Somali pirates astern!(Literary Scene) (Personal account)

• Author: Chandler, Paul

PIRATE ATTACK, Friday, Oct. 23, 2009. Rachel recounts: When we left Port Victoria in the Seychelles yesterday for Tanzania, the winds were forecast to be light and variable. In fact, they have been against us from the southwest. The swell is coming from the southeast. There is not enough wind to drive us comfortably through the "uppy-downy" sea, and we have been forced to venture on a more westerly course than intended. It is almost 0230.

There is a strange noise, a new hum noticeable above the familiar throb of our engine. It sounds like something approaching from astern. I glance over my shoulder and discern through the darkness an unlit narrow open boat accelerating towards us. Who can this be? There are fishermen in the area--we saw one at around 2100--but they usually keep their distance. To be homed in on by a vessel at night is unusual. I fear the worst--a hostile attack--but I hope there is another explanation. After all, we are in the Seychelles archipelago, less than a day's sailing from the main island of Mahe.

I grab a torch and direct it at the boat. A skiff packed with shadowy figures now is almost upon us. Two shots ring out, making me drop the torch in fright. A jumble of anus get ready to grab hold of our guard wires, men jostling to clamber onboard' guns clattering. The 16fool flat-bottomed skiff slams in to our side. Without thinking, I out up my hands and shorn, "No guns! No guns!" I want them to know we are unarmed. A second skiff appears within seconds on the other side to complete the entrapment. My mind races. Who are these people and what do they want?---but I have no time to think. They are hostile, and I must concentrate on staying alive.

There is a tremendous kerfuffle as eight black men, mostly young and gangly, scramble over the rails, stumbling and struggling to find room to stand on the narrow deck while keeping hold of their guns. At least five rifles point menacingly at me. The men shout at each other in an incomprehensible language. A few have small torches. Narrow rays of light rake the air, randomly highlighting whites of eyes in nervous faces. Some wrestle to tie on their skiffs, while others seek to establish some authority over us. They bark commands at me in basic English. "Stop engine! Lights!"

I am frozen to my spot behind the wheel, with my hands up, but realize I must do as they say. I shift the gear lever to put the engine into neutral and switch on the deck light. We slow down and start...