He caught up with the group, who crowded near the heavy rocks on the coast. Couples posed for pictures around him. Isaacs crossed his arms and looked at the mountain and the cranes. Waves broke over the boulders, white foam spraying into the air. Five years from now, he and Mandela would both be dead, mourned by the shrinking brotherhood of men who lived the horror of Robben Island and by those for whom the place exists only in a distant, hazy past.
"It's like a bad dream," Isaacs said, staring across the water at a world he helped change, breathing in the salt air that always reminded him of prison.