Still wishing to shake off my reputation for being cynical, I wrote a charming short story based on a youtube video I'd seen of a stray dog rescuing another stray dog from a six-lane highway in Chile. I completed it on the day we were due back after the half-term holiday, and knew it was total rubbish. Unfortunately, Juren was away and I had no one who could look after Ethan that night, so I sent apologies for my absence. This was perhaps fortunate, as once again I had failed to read my homework instructions properly and had forgotten that Doug had asked that the story be about the sea. My Alzheimer's seems to be getting worse lately. During a Facebook chat with a classmate, I learnt that this next week's homework was to take on board the comments of the class and improve the short story. Obviously, they had not heard my awful construction on completely the wrong subject, and so I had been thrown a lifeline. All I had to do was write a new short story (about the sea this time), critically analyse it myself, and improve it. Yeah right! Nonetheless, the following is what I produced. I’m not entirely happy with it. It's too damned long and consequently a couple of my peers suggested it sounded more like travel writing than short story. Please leave your comments at the end.
Maldivian Mystery
The warm jets of the Jacuzzi massaged him sensuously as he watched the first dim light of dawn penetrate the starlit sky. He was sipping champagne, celebrating his good fortune to have landed in paradise. The flight he had stumbled across on the internet had brought him to Male, The Maldives’ capital from where he had transferred to Bandos, one of the larger resort islands, a short speedboat ride away. He had spent three self-indulgent days, sunbathing, reading and snorkelling on the kaleidoscopic reef. The euphoria of having a Hawksbill Turtle accompany him on his last subaquatic exploration had so far been the highlight of the trip.
Afeef, the resort’s customer services manager was a man who spoke six languages and wore a permanent smile. Afeef had befriended him on his first night on the island. He had just gone off duty and Jason had perhaps looked in need of company, surrounded as he was by couples celebrating their nuptials - some recent, some decades ago. They had chatted about their individual worlds, their customs and religion – or lack of it in Jason’s case, and had swapped notes about their respective careers. Jason had been in awe of The Maldivian work ethic that involved staff like Afeef, working in the resorts away from their families, for months at a time. He had expressed his envy at being unable to recruit such dedication for his restaurant back home in England, and had joked that Afeef would always have a job waiting for him if he ever decided to leave paradise for somewhere colder and wetter.
The island had contracts with several airlines to provide accommodation for aircrews who had reached their maximum flying hours. Afeef needed an additional beach house to accommodate an incoming crew and had asked if Jason would oblige him by transferring to Cocoa Beach, their newly opened resort in a neighbouring atoll. Whilst reluctant to leave Bandos so soon, the chance to explore another island was irresistible. His new friendship with Afeef would have also made refusal discourteous, and so that night he had packed his single backpack ready to board a boat the next morning. Afeef, whilst grateful for his acquiescence, had seemed genuinely sorry to be saying goodbye as they shook hands on the quayside.
Cocoa Beach was a tiny island, even by Maldivian standards. It seemed nothing more than a crescent shaped sand bank rising less than a metre out of the Indian Ocean. The only building on the island was the reception office and restaurant. The guest accommodation consisted of individual, reproduction dhonis, the traditional boat of the Maldives, seemingly floating above the reef but built on stilts and tethered to a long boardwalk.
The dhoni was luxurious and had a marble bathroom with a sunken bath, a shower cubicle with space enough for more fun than showering, and enough cotton towels stacked on teak shelves to dry any number of guests. A huge, teak bed upon which a mosaic of a turtle had been created from the pink petals of the Finifenmaa, the Maldivian national flower, dominated the bedroom which also housed his and hers matching wardrobes, dressers and writing desks. Even the stationery, printed with the resort’s letterhead and roughly cut from rustic parchment, exuded the luxury normally afforded to the privileged few. The coffee table in the lounge was effectively a glass-topped well, the lid of which lifted to allow the feeding of the fish on the reef below. On the other side of a full width, sliding glass door lay an outside deck with sun loungers, and the Jacuzzi in which Jason was now luxuriating. From here, a flight of wooden steps led down to the shallows of the reef.
The sound of rain on the sea caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes in the dawn murk but saw nothing as the sound ceased as suddenly as it had started. A few seconds later, it returned, causing him this time to sit up and peer intently across the reef towards its direction. Again, it ended abruptly leaving an eerie silence in its place. He climbed from the Jacuzzi and slipped on a robe as he scanned the reef for clues to the origin of the sound. None of the neighbouring dhonies displayed signs of life. He knew many were empty, as the island was in its first season and had yet to attract sufficient numbers of the type of guests who could afford the $1000 a night price tag.
As he surveyed the water, the darkness of the rocks and coral beneath the surface appeared to shift. He assumed it was a trick of the early light, casting shadows on the gently surging waves. Then he heard the sound again. It reverberated from about thirty metres away, where the dark patch below the sea, pulsated and swirled as though a living entity.
Curiosity gnawed at him until he could no longer resist the urge to explore. According to the guidebooks, there was little out there that could harm him, and Jason continued to reassure himself of this whilst donning his snorkelling kit. Swimming from the steps of the dhoni, the bright, colourful undersea world he had experienced all week seemed gloomy and intimidating in the half-light of dawn. He finned quietly and smoothly through the water, pausing periodically to check his position in relation to his dhoni, which was the only one with a light on. As he drew near to his target, he heard the sound again. He stopped to clear condensation from his mask as hundreds of fish leapt from the ocean in unison a metre or two ahead of him to create the pattering sound he had mistaken for rain. He hurriedly smeared his mask with spit before replacing it in order to view the spectacle unfolding before him. He submerged his face once more, and thousands of small fish moving in a single, writhing mass, enveloped him entirely. As he swam through them, it was as though they were pushing him in peristaltic fashion, from the front of the shoal to the back, where a bigger shock awaited him. Skip Jack Tuna with startling eyes and fierce teeth powered towards him in pursuit of their prey, causing him to raise his hands defensively in terror. He felt the stinging sensation of a single bite to his left hand and swung round frenziedly as the rest of the school swam round him. He watched in wonderment as the life and death ballet continued into the distance, until once again, the reef fell silent and forbidding.
He was coming down from his adrenaline high and beginning to enjoy the customary serenity as he snorkelled back toward his dhoni. His finger continued bleeding slightly, and the drops of blood created tiny wisps that rose to the surface. All of the tourism handbooks stated the reefs were safe. Most sharks were harmless and certainly, the waters were too warm for the notorious Great White. Jason had never been a diver. Perhaps if he had been, he would have heard of another shark, second in the list of attacks on humans and to which The Maldives was home.
Possibly attracted by the sound of the feeding frenzy he had just witnessed, or the aroma of his blood trickling from the innocuous wound to his finger, the Tiger Shark slid its five-metre frame silently through the water. The kill was mercifully efficient. Jason felt little or no pain as the shark sank razor-like teeth into his torso. There was little splashing to arouse the resort’s sleeping occupants, so Jason’s disappearance would go unnoticed for a couple of days. When eventually staff would become concerned, most evidence of his misfortune would have vanished. Of course, if any forensic evidence emerged later, it would be unthinkable to broadcast it publicly in a country reliant entirely on tourism. The investigation, as on numerous similar occasions, would result in a verdict of death by misadventure. This would be publicised, along with the usual warning of how swimming after drinking excessive amounts of alcohol, is extremely dangerous, even in the safe, marine paradise of The Maldives.
