Remembering my trip to Berbera in 2016. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The sea was turquoise and the sand from the beach bled into the desert. Just out of reach was an old colonial lighthouse; it was questionable whether it was operational. 

Tucked in the nondescript dunes was a sunken patio. Marble seats with white cushions formed a cool, subterranean sanctuary. Canopies draped above kept out the sun’s heat.

We entered the oasis and gazed out toward the invisible fishing boat somewhere past the horizon. An attendant appeared without greeting and silently served glasses of fruit cocktail to the group. The Mansoor’s manager arrived in another SUV and watched the activities from a distance.

It was low tide. Amit received a call from A- A- that the boat was heading back to the harbor to drop off their catch at the cold storage. We would intercept it before it arrived and I would have an opportunity to film the haul. The motor boat we would use was wedged in the sand near a jetty.

Amit made his way over to the manager on the periphery. After an exchange between them a couple of men from the hotel meandered down to the water’s edge and started to push on the boat.

Donny and I sipped on our drinks. The serikali trudged into the wet sand to lend a hand, slinging their Kalashnikovs over their backs to free up their grips on the boat. By now Amit was wading into the surf too; all the Somalis had joined in. Eventually, I walked down and gave a gingerly futile push on the vessel, juggling my camera equipment while trying not to get too wet or sandy. The guards politely asked me to go back up to the beach. I was in their way.

I walked to the jetty where Donny was surveying the action. It was midday and over 100 degrees. Even the sea breeze was hot. Donny took off his shirt. His white skin and white beard reflected the sun. I winced and groped for my sunglasses. After a while, Amit came up and asked us to move out of the way. The hotel’s SUV grumbled passed us and up onto the jetty.

The driver put the idling vehicle in park and pulled a thick chain from the trunk. He attached one end to the hitch and dragged the other end to the boat. The pier was L shaped and the driver threaded the chain around a long piece of rebar sticking out of rocks at the elbow to create a makeshift fulcrum.

Then the driver returned to the SUV and maneuvered it along the jetty until it was parallel to the shore. He switched into a low gear and gave a wave from the window. The engine revved and the SUV creeped along the top of the jetty. The driver pushed down on the gas pedal and the chain became taught around the rebar.

The men hollered at each other to push. Still, the boat wouldn’t budge. The sound of the SUV grew louder, its wheels spun in place. Wisps of smoke bellowed around them. The men threw all their weight into the vessel. Their legs sucked into the sand until they were waist deep in the water. Then there was a metallic snap. The chain was free, arcing through the air. Everyone abandoned their posts to flee to safety.

The emancipated SUV barreled down the length of the jetty. The driver slammed on the brakes and came to a stop at the edge, narrowly avoiding plunging into the sea. The boat still sat on the beach in the same place we found it when we arrived.

It was clear at that point we would not be using the boat that afternoon. There was an unsaid, collective decision to move on. From the cabana, the hotel manager smiled to keep his cool. Amit ushered Donny and me back into Mo’s vehicle. Without so much as a good-bye, we drove away from the jetty, the boat, and our unfinished fruit cocktails still sitting on the table.

Again we traveled through the nondescript stretch of dunes on the primitive maze back to the main road. The SUV sloshed back and forth. I was hungry and sunburned. Amit yelled over Mo’s ood music into his phone. He hung up and turned toward me. In a soft voice he announced, “I think we have a Plan B.”