Fairhaven Chapter 2

Fairhaven

Read chapter 1 here

9.30 am, Friday, April 1, 2026
George Town, Penang – Fairhaven Site Office
Global average temperature: 1.4°C above pre-industrial levels

‘I know you’re only a few years out of college. But the “Client Representative” role is a new one and we need new ideas,’ Zygmunt explained, still perusing Grace’s resume through a pair of reading glasses. ‘Our client is the city of Penang, and Fairhaven Development Corporation has been contracted to implement the entire project. But, like yourself, we’re all engineers, and we can get hyper-focused on the day-to-day operations. So we need someone to help keep our client informed of what’s going on, and understand what their priorities are. You’d have to get involved in everything to do with the project – you’ll be a contractor-customer liaison.’ 

Grace examined the older man. His thin hair was still dark, but his creased complexion gave him the appearance of someone older than his 60-something years. Perhaps he had spent more time on construction sites than was obvious at first glance. 

‘Working at Fairhaven is a step up from the contract I just finished at Shipham, but I’m confident I can handle the role. To be honest, it’s my dream job,’ Grace replied.

He looked up from the document. ‘I like to see that kind of enthusiasm in the team. And I’m guessing that working with a pump and valve supplier has given you the practical experience you need. Long story short – let’s do it. How soon can you start?’

Grace grinned. ‘How about Monday?’

Zygmunt nodded with satisfaction, but was distracted by a tall, fair-haired man in his early 30s, passing the site office hut. ‘Hold on. Hey, Hans!’ Zygmunt’s cry caused the man to pause, and, at a gesture, to enter. ‘Come on in. We’ve hired a partner for you.’ Turning back to Grace, he continued, ‘You’re in luck. I thought he was out on the site today. Hans is my chief of staff; you’ll be working with him. Hans de Jong, this is Grace Chan.’

‘Nice to meet you, Ms Chan,’ Hans replied affably. ‘Is today your first day?’

His genuine smile helped quell a tiny doubt nagging at the back of Grace’s mind. ‘Nice to meet you, too. I’m here for my interview, but it seems to have gone very well! My first day is going to be Monday.’

‘Congratulations! Do you have a bit of time now? I can show you around. Why not get a head start?’

‘Why not?’ 

Zygmunt indicated his approval with another short nod, and Grace grabbed her mini backpack. Moments later, Hans was leading Grace toward the docks.

‘How familiar are you with the whole operation? You know, they call it a dyke project, or land reclamation, but it’s so much more than that. Fairhaven is the biggest climate adaptation project in the world. FDC, which runs it, is a quasi-autonomous NGO – so we have a certain amount of leeway in how we manage things.’

Stretching across the water in front of the docks, half a dozen dredge-and-crane stations and piling barges punctuated the shimmering waves. They could see the opposite side of the strait, about a kilometre away; marshy areas were already emerging from the mud flats as the tide dropped. Small boats darted between the barges and around the heaps of construction rubble that would form the bulk of the North Dyke, while crows wheeled above. The blazing, mid-day sun beat down, as a smell of mud, rotting fish and diesel fuel mingled with the aromas of simmering curry mee from the shore.

A group of fishermen, squatting on plastic chairs, scowled at Grace and Hans as they drew closer to the water’s edge. ‘It’s been attracting bad press, though, hasn’t it?’ she queried.

‘Yeah, the fishermen are complaining. I mean, I understand. The place where they fish is literally going to become a piece of land once the two dykes are completed and the land reclaimed.

‘But what they don’t realise,’ continued Hans, ‘is that the choice is not between keeping the satisfactory status quo, versus a future unknown risk. Doing nothing won’t keep things the same. Without this project, sooner or later this whole area is going to be like 2017 every day.’

Grace was surprised. ‘You mean the floods. Were you here then?’

Hans nodded. ‘I was about 26. I’d been working in Japan for a few years and my family came here on holiday from the Netherlands, so I flew down to join them. My mother wanted to cut our trip short, once it became obvious what was going to happen with the floods, but my grandmother said we should stay, so my sister and I would see what things would be like at home if we didn’t have all of our own dykes.’

‘Your country is at risk, too.’

‘We are. Our entire history is about managing flood risk. My grandfather was a farmer, but I’m like my father, a civil engineer working on water and land management. I came back here to join the Fairhaven project because I thought it was about time we put our expertise to work outside of Holland.’ Grace glanced up at his serious expression, and liked what she saw. 

A slim, blue boat perched at the shoreline, and a tanned boatman held on to a sharp, red-painted bar that jutted from its prow. ‘Let’s take a look at one of the barges,’ Hans offered, shouting instructions to the boatman, who nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. As they clambered over the side, he donned a life jacket from the rail and handed one to Grace. ‘You know, all our boatmen are former fishermen, too.’

The boatman brought the old Mercury outboard motor to life. A few minutes later, they coasted to a halt alongside a larger vessel. Grace peered at its stern, dominated by a two-tonne A-frame and hydraulic drive lift; despite the appearance of its broad deck, it was, in its structure, a catamaran. Stable, compact, and with a shallow draft, it was the type of craft that could carry a huge load and stay flat when the tide went out. A radar arch topped the upper observation platform above the helm station. ‘They use scanning gear to explore the mud below the surface,’ explained Hans. ‘Sometimes we help explore archaeological sites.’

‘That kind of work must be fascinating.’

‘Yes. You see there? There’s a 40 metre or longer wooden, ribbed structure. It’s deep in the mud; over 20 metres. It could date back to the end of the last ice age.’

‘Wow! Of course, I’d heard the rumours about World War II submarines in these waters.’

‘The ones with gold still on board? Treasure-hunters have discovered flasks of mercury and jet engine parts, but no gold. A few boats are still unaccounted for, but they might have been lost anywhere in the region.’

‘Oh, well! Do you think the gold really exists?’

‘Sure. But will it ever be found? We’ve got more sophisticated scanning technology now than ever before, but it’s a big ask. By the way, we’re getting a new civil engineer on the team this week, Ivan. He’s an avid wreck diver in his spare time; that’s the original reason he came to Penang. He’ll be able to tell you all about it.’

8.30 pm, Friday, April 1, 2026
George Town, Penang – Mutiara Heights

That evening, she scrolled through the news on her phone. 

Fishermen in uproar at Malaysia dyke

Massive geoengineering project threatens UNESCO World Heritage Site

Malaysian prime minister defends dyke plan against fishing lobby

‘What they don’t say is that if nothing is done, their precious UNESCO site will be flooded in a few years,’ Grace commented to Nant, showing her the headlines as they ate their bowls of Maggi instant noodles. ‘They’re also getting it confused with the existing land reclamation projects, the old “three islands” project. If the sea level rises even a metre within the next few decades, not only the islands but all the other recovered land will be lost. Not to mention all the low-lying land on Penang island and coast.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The airport has tidal gullies around it. It wouldn’t survive. All of those new apartment blocks on the seafront, the historic town, rice-growing areas hundreds of kilometres north and south. The choice is to lose everything, or protect what it is viable to protect.’

‘Listen to you!’ her flatmate crowed. ‘You haven’t started the job yet, and you’re already an apologist.’ Nant’s long hair, coloured with a fashionable, dark blue wash, fell over her shoulder, threatening to dip into the noodles. Grace compared the attractive, casual style to her own frumpy haircut, just reaching below her chin; should she bother going to the hairdresser again? No; it never seemed to fix anything. 

The two women sat cross-legged on a tattered sofa in a tiny living room; a laptop played a Streamberry series on mute. ‘It’s tragic, honestly. But it’s true,’ Grace continued.

‘Just be careful. Don’t put yourself in danger.’

‘I have no choice. This is a climate engineer’s dream job. It’s the biggest thing I can do.’

‘Climate engineer? Since when? Sounds sinister. Aren’t you a chemical engineer?’ 

‘Sinister! No more so than people who manufacture SUVs and single-use plastic containers and … fast fashion.’ She gave a reflexive glance at Nant’s sequined yoga pants.

Nant laughed again and took a contented slurp of her noodles. ‘How did you get to be such an activist? Childhood trauma?’

‘Where were you in 2017?’

‘In 2017?’ Nant regarded Grace with surprise. ‘I was still at university, in Scotland, darling, with all the best people. Why?’

‘I think how you see the world depends on where you were at key moments.’

10.30 am, Friday, September 2, 2008
Cape Town, South Africa – Encotsheni Public Primary School
Global average temperature: 1.0°C above pre-industrial levels

Grace was, once again, curled up with a book. This time, it was a copy of an old Enid Blyton story; newer books, like Rick Riordan novels, never made it to the poorer South Africa primary schools until decades after they were published. As she turned the pages, she didn’t notice that all the other children had already left the classroom for play time. It didn’t matter; in another half a year, she knew, it would be time for a new country, a new school, and a new group of kids who would accept her or taunt her or ignore her according to their own rules. As usual, her mother would dismiss it all as unimportant. If she noticed at all.

She had come up with several shortcuts to help her fit in. One was a quick-and-dirty explanation of her unusual features: I’m from Malaysia; my father is Chinese and my mother is Indian. Of course, the full story was more complicated – her mother was Indian/Malaccan, while her father was from a sprawling Chinese/Peranakan family who had inhabited Penang for generations. 

She’d also devised a simple way to explain why their family moved so often: my father is an engineer, and he goes around the world working on power plants. Again, the truth was more interesting, had any of them cared to listen to an explanation. Her father worked on installation projects for power stations, slum electrification, and post-war rebuilding – the tougher the better from his point of view. Her mother, a teacher, took on classes at posh international schools, at rough-and-tumble local schools, and everywhere in between. The problem was that her parents’ work was more interesting than anything their daughter could offer.

At last, a cleaner noticed her sitting in the deserted classroom, and shooed her out onto the dusty playground. 

‘Go get fresh air! You can’t be inside all day.’ 

Grace obeyed, tucking the book into her backpack, and wandered out-of-doors. Standing in the narrow band of shade provided by the eaves of the concrete building, she listened to the chatter of the other kids, absorbing new words in Xhosa and Zulu. After watching for a long time, she drifted into the margins of a game – something with a ball and two sticks – cataloguing the rules in her mind.

A girl of her own age accosted her, speaking in the type of joyful patois that can be found in playgrounds around the world. ‘Hey! You play with us now now?’ 

Grace joined the circle with a grin and gestured toward the ball. ‘I take this one?’

The girl grinned back. ‘Haikona! Hands off. You think we have so many balls we can give you one? I show you how first.’

Some things are precious, Grace thought to herself, while others take them for granted.

6.00 pm, Friday, March 9, 2012
Penang, Malaysia – Chan family compound
Global average temperature: 1.0°C above pre-industrial levels

The noise at Auntie Annie’s house was never deafening, but always present, and never consistent enough to be ignored. A younger cousin was crying, Jack was barking, and Auntie Janis was scolding an older cousin. The television showed a middle-aged woman in a sparkling dress, wailing out her misery in front of an orchestra. 

‘Janis!’ shouted an uncle. ‘Change the channel. Don’t you know the football is on?’

‘Change it yourself! Can’t you see I’m busy? Grace! Why is that damn dog barking again?!’

All the chaos distracted Grace from the Agatha Christie novel she’d found at the public library. She placed a bookmark at the beginning of Chapter 6 (Poirot had not shown up yet), held the book under her arm, and wandered outside to the courtyard to find out what was bothering Jack. 

‘And to think my parents consider it dangerous over there!’ Grace muttered to herself. ‘At least in Iraq there might be a proper reason for getting a headache.’ She found Jack under the mango tree, launching intermittent, joyful barks at a small child and worrying a plastic toy, while the child howled with indignation. As usual, someone had drawn a ridiculous (and hilarious) set of eyebrows on poor Jack’s forehead. 

‘Stop it, Jack! You are incorrigible. If you don’t calm down and give back that toy, I’m going to have to …’ she stopped. The long-legged dog was already seated at her feet, his tail wagging and tongue lolling. Her cousin retrieved the toy and toddled back to the kitchen. ‘What do I do now? Hug you or scold you?’ The tail continued to wag as Grace squatted next to him. ‘Fine. You can read with me.’ She sat with her back against the mango tree and returned to Chapter Six. She read aloud, ‘The photograph of Jane Finn, which would have been of the utmost value to the police in tracing her, was lost beyond recovery …’ and Jack curled up, his head on her lap. 

9.30 am, Thursday, April 23, 2026
George Town, Penang – Bazalgette Lock 

‘So I’m not an orphan,’ Grace explained, ‘but I wouldn’t see my parents more than once a year when they came back on leave. I wasn’t a  real child of any particular house, just one of a crowd of cousins at one of several houses.’ 

Hans replied, ‘I would guess that sort of upbringing gave you unusual empathy.’ 

Grace had learned more about empathy over the past several months, as she completed her site orientation. She was studying excavation permits, how to place a crane without collapsing the ground, and the details of concrete slump tests. She learned about scaffold design, diesel bowser organisation, and operational safety at heights. Working alongside various team members, one by one, helped her understand how they did their jobs. They taught her the risks involved and other tricks of the trade, along with a wide variety of personal back stories. Every so often, to her delight, Hans made surprise visits to her work site at Bazalgette Lock.

‘Yes and no. It made me self-reliant. And a loner, too. But after the age of 14, I spent weekends helping out at the refugee centres in Penang. Teaching English to the younger kids. You know, a lot of those refugees were fleeing their homes because of climate change.’ Grace handed Hans a digital clipboard with the update of the work around the Bazalgette lock site.

‘But you didn’t want to go into development work? Join an NGO?’

‘I suppose the closest I got to that was joining the Girl Guides when we were in Liverpool! Whenever they weren’t ignoring me, my family were always trying to tell me what I should be doing. My Auntie Annie told me I was “too old for all this refugee nonsense” and that I should focus on my studies, and find a good job with the government. Or else find a young man with a good job.’

Hans laughed as he signed off on the update and handed the clipboard back. ‘What about your other aunt, the one you like?’

‘Auntie Janis? She always tells me I’m perfect just as I am, which is maddening in its own way. I’ve learned not to rely on anyone but myself. But I can’t ignore what’s happening around me. This is the first time I’ve been working on a project that makes a difference. Anyway, tell me more about the other locks. Is there anything we should learn?.’

‘You’ll see them soon enough.’ Hans changed the subject. ‘By the way … what do you think of Zygmunt?’

‘He’s the first boss I’ve ever had where I thought he believed in what he’s doing. Where is he from?’

‘He’s Polish,’ Hans replied. ‘But he’s been working in Asia all of his life.’

Grace grimaced. ‘Is he one of those “yellow fever” men who came here for the women?’

‘I don’t think so. But he’s single at the moment; and he doesn’t seem to have much luck as a husband. He has at least three ex-wives in three different countries, and he’s paying child support for at least four kids.’

‘How awful.’

‘It’s not something I bring up at the department head meetings.’

Read Chapter 3 here.