TROPICAL BAPTISM 21 



Massawa and is known to the Italians as Green Island. It 

 was the first time we had been near it and the moment had 

 now come for us to get into the water and have a look at it. 



It was the afternoon of 28th January. The profile of the 

 island lay low and very green, like a huge thick bush floating 

 on the sea. It is six hundred yards long and at the most two 

 hundred wide, while all around for a radius of a quarter of a 

 mile lies the submerged platform of coral and coralline 

 sand. 



'What? Sharks — these? Cecco, do you believe it?' 



There were five of us in the boat; Cecco, Priscilla Hastings, 

 Gigi and me (the 'scientific nucleus' of the expedition), and 

 the Mussulman boatman Mohammed, who was rowing us 

 for four Eritrean dollars per day. The boat, his own, was 

 long and nimble, and had a canopy to shade us from the 

 infernal sun. Sharks? Those? With such pale slender fins? 



'Sharks, sharks,' swore Mohammed and grinned. 'Look 

 careful . . . um . um ... he eat youl' 



There were ten to fifteen fins on the surface. If they really 

 were sharks we should be received in great style. At the 

 point where they were now, the water must have been about 

 nine feet deep. . . . We exchanged glances. If Mohammed 

 said so, then sharks they must be. 



'Well, let's go and see,' muttered Cecco. 



But as soon as we got anywhere near, the fins disappeared 

 and the sea became suddenly deserted, flat as a table, 

 hushed. The boat swung on alone. There was now nothing 

 for it but to get into the water. 



'After all,' said Gigi, 'that's what we're here for, aren't we, 

 chaps ?' 



One by one, we went in, dipping our legs unwillingly in 

 the hot, yellowish water. It was six feet deep here and 

 visibility was about the same distance. We kept close to each 



