Hail Warning

Two Years Ago Caribbean Sea — On the Jetty Near Caracas, Venezuela

It had been hours since Afua had made his way to the spot where the Nigerian Princess should have been anchored. He had tried to stay awake to monitor the radio when Obano contacted him. The lack of blood caused the Nigerian terrorist to pass out once again.

The short fall from the vinyl couch to the fiberglass deck awakened him. He looked up with the expectation of a bright sun glaring in his eyes, but he was taken aback when he realized it was nighttime. He sat up, experienced a massive head rush, and he almost passed out from the pain radiating from his swollen and bleeding ankle. He took a moment to assess his condition. Killer headache — check; monster thirst — check; feelings of fatigue and grogginess — double check; feeling in his right foot — checkmate. He couldn’t feel his foot, and that was a big problem.

The Nigerian looked down at his phantom foot and tried to wiggle his toes. It was dark, but in the moonlight, he saw his big toe move a little. Taking a quick assessment of the lack of sensation in his foot, he knew he had to cut loose the tape to allow blood to circulate back into his extremity; otherwise, he could lose his foot for good. That was a no-win situation. Cutting loose the tape would cause more blood loss, and considering how much blood he had already lost, there was a very good chance that he would pass out, bleed out, and die. But for someone in his profession, losing his foot was paramount to death. The Boko Haram had no need or use for a cripple within its organization. He wouldn’t be able to traverse the thick Nigerian jungle by foot, which was their main mode of travel on those narrow trails. The loss of his foot would be the loss of his entire future — a life that had taken him a decade to build for himself and his family. Dying would be better than losing his foot.

A large wave hit the boat and caused Afua to slam into the side of the elevated couch seat. The motion jostled his leg, and another spasm of pain ripped through him. He carefully pulled himself up on the couch. He looked around to see if he could spot the Nigerian Princess in the darkness. As his senses became sharper, a new and disturbing problem reared its ugly head. It was not nighttime at all. Massive thunderclouds had moved in, and day had become night. The wind had picked up, and the tranquil Caribbean waves had transformed into white caps.

Trying to keep his leg as immobile as possible, Afua turned his head 180 degrees. He saw no other boats or ships. With the wind kicking up ocean spray, he

could barely make out the shoreline. Realizing he had not bothered to drop an anchor, Afua was concerned that he may have drifted far from the coordinates where he was supposed to rendezvous with the Nigerian Princess.

Afua looked down at his foot. For a black man, he thought that his foot looked a lot lighter in color than it had in the past. White? Not hardly, but it sure the hell wasn’t black either. It certainly didn’t look healthy. Maybe charcoal gray? He reached into a cubby next to him, fumbled around in the fishing gear and withdrew the gutting knife.

The waves were kicking the little boat around like a toy boat in a bathtub, and Afua had to be very careful with the razor-sharp blade. He set the back end of the steel on his skin, just above the duct tape. Very slowly, he eased the tip of the knife under the makeshift bandage. He expected to feel more pain, and he was not disappointed. The closer the knife neared the gash, the more pain was routed into every nerve of his body. Another four-foot wave hit the side of the boat, and the wet knife slipped from his hands. Afua grabbed for the side of the boat to steady himself. The wave crashed over the edge and soaked Afua. A dazzling bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and momentarily blinded him. A roar of thunder erupted. A second later, it was if the lightning had cut a hole in the sky which had previously held back the rain. But with that hole now opened, angry sheets of rain cascaded from the heavens like a tumultuous waterfall.

Afua looked back down and discovered that the knife had stuck in the duct tape, wedged tightly in between the mess of blood, skin and bone. He did his best to put the pain aside. He grabbed the handle of the blade. Moving slowly, he slid the knife under the remnants of the duct tape. In one quick motion, Afua cut the tape free. Even as the wad of gray tape fell to the floor of the boat, he could feel a rush of blood course back into his dead foot. At first it felt great, but then it didn’t. A sensation of pins and needles stabbed his foot so intensely it was almost as bad as the initial pain itself. Afua laid back on the couch and let the rain pour down on him as he screamed. The screaming felt good. It was not only a wail of pain, but also his frustration. After all, how could things get any worse? He was stuck in an itty-bitty boat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea in the middle of a torrential downpour losing massive amounts of blood. Compounding those problems was his hope of being rescued waned by the minute; thus, Afua felt his screams were warranted.

Red blood mixed with clear water dripped from his leg, as if someone had taken a machete to a watermelon. Afua knew he couldn’t allow the cut to bleed much longer, but he wanted to make sure that his foot didn’t die, making amputation his only option. He tried moving his toes, and he was happy to see that they were all working. That was a good sign. He had seen several injuries in the field like his and, at least half of the time, the men hadn’t had any success wiggling

their toes. Except for one man, all the others had lost their legs; a few had lost their lives.

The waves were becoming huge crests, but Afua didn’t sense they had the size or power to capsize his small boat. For sure, it was going to be a rough ride until the storm blew over. There was always the possibility of a larger rogue wave coming out of nowhere and tipping him over. However, there had always been a high probability of dying in his occupation. He had grown accustomed to living dangerously.

Beginning to feel more dizzy and nauseous, Afua decided it was time to close his wound. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood. He pulled out the duct tape from the cubby and began to bind his leg. The blood-saturated ACE bandage was still in place and would serve as a barrier between the tape and his open wound. This time he attempted to wrap the wound, but not as tight this time. Short of a blood transfusion, it would take weeks for his body to replenish his natural blood supply, so it was a delicate balancing act.

The sky lit up again and, for a fraction of a second, it was daytime. During that time, no longer than a camera flash, Afua saw a ship approaching his position. He couldn’t be certain what type of vessel it was, but it was roughly the same size of both the Nigerian Princess and the Venezuelan Coast Guard ship. It no longer mattered to Afua which ship rescued him. Other than the handgun he had stowed in his boat’s cubby, he would appear to be nothing more than a fisherman caught in the storm.

Afua tried to stand up on his one good leg, but instead he stumbled forward, falling on the couch. He reached into the cubby and felt around for a gun-shaped object. Fumbling through an assortment of nautical articles, Afua’s hand found and withdrew a fat flare gun. He checked that the gun was loaded and the safety was off. Without a second thought, he pointed the gun into the dark sky and pulled the trigger.

A red streak left the muzzle of the flare gun and ripped through the storm. At the pinnacle of its trajectory, a small parachute popped out, and the flare began to glow brightly in the gloom. The flare gave off enough light for Afua to get a clear visual on the ship heading toward him. He recognized the outline of the bow of the ship. It was the Nigerian Princess.

Afua fell back into the corner of the seat where the couch met the windshield of his boat. He was exhausted and wanted to sleep. But he was suddenly hungry and aware of an intense thirst. Afua was positive he could drink an ocean of pure water. He felt immensely relieved to see the yacht. Afua was satisfied everything he had worked for would now become reality.

He leaned back and closed his eyes and waited for the Nigerian Princess to pull up alongside his boat. Thoughts of being back home with his happy family filled his mind, blotting out the rain, thunder and pain. He smiled and opened his mouth to let the raindrops hit his parched tongue. Some would say that water has no taste but, at that moment, the rain tasted almost as good to him as Fanta orange soda.