A Captain's Duty

closed. Then I heard voices outside. Up near the cockpit,the Leader was talking with someone. There were two people talking Somali from outside the cockpit window. Not on the radio. These voices were actually outside the boat. I could see the silhouette of two heads through the cockpit window. All the pirates were debating with these strangers on the deck.
    Who the hell is that? I thought. The Leader and the strangers were arguing about something in Somali. I could hear the words “Sanaa” and “Palestinian” and “Fatah” mentioned again and again. A chill went through me. Sanaa is the capital of Yemen, a real Al Qaeda stronghold. Tourists and aid workers were being kidnapped left and right there. Some had been murdered.
    Yemen was my ultimate nightmare.
    I leaned forward and strained to hear what they were saying. All the pirates were talking, and each one seemed to be giving his opinion, like they were weighing in on what should happen next. The more I listened, the more I realized they weren’t only saying “Fatah”—the Palestinian group—but “fatwa,” a decree from an Islamic scholar. They were talking urgently, as if they were negotiating, and occasionally one of the pirates would say, “Oh, fuck” as if they weren’t hearing what they wanted to hear.
    But who were these Somali men talking to my kidnappers?
    My first thought was The Somalis have sent reinforcements . That was a common tactic among pirates. They would call for fresh troops and boats would come out and relieve the original bandits. But how would they sneak a skiff past the navy and come right up to the lifeboat? I couldn’t believe that had happened. The Bainbridge would intercept anyone trying to approach our vessel, of that I was sure.
    Then it had to be the navy’s Somali interpreter. But why were they talking about fatwas and Yemen? I thought again of the Leader’s claim that he knew the navy guys, and it sure sounded like he was familiar with these two. The tone of their voices was intimate, as if they’d known one another for years. The guys on the outside of the boat were pleading with the Somalis, trying to get them to see reason. But the pirates were having none of it.
    The debate raged on. I could tell from their posture and inflection that Musso and Tall Guy were gung ho. I got the feeling that they didn’t want to give up for anything, that they wanted to fight to the death. Young Guy was just nodding, with an attitude that seemed to say, Whatever you guys decide, count me in. But he didn’t seem to have an opinion of his own.
    The Leader was conflicted. Of all of them, I think he had the best sense of how much danger they were in.
    I could see it was a desperate time. They talked about death; in English they would say “death.” And they would say “family.” And “fatwa” again. And then, “Oh fuck .”
    I kept quiet. It seemed the interpreters were trying to negotiate for my release. When they left, I could hear them walk along the deck and get into a boat. I heard the engine start and then fade into the distance.
    I knew that no compromise had been reached. It had been a tense debate and when the negotiators left, the mood on the lifeboat was even more tense, more expectant. Something is going down, I thought.
    Later, the navy swore to me that none of their personnel had ever been on that lifeboat. But I wasn’t dreaming. Therehad been an attempt to reason with the pirates and it had failed.
     
    The sun came up. I’d been on the boat for two days and three nights. The heat began to rise. The pirates were down to their underwear.
    That morning, they began by discussing—mainly in English, I’m sure for my benefit—when they should kill me. They went to get the Leader, who was dozing in the aft end of the boat. I could see his thin legs on the floor. But they couldn’t wake the guy up. No matter how many times they prodded him, he kept snoring away. Finally, they gave up, saying, “Oh, we’ll kill him later.”
    Man, I thought, they can’t even wake the guy up to execute me.
    Time passed slowly. I was tensed up, waiting for the next try at a ceremonial killing. The episode with the negotiators—at least I thought they were negotiators—was lingering in my brain.
    I heard helicopters approaching, that whap whap whap of the rotor blades. I could feel them settle above us, because the wash from their propellers buffeted the lifeboat. Spray flew into the lifeboat through the windows. I