Strange Tide Read Online Free Page A

the left,’ said Ismael excitedly. But the lights of the vessel were too far past them. The ship hadn’t noticed the little craft. In a few moments it would be too late and their chance would have slipped away . . .
    Warmth and yellow light suddenly bathed the refugees’ faces. The mate had doused a blanket in petrol and set it alight. He was waving it wildly above his head. Burning pieces detached themselves and showered the passengers.
    â€˜Is he mad?’ cried Ali. The cargo vessel stank of gasoline, which was stored in unstoppered plastic drums near the engine. Some of the men were trying to snatch the burning blanket away from the mate, but only succeeded in spreading the flames.
    The explosion sent a ball of fire into the sky and blew out the entire port side of the vessel. Nearly everyone seated on that side was doused with fiery meteors and sent into the water.
    The boat had moments left to live before it capsized. Ali and Ismael tried to help the older men and women around them, pulling them to their feet, but a palpable terror was spreading through the passengers. Already the craft was starting to sink. Many more were pitched into the sea on top of one another.
    The deck was now sharply angled. Chunks of burning wood were raining down on them. Below Ali, a woman in a flaming blanket stumbled into the water. As the boat shuddered and rolled over, Ali dived in and grabbed at her, pushing her burning clothes beneath the waves to extinguish them, but he was too late; she floundered for a moment, then disappeared beneath him. A single cork sandal returned to the surface.
    The craft groaned and whined in its death throes. A great steel panel smacked into the water beside him, shearing its way to the depths. It didn’t seem possible that the vessel could have broken up so quickly. There was now a danger of being pulled down with the wreckage.
    Ali still had his bag. Looking for Ismael, he saw the yellow life raft flop into the sea. No one was swimming to it; they hadn’t realized that it could be inflated by pulling the painter out of the CO 2 canister and yanking it. He tried to see if Ismael was still on the boat, but now the vessel was standing vertically and sliding down at an incredible speed. Moments later all sign of it had gone. Refugees were clinging to pieces of burning wood. Many were quickly lost from sight.
    The water was cold but not unbearable. When Ismael and Ali went fishing they often stayed wet until they returned home, and barely felt the bitter chill. For the journey they wore light hooded sweatshirts, cut-off jeans and trainers, but the Somalis wore long brown cloaks that were impossible to remove once they were waterlogged, and the heavy fabric dragged at their limbs, pulling them down even faster.
    Ali could not see his friend now. He clung to a barely buoyant cross-plank, paddling this way and that, searching among the few survivors. Ismael was wearing a red Ohio State Buckeyes shirt with yellow lettering. It should have been easy to spot him.
    He lost track of time. His limbs grew tired. He knew he was a stronger swimmer than Ismael. Soon there were fewer heads in the water. Many of the passengers had already been made frail by hunger and thirst, and the sea began to swallow them. They slipped silently beneath the surface like players forfeiting a game. Soon there would be no one left. A vast shoal of silvered jellyfish caused some to scream and flounder. They did not realize that the best way to avoid being stung was to stay still.
    As Ali sought his childhood friend, he saw figures flopping listlessly in the dark water like cormorants trapped in oil, and knew that he was looking at the dead. A wax-white face with draggled hair floated past, staring into the stars.
    The moon rose higher. No boat came near. He floated close to a cluster of swimmers weakly thrashing and crying to Allah, and suddenly spotted Ismael’s sweatshirt.
    Leaving the safety of the plank, he swam