Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  Tāwhiri’s only superior was Tūmatauenga, the god of war. Tū of the red eyes is also the god of man. The connection is simple, perhaps: man being the only animal arrogant or stupid enough to attempt to oppose the gods. Tū used man in order to express himself, to wage war. In Len tonight he had a willing proxy, for Len was driven inexorably to a smouldering anger, fuelled by loss and by fear. He had lost his closest friend as well as his innocence, and if he was afraid of anything now, it was his own loneliness and the guilt. But it was mostly anger that drove Len, ordinary man and common soldier, to bare his teeth to the storm and battle the gods, armed only with a paddle and a duty to survive.

  With the sumatra comes rain. It fell so heavily now that they could hardly keep their eyes open. It lashed the sea and hammered the men. It came in such volume that they began to think that the rain alone would be enough to swamp the boat. Johnny crouched wide-eyed at the rear of the tossing prahu, struggling to see where the next wave was coming from while still trying with Len’s help to keep the nose into the wind. The other three bailed, using a coolie hat and tins that Johnno had adapted as bailers. They had to raise planks in the centre of the floor in order to empty the cavity below. Loose coconuts rolled around, impeding and irritating them.

  There was no prospect of keeping any kind of course. They would make good progress if they could stay close to the wind. But these conditions required them to react moment by moment to wave peaks that loomed out of the darkness and dwarfed the little boat, lofting it so high out of the water that the men had to drop their paddles or bailers and grab at the sides. Each time, they soared almost to weightlessness before the prahu crested the peak and fell into the fathomless trough on the other side. Then they grabbed their bailers and continued to fling water back out of the boat in a frenzy before another monster arrived, and another, and the night grew even darker.

  In fact, the waves were not as large as those Len had seen in other places, but to the five men in the tiny prahu they were gargantuan. Len considered all the big seas he had encountered. There was the character-forming night aboard the Wakakura off Palliser Bay, when everybody on board except him had vomited uncontrollably. There were the really big seas in the Atlantic, on their way to Freetown. Then, the big ships had pounded through monumental swells that made them look just as vulnerable to the sea as he felt now. The South Atlantic, superior in breadth and depth, delivered swell with a long subtle cadence. The Java Sea is not so deep, nor so vast. There are many islands, so the swell is smaller and less rhythmic – but the sea state can be more vigorous and less predictable. Tonight, the waves were so chaotic, and the movement so violent, they gave no thought to changing seats or sharing the steering. They stuck to the tasks on which their lives depended. The wind roared and sometimes wailed as the velocity intensified, then abated. Waves reared up in front of them like coiled snakes and flung their foamy venom at them with great hisses. Every now and again, when a crest looked particularly high or a trough especially black, one and all would roar spontaneously: in defiance of their fear, in defiance of Tangaroa.

  All night Johnny hauled on the steering oar, fighting to keep the little craft from being blown side-on to the waves. In the bow Len now knelt to allow himself greater reach with his paddle. When he saw the nose drift off line, he would lean right outside the boat, the only thing holding him in being his knees wedged firmly against the prahu’s sides. Then he would dig his paddle deep into the sea and literally pull the bow of the boat back into the wind, in readiness for the next wave. Nicolaas, sitting in the rear in front of Johnny, was the biggest on board. His weight was crucial to the boat’s balance and trim; when they were surfing down a wave, he was frequently called upon to lean backwards, to prevent the bow from digging into the water and causing the prahu to pitchpole. At these moments Len, too, would lean as far backwards as he could. Jock, sitting behind him, leaned forward and bellowed in his ear, ‘You’re not frightened, are you, laddie?’

  The wind tore the words past Len’s ear, but not before he heard them. There was no point in shouting back, but, understanding the Scotsman’s irony, he simply raised his paddle in a gesture of triumph, hunched back down in the wedge of the bow and brought the boat’s nose around again and into another wave.

  Behind Jock sat Dawi, rigid with terror. His eyes were firmly shut as he bailed. There was enough water in the bottom of the boat that he really didn’t need to see what he was doing.

  ★ ★ ★

  Night passed, and the storm abated. It left as speedily as it had arrived. By the time the sun rose on the 24th, the conditions were biblically calm. When the first rays found the men, they shipped their paddles and oars and lay back exhausted, marvelling at their survival. The waves disappeared with the wind and, for half an hour, they slumped in their seats only half conscious. There was an extraordinary clarity to the atmosphere and, after the persistent roar of the wind, a deafening silence. And then Johnny was forced to intrude. ‘We can’t stop now. Come on, boys; we can’t stop now.’

  ‘And after the storm came a still, small voice …’ quoted Jock.

  They all groaned. They sat up and took stock. Half the coconuts had been lost; nevertheless, they took Dawi’s parang from its sheath, slashed the top off the nut and treated themselves to fresh coconut milk. The biscuits were totally sodden, and went straight over the side. They ate another boiled egg and drank a little water each. Johnny had rationed them to only one mug daily between the five at this stage of the voyage. They had only a rough idea of how long this part would take, and no idea where the next water might come from. Happily, they found the frequent rains delivered plenty into their open mouths.

  Jock belched, breaking the silence. ‘Magic.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Johnny said. ‘If that wasn’t a test of fortitude, I don’t know what is. Well done, boys.’

  He leant forward and patted Nicolaas on the back. Nobody else moved.

  ‘But we have to keep going. There will be several more days of this if we are going to succeed. We need to think of the others.’

  He seemed to realise this might not have been the most motivational of speeches. He waved his compass. ‘Look. I think we have made good progress, even in the storm. It’s driven us south, towards Batavia. So it’s not at all bad. If we can keep at it and catch a breeze or two, we could peel off another fifty miles before tomorrow, easily. We could be there in three more days.’

  Slowly, not unwillingly, they readied themselves, unwinding their limbs as best they could, one at a time, pulling and stretching and groaning with the stiffness and muscle soreness. Last night they had exercised muscles they didn’t know they possessed. They didn’t bother changing places; the physical challenge was the same wherever they sat. Johnny, burdened with command, stayed tied to the stern. They checked the cords that tied the oars and bailers to the prahu, reaffirming their appreciation for Johnno’s thoroughness.

  Nicolaas noticed a loose piece of rope floated in the water which still lay in the bottom of the boat, lapping under the floorboards, and tugged at it. It was in fact caulking that the flexing of the prahu in the storm had worked loose. He hauled up nearly a yard of it before seeing water begin to bubble up from the hole he had created.

  Dawi shrieked in terror, thinking they were sinking. Nicolaas tried to stuff the rope back into the seam with his hands, but the rope simply floated back to the surface again. It was Jock who imposed calm, thrusting the two improvised bailers into their respective hands. ‘Bail, you bastards, bail.’

  Even Dawi understood his instruction, and proceeded to bail like a man possessed, flinging water from the boat as fast as he could. Nicolaas followed his lead. A shower of water erupted from the boat, and the level inside at least began to stabilise. While Johnny and Len looked on from opposite ends of the prahu, Jock calmly lifted a section of the floorboards and felt below the water for the source of the leak. He then pulled the parang from its sheath and used the handle to push the rope back into its seam. Now
the water level began to lower, and soon enough the seam itself was visible at the bottom of the boat. Jock used the blade of the parang to force the rope deeper into the gap, and then stopped. Those that could watched to see what would happen. It only took a few seconds for water to well again through the fissure and begin to accumulate.

  ‘Bugger,’ Jock said. ‘Better lift the floorboards and see what else is happening, lads.’

  The inspection involved moving men and coconuts back and forth to lift each section of flooring and expose the hull beneath. To their consternation, they found water welling up through other seams. The bailing had to continue.

  Surreptitiously, each man glanced to starboard at the southern horizon, in search of land, but there was none.

  ‘OK,’ said Johnny, ‘We’re going to have to re-prioritise. Somebody will have to bail. Get rid of that centre section of flooring so we can empty the hull from its lowest point. We will have somebody bailing at all times, and fifteen minutes longer between rests. Understood?’

  When they were ready, Len took up the oars again.

  ★ ★ ★

  Like most February mornings in the tropics, the 24th started relatively clear. They were able to erect the small sail, which helped speed their passage for a while. They eased their rowing back to a slower tempo – one and two and three and rest – and still achieved a better overall speed. Mid-morning they observed an expanse of broken water to their east, and Johnny guessed from the chart that they were somewhere near the Five Fathom Banks.

  By midday, when the sun was high in the sky and the breeze had dropped away entirely, they were forced to row again without the benefit of sail. The sea was placid, and blossoming storm clouds were beginning to station themselves threateningly in the sky once more as the temperature and humidity rose. They sweated heavily, unable to rehydrate adequately. They rested their oars frequently, and splashed water over themselves. There was barely any difference in temperatures. Len laughed to himself as he considered the irony – a few hours ago they had been bailing water out for all they were worth. As the afternoon lengthened, they rowed with more ease. They talked sparingly, economical with their energy. One, and two, and three, and four. And rest, two, three, four.

  Johnny called a rest for all at intervals. After working through the rations in his head, he decided to allow another coconut to be broached.

  ‘Call it afternoon tea,’ he said, when they stopped paddling to pass the decapitated nut around.

  Jock began to sing, rowing steadily to the rhythm once more. The song was unfamiliar to the others, telling a story of hard life in Scotland. There were several verses, each followed by a chorus about spring in Scotland and the yellow of the broom. It would have surprised Jock to know how familiar Scottish broom was to the Kiwis.

  As the heat of the afternoon continued to intensify, thunderheads materialised, massed and melded. Len watched the sun disappear behind them, causing the clouds to glow internally, from the dark bituminous brown at the centre of some clouds to the gold that braided their edges. Even the sea was brown, stained by the tannins leached out of the leaf litter on the vast floor of the Sumatran jungle, and browned further with the silt and vegetation washed down off the mountains and the low-lying rice fields and mangrove swamps. As they rowed towards another night, this great mass of brownness reached around, over and behind them.

  By early evening, they were among squalls thick with rain, falling straight down from perfectly shaped anvil-headed clouds. As one squall passed over them, they stopped paddling to turn their faces to the sky. They opened their mouths to let the drops fall straight in. Len swept his hands over his hair, his face, his chest and his arms, in ritual ablution. It wasn’t so much about washing the salt from his body, since these waters were not particularly salty. It was to rinse away the sweat, which stung his eyes and his cracked lips. He had a raw blister in the palm of each hand where the oars fitted, and deep cracks split the skin at the edge of his palms and even the heels of his feet, where they were jammed against the floorboards. His arse was so numb he began to think gangrene would set in. He rinsed his improvised turban with rainwater and wrung out the salt before wrapping it back on his head again. For a few minutes they floated immobile while the cleansing rain poured down, and when it passed they rowed on. It was Len’s turn to bail.

  Brown gave way to black. They expected another sumatra, but the conditions were not so violent this time, though just as unpredictable. This encouraged them to put the sail up, but it required constant vigilance against sudden knock-down. Between squalls they found themselves benefitting from peripheral breezes, and sometimes in a hole, with no wind at all. It was enough to keep them all on their toes, and it was the pattern of things throughout the night and into the morning of the 25th.

  ★ ★ ★

  After five days of almost non-stop rowing, all of them were relying heavily on their fitness and stamina. Len, Jock and Johnny were fit – the two ratings particularly – and Dawi had a wiry resilience about him. But Nicolaas, the biggest of the five, although he did not carry extra weight, had nothing of the physical edge that the others had. He was inclined to ship his oars at will, and Johnny indulged him, thinking it better to avoid conflict and allow him to keep his own pace. Overall, it was crucial that they didn’t over-extend themselves. They needed energy in reserve, for the unexpected.

  Around midday of 25 February, when the sun was at its height, the weather settled. Johnny called a halt to rowing, and they panted under the shade of their coolie hats, the sail hanging limply from its mast. A coconut was passed around, then the last boiled eggs and a tin of bully beef. They finished with a final draught of coconut milk and lay propped up in the prahu for a while, enjoying a few minutes of well-earned rest.

  Johnny took out his binoculars and scanned the southern horizon.

  ‘A couple more hours and we should be able to see land,’ he announced.

  In fact, it took several more hours before he was confident enough to point to the west. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Land.’

  ‘Hold me up,’ exclaimed Jock. ‘Where? You’re not joking, are you?’ When he saw it, he said, ‘Bugger me. And I was beginning to enjoy this.’

  Len couldn’t resist channelling Tim. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  One by one, they all took turns to look through the glasses at the low blue shape along the horizon. Reinvigorated, they addressed the night and began rowing again.

  ★ ★ ★

  By their sixth day at sea, now bailing and rowing continuously, the fatigue was beginning to tell. Len’s eyes streamed as a breeze drove sweat into his eyes. The day was kind, with only a few light clouds to blemish the sky, as their course slowly converged with the Sumatran shore, and land drew closer and closer.

  It was Nicolaas’s turn to rest, and Johnny was rowing now, bending his back into each stroke. Long periods passed without a word being spoken. When the wind abated they dropped the sail, rowing mechanically, counting the strokes before pausing, staring constantly at the southern horizon.

  ‘Aircraft!’ Johnny had his binoculars up to his eyes, looking towards the coast. He adjusted the focus. Everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to follow his gaze. They hadn’t actually seen a plane since departing Tjibia. To the naked eye, these planes were too far away; all Len saw were specks against the distant landscape, moving parallel to the horizon, heading in the same direction they were. They started to row again, but this time with a different focus, as each man now cast his eyes about for any sign of aircraft, friendly or otherwise. It was a measure of their progress. As they drew closer to their destination, there was a need to heighten their vigilance.

  ‘You know what to do if they get too close,’ Johnny reminded them.

  Johnny was thorough. Each man had been briefed on a procedure should they attract the interest of an enemy vessel or aircraft. This was just as well, for only minutes after the first aircraft sighting, they heard the sound of more aircraft, much closer
than the first, and getting closer.

  ‘All right. Quickly, now.’

  They shipped the oars – the sail was already down. Johnny and Jock curled up as best they could in the bottom of the prahu, and Dawi piled the sail over them. The other three, each with a coolie hat or a turban, looked much more like native Sumatrans, Len’s whakapapa predisposing him to a deep tan. From a shirt pocket or a pouch, each of the three produced a length of cord with a small engine nut tied on the end, and cast it over the side, so that they gave every appearance of locals fishing offshore.

  The noise was behind them. They looked back to see another four aircraft flying at a low altitude only about a mile away, towards the coast. They watched as the sound grew louder and the planes drew abreast of the prahu and began to pass it by. The men were watching intently when the aircraft on the port side of the wing of four suddenly detached sharply from the others in a tight turn and headed directly towards the prahu.

  Len watched, transfixed. The silhouette, which increased in size as it sped towards them, revealed none of the cumbersome undercarriage of a floatplane. It was a fighter that began to fill their vision, just as Len imagined they would be filling the gunsights of the pilot, and it hurtled across the wave tops straight at them. He could hear Jock growling from his concealment in fury and frustration.