovered the limestone cave which became my new home. I would wander the island looking for anything that would help me survive. I found barely drinkable water in a brackish pond. I discovered the feral goats and would have found a way to capture one if I had a way to build a fire to roast it.

“Then I began to notice that every now and then a sailboat would anchor off the beach across the island from my cave. I watched carefully, hidden behind the bushes. I noticed that the people on the sailboats would often get into a smaller boat and go off for hours at a time.

“One day, I worked up the nerve to swim out to a boat I thought would be empty. I climbed aboard, found it was indeed empty, and took whatever I thought might not be missed. Maybe I took things from you. If so, I am most sorry. I was desperate.”

#

What would you do if someone told you a story like that? I told him that I had noticed a few things that had disappeared from the boat but nothing important. I’m pretty sure that steak knife he had in the cave, and left behind there, was one of mine. I told him he shouldn’t worry about it.

I said “You must hate your brother now for getting you into this fix.”

Ahmed paused, then said “Oh no sir. He is still my brother. If I ever find him again, I will still be his brother. I cannot hate him.”

I rigged up the solar shower on the foredeck and showed Ahmed how to work it. I left a towel and a terry cloth robe on the cabin top. When Ahmed returned below, we went through Wayne’s clothes together, looking for something that could be made to fit the taller and much thinner Afghan. I made dinner for both of us after interrogating Ahmed about what he could and couldn’t eat. After dinner we began conspiring, trying to come up with a plan that would carry Ahmed back home to Kabul.

“I have friends in Georgetown, that’s three days from here, who spend the whole winter there,” I told him. “They’re very social. They spend hours each day on their SSB radios chatting with friends all over the western Atlantic. They might know of someone who will be crossing over to Europe and would be willing to have you along.”

Ahmed thought about this then said “I know nothing about sailboats or SSB radios or what it would be like crossing the ocean. But if you believe it would get me home, I’ll do it. I have no money to pay even for food. Are sailors so generous?”

“We can be, when it’s a good cause. I think there are many who would consider this a good enough cause. Tomorrow we’ll start back that way. You’ll learn a little something about sailing along the way.”

#

After a breakfast of eggs (powdered), toast and coffee, I raised the mainsail and let it flap while I pulled up the anchor. The boat turned away from the beach, the main filled and we headed northeast, staying inside the chain of islands some call The Raggeds and others The Jumentos. Bahamians usually just call them The Cays. I rolled out the genny and the boat took off with a southeast wind. It was fine sailing, ideal for me but terrifying for Ahmed who clung to the dodger. “We’re tipping over!” he cried.

“Don’t be alarmed, Ahmed. It’s called heeling. It’s just what a sailboat does. The boat is seeking the perfect balance between the wind on the sails and the water on the keel. You’ll get used to it.”

By the time we reached Water Cay Ahmed seemed more reassured. He was surprised that he hadn’t gotten seasick and took that as a good sign for what might lie ahead. I pulled into the cove at the eastern end of the island, next to a Bahamian fishing boat, and dropped the hook. There were three Boston Whalers tied behind the fishing boat.

Two of the fisherman came alongside Calypso in a Whaler and asked we had any rum. I always kept a couple of bottles of cheap rum onboard for just such occasions. I gave them a bottle in exchange for a bag of yellowtail snappers. I took two out of the bag, put the bag in the freezer, cleaned the two and we had them for dinner.

The next day began with a downwind sail toward Hog Cay. Ahmed found it to be a far more pleasant experience and said he was beginning to look favorably on the plans we had tentatively made. When we reached the Comer Channel we turned to the east. I rolled up the genny, dropped the main and motored into a very light head wind. This was also comfortable for Ahmed, except for the noise of the engine. He said he was remembering with fondness that fast beam reach with the boat heeled over by 35 degrees. Maybe he was already becoming a sailor. What a strange thought. I even let him steer for awhile.

When we arrived at Long Island, I headed for the northeast corner of Thompson Bay where we anchored near the sandy beach. I told Ahmed that I had friends who lived out on Indian Hole Road. In the morning we’d pay them a visit and learn what we could about mutual friends.

#

Dana and Mark were Island Packet sailors who fell in love with Thompson Bay and the town of Salt Pond when they first came there in the 90s. They returned every year spending more and more of the winters and becoming a fixture in the church and community. Mark would go out on local fishing boats headed for the cays, coming back with fish, lobsters and extra cash.

After years of this they bought a piece of land along Indian Hole Road and put up a Deltek prefab house on the lot. When Ahmed and I showed up there in the morning, Dana and Mark were both home. They always seemed glad to see any visitors who would drop by. I made the introductions. “This is my friend, Ahmed. He has been sailing with me for a few days.”

This statement came as a surprise to them. Dana and Mark knew that I always sailed single-handed. Dana, gracious as ever said “Well, then, welcome to Salt Pond. What’s it like sailing with Wayne? There aren’t many who have done it.”

“It was most terrifying at first. I had never been on a leaning over boat before. But I’m getting accustomed to it. I’m even beginning to enjoy it a little.”

I thought it best to let the full story come out on its own. I said “Ahmed is a pharmacist.”

“A pharmacist! Mark was a pharmacist, back in Maine. What a coincidence. Where did you practice?” asked Dana.

“Practice? No I am an actual pharmacist.”

“Sorry, I mean where was your pharmacy?”

“Oh, yes, I see. In Kabul.”

“Kabul? You mean in Afghanistan?”

“Yes, Afghanistan. I’m trying to return there.”

I jumped back in. “Ahmed is in a difficult position. I’m trying to help him get back home. I thought someone in Georgetown might know of someone who would be headed to the Med and might take Ahmed along. It’s kind of a long shot but I can’t think of anything else.”

Dana and Mark were starting to catch on.”Would this difficult position involve the US government?”

“You could say that. It’s a hell of a story that I’ll tell you some day. I think it best to leave it at that for now.”

Mark joined the conversation for the first time. “I could make some calls. In fact there’s a boat here now who might know something. I’ll see what I can find out.”

I stopped him, saying “We have to be careful with anything we say on the radio or the phone. There’s bound to be a search going on for Ahmed. I think it best to talk only in person.”

Dana had been thinking this over. “Maybe it would be best to wait for a time, let things quiet down. We could put Ahmed up here for a couple of weeks. I know others who would do the same.”

Then she added “Do you know Dr. Whyte at the clinic? Teresa? She’s the cute one from Jamaica.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve met her.”

“She’s a good friend and has been trying to talk Mark into putting aside his retirement and filling in at the pharmacy. The pharmacist they had moved to the States and is probably not coming back. Maybe we can come up with a new name for Ahmed, and a new story, so he could help out there.”

“I think you’re onto something, Dana. I wasn’t too optimistic about the plan we had in mind until now. This sounds much better. But what about paperwork? Won’t Ahmed need a license and whatever else is required in the Bahamas?”

“We have friends in the states that can make up a believable license. As far as paperwork for the Bahamas, if you’re not Haitian it’s not hard to get by. I’m sure we can work something out. And Teresa will help.”

#

That’s how the pharmacy at Deadman’s Cay got their new pharmacist. His name is Arda Demir. He was born in Turkey but studied in the US. He applied for Bahamian permanent residence but that takes a while. A year after starting work at the pharmacy, his wife and two children arrived, flying in from Turkey. There was a big celebration on Long Island. I was there for it. To this day Ahmed, I mean Arda, has had no news of whatever became of his brother.

So that’s my story. When you’ve finished reading this, please burn it and stir the ashes.

 

 

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.11.2016

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Widmung:
To Mike and Dawn who are aways willing to help.