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An hour passes……
I’m shaken from my pensivity by what I realize is the sound of an outboard motor briefly springing to life before passing back into inactivity. I wasn’t the only one who noticed and we all held our collective breath for what seemed like an eternity. A pull, a spark, a sputter, and the motor came alive once again, this time loudly roaring its intent to stay awakened. Belching black smoke and smelling like an oil fire, it was the most beautiful thing in the world to all of us.
The crew cautiously throttled up and the boat slowly began to turn into the waves once again. Hope renewed, we were all looking forward toward shore when we crested the first wave and the motor died. We were all crestfallen, two of the girls in our group burst into tears. But on the first pull, it started up again! Only to die on the next wave.
Most of us had grown up on the lakes of Minnesota and we suspected we knew the problem. In older motors the gas is drawn into from the tank by a siphon created from the motor sucking in water for coolant and squirting it out the back. When we crested the wave, the motor came out of the water completely, losing its ability to draw in fuel, and thus stalled. The simple solution being that when we crest a wave, someone needed to pump the primer bulb located on the fuel line between the gas can and the motor.
Simple enough. Not so simple to explain in Swahili to a crew that has probably used the motor only to navigate in harbors where the sea is calm. We eventually got the point across though and we are off again. Slowly, but finally making our way back toward land.
It took us about an hour to reach the northern tip of Zanzibar and most of us didn’t wait for the boat to take us in, but simply jumped into the waist deep water and waded the last 100 yards to sand and safety. Jubilant shouts and hugs abounded as most celebrated. I however was quiet. Staring outward at an ocean I had a new respect for, and staring inward at a new found sense of self and the awareness of my own mortality.
It was a little past 2pm. Nine hours.
As we calmed we began to think clearly again and realized we are still on the wrong end of the island and we had no idea the whereabouts of our professors.
We found the largest taxi we could, a late 60s VW bus, and after explaining our situation to the driver, all 20 of us crammed in. The driver turned out to have a love of Dire Straights and popped in a cassette. The first song to play was Sultans of Swing, and even now, more than a decade later, that song still stirs me with powerful memories of that day.
Our jubilation at being safe was short lived however as when we reached the hotel and discovered there had been no sign of the other boat or of our professors. The official port was closed and there were many boats tied up off shore that didn’t make harbor, so we agreed to give it until morning before calling the Embassy to start a search. The long night passed quicker than expected and none of us seemed to have trouble getting up before dawn that day. We were all eating breakfast, preparing to call the embassy, when surely enough, out of the tangle of fishing boats came a small dhow loaded to the brim with luggage and carrying four very wet, very grumpy, but very alive professors.
Africa taught me a great many lessons. About our origins, our commonalities and our stewardship of this planet, but it also taught me how precious our lives are and how tentatively we hold on to that life. A lesson few have the privilege to learn so early in life and a lesson I will never forget.
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