dance of dawn

Two fish with long sharp snouts swordfight. Moments earlier they had been swimming side by side when—without warning— they about turn and face off. Mouths open and scissor close twice: on guard, touché. Other fish wrestle and frolic, fins almost touching, dancing like butterflies. A giant sea slug moves forward slowly, extending a handful of dark tubes from his mouth to feel his way along. Enormous porcupine fish with spots blend into coral. They are larger than the rocks but nervous, and stare up at me from directly below. A school of zebras zig zags. Shifts in sunlight fractulate their scales into rainbows. As I watch their seamless synchronicity, I am challenged to communicate without words.

The coral glows yellow and green; it actually seems to emit ultraviolet light. I hear something high pitched and constant, a crackle, like static electricity. I don’t know what is making this sound. Perhaps it’s the coral breathing.

Dolphins are near. I cannot see them, but I feel it and it makes me happy. Flying fish scatter beside the wooden boat, like skipping stones with hummingbird wings. Everything on the dhow is made by hand: the body, the sails, the hinges for ropes; the mast is several long pieces of wood strapped together—not one. Does that make it strong or weak? It would be incredible to depend so completely on something you made yourself. Something soft but hard. Something real. This is trust. Struggling for survival is the only and most complete way of being fully present.

My last African sun ripens on the clouds and reflects golden peaches onto surface ripples. Sand and leaves are caught in the cast off color. I rub the light into my emptied eyes and walk towards the ocean, to greet the day. A Masai man merges with my walk. He is missing his bottom front bottom teeth and he smiles often. He has scars on his cheeks, like the others, two overlapping circles.

The beach is empty; only a few fishermen in cut off pants and baseball caps untangle their nets. Some tie rocks to woven cages used to catch fish. The cages form a “V” with a tunnel in the center and look like the wicker of chairs, like the old one with the hole in the middle that still sits my garage back home. The men tie plastic bottles to the tops of the cages for buoys, to find them again. I’ve seen parents tie the same large bottles to the arms and legs of small children to use for floaties. We pass a ball made of rags and a large beehive-like fruit.

The boy touches my hair as it blows and tangles. He asks me why Germans and Swiss and people from England and Europe all have hair like this. I tell him we were born different. The higher up you go in Europe, the farther north, the lighter people’s hair and eyes are. He holds his forearm up to against mine and smiles. I like yours better, I say. I point at black—safi sana, very good—and white—apana, no. It is the best I can do. When I speak he inhales sharply and often, as if surprised by even the simplest things. He is my age but acts like a child, and also like a very old man.

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I let it rest there for a moment before shifting my scarf. He tries to hold mine but I won’t let him and keep getting distracted by shells. He asks me to come with him to his village, to meet his family, “to see life.” I tell him I cannot. I have to go home.

He sings a Masai song for me, softly. Not words but sounds, noises, whispers and gurgles, like the grass, like the river. At the end he pounces, and his necklaces jingle. He spreads his arms and leans back with his eyes closed to feel the sky upon his chest.

A black bird clutches a white flag blustering in the wind, shuffling his feet, and dips his beak deep into the flag pole to drink fresh rain.