The net reeked of fish, and it made him want to throw up. He tried to stifle his gag reflex, but the more he tried to suppress it the more he wanted to be sick.

The engine of the boat next to theirs growled and churned in the water.

"Just fishing, officer," he heard the man say. "Maybe I will get a good catch this time. But you know how it is. Not as much fish these days."

"What is your name?"

"Azhar, Sir."

"Well, Azhar, you are about to enter international waters. Are you aware of that?"

"Sorry, Sir, I was not."

"Do you have any others aboard?"

"No, Sir, just me and the fish. trying to get a few more. My family is depending on me."

The boy didn't move a muscle. His legs were cramped beneath him and they twitched with the effort of keeping still. The bottom of the boat was hard and rough against his thin, light frame. A rib of the boat pressed painfully against his knee. Next to him beneath the net was an older man curled up in a fetal position. On his other side was a young boy, his face screwed up with a mixture of fear and effort to be still. He'd come with his mother, the only woman aboard.

Nobody dared breathe. The water slapped a rhythm against the hull.

"I don't want to see you out this far again," the officer said.

"No, you won't. Thank you, Sir."

With a roar, the engine shifted into gear and the patrol boat sped away. As the sound faded into the distance, the boy slowly let out his breath. The others stirred in the net, coughing softly from the strong fishy odor.

"Aduh! That was close," the fisherman muttered. "Okay you can come out now but keep your heads down."

The boy threw off the nets and took a big gulp of sea air. The others emerged, blinking, heavy-lidded, in the fading light. Iridescent fish scales clung to their dark skins like sequins. They looked like they came from different places, though the look in their eyes was the same: fear. Fear of being caught and persecuted; fear of what terrible conditions they left behind; fear the hungry ocean that could, at any time, swallow this dilapidated, creaky old boat and everyone in it.

The boy counted about 30 people in the seven-meter fishing boat. Among the men, the mother of the young boy kept arranging her head covering protectively around her neck, keeping her sad eyes on only two things: her son and the horizon. The wizened old man, with fingers like gnarled roots, lit the stub of his cigarette and chatted with the fisherman.

"These days, I'm lucky if I could get one full net of fish in a day," the fisherman was saying. "Once, when I was young and starting out with my father, the fish were so plentiful they ran from the nets like silver coins. Nowadays the real money is in people. People always need to get somewhere," he said.

The boy drew the fresh ocean air into his lungs. It helped to calm his heart. He had never been away from his parents before, except when he went to school. He was only 16, leaving his family for the first time and under stressful circumstances because he didn't know what would happen to him. He had left school only because his immigrant parents found that his exit visa had expired and there was no way to get out of the country legally. He had to return to his homeland by boat across the strait to get the necessary stamp in his passport. Suddenly, he had gone from being a model son and student to an illegal migrant.

The fisherman yanked the rope and the engine coughed and spluttered into gear. The boat labored forward under the weight of its occupants, gunnels dangerously close to the surface of the sea. Behind them the land became more faint and obscured by mist as the darkness closed in. A few ships sailed in the distance, faded as old postcards. Maybe there were pirates aboard, the boy thought. He'd heard stories about pirates who attacked fishing boats with machetes and took the captain and crew for ransom.

The old man offered the boy a cigarette. The boy had tried smoking only once before with his friends after school. He had taken a puff and almost coughed up a lung. He wanted to look cool, so he tried not to vomit as he finished the thing, but he didn't want to smoke again after that.

This time, however, the boy wanted something to quell his nerves, so he accepted the cigarette, an extra strong Gudang Garam, and lit it. The smoke rushed down into his lungs and up to his head within seconds, making him dizzy as it sailed through his veins.

"You okay, boy?" the old man asked. "You don't look so good."

The boy nodded. He took another drag. The people huddled in tense silence as the sun descended over the sea. Nothing had materialized on the horizon, yet the mainland was gone. All borders had vanished, leaving nothing but ocean. As the night and its net of stars slipped over them, the boy watched the mother with the sad eyes. Her young son was curled in her lap, and she stroked his hair, telling him something in their own language. Watching this, the boy slumped against the fishing net, wondering if he would ever see his family again.

From over the sea the echoing call came, rousing the people from their quiet anxiety. The crescent moon sailed and the stars swam. The voice sang a haunting song. It swept across the ocean and up into the sky. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, a disembodied spirit that belonged to the sea and sky.

Another voice joined in. The fisherman cut the engine and the boat coasted, gently rocking as the water licked its sides. The songs echoed all around them, holding them in the darkness.

They were not sea sirens, nor were they ghosts. It was the adzan, the call to prayer. The boy had never heard it in this way before. Of course he heard it five times a day in Kuala Lumpur where he lived with his family, and before that during his childhood in Sumatra. These days he did not heed the call as often as he had when he was smaller. He was too busy with his studies, trying to make something of himself. He was nearing the last year of high school, and grades were critical to get into the right university. If he could become a doctor, he would make his mother and father proud. So he studied hard, and donned his cap to enter the mosque only on Friday, the holy day.

The people were quiet, looking out on the water, listening to the haunting sound filling the sky. Normally they would go to the mosque, prepare with ablutions of washing their faces and feet. They would kneel on prayer mats in a prayer hall or musholla and face Mecca. Then they would press their foreheads to the ground in supplication, their outer actions matching their inner in their repeated request for grace and pardon. They would say "Allahu Akbar," God is the greatest.

"Don't rock the boat!" the fisherman urged. "It's too dangerous to pray in the boat. We'll all go over the side and drown."

So they knelt, facing west roughly in the direction of Mecca, filling the air with the murmur of prayer. The woman's sad eyes were closed, but a tear had left its trail on her cheek. The boy prayed an additional prayer in his heart. "Please take us safely to the other side," he said. "I want to live to make my parents proud. I don't want to die out here."

He had heard the news reports of refugees from Sri Lanka or Burma - masses drowning in the waves after their boats capsized. He had heard of rogue waves that could rise up and toss boats as if they were mere toys, not full of human lives, spilling them into the sea. "If it is your will, Allah," he whispered, "please allow us safe passage to the other side."

The engine wheezed and begrudgingly came to life. As they moved forward once more, the night enclosed them like a womb.

The mother wiped her eyes and looked at him.

"Where are you from, Mother?" the boy asked her.

"Iraq," she replied.

"Iraq? Where is that?"

"It is very far," she said. Her eyes grew wistful. The boy remembered seeing something on television about a war there; a video of bombs falling - like in a computer game - except that he also saw women crying over the bodies of their dead husbands and children.

"Where are you going?"

"To Australia," she said. "I hope to find a better life there."

"But is your family still in Iraq?"

"Yes, child, though my husband is already in Australia. I am following him there. Once we get to shore, I must travel by bus, and then take another boat."

Her eyes were filled with worry. The boy did not ask any more questions. He was just a boy, afraid of being away from his family. She had a lot more to worry about. He rested quietly near the mother and her son and soon fell into a fitful sleep. Sometimes he woke and shivered with cold, and changed position to relieve his aching body before slipping back into sleep. He dreamed he was a fish caught in a net, unable to breathe.

But again the call entered his heart and sustained his soul. It wound through his uneasy dreams and released him from his net. Like a pillar, it propped him up and made him sit upright. It was still dark; the moon and stars sailed high above him. The voices echoed across the water, blending in the night. The people stirred. The boy sat, wide-eyed. He breathed. The air never felt so good in his lungs. Dawn was coming. Surely land must be coming, too.

They had been packed into the boat like sardines for more than 12 hours. He trailed his hand in the water, splashed his face. He peed over the side, and watched the trail join in the frothy wake of the boat. Something grabbed his leg and made him gasp. It was the old man, grinning. It was just a joke, but he saw himself going over the side and being left behind, maybe eaten by a shark or a big fish. They had almost made it. He couldn't let something happen to him now.

Then, as the sun rose, soft and faded over the misty skyline, something did materialize - a sea creature with hair. Palm trees! A hill crested above them, hoary and ancient as a dinosaur.

He was finally home after all these years, only this time he was alone. And this time he was a man. He had made it on his own, guided by the song of two countries joining over the water. When they landed he could have kissed the ground, except it was sandy and dirty. The old man took him by the arm, danced a little jig and laughed.

There was a hut on the beach, with some grim-faced men standing guard.

"You cannot leave unless you give us more money," one of the guards demanded. The weary travelers protested they didn't have it. But when warned that they would be made to go back onto the boat, they reached into their pockets for their dwindling funds.

The boy gave the guard all the money he had. Somehow he would have to find his way to the city with no money in his pockets - but that was the least of his worries. He was back, and he was safe. The first thing he would do was find a mosque and give thanks. He had heard the call, and he would walk the right path from now on.

"What's your name, boy?"

"My name is Irfan."

The man tucked the money into his pocket. "Welcome to Sumatra, Irfan."

The sun was beginning to rise. The man stepped aside and let him pass. But he turned and waited for the mother and her son. "Mother," he said, "May God be with you on your journey. I hope Australia is everything you've hoped for."

"Thank you, son," she said. "God willing, it will be."

Then he walked alone, up the bank of the empty beach and into the grove of palm trees.

Wendy Bone is a Canadian writer who has lived in Indonesia for two years. She is currently working on a book of short stories about life in the archipelago. www.wendyboneabroad.com contact@wendyboneabroad.com

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