Posted by Lee Montana
Barefooted, out of breath and soaking wet, I emerged from the surf onto the beach of the third islet, and spat a mouthful of saltwater onto the sand. I had been a complete idiot. Looking at the column of smoke, and hearing the voices from the cove that seemed to be so close, it had seemed like such a simple task to swim through the clear, still waters from islet to islet until I could take a closer look. In truth, the distance proved to be much further than I had expected, and I clearly was not as good a swimmer as I had imagined myself to be. I needed a drink, badly. Luckily, the sun was going down and the temperature had dropped. Still, I wondered, would I be able to make the return trip in darkness? How would the tides affect the return journey?
Before me was a small bluff, covered in lichen and yellow grass. Peering over, I caught sight of the cove where the smoke had been coming from. It was about two hundred yards away, across a shallow strait, which only looked about ankle deep. A campfire was still smouldering away, and a large plastic coracle had been turned upside down nearby. There were two men on the beach. One was sitting on a wooden crate, eating from a long wooden skewer, and I immediately caught the scent of smoked fish. The other appeared to be sleeping. They were both of South-East Asian origin. To begin with, I thought about simply approaching them, but something stopped me. The thought came into my head that these men were smugglers, and that the sudden appearance of a western man, from out of nowhere, would make them nervous. Again, I cursed my lack of planning. What I really needed was some of the ration packs, or even the whole crate. Perhaps I might be able to barter a lift back to whatever mainland was closest.
Crawling over the bluff, I kept a close eye on the man eating the skewered fish. He did not notice me. I quietly crossed the narrow strait and took cover behind some rocks. Peering out, I saw the man continue to eat his fish. So far, so good: the failing light of day was in my favour. I decided to approach the cove from inland, where there were trees to use as cover. Perhaps, if the man decided to go to sleep like his colleague, I might reconnoitre their camp a lot easier. They might even have some water.
I pushed through the dense foliage. There was a narrow path through the rocks which ringed the cove on three sides, which I managed to find without difficulty. Inch by inch, I made my way down to the beach until I could go no further without being seen. Risking a brief glance at the beach, I saw that by now, the man who had been eating the fish had disappeared. Perhaps he had gone away to do more fishing. I decided to take my chance and explore their camp. I badly needed water.
Cautiously, I walked down to the wooden crate. It was nailed shut. I crossed over to the coracle and looked underneath. There were, indeed, supplies stashed there, as I had suspected. I started to reach underneath, desperate to find anything I could drink.
I saw movement in the corner of my eye, and rolled away just in time to see a flash of metal bite into the sand where I had been a split second before. It was the fish-eater, with a wicked-looking machete in his left fist and fury in his eyes. Crying out, he attacked me again. Once more, I lurched away and managed to avoid the attack. This time, I scrambled to my feet. His colleague was awake in an instant. I made eye contact briefly, and thought I saw fear. The fish eater threw himself bodily at me, holding the blade to my throat. My fingers gripped the blade, and it's edge began to bite. I was being forced back into the waves. Planting my right foot in the sand, I tried to twist the blade away from me. My attacker lost his footing, and somehow I ended up on top of him, winded, but able to pinion the blade to the sand with both hands. I tried to use my knee to land a blow, but only succeeded in wrenching my thigh muscle. I was almost spent, but I knew that my only hope of survival was to get control of that machete.
I saw the second man's attack before it hit, but I was simply too exhausted to avoid it. I was struck under the ribs, knocking all the air out of my lungs. As I doubled up on the sand, I managed to squeeze my eyes open for long enough to see what the second man had used to hit me. It was the stock of an old Kalashnikov assault rifle, which he now levelled at my head.
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