Ragged Escape - Chris Gordon (short books to read TXT) 📗

as I did. I think it saved us. The men dragged us out, stripped us naked, threw us into the back of a truck, and took us to a prison where we were put into separate cells. I do not know what happened to my

brother and the others. I have not seen them since. Every day someone would drag me out of my cell and ask me questions that made no sense to me, even though my English was improving. They beat me. I would have told them whatever they wanted but I never knew what that was.

 

“They moved me to another prison, then another. Three years ago they moved me to the prison at Guantanemo. They kept asking me the same questions and I gave them the same answers but they never believed me. I asked when I would be allowed to go back home to my family in Kabul. They said when they are through with me. I asked when that will be and they said maybe never.

 

“I had to find a way to get out of there. I would try to escape even if I died trying. I

could not spend the rest of my life there.

 

“I learned as much English as I could from the guards. They were friendlier than the interrogators. There was one, Jake Offut was his name, who said he was from a place called Kentucky. We talked about medicinal herbs. He had a grandmother who knew all about such plants. She passed some of what she knew onto him. I was the first person Jake had met, since enlisting, who was interested in the same thing. Jake often accompanied me around the grounds, discussing the various plants that were found there. By then, all of the guards had come to realize that I was no terrorist, no threat to them or the US, just a guy who had been torn, unfairly, from his home, his work and his family. The guards allowed me to wander about the compound but always with at least one guard keeping an eye on me.

 

“There came a day, late in the afternoon, when the guard who was responsible for keeping track of me was distracted by a disturbance elsewhere in the compound. I saw my chance and headed down to the shore where I hoped I might find a way to escape. I spotted a wooden cargo pallet washed up on the ironstone shore. I tossed it into the water, climbed on and pushed myself away. It was beginning to get dark and the current was carrying me away from shore. I ripped one of the boards off the pallet and began paddling.

 

“The currents carried me here, to this island, though I had no idea what country this is. I washed up on the beach and discovered the limestone cave which became my new home. I would wander the island looking for anything that would help me survive. I found barely drinkable water in a brackish pond. I discovered the feral goats and would have found a way to capture one if I had a way to build a fire to roast it.

“Then I began to notice that every now and then a sailboat would anchor off the beach across the island from my cave. I watched carefully, hidden behind the bushes. I noticed that the people on the sailboats would often get into a smaller boat and go off for hours at a time.

“One day, I worked up the nerve to swim out to a boat I thought would be empty. I climbed aboard, found it was indeed empty, and took whatever I thought might not be missed. Maybe I took things from you. If so, I am most sorry. I was desperate.”

#

What would you do if someone told you a story like that? I told him that I had noticed a few things that had disappeared from the boat but nothing important. I’m pretty sure that steak knife he had in the cave, and left behind there, was one of mine. I told him he shouldn’t worry about it.

I said “You must hate your brother now for getting you into this fix.”

Ahmed paused, then said “Oh no sir. He is still my brother. If I ever find him again, I will still be his brother. I cannot hate him.”

I rigged up the solar shower on the foredeck and showed Ahmed how to work it. I left a towel and a terry cloth robe on the cabin top. When Ahmed returned below, we went through Wayne’s clothes together, looking for something that could be made to fit the taller and much thinner Afghan. I made dinner for both of us after interrogating Ahmed about what he could and couldn’t eat. After dinner we began conspiring, trying to come up with a plan that would carry Ahmed back home to Kabul.

“I have friends in Georgetown, that’s three days from here, who spend the whole winter there,” I told him. “They’re very social. They spend hours each day on their SSB radios chatting with friends all over the western Atlantic. They might know of someone who will be crossing over to Europe and would be willing to have you along.”

Ahmed thought about this then said “I know nothing about sailboats or SSB radios or what it would be like crossing the ocean. But if you believe it would get me home, I’ll do it. I have no money to pay even for food. Are sailors so generous?”

“We can be, when it’s a good cause. I think there are many who would consider this a good enough cause. Tomorrow we’ll start back that way. You’ll learn a little something about sailing along the way.”

#

After a breakfast of eggs (powdered), toast and coffee, I raised the mainsail and let it flap while I pulled up the anchor. The boat turned away from the beach, the main filled and we headed northeast, staying inside the chain of islands some call The Raggeds and others The Jumentos. Bahamians usually just call them The Cays. I rolled out the genny and the boat took off with a southeast wind. It was fine sailing, ideal for me but terrifying for Ahmed who clung to the dodger. “We’re tipping over!” he cried.

“Don’t be alarmed, Ahmed. It’s called heeling. It’s just what a sailboat does. The boat is seeking the perfect balance between the wind on the sails and the water on the keel. You’ll get used to it.”

By the time we reached Water Cay Ahmed seemed more reassured. He was surprised that he hadn’t gotten seasick and took that as a good sign for what might lie ahead. I pulled into the cove at the eastern end of the island, next to a Bahamian fishing boat, and dropped the hook. There were three Boston Whalers tied behind the fishing boat.

Two of the fisherman came alongside Calypso in a Whaler and asked we had any rum. I always kept a couple of bottles of cheap rum onboard for just such occasions. I gave them a bottle in exchange for a bag of yellowtail snappers. I took two out of the bag, put the bag in the freezer, cleaned the two and we had them for dinner.

The next day began with a downwind sail toward Hog Cay. Ahmed found it to be a far more pleasant experience and said he was beginning to look favorably on the plans we had tentatively made. When we reached the Comer Channel we turned to the east. I rolled up the genny, dropped the main and motored into a very light head wind. This was also comfortable for Ahmed, except for the noise of the engine. He said he was remembering with fondness that fast beam reach with the boat heeled over by 35 degrees. Maybe he was already becoming a sailor. What a strange thought. I even let him steer for awhile.

When we arrived at Long Island, I headed for the northeast corner of Thompson Bay where we anchored near the sandy beach. I told Ahmed that I had friends who lived out on Indian Hole Road. In the morning we’d pay them a visit and learn what we could about mutual friends.

#

Dana and Mark were Island Packet sailors who fell in love with Thompson Bay and the town of Salt Pond when they first came there in the 90s. They returned every year spending more and more of the winters and becoming a fixture in the church and community. Mark would go out on local fishing boats headed for the cays, coming back with fish, lobsters and extra cash.

After years of this they bought a piece of land along Indian Hole Road and put up a Deltek prefab house on the lot. When Ahmed and I showed up there in the morning, Dana and Mark were both home. They always seemed glad to see any visitors who would drop by. I made the introductions. “This is my friend, Ahmed. He has been sailing with me for a few days.”

This statement came as a surprise to them. Dana and Mark knew that I always sailed single-handed. Dana, gracious as ever said “Well, then, welcome to Salt Pond. What’s it like sailing with Wayne? There aren’t many who have done it.”

“It was most terrifying at first. I had never been on a leaning over boat before. But I’m getting accustomed to it. I’m even beginning to enjoy it a little.”

I thought it best to let the full story come out on its own. I said “Ahmed is a pharmacist.”

“A pharmacist! Mark was a pharmacist, back in Maine. What a coincidence. Where did you practice?” asked Dana.

“Practice? No I am an actual pharmacist.”

“Sorry, I mean where was your pharmacy?”

“Oh, yes, I see. In Kabul.”

“Kabul? You mean in Afghanistan?”

“Yes, Afghanistan. I’m trying to return there.”

I jumped back in. “Ahmed is in a difficult position. I’m trying to help him get back home. I thought someone in Georgetown might know of someone who would be headed to the Med and might take Ahmed along. It’s kind of a long shot but I can’t think of anything else.”

Dana and Mark were starting to catch on.”Would this difficult position involve the US government?”

“You could say that. It’s a hell of a story that I’ll tell you some day. I think it best to leave it at that for now.”

Mark joined the conversation for the first time. “I could make some calls. In fact there’s a boat here now who might know something. I’ll see what I can find out.”

I stopped him, saying “We have to be careful with anything we say on the radio or the phone. There’s bound to be a search going on for Ahmed. I think it best to talk only in person.”

Dana had been thinking this over. “Maybe it would be best to wait for a time, let things quiet down. We could put Ahmed up here for a couple of weeks. I know others who would do the same.”

Then she added “Do you know Dr. Whyte at the clinic? Teresa? She’s the cute one from Jamaica.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve met her.”

“She’s a good friend and has been trying to talk Mark into putting aside his retirement and filling in at the pharmacy. The pharmacist they had moved to the States and is probably not coming back. Maybe we can come up with a new name for Ahmed, and a new story, so he could help out there.”

“I think you’re onto something, Dana. I wasn’t too optimistic about the plan we had in mind until now. This sounds much better. But what about paperwork? Won’t Ahmed need a license and whatever else is required in the Bahamas?”

“We have friends in the states that can make up a believable license. As far as paperwork for the Bahamas, if you’re not Haitian it’s not hard to get by. I’m sure we can work something out. And Teresa will help.”

#

That’s how