SAM CALLED. Remi turned off the ignition key and the dhow’s engines sputtered out. Sam hoisted the sails, and they held their collective breaths for a few seconds until the canvas caught the wind and billowed out. The dhow’s bow lifted slightly and the boat lurched forward. Sam crab-walked aft and dropped onto the afterdeck beside Remi. “We have liftoff,” Sam said. “Here’s hoping we don’t have to call Houston with a problem,” Remi said and handed him a bottle of water. It was already midafternoon, and they were only five miles north of Mafia Island. While Remi’s discerning eye had noticed the propeller shaft’s bearing problem, it hadn’t been until Sam had gotten it apart that they realized how much time the repair would require. As Remi supervised the boys in finishing up the maintenance and changing out the sails, Sam and Ed worked under the shade of a makeshift sheet awning. Once done, Buziba and another dozen boys appeared and carried the dhow down to the waterline, where they tested the engine and took the dhow for a test drive around the harbor.
