by Arno Joubert
Cape Town
South Africa
Chief Inspector Dawid Moolman leaned over the railing of the small fishing boat and threw up the last of his breakfast into the choppy waters below. The small vessel was being tossed around by the large waves, but the diesel inboard motor droned on, spewing dirty black smoke as it went.
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, spat the bile in his mouth into the ocean, and looked up. “How far to go?” he shouted at the skipper, leaning unsteadily on the handrail.
The leathery-skinned man pulled his waterproof parka over his head then looked up at the grey sky and narrowed his eyes, as if calculating the distance in his head. “Another seven miles. Fifteen minutes, give or take,” he shouted into the howling wind. He pointed toward the starboard side and shouted, “Quick, Vernon, there’s another one.”
The skipper’s teenage son darted to the side of the boat and thrust a net into the water. He scooped something up then dropped it onto the deck with a soft thud.
Inspector Moolman lurched forward, precariously clutching on to the handrail as he uncomfortably made his way. He knelt next to the object, steadying himself with his hands. He inspected it suspiciously and picked it up, trying to hide his disgust.
He had been in the South African Police Service for more than fifteen years, the last three spent as chief inspector in Cape Town, but he had never come across anything like this before.
In the past month, more than a dozen of these things had washed up ashore on the west coast of the Cape, and he would soon need a larger evidence cabinet to house them all.
He peeked into the opening. The skeletal remains of a foot were still inside. He swallowed then fished a plastic bag from his pocket and tossed the shoe into it.
“We’re almost there, Inspector,” Jamie Bezuidenhout, the skipper, shouted.
Moolman stood up laboriously then held his arms up like a tightrope walker to try to keep his balance.
“Look over there,” Jamie shouted, pointing a gnarled finger to the port side of the vessel.
Moolman shuffled over the deck of the ship and made it to the other side without stumbling this time. He peered over the side of the vessel toward where Jamie had pointed then clapped his hand over his mouth.
As they came closer, small bubbles burst to the surface, followed by more of the sneakers. He felt the bile rise in his throat again, and he leaned over the side of the vessel and emptied the final contents of his stomach into the rough seas. He closed his eyes then looked back up with a shudder.
Floating on the water, as far as the eye could see, were dozens of sneakers dotting the surface of the ocean.
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Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is lonely, challenging, intimidating, monotonous work. But also extremely self-fulfilling and gratifying, especially when a reader comments on your expert knowledge on a particular subject area.
When a novelist starts his career, he or she often makes mistakes and they subsequently get one star reviews for the work that they’ve poured their heart and soul into perfecting.
Why?
Because, as a writer, we are stupid, or too lazy to do some proper research. You see, we make things up for a living, so who would care that army troops cannot parachute from a B-52 bomber? But people do care. To suspend disbelief and truly submerge yourself in a story, it has to be as close to reality as possible.
As a writer, you need to get your facts straight.
Luckily there are some gifted readers and confidantes who gently point out our mistakes and indiscretions, reminding me that I cannot simply hit someone’s septum into his brain, and that it is disrespectful to toss bags of donated blood on the ground.
Without these specialists who have painstakingly taken their valuable time to pore over my tomes, the work would have been so much weaker, and I cannot thank them enough.
So here is a shoutout to all the people who have helped me during the past year:
Doctor Rob Gentz for your medical expertise, useful comments and observations and just your humorous way of pointing out my mistakes. Man, I should have paid more attention in those anatomy classes. Also, thanks for being a pal! Next beer’s on me, man.
To Colonel Kenneth Gerchman, thanks for all the advice on how to blow various things up, explaining to me which is the weapon of choice in CQB’s (Close Quarter Battles) and thank you as well for pointing out that the term “Ex-Marine” is a misnomer. I get it, the men worked hard to earn the title; they will always stay Marines. I salute you, sir.
Laura Kingsley, my Content Editor. Your brilliant mind and sharp wit inspires me to be so much more than I can be. They day you said that, ‘there's a good book lurking in the mess’, I felt so proud that you didn’t simply say that I should stop writing this blathering rubbish. Thank you for your observations and guidance, and soon, another piece of hogwash will make its way to your inbox to be ripped open and torn apart and cajoled into some coherent tome that I will be proud to display to the world. But, all jokes aside. Honestly, thanks. I couldn’t have started this journey without your expert guidance and advice. You’re the best, and don’t stop chastising me, I’ll get there in the end.
Amy Maddox, copy editor extraordinaire, perfectionist and all-round fantastic human being. If I had a penny for every mistake you have picked up, and another for every time I asked “Now how did I miss that?” I would have been a gazillionaire by now. You put so much effort into polishing my work, whatever I pay you is not enough. Thank you so much for all your help and God Speed to a truly nice person.
Finally, thanks to my enduring and loving wife, Deidre’. Dinner’s on me tonight, I promise.