It is still night; the sunrise has yet to reach the Mocambique Channel a thousand miles to the east. I ease myself out of the quarter berth, touch a match to the stove under the teapot, and stick my head out through the hatch.

The air feels like fresh sheets. There is still no sound. But from the east I can almost feel the light inching its way towards us. The hills seem less black.

The first sound of the morning comes from behind — the grumble of the hippo, a splash far out on the lake, the mourning doves above my head in the trees under which I tucked our Silhouette September Song into bed last night. I can just make out the shadows of the two doves. They are huddled together, all puffed out and dreaming of nests and things. There can be no other reason for their cuddling now that spring is here.

A red sliver of sun shows above the hills and the light is switched on over the lake. Its surface is a dull silver, flat like a pewter plate, and so it still looks solid. The sky behind is transparent. It will be a grand day for sailing.

The first breeze of the morning carves the calm, wrinkles the water and moves away to the north-east. This is the wind I want.

Above my head the doves sit up and rouse the rest of the bird world. The sadness of their song tears your soul — it is so beautiful. With their salute, the chorus of Africa has begun. The morning is all singing. Lake Kyle is showing off and boasting of the reasons we sail here.

The hippo behind me are easily seen now. They are ‘lawn-mowing’ the grass below the club, fifteen metres from the bowsprit. I count two cows in calf, a battle-sore bull and two yearlings. They make good company. Since they have chosen the club as the heart of their territory, people stay remarkably sober on dark nights.

Out in the bay a big fish rises high, slaps his tail in delight at the feel of the warmth coming on the water. It is like a pistol crack. I know him — a fine cock bass. “The day will come when I’ll have you on a griddle, me bucko,” I warn him. He rises again to laugh back at me in scorn. Another whisper of wind wakes the lake. A pied kingfisher lands on the masthead to clear his bowels and use the perch as a fishing jetty. I bare my teeth at him because of the mess he makes of my deck. He takes not the slightest notice and wastes no time in catching his breakfast.

The dawn chorus is less noticeable now. The world of man is making noises to dull the music. A tractor splutters in the fields, a voice ululates across a valley, a bus battles with a distant gradient. The hippo grunt. The skipper stirs in her sleep. I make the tea and nudge her with the back of my heel. She opens her eyes quietly, props herself up, takes the cup and sucks at the scalding black tea. “How’s the day?” “Gorgeous.” “Do you want to eat on the way — now or later?” “Later will do. If we’re going, now is the time. This wind will fold before midday.” “I’ll slip up to the washroom while you hand the sails.” “You’d better put tackies on. The hippo are still on the lawn and you may have to run for it. The place is full of msasa pods.” “Heave a brick at them.” “They’ll shove off when you go ashore. They’ve been uneasy for the last hour.” “What do you mean by that?” “Nothing — nothing at all.” I weather an old-fashioned look.

The wind is now a gentle force two as I think hard and uncharitably about Bobbie Tucker and his outsize halliards, unknit them and haul on the main. Our identity ‘Sll 2124’ looks very blue against the new sail.

With the staysail unfurled, I haul down on the jib luff. They flap without fuss. The hippo take the hint and push off to bed while Enna circles towards the club with her eyes on them all the time.

There is no one within miles. The other dozen boats which make up the club’s entire dinghy fleet will sleep under their covers until the next racing weekend. Our little cruiser is the only one on the lake, and ours will be the only sail it sees this whole week.

Today our trip is planned. I want to go and see ‘Humpy’. I’m not too certain of her vital statistics, but she measures over three metres. She has her nest on a sandbar halfway up the lake, and there will be anything from 40 to 90 eggs in it. So we plan to do some game-viewing along the National Park’s shore on the way and reach her when she is nice and hot and slow.

I like crocodiles — like some people like canaries. Peter Pan and Captain Hook made sure of this peculiar preference early in life. As mothers go, crocodiles are better than some. They work hard to save one or two of their huge clutches. They dig down half a metre and hide their eggs at just the right temperature before patiently waiting out the three months it takes the youngsters to hatch. Mother stays close to protect the site. If the nest is not robbed and the babies can get out before they smother, she will stay close to them for another three months.

Birthtime is the killing time. The chances of survival are minute. Leguaans, kites, fish eagles, mongooses, great eagle owls, genets, civets — all prey on the brood, night and day. If, after her six months’ vigil, three out of the original hatching of 90 survive, mother has done a wonderful job. A happy balance will have been struck.

It’s more than likely that the leguaan who patrols the shoreline as often as six times a day will hear the first baby crocodile hatch, will rip away the sand and slobber down half the brood before the mother can get clear of the water. The rest of the eggs, if exposed to the heat, could die before the little chaps can wriggle their way out. So the chances are small, and mother’s dull mind knows it.

Those that do reach the water and get by their dad, who adores his youngsters — as an entree — are about 20 centimetres long. They will thrive on mosquito larvae, insects, flies, moths, frogs and fish until they grow to a couple of metres. Reasonable safety is only reached after six years. After this the crocodile is an opportunist. He will take a buck, carrion or a man if the chance presents itself. He still prefers fish.

They say old ‘Humpy’ has eaten two fishermen, a picannin, a calf, four goats and someone’s bicycle. It’s civilisation’s fault, not hers. It is we who have encroached upon her habitat, destroyed her food chain and savaged her hopes of survival with pollutants and plastic bags. If we must eat, so should she. Nature displays no sentiment, even if we claim to do so. Yet, in our business world, man eats man. I prefer crocodiles.

The skipper comes back looking as sparkling as the day. She takes the helm and I push off and sweat a little until the bilge keel frees. The breeze of an early hot morning slews September Song around, and then the boat settles down. The sails pluck power from the wind, the sheets harden, we heel a little and cut our way along the sun’s patch.

We make a good pair, the ‘Helm’ and me. She learned her sailing out of Crosshaven and likes to feel the tiller in her hands. I got my feet wet in Dunmore East and prefer the fight of the sheets to be really happy.

The msasa trees are in bloom. In a short week the winter’s stark, gaunt ‘widow’s look’ of our world has left to be replaced by a Dakhtari carpet of colour as the msasas show off their new leaves. From cinnamon to blood red, from café-au-lait to a light gold, they sway in the wind to be admired. As the heat bites, they explode their seeds for the coming rains to propagate. The trees are the true jewels of Africa. In three weeks’ time they will have put on the dowdy dull green of reproduction. But now they dance and wave their multi-coloured fans to a duck egg blue sky and coax the bees to come-a-courtin’.

We chew an apple to the soldier’s wind and forget all about breakfast. September Song is in a hurry. The shoreline is splashed with game — eland and impala watch, giraffe and warthog peer, reedbuck and buffalo glance in our direction. All are having a last drink before they lay up in the heat of the day.

The morning flies on. The heat shimmers to savage us off the water. The sandbar comes into view. There is old ‘Humpy’, lying on the bank with her mouth open and having her teeth picked by a blacksmith’s plover. Her ugly back, once broken by a speedboat, is blatant in its deformity. There is no grace about her movements as she drags herself into the water and sinks to her eyes. A hundred metres from the sandbar, we talk for the first time in an hour.

“Can you see her still?” Enna asks the question before slipping over the bowsprit and swimming quickly to the step at the transom. “She had you on the tip of her nose. You didn’t give her a fair chance.” “Funny man!” She tips me over the side when I’m not looking, and I got out of the water fast, spluttering but cool again.

They call this place Crocodile Bay. Fish eagles scream their wild call above, yellow-billed kites, darters, snakebirds, herons, all go about their fishy business. The shoreline is deserted where the banks overhang, and only the long stick-like shadows tell why the place is so named. We count twenty basking beasts and get hot again.

The boat grounds and I slip over the side, feeling naked and exposed. The cold eyes and nose of old ‘Humpy’ have disappeared. Is she coming… waiting… going? She surfaces where she submerged, at a safe distance. Hurriedly I put my ear to the wet patch where she has lain. First I can hear nothing, then I think it is my imagination. Then it’s like holding a shell to your ear and thinking the sea is there. For a full minute I concentrate, blotting, out all sound but not the vision of old ‘Humpy’. I prod the mound with a steel rod and feel resistance. There are lots of eggs there. It will be December before they hatch.

I shout the news of my discovery to the crew before pushing off and scrambling aboard. The wind is dropping.

September Song glides a hundred metres out on the lake and then the wind dies. ‘Humpy’ goes back to her sandbank. The plover returns to continue the dental treatment and ‘Humpy’ obliges by opening her mouth. Nothing has changed.

“She seems to have been anxious to get back — any reason, you think?” I throw the question, thankful she wasn’t in that much of a hurry to see what I was up to. “Could be that it’s important she keeps the eggs cool. Maybe because they’re fresh laid… I don’t know, I’d be guessing.’ The skipper is not very bright on such subjects. She plays safe with the obvious. “Hell, it’s hot!” “Whistle up some wind,” I answer, drained of energy. “We should have great rains. I’ve never known it get so hot so soon.” “Go whistle up a beer,” I retort. It feels good as it glides down, I open two more while she gazes at ‘Humpy’ through the glasses and preaches about crocodiles. “Some authorities say that the mother scoops up the kids when they start to hatch — actually digs them out with her jaw…” “Sounds reasonable.” I’m feeling more agreeable after the beers. “Others say she carries them to the water in her mouth — as gentle as a hen.” “I doubt that. She’s not a hen.” I want to find out some answers and then another question gets fired.

“How do they wriggle up through eighteen inches of sand? Something must help them on their way.” “Most likely once they start to hatch and squawk down there half the country can hear, and accepts an invitation to the fresh meat fair.” “She should be able to protect them — she’s close enough.” There spoke a mother of six not sixty. I have to make excuses for old ‘Humpy’. “She sees better than she hears.” “But they grunt like puppies on the teat — you can hear them from twenty yards.” “Exactly!” I’ve made my point. “If we can hear them, what chance have they against the ears of a mongoose, an eagle owl or a jackal?”

We have drifted back to within fifteen metres of the sandbar. Every detail of old ‘Humpy’ is clear. I notice the odd colour of her hump — the lightness of it where her spine seems to be trying to break out of the skin. It must hurt like hell. She gets fed up with us being so near, and lashes back into the water threateningly. This time she surfaces within touching distance of the boat. I look into her yellow opaque eyes, the thin black iris, the hump like a hilly horizon beyond. I wonder if I really, really like crocs quite so much. At such close quarters it feels weird. Once I helped take a two-and-a-half metre specimen out of a river. It had been snared around the belly with a steel cable. It took twenty men to hold it. ‘Humpy’ snorts like an express train, making me feel very small and reminding me that we have a journey ahead.

The breeze freshens, and we beat away to our world of water, of land and of sky. We have been sailing for seven hours, lay becalmed for another two and, except for the apple and a couple of beers, we have forgotten food.

The wind gets up and I take the helm. For another three hours we drive our way towards the west, up the lake and into the evening. A flock of cattle egrets on their way home tumble in fun through the sky like out-of-season snow.

I nose September Song up a creek that has never known a sailing boat before. I hand over to my mate and go forward to drop the hook. On land we gather sticks for an open fire and our evening meal. This is the peace we know and understand, my girl and I. She sums it all up.

“That was today… now for tomorrow…”