“I am your sister, Rastaman.”
“Yah,” he breathes, now gazing out the window.
My acceptance is not enough to release him from the chains of prejudice that bind him.
The drive passes quickly as my head swirls with questions demanding solutions. By the time we reach Mosselbaii, I realize that while I am certainly not the end, I am the beginning. It’s not up to “somebody out there” or “some non-profit organization” to change things. I can do something and my time to do it is now, however infinitesimal that it may be. It’s a start.
“Good bye Rastaman. I hope I’ll see you again, you are a good man, brother.” My eyes meet his, and in that nanosecond, I really see him. We are just the same, and need the same things. The things that I have found after my own anguishing experience, he will one day find, too.
Rastaman half smiles and nods as I back out of the seat and exit the bus.
My own reality begins to set in as I step onto the pavement. I find the office of the shark dive excursion within a few minutes; one can’t miss the huge sign out front that screams, “Great White Shark.”
The office is in the middle of town, not on the beach, or in the harbor, making it less intimidating as it gives the illusion of being safe, solid, and dry. Had it been within eyeshot of the ocean, I likely would not find myself inside here now.
I open the door and step forward. There is a lady behind the counter who instantly greets me with a warm smile. “Welcome, come on in!”
There are three couples inside, seated at small café tables. They are busy watching a soccer match on a television screen that is mounted up high on the wall.
I am the only single person here. I move forward to the counter, where a waiver is placed in front of me. “Please sign here,” she says, with a hip-width smile that bears striking resemblance to Mama Magda’s.
I sign the waiver quickly and slide it back across the desk before hesitation sets in and I change my mind.
“Please, help yourself to breakfast,” she says, pointing towards the back corner.
There, laid out across a six-foot table, is the most beautiful spread of food I have seen in weeks. There are cascading mountains of sweet and savory treats of flaky croissants, rolled pastries with jam filling, crescent rolls, deep-fried crepes, doughnuts, and what is this chocolately-looking creation hiding underneath a wrapper? The label says double chocolate muffin with a gooey chocolate center. This is no mere muffin… this is a piece of lava cake disguised as a muffin! I have died and gone to heaven.
“Don’t eat if you get seasick. You don’t want to be hanging your head overboard out there,” the nice lady calls over my shoulder.
I do get seasick, but I don’t care. If I’m going to get eaten by a shark today then I am going out with a stomach full of chocolate.
I try to make eye contact with someone, hoping to start a conversation, but no one is biting. They don’t look too excited to be here, either. Since I don’t have anyone to talk to, because I am the only single person here, I may as well just write in my journal. My fellow shark divers are unfriendly… Wait, I shouldn’t write that. What if these strangers have to search through my journal later, looking for an emergency contact number? The waiver I signed didn’t even ask for one. I must choose my words carefully, just in case these are the final words I leave behind.
I should write something profound, something insightful, a lasting legacy, something that can be read at my eulogy with pride.
I can’t come up with anything. I search the faces of the strangers around me, hoping that something will surface, but I come up with nothing, absolutely nothing. The page is blank.
Another young couple enters the office, the perfect diversion, allowing me to steal a couple more chocolate muffins. Who are these people, anyway? What if someone on the boat is crazy and they boat-jack us? It could happen, carjackings happen every day; it is just a matter of time before one of these shark boats is hijacked. If they’re especially horrible terrorists, they’ll throw one of us overboard to be eaten alive as a terror tactic. My God, I hope I’m not the one who goes overboard. I haven’t been able to write anything! I can’t leave a blank page behind. Someone else will have to go. I mean, at least they have someone left behind who can tell their loved ones about their last moments, their final words. My only companion is a journal with a blank page.
One of the crewmates has just come into the office. He must be the skipper, and looks like the star from Jaws. This is very reassuring. I think he would save my life, just like he saved so many lives in the movie. Well, in the end he saved them. There had to be a few casualties; after all, it was Hollywood.
The skipper goes into the back office and closes the door. We were supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago. When are we going? This waiting is excruciating, and what’s making it worse is all I can hear is the buzz of vuvuzelas from the soccer game. It’s driving me crazy. The only benefit to this torturous racket is that it hides the sound of the crinkly plastic each time I open one of these damn muffins. Number six is the latest casualty to my jaws; I no longer give a damn about seasickness. It’s all a matter of survival now, especially if I’m held at ransom for several days at sea with no food.
I can’t stop stuffing chocolate muffins into my mouth. I have become a chocolate shark, devouring each one in a feeding frenzy, no longer caring about hiding the sounds of wrappers… and there goes number eight, crap.
I have been waiting for forty-five minutes. There are no more chocolate muffins to distract me from the pending doom. The longer I wait, the harder it is to just sit here. I want to run, run far, far away from this ludicrous idea.
Another crewmember enters the office; this one’s stocky and almost as wide as he is tall, all solid muscle. This is reassuring because if the boat goes down in some freak accident, any shark would definitely choose him over me. He looks like a big plump T-bone steak compared to the sinewy sirloin the sharks would take me for. Turns out, he’s a volunteer from Alaska. He works in the hospitality industry, but was always fascinated with sharks, so he took a three-month leave of absence to volunteer with this shark research and conservation group.
Why aren’t we going? Everyone is calmly watching this stupid soccer game. We are here to go shark diving, not watch TV!!!!! Screw soccer, let’s go and get this over with. I can’t take it anymore.
Ooooohhh, stocky crew member is looking at his watch. Maybe we’re going? Or maybe not, he has reverted back to the television. I will go and scour the buffet table for the next victim. Thankfully, at the very moment I’m about to reach for a jelly roll, the captain announces that it is time to go. Oh shit. My stomach threatens to revolt, while my knees turn to jelly.
It’s only a short walk to the marina, straight down a hill lined with brightly painted colonial buildings. At the entrance to the marina is a bright cement block building called the Sea Gypsy Café. It’s the last building before the marina and it is taking everything in me not to detour to it in lieu of the boat. I’m petrified. I pass the cafe and continue towards the dock, but I can’t really fathom that I am actually going to do this. Logic screams you’re an idiot, and I know it’s true, but my feet continue to shuffle down the marina of their own volition.
The wall around the marina is made of concrete blocks, painted pale blue to look like an ocean, with pictures of smiling seahorses, whales, sharks, swordfish, lobsters, and seals. The friendly painted sea creatures don’t make what we’re about to do any less unnerving.