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

The day was winding down and the photo and video files were uploading ever so slowly to headquarters where my colleagues would probably take a disinterested glance before getting back to jockeying for their own attention and greatness. Amit and Donny were back at their rooms resting. Mo’ had taken the SUV somewhere into town where he spent his evenings. The serikali retired back to the barracks.

I decided to go to the beach.

I put on my bathing suit and shimmied out through the gate manned by a group of sleepy guards. “As-Salaam-Alaikum,” I mumbled to them. Beyond a few grunts there was little response. I crossed the sandy road and walked by the half-constructed building of what would one day become an expansion of the Mansoor’s seaside resort. Outside the hotel, away from my fixers and our security detail, dressed in a tee-shirt, flip-flops, and swim trunks, I felt small and vulnerable.

I thought about the terrorist threat I was briefed on before I left. It made me anxious for the moment, but that passed. It didn’t seem likely that ‘Bab would target this place. The beach, normally full of locals and diaspora, clad in soaking wet t-shirts and burkas like a 19th century boardwalk scene, was now empty. The sun meandered lower into the sky and gave the sand and the clear water a slightly pink tint. Behind me the Golis mountains became illuminated. I felt at peace.

I took off my shirt, wrapped my phone and room key in it, and placed the bundle on the beach. Then I leaped into the Red Sea. I braced for the shock of cold water, but encountered the warmth you might find in a bathtub. Relieved, my heart started to sing and I paddled out into the waves.

Suddenly, I spotted a dorsal fin cutting through the surf just a few feet away from me. Then another. I panicked and lurched desperately toward shore, wincing at what could be below me in the depths; bracing for the mashing of teeth and my impending doom. As I splashed in an attempt to steer myself toward land, the dorsal fins grew larger, there were three or four of them now, rising out of the water, revealing more fully the bodies they were attached to: a pod of dolphins traveling up the coast.

Once again my perceived danger dissipated and I relaxed. Sometimes floating on my back, sometimes treading water, I marveled at my surroundings. Yemen was somewhere out there beyond the horizon. The coastline behind me was empty save for a few camel herders in the distance who were feeding their animals and making camp for the night. The sun set in a brilliant glow. Refreshed, I reluctantly swam back to my belongings. I got out of the water and did my best to dry off. Then I shuffled through the sand to the Mansoor, my home away from home, thinking of another dinner of fish.