Sam Ruddick

Aliwal Shoals

In the jeep on the way to the beach the Boers in the back seat speak to one another in Afrikaans. Their voices are deep and round, their laughter is loud, and in spite of the guttural sound of the consonants scraping together, there is something lyrical about the language.

The dive master is Natal English, a woman with long brown curls and a strip of freckles spreading like the wings of a moth over her cheeks. She meets us by a rubber motor boat on the beach, under a bridge spanning an inlet, and as a Zulu unloads our equipment she tells us in English not to make sudden moves if we see sharks. The sky is clear and the glare reflects off the choppy brown water in flashes. Last night’s rain has stirred up the sand. We’re not going to see anything, down there.

But once we have submerged we can hear the life around us, a pod of dolphins swimming nearby, the sound of teeth chattering, an occasional whistle, almost electronic, like video games in an arcade, simulating bombs falling, but there’s never any explosion. Each whistle ends in silence, leaving only the chatter. I wonder what the dolphins are saying, how much they know. I let the current carry me through the sandy water along the edge of the shoal.

Soon the air is nearly gone and we return to the boat. The world seems a larger place, now, more noble, perhaps, and as the boat speeds back to shore no one speaks. We have to jump off before we hit the beach, and pull the boat up onto the sand. When the pilot shuts the motor down the Boers start joking with one another, their voices loud again, but I don’t care what they’re saying, because I think I hear a faint sound, an alien sound, one I can’t identify at first, coming closer and closer, and when it is so close it is unmistakably brass, the other divers stop talking and watch with me as a parade comes into view, marching down the beach toward the inlet, Zulus in Western dress, blue and white uniforms, tall hats strapped to their heads, a short man with a baton leading a band complete with trumpets and trombones and drummers, even a man at the rear, clanging cymbals in perfect time.

The young Zulu stops unloading our equipment from the boat and smiles as they pass by. But the Boers stand at attention. Red-faced from the sun, with their shocking blond hair, the Afrikaners salute.

Sam Ruddick is a Henfield Prize winner. His work has appeared in over a dozen literary publications, including Phantasmagoria, Gulf Stream, The Sonora Review, The Red Rock Review, and Painted Bride Quarterly.