Night Fishing

by Vicki Hastrich

  I think of Pa and his folding boat and I know exactly how it would have been, how charged he’d have been, excited in advance by all the fun that would fill it. He was not just making a boat, he was making the astonishment on the faces of his two younger sons and his nephews as the boat was assembled at the holiday place, the full genius of its versatility finally revealed. He was making all the fish they would catch in it, the fooling around with sail and oars. With that little vessel, he was making days of happiness for others, and he could already see them all.

  But then I think of him sitting in it and I remember his other son. This child, Carl, was mentally disabled. A difficult birth was blamed, but Carl also suffered from uncontrolled epilepsy, so his condition worsened. By the time he was twelve his care was too much for Pa and Ma to manage at home. He was admitted to an adult institution on Peat Island on the Hawkesbury River, where he resided until he died, aged 32. His medical records are brutally brief: Cannot give an account of himself. The diagnosis was imbecility.

  Pa obeyed the protocol when he wished to make the long trip to visit, sending respectful letters to the superintendent asking permission. But sometimes he must have burned to bypass that barrier and sail his wacky boat to the island, if not to rescue his son, then at least to give him a ride.

  Of course, there was no rescue for Carl. No fix for his condition. For Pa, who so prized his intellectual freedom in his youth, it must have been especially bitter to know his boy was so alone, without the company—the hope and transporting solace—afforded by coherent thought.

  Sometimes, on holidays down the south coast, sitting in that little boat without one of his sons must have been unbearable for Pa.

  Inevitably, the amateur breaks their own heart. Reality will always come to blow out the candle of the ideal.

  •

  When I looked at Pa’s scrapbook a few months ago it was the photo of Peace unassembled that struck me most, I suppose because I’d never paid much attention to it before. I was due to meet two writer friends for lunch the next day and thought I might use the opportunity to propose a shared project, one which we might do as an enjoyable exercise to stretch our writers’ minds, with no intention of its ever going anywhere. I wanted us to try plotting a screenplay together—just the basic structure and an outline of scenes. I thought how good and loosening it would be to spend a day or so on it, carelessly chucking around ideas.

  The hard thing would be coming up with a basic set-up with enough scope and interest in it to get us going; but that evening, the evening before the lunch, an idea jumped into my head that answered perfectly.

  It could be a modern-day Frankenstein story. Bits of an unassembled statue are found and given to an artist to put together. Somehow the statue comes to life, but not healthily so. It’s just sort of gaspingly alive and in pain. For some reason the artist has to hide it. It could go through stages of improvement and relapse when it was capable of some action, good and bad. Underneath, like Mary Shelley’s original story, it would be about the ethical questions of bringing life into the world, quality of life and the right to death. In part, it would also be about the creation of art and the moral responsibilities involved. Thematically it could operate on these interesting levels behind the scenes, but still be a thrilling, modern monster movie on the surface.

  Yes, I thought. That’s excellent! That will serve very well. My friends will love it.

  I felt jaunty as I went off to lunch.

  Coincidentally, we were due to meet in the cafe at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

  Our usual form was to talk almost entirely about books and writing, but early on the conversation veered away to the personal and it was only right towards the end, when we were finishing up, that there was a chance to put my proposal. Lucinda and Charlotte were already mentally departing as I spoke and showed no interest in the idea of a plotting exercise. But when I pushed on to quickly relate a little of the scenario, Lucinda’s eyes immediately filled with tears. ‘Oh, but don’t you see? This is you. This is your thing.’

  She meant my failed novel. The one I’d had to put away because it was too ambitious and strange to come together. The one I still loved, and would do anything to revive.

  Straightaway I agreed. It was, of course it was, I knew it.

  Charlotte was gathering her things.

  But in truth I hadn’t seen it in those terms: me struggling to bring my own poorly formed artwork into the world, my artwork that could not properly live.

  We kissed goodbye and Charlotte and Lu bustled off up the escalator together.

  I went into the toilets and bawled.

  •

  There used to be a saying in Australia: ‘Have a go, ya mug.’ The amateur is the perennial mug, but doesn’t need to be told: they apply themselves to their missions willingly, because their missions are truly their own. Behind the wonkiness of the amateur hides the purist, the non-conformist, the wilful soul. Amateurs are independent and unreasonably hopeful against the odds—that’s their job.

  At his eightieth birthday party Pa was a happy man, giving thanks to his wife and family. Winding up his speech, and no doubt surveying the roomful of relatives and friends, he said, ‘And the ones that are satisfied I came into their life can drink with me the health of the man in the moon.’

  Then, quoting a popular quiz show of the day, he delivered his final line. ‘Thanks for listening, customers!’

  As with many migrants, Pa’s inexpert use of English no doubt made him seem less sophisticated than he really was. But that playful quality in him was real, and it’s an important part of adventurous thinking.

  To own a hat with a door in it is no bad thing. It makes up for the broken hearts.

  The Boat Show

  The gods always smile on the Sydney Boat Show. As they should. I’ve never been to one yet when it hasn’t been sunny.

  This year the whole thing seemed particularly good—and amusing. This was because I freshly saw how the show is really an umbrella for sheltering different tribes of boat lovers, each with their own aesthetic. Perhaps this was more apparent because I happened to see extreme examples of the various boatie types in the crowd. Or maybe, as capitalism wades deeper into its decadent phase, it’s because the products that earmark each group have become notably more excessive, pursuing whatever it is they say or do to newly shameless levels. Probably it was a combination of both.

  The morning I went was crisp and blue, but strong winds were forecast for the afternoon so I started outside at the floating display on the water at Darling Harbour. Cheek by jowl every year, the luxury boats are moored here in a complex system of pens especially installed for the occasion. In the past, there were always a few vessels in this area that the average Joe could almost afford, if he was madly keen and willing to clean out the family accounts. Not anymore. The wealth was astonishing—at every level of manufacture. In the stainless steel a new kind of shinier shine seemed to have been invented, and in the paint jobs there was a new viscosity to the colour—it could have been scooped out of the hulls in creamy dollops if someone handed out spoons. It was amazing that even this detailing seemed so richly improved in the space of twelve months.

  When it came to boat styles, the old-money traditional look was just about gone. The design aesthetic replacing it was all modern European schmick: new shapes and hard edges; changed profiles which looked at once high-tech and as if a schoolboy drew up the first sketches, his pencil over-earnest on some of the outlines. And there weren’t so many mini-ships—the luxury floating mansions fit for Gold Coast developers; they used to be the big drawcard for oohing-and-aahing plebs. Instead, there were mostly small- to medium-sized boats which cost just as much.

  Modern iterations of open launches were popular. They referenced the classic James Bond style of Italian speedboat, and so contained only the essentials: a steering wheel, white botox-injected lounges, and dinky compartments which flipped open to become mirrored drinks cabinets. The appointments are
necessarily limited, because the remaining two-thirds of such a boat must be given over to housing an engine which could power a ballistic missile.

  On the floating docks there were many natty sales tents, client bars and outdoor rooms. These were manned by a new species of human. The males, all in their mid-thirties, had sunned, clean-shaven faces and short haircuts, just done. They wore tan chinos and tight white shirts with blue jackets. The women were younger but otherwise matched. Actors in a nautical Truman Show.

  In the midst of these glam hospitality tents was one boat that particularly captured my attention—the Iguana. It offered a major practical advantage over all others. It was amphibious. And like its namesake, it was beautifully ugly. Parked on the dock, it stood on four legs joined to caterpillar tracks (like those on a tank or bulldozer). At 29 foot long, it was a lot of boat when high and dry out of the water. The promotional video playing on a nearby TV showed one of the super race at the helm, driving it up a Dubai beach towards a massive onion-domed palace. I could easily picture myself in it up the coast, rumbling down our street to the shore and rolling on triumphantly over the mudflats into the bay. Once afloat, the legs neatly retract at the push of a button until the hull assumes a more orthodox shape—though naturally one that’s still very uber. The video didn’t linger long on the land-traversing stage, and what shots there were tended to cut off the legs. No doubt this was to downplay the environmental degradation caused by the Iguana, as it merrily rips up fragile ecologies under its tracks. Also, the bloke driving it looked like a dick, standing in a boat on stilts. That wouldn’t worry me though. I wouldn’t care how I looked. Mindful of launching it in a more responsible manner, I could drive it all the way to the boat ramp at Pretty Beach, stopping on the way for bait at Gary’s shop. Plus, with such a versatile vessel, I could start thinking laterally about how I used it. Instead of going straight home after fishing I could sail over to Woy Woy and walk the Iguana out of the water. Go on into town. Go straight through the doors of Deepwater Plaza and then into Coles. I could do the weekly grocery shop, literally cruising down the aisles. No trouble getting things off the top shelves.

  All possible for only $760,000.

  But that’s without options. Not as seen. Everybody knows you’ve always got to option up.

  •

  The outdoor section was all very good, but the real interest of the boat show always lies inside, in the exhibition halls. There the aspirational suburbanites like me wander, each of us gravitating towards boats which best fit our budgets, and our obsessive preferences and desires.

  There’s always a water sports/leisure area where the wackier models tend to be, highly portable craft for those who don’t have the space, or the means, for a boat and trailer, but are desperate to get out onto the water. It’s guaranteed someone will be there proselytising a brand-new way of propulsion, which nevertheless looks old-fashioned—like Leonardo already thought of it, or my grandfather. This year it was a large surfboard contraption that could be wheeled to the shore and deployed. The user, grasping a tall set of handlebars like those on a child’s scooter, steps up and down on pedals. Then, under the water, two little flaps move backwards and forwards like goldfish fins.

  But my favourite innovation this year was the round boat. With a diameter of 2 metres, it’s essentially a stable plastic disc, to which a mini electric motor can be attached. From a swivelling bicycle seat in the middle, the solo fisherman can reach everything: the handy hatches concealed in the floor; the cleverly placed drink holders. All very fine. But who among us yearns to be master of a grey doughnut?

  Serious fishos (vile term) bypass all that kiddie nonsense and head to boats that are built like trucks. Mostly all New Zealand made, they’re unbreakable. They look highly industrial, with chequer plate floors and unpainted aluminium hulls; any decorative touches are black or visi-vest orange. It’s brute boating. Everything is well thought through and everything works. Top quality. Over-engineered to the point of hubris. It’s my habit to linger among them for a while, because I admire their devotion to practicality, and in these days of pumped-out shoddiness I appreciate a well-made thing. But in the end the aesthetic is too much. There’s an efficiency ethic here that runs to rapaciousness; an industrialism that borders on the martial. I just want to go out on the water, not to war.

  As usual, retailers flogging big-brand tinnies and family boats had loads of models on show, all of which can be customised in endless ways. Yet it’s impossible to find one that ticks every box on my dream boat list. But I already knew this would be the case. It’s part of the fun. Not just for me, but for everyone here. As you walk around, you hear people saying stuff like, ‘Not bad, but it’s not beamy enough, and there’s no anchor well.’

  Human beings are funny about organising small spaces. And when the space is inherently unstable—i.e. a boat—they get even more hung up on functionality and the perfect layout, on the need for cubbyholes and gadgets to keep everything in place. (I suspect that, deep down, this goes beyond mere tidiness. It could be a manifestation of the god-like desire in many of us to create mini-worlds—models of perfection—over which it’s possible to exercise absolute control.)

  But it’s actually important not to have all your requirements met in any one boat, because the tyre-kicking, the humming- and-hawing, the trading-off of priorities in pursuit of the nearest thing to perfection, are what make the dreaming fun. Probably much better fun than actual ownership.

  For the dreaming to work, you have to enter into it seriously. You must pretend that, although you’re in no rush, as soon as you see exactly the right one, you really will do the deal. What does this say about materialism? That the true pleasure is all in the dream. And if the boat show is anything to go by, the kind of dream you have says a lot about you.

  So, I don’t want a mainstream tinnie, or one of the high-end, imported American fibreglass boats—the kind that are advertised zooming around the Florida Keys: big centre consoles driven by rich teenagers. And I certainly don’t want bogan bling, although I can never resist pausing for a while in its dazzling vicinity. This is the section where the ski and wakeboarding boats are parked. You can’t help but smile at their mindless hedonism. This is where disco meets Batman. They are squat (their low centre of gravity helps them handle tight turns), and made of fibreglass because it better absorbs the slamming of high speeds. Plus, you can get better paint jobs. It always looks like someone spilt glitter bottles here: purples, lime green, pinks, slashes of silver. The hulls are black underneath with fantastically twinkling sides. On the specs posters, sound systems are listed first. Clearly the most important thing.

  Finally I found the boat I was hoping would be at the show. The dealer’s stand was out of the way and unmanned. Heaven. I’ve had my eye on this boat as my new preferred option all year: a Morningstar Bay Fisher 498F. Aluminium (made in Taiwan and robot-welded), but said to ride like fibreglass. It has a sniff of the truck-type about it with its practical set-up and no-nonsense metal flooring; also, it comes with a lot of sensible extras on my must-have list fitted as standard. But in all it has a much lighter look and finish than the Kiwi boats, so only gestures towards the heavy duty. The feature that at first seemed a treat and is fast becoming highly desirable—if not a must-have—is the swim platforms off the stern. They sit flush to the water on either side of the motor, so it’s easy to get in and out of the boat if you go swimming. Or I could just sit there, legs dangling. So although the boat is a lot bigger than my present tiny dinghy, I could still get close to the water—helpful when bringing in crabs; or, yeah, if I want to use my bathyscope. The Bay Fisher is just over 16 foot long, with a centre console. Perfect for me to manage by myself and versatile enough that I can nudge in near mangroves, or go out on the ocean on a good day.

  I’ve had the name picked out for years—the Giant. (The giant Squid.)

  •

  But for all that, do I really want a new boat? Can reality ever match imagined perfection? I ha
ve this fantasy that with a bigger boat I’ll be out in the misty dawn, or in the summer dark with navigation lights switched on; that I’ll explore every corner of the estuary in every season—that I’ll live a watery life spending half my time out there, enriched, immeasurably, by everything I learn and see.

  But will I? Will I really use the boat that much? I couldn’t bear the guilt if not. Then again, if I don’t give it a go, how will I know? Would I rather deny myself the opportunity of having a great lived experience for the sake of not taking a risk?

  Of course, money tangles unattractively through all this; money is the risk. I have enough to buy a boat, especially if it was second-hand, but because I want to keep it at the marina, it’s not a sensible use of finite resources. The annual marina fees are steep, and there are other ongoing costs in keeping a boat permanently on the water.

  So the conundrum is deliciously poised. Just the idea of a future perfection, possible and almost in grasp, could be enough. I get genuine pleasure from my daydreaming, can quite often feel it physically releasing in me when I think about boats (or writing). Something to do with endorphins or dopamine, I suppose. To act on the daydream may only saddle me with disappointment if reality doesn’t live up to expectations. And I know I would feel ashamed of badly wanting a material thing and then being dissatisfied, when I already have so much really, compared to so many others. A new, insufficiently loved vessel would be incontrovertible evidence of a moral failing. And the pleasure of the dream would forever be lost.

  These days there’s another consideration coming into the mix, and that’s ageing. While my physical decline is not imminent (touch wood), the inevitability of it can’t now be completely ignored—and that puts a further squeeze on any decision. Delayed gratification may mean no gratification. The golden future is shrinking.