The camp was rough but a seasoned outdoorsman could live here indefinitely.

“What do we do?” Tony whispered when they beached the inflatable.

Sloane approached the door, confirmed the sound she heard was snoring of a single person and not the wind or surf and backed off again. She settled her backside onto the sandy beach, pulled her laptop from her bag, and started typing softly, her lower lip lightly clenched between her teeth.

“Sloane?” Tony whispered a bit more stridently.

“We wait until he wakes up,” she replied.

“But what if this isn’t Papa Heinrick’s? What if someone else lives here? Pirates or bandits or something?”

“I told you I don’t believe in luck. I also don’t believe in coincidences. Us finding a cabin exactly where we were told Papa Heinrick lives means that we’ve found Papa Heinrick. I’d rather talk to him in the morning than scare the old codger in the middle of the night.”

The gentle snoring from inside the cabin didn’t change in timbre or volume but suddenly a wizened African wearing nothing but an athletic supporter pushed aside the blanket. He stood on bandy legs and was so thin that every rib showed across his chest and there were hollows above and below his collarbones. He had a broad flat nose and large jug ears pierced through with some sort of horn earrings. His hair was pure white and his eyes shone yellow.

He continued to snore and for a moment Sloane thought he might be sleepwalking, but then he scratched at himself rudely and spat into the fire pit.

Sloane got to her feet. She was easily a foot taller than the Namibian and she realized he must have some Bushmen blood to possess such a tiny stature. “Papa Heinrick, we have come a great distance to meet with you. The other fishermen at Walvis Bay say you are the wisest among them.”

Sloane had been ensured that Papa Heinrick spoke English, but the gnomelike man gave no recognition that he understood. She had to take the fact that he’d stopped pretending to snore as an encouraging sign and plowed on. “We want to ask you some questions about where you fish, places that are difficult, where you lose lines and nets. Would you answer such questions?”

Heinrick turned back into his cabin, letting the blanket flow back to drape over the entranceway. He emerged a moment later with a padded blanket over his shoulders. It was made of loosely sewn sheets and feathers escaped the seams with each movement. He went a short distance off and urinated loudly into the water, scratching his belly languidly.

He squatted down next to his fire pit, his back to Tony and Sloane. The bones of his spine looked like a string of black pearls. He blew the coals into life, feeding scraps of driftwood into the embers until he had produced a small flame. “There are many difficult places to fish these waters,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice for such a small frame. He hadn’t turned. “I have fished them all and dare any man to follow where Papa Heinrick goes. I have lost enough fishing line to stretch from here to Cape Cross Bay.” That was more than eighty miles north. “And back,” he added as if challenging them to deny his boast. “I have lost enough net to cover all the Namib Desert. I have battled seas that make other men wail and turn their bowels to water. And I have caught fish bigger than the biggest ship and I have seen things that would drive other men mad.”