by J. E. Fison
So pirates are responsible for the dead sharks. This whole thing has nothing to do with me.
I'm in the clear.
‘We have to stop them killing grey nurse sharks!’ I say. I'm not sure where the words have come from.
We gather around our new slogan like we're preparing for battle. Animal warriors – one and all. We're very brave now that Killer and the pirates are disappearing out to sea. Ben waves his sword at them.
‘When we catch them, we'll grind their bones!’ he shouts.
That's good fighting talk. But I have a better idea.
‘I think I know where the pirates’ hideout is. I've seen Killer hidden in the mangroves in Stingray Creek,’ I say. ‘Let's go there.’
‘Yeah!’ Lachlan says. It's possibly the only time in his life Lachlan has agreed with me. Perhaps on this occasion it would have been safer for everyone if he'd disagreed.
I keep a watchful eye behind us as we make our way over the choppy sea towards Ribbon Beach. There's no sign of the pirates. For now, they're hunting sharks and not children. The sun is hot and I'm hungry. The one packet of biscuits that I managed to smuggle out of the house this morning is empty.
When we eventually reach Ribbon Beach I'm all out of energy. My little brother is whining. He's thirsty. But we're not far away now. We pull the dinghy up the beach, scramble over the sand dunes and head into the mangroves to Stingray Creek. There is no sign of Killer, but I can see a small house.
‘There it is!’ I call, pointing into the mangroves. ‘Over there.’
‘The pirates’ hideout!’ Ben says.
The shabby little shack is just back from the creek. There's fishing gear all over the place. Crab pots are piled up high. There are nets and fishing rods and a big stack of white foam boxes for storing seafood. An expensive looking four-wheel drive car is parked behind the shack. It looks out of place amongst the rubble.
Everything is quiet. We peek in through the open back door and then creep inside. The hut is almost empty except for a small table, a fridge and a huge freezer. Lachlan flicks through a pile of magazines on the table. But I can't take my eyes off the fridge.
I'm hot, I'm thirsty and I know I'm not supposed to steal, but I think I'm just about to. The fridge is pulling me closer. I watch my hand as it reaches out and opens the door. I can't seem to stop it. The cold air refreshes me and the sight of a whole shelf full of soft drinks is the most beautiful thing I've seen in a long time. I grab one, snap the top open and pour the soft drink down my throat.
The wonderful fizzing sound brings the others running to grab their fair share. I'm a bit embarrassed to say that there's a frenzy of grabbing, slurping and burping until there is not one can of soft drink left in the fridge. Even Mimi manages a few good loud burps after it's all over. The only thing we leave for the pirates is the beer. Well, Ben did take just one can of beer because he thought it was Coke. He can't read very well yet. He spat the beer out and threw the can out the window with the others.
‘BURPPP.’
Lachlan ends the soft drink fountain with a noise that's loud enough to shake the windows of the shack.
‘Maybe there are some iceblocks in the freezer,’ I say hopefully.
If the pirates like soft drink, they are bound to like iceblocks as well. There may even be a chocolate cake in the pantry. Maybe we haven't broken into a pirates’ hideout. Perhaps just a nice group of dads is planning a children's party.
I open the freezer. Another blast of cold air cools my face. But I am disappointed by what's inside. There are no iceblocks, there are no sausage rolls, there are no mini pizzas or any party food at all. There are loads and loads of fish. And you guessed it – shark fins.
‘Look at how many fins are in here!’ Mimi says, peering over my shoulder. ‘We have to tell someone.’
The shark fins remind us of the real purpose of our mission. We're here to find out what the pirates are up to. Now we know. And now we must go. There is a rumbling engine sound in the creek outside the hut. Killer and the pirates have returned.
‘Run for your lives!’ Lachlan calls in an urgent whisper.
He takes a quick peek through the front window and then sprints out the back door. We all follow. We don't stop running until we reach Hazard River.
‘Illegal fishermen is what we call them,’ the water policeman says. ‘But you can call them pirates if you like. They have certainly been stealing things that don't belong to them.’
The policeman is paying Ben and me a visit to ‘wrap up’ his investigation into the pirates (I mean illegal fishermen) we discovered.
‘The men have all been taken away and their boat has been locked up,’ he continues.
‘You should have seen what we found at that shack on Stingray Creek. There were undersized fish and crabs and a pile of shark fins that most likely came from the grey nurse population at Flat Rock. All destined for the Asian market,’ he says.
‘They won't be fishing again for a very long time. Perhaps they'll never fish again.’
It's been three days since our mission to Flat Rock. Three days since we lurched home, covered in sweat, sand and, in Ben's case, quite a lot of beer. The first thing Dad did when he heard the story was call the police. I'll tell you about the second thing he did later.
The police were straight on to it. They interviewed me, Ben (even though he's not a very reliable witness), Lachlan and Mimi. We told them everything we'd done that day. Ben even told them about drinking every can of soft drink in the pirates’ fridge. We could have been thrown in jail ourselves for that. But the police were in too much of a hurry. They sped off in their boat in hot pursuit of the bad guys. Then there were stakeouts. There were secret boat trips to Flat Rock and lots of other sneaky police-type work until the pirates were caught.
The whole story was in the newspaper. We got a mention as the children who ‘alerted police to the illegal fishermen's activities’. There was even a photo. As usual Ben did bunny ears behind my head when the photographer took the picture. I appeared on the front page of the Hazard River Daily looking completely stupid.
Mum said no one would even notice Ben's fingers poking out of the back of my head. Readers would just see three very brave boys and a courageous girl with big beautiful smiles. But I could see the fingers. I looked like a rabbit.
I mentioned that Dad's first reaction to our Flat Rock mission was to call the police. The second thing Dad did was give us a long and very cross telling off. Unfortunately I let out the most enormous burp, just as he began. Call it an act of nature if you like. I couldn't hold it in after five cans of lemonade in three minutes. But Dad called it an act of terrible rudeness. More evidence of my disobedience. It definitely didn't help my case.
‘You foolish, reckless, irresponsible nitwits,’ is the way my father described us. ‘You could have drowned crossing the bar. You could have been lost at sea. You could have been stranded on the island. No one would have found you out there.’
‘We could have been cut to pieces by pirates or made to walk the plank,’ Ben added.
‘But we weren't,’ I said, interrupting Ben before he gave Dad another reason to punish us.
Why do parents always look on the bad side? They come up with all the things that could happen. Take a look at the facts why don't you? We're alive. I know a lot more about grey nurse sharks than I did before. I also know there's no point building a roller coaster at a marine park. No one would ever visit. And we discovered a pirates’ hideout. But Dad didn't see it that way. He banned us from seeing our friends for the rest of our lives, or until we're twenty-five. Whichever comes first.
The policeman finishes his work, gives me a pat on the head and gives Ben a playful punch on the arm.
‘Seeya, fellas,’ he says. ‘No more beer drinking, you hear.’
He laughs and heads for his boat. Then he's gone.
I look at Ben. It's time to get back to the washing up. Dad has decided to reduce our punishment, from a lifetime of solit
ary confinement, to a weekend of chores. Ben sinks his arms into the murky dishwashing water. He pulls out a grimy plate. There are still red splotches of sauce on one side. Yuk. I dry the plate off (avoiding the red sauce). I put it away. Tomorrow we'll be spending the day weeding the garden, washing the car and vacuuming the house. Chores are the worst.
Have I learned my lesson? Yes. I certainly have.
The next time I decide to help save the world, I'll make sure I don't get caught.