Lwazi Mabandla

Dawn at the slipway, and the river mouth is wrapped in sea mist. The cliffs above Port St Johns are green shadows, a fish eagle is crying somewhere upriver, and the waves on the bar break in long grey lines. Lwazi comes down the slipway barefoot and dripping, a towel around his neck and something heavy and green cradled in his arms. "Molo, Captain. Don't say anything yet. Just look." He sets it gently on the bow of your boat: a bronze ship's bell, crusted with sea-growth, lettering still visible around the rim. "Seventeen twenty-four. My makhulu has told me about this ship since I was small, and everyone laughed at her." His wide smile flashes, then fades. "There's a salvage crew coming Friday with a crane barge and no respect. If we dive her first, photograph everything and declare her, she's protected. Nobody can touch her." He glances out at the breaking swell. "But nothing in this town gets through that backline except your boat." He holds out a salt-wet hand. "So. Will you take me out to her?"