by Des Hunt
we gonna fix them
then we gonna fix you
c u in 17 daze bird boy
lookin 4wd 2 it
Who knows what they would do to the dogs? I thought of guns, electric zappers and poison, but there were probably other ways. One thing I knew for sure, I couldn’t take this sort of thing every day. It was time to do something about it.
I started at a website that had lots of advice about Internet safety. There I learned that what the bikers were doing is called cyber-stalking and is illegal. The site also said that it was my responsibility to take action. The first thing was to contact their Internet service provider, which I could get from something called a header file. That proved to be a dead end: the emails were coming from different hotmail addresses and the header file had no useful information. If I wanted to go further, I would need to contact the police. That’s when I decided to tell my parents.
They were shocked. Dad got angry. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this?’ he shouted. ‘I would have sorted them out.’
‘I didn’t think you’d want to know,’ I said, meekly.
Mum stepped in before he could react to that. ‘Ben, we always want to know if you’re in trouble. That’s what parents are for.’
‘I’m contacting Dave Skeat,’ said Dad. ‘These thugs aren’t going to get away with this.’ Dave Skeat was the local policeman. He’d been to our place several times in the past when we’d had troubles with unwanted visitors.
A couple of days later Constable Skeat arrived and listened to my story. I gave him copies of all the emails and descriptions of the bikes and the bikers, as much as I’d ever seen of them.
He advised me to forward the emails to him without opening them. If the bikers came back I was to let him know immediately.
It is difficult to forward an email without opening it. And of course, when it was opened, I found it hard not to read what was in it. So, the threats continued and I kept being reminded of how many days I had to go.
When Dave Skeat got back to us, he said that the messages had been traced to an Internet café in Auckland. The owner said she had an idea who they might be and would keep an eye out for them. Dave said that it was probably best that I change my email address as that was sure to stop them. So, I changed my address and the emails stopped. But my worries didn’t go away, because I still knew when the bikers were coming and I couldn’t help but count down to the date.
I told Cole about the threats. While I knew he couldn’t do anything about them, they had become such a major part of my life that I felt he should know.
His reply came a couple of nights later.
Kia ora Ben,
Why did the archaeologist cry?
Because he lost his mummy.
Thanks for your email and new address.
It’s real bad that you are being bullied by these bikers. But you are doing the right thing – tell people and keep on telling them. When you find out who they are, let me know. I would like to have a little chat with them.
Sorry I haven’t written lately. Like you, I’ve had other things on my mind and I wanted to have something good to say. Well, now I have. The All Black team to tour Europe after Christmas was announced today and I’m in it.
The GOAL has been achieved.
Yippee and yahoo! You have no idea how great it feels. It took eighteen years, but I did it.
There was a time, a couple of months back, when I thought it would never happen. The hammering I took from the media almost made me give up. I know you have suffered the same over the Lapita thing.
Yet, maybe troubles like this can make us stronger, and more determined to be successful. It did with me eventually, and I hope it works for you. Don’t give up, and keep on writing.
Say, when is the best time to buy a cuckoo?
When it’s going cheep.
Ka kite,
Cole
While T-Boy was sitting on that second lot of eggs, I spent all my days down on the spit, either in Treetops or on the sand if it was sunny. I’d sit and read, looking up every few pages to see if everything was OK.
One afternoon I was watching Tiny-M feeding on the mud flats when I was surprised by a voice.
‘What you got there?’ It was Dad. During his good times he had taken to walking along the beach, though he had never got this far before.
I thought for a while before answering. Should I tell him? If I was ever to use the information I was gathering, sooner or later I would need his permission. Yes, I decided, this was the time to start the process.
‘It’s a red-necked phalarope,’ I said.
‘Is it?’ He studied it for a while. ‘My word, yes it is. And in its breeding plumage. You know I had one of these when I was young. It flew in early in the season looking just like that. All season I hoped that a male would come along and mate with it. Of course one never did—it was a silly hope.’
‘The male’s over there,’ I said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Sitting on the nest.’
‘You’re kidding me? You’ve got a phalarope nest?’
‘Come and have a look.’
While T-Boy was not as tame as Tiny-M, we could still get within a few metres of the nest without him getting upset. We sat in the sand and watched.
‘How many eggs has he got?’ Dad whispered.
‘Four. He’s been sitting on them for twelve days. Only six to go.’
‘Gee, Ben. If these hatch it will be really something.’
‘I know.’
‘It could lead to a new species.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s the scientific name for them?’
‘Phalaropus lobatus.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I used to know all that stuff once.’ He sat thinking for a while. ‘What do you think the new species should be called?’
I looked at him. He had a twinkle in his eyes. It was a twinkle that I remembered from a long time ago. That twinkle was Real Dad.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
‘How about Phalaropus mansfieldus?’
‘Oh no, Dad, that’s sexist. It would have to be Phalaropus personsfieldus.’
‘Or Phalaropus unsexedfieldus.’
‘I know. Phalaropus unsexedpaddockus.’
‘Phalaropus whocareswhatthesexispaddockus.’
And so we went on, getting sillier and sillier, until we agreed on a name. I still treasure that afternoon. It more than made up for the birthday schoolbag.
Chapter 19
Cyclone Alex was born from a simple thunder-storm somewhere south of Nauru. It rapidly grew into a tropical cyclone, and when it hit the islands of Vanuatu it was rated as category four out of the maximum of five. Much of the island group was devastated. It narrowly missed New Caledonia before heading south towards New Zealand.
The news was full of it. Why was one coming our way so early in the season? Why wasn’t it weakening as it reached colder waters? Again we had the meteorologists talking about La Niña, global warming, blah, blah, blah. And again, nobody seemed to know for sure.
I didn’t want explanations; I just wanted it to go somewhere else. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out that at its current rate it would hit us on the day that Tiny-M’s eggs were due to hatch.
As it moved towards us it veered to the east, giving me hope. Then it veered back again. ‘This is most unusual,’ said the weather men with smiles on their faces as if they were enjoying it all. They made me mad. Didn’t they care about the damage it could cause? Didn’t they care that two messed-up birds were about to make ornithological history?
In the hours before it was due to hit, Peg and I went to Treetops. I sat staring out the window. Already the wind was up and the waves were thundering in: they were almost washing up onto the spit, and it was still hours to the centre of the storm. I had to do something. I just couldn’t let it happen. There had to be something I could do.
Maybe I could shift the nest. Yet I knew that wouldn’t work—
T-Boy would simply abandon it. Maybe I could use the tractor and pile sand around to keep the water out. That had possibilities. Then I had my brainwave—the rocks. I could use Wiltshire’s rocks. They were brought here to build a breakwater, so that’s what I would do. I would build a breakwater on the sand.
I rushed off to the tractor shed. Halfway there, I looked around for Peg. She wasn’t with me. In my excitement I had forgotten to say ‘come’. She would still be sitting at the base of the puriri tree waiting for an instruction. I thought of going back for her, but the first drops of rain reminded me how close the storm was. I would bring her back later.
My hopes died when I saw the tractor shed. The roof had shifted some more, and was now lying on the front of the tractor. There was no way I could get it out without help. I was standing there looking at the damage when Dad came along carrying the mail. ‘What are you looking at that for?’ he asked in an aggressive way—the bacteria were back in control.
‘I want to get the tractor out.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to shift some of those rocks.’
‘What do you want to do that for?’ he snapped. ‘They’re all right where they are.’
‘I want to try and save the phalarope nest.’
He opened his mouth to say something, and then slowly closed it. I could see that the mention of the phalaropes had awakened thoughts from the past. After a while, he held up the mail and said, ‘I’ll take these to the house and tell your mother. Then I’ll be back.’
By the time he returned, I had removed the crushed exhaust pipe and was seeing if the tractor would still start. It burst into life with a roar.
‘Turn it off!’ Dad yelled. I did. He surveyed the damage. ‘The best thing will be to raise the loader so it lifts the roof. Then we might be able to back it out.’
I got into the seat, restarted it, and fiddled with the levers. I always got them confused and I pushed instead of pulling. Dad flew into a rage. ‘Get out of there!’ he screamed, pulling at my arm. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’
I got down from the seat and Dad climbed in. He pulled on the hydraulic lever and slowly the bucket came up, lifting the roof with it. ‘Get out of it!’ he yelled. ‘It’ll all come down when I back out.’
He was right. As the main part of the tractor cleared the shed, the roof crashed down, bringing the walls with it, leaving a heap of broken timber and twisted iron. It would never be any use again.
Then he insisted that we take off the calf pen. I couldn’t see why and was worried that we were wasting valuable time, but there was no arguing with him.
Five minutes later, we were ready to go. Dad pointed to the axle beside him and I climbed up, holding onto the rollbar and the back of the seat. We hadn’t done this for years. This was the way we always used to do things, Dad driving and me alongside. But this was not the cheerful father I remembered: this was an angry, sick man. His breathing was strained and his face was pink. I began to worry about him.
Shifting those rocks was a big job. It would have been difficult at any time. With the rain and wind and lightning, it was almost impossible. The state of the tractor didn’t help. Without the exhaust pipe, the poisonous fumes came out of the engine and straight into our faces. The noise was deafening.
I would hold a rock in place with a plank of wood while Dad eased the bucket under it. We could only fit one at a time. Then we would drive along the beach with the rock in the air, the bucket swaying wildly in the growing wind. That rock would be dumped and we would head back for the next.
We built the wall above the high-tide mark where the sea was beginning to spill into the hollows of the spit. The important thing was to break the waves so that they wouldn’t crash over onto the nesting area.
One by one we shifted the rocks. Twice, Dad collapsed over the steering wheel. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked after the first time. ‘Do you want to stop?’
He looked up at me. ‘Are you giving up?’ he sneered. ‘Don’t you even have the guts to finish a job once you’ve started it?’ I held my tongue and picked up the plank ready for the next rock. The second time it happened, I just waited until he was ready to go again.
There was no stopping him. We didn’t need to shift them all, but he insisted. By then I was really frightened. The waves were smashing into the tractor as we moved along the beach. I was worried that we might tip over. Every minute or so the whole place would be lit by jagged flashes of lightning, followed a moment later by the thud and rumble of thunder.
Night-time came and still we kept going, using the lights of the tractor to see. The rain was bucketing down in huge drops that pounded the body without stop. There seemed no end to it.
Four to go, four to go, four to go…I chanted to myself as we drove back down the beach.
Three to go, three to go, three to go…
Two to go, two to go…
With one to go, Dad backed the tractor away from the wall just as he had thirty-one times before. He leaned forward to change gear, when suddenly he stopped.
‘What’s that noise?’ he yelled.
I listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything except the noise of the tractor and the roar of the storm. Then another sound came through; the sound of motorbikes. Instantly, I could feel the blood thumping in my head, my stomach churned and my gut ached. There were no more days left—the bikers were back.
Straight away they began to circle the tractor, first in large circles, and then slowly getting closer.
‘Get out of here!’ Dad yelled, though I doubt they could hear.
After a while they stopped and turned their bikes towards us. ‘Now is the time, Bird Boy!’ screamed Red Honda.
‘Yeah! It’s payback time,’ added Blue.
‘Get out of here, you thugs!’ Dad yelled again. I glanced up at him. He looked terrible: his face was bright red and distorted with anger.
‘Wha’ you gunna to do abou’ it, Grandad?’ yelled Yamaha. Then he almost fell off his bike, and I realised he was drunk. I’m sure they all were. You had to be drunk—or mad—to be out in a storm like that.
In reply, Dad lowered the bucket, slammed the tractor into gear and charged at the bikes. They might have been drunk, but they still knew danger when it was coming at them. They revved the bikes and skidded out of the way in a spray of sand.
The next few minutes were madness. Dad was spinning the steering wheel back and forth trying to hit the bikers, who were back to their circling routine. Round and round they went, with the bucket on the tractor taking wild swings at them.
Then one of them was hit. It was Blue Honda. He’d come in closer to give us the fingers, but his reflexes weren’t good and the bucket touched the back of the bike. He managed to stay on for some distance before the bike swerved down the beach and skidded from under him. Dad spun the wheel, punched the throttle onto full, and aimed straight at him.
‘No, Dad!’ I yelled. But he just kept on going. I grabbed the wheel and tried to pull it to one side. He pushed me away. Now he was standing and screaming, like a warrior heading into battle. Again I tried to change direction, throwing my whole weight into it. He fought back with the strength of a madman. We were going to drive right over Blue.
Then he let out a piercing cry that shook his whole body. His feet slipped and his body slumped into the gap in front of the seat. His arms fell through the steering wheel, locking it in place. For a moment his head swung around before dropping back with a thump onto the seat.
The tractor was out of control now, headed at Blue. What could I do to stop it? Dad’s body blocked me from getting at the pedals, the wheel wouldn’t turn, and the throttle was jammed. What could I do? The ignition—that was it. I squeezed my arm past his body, feeling for the key. It seemed to take ages before I felt the right shape. At first I tried to turn it the wrong way. Finally, when I got it right, the key turned and came out of the socket. The ignition was off.
But nothing happened to the tractor—it kept powering fo
rward.
Blue was having trouble getting to his feet. He stopped and stared straight at me. Through the visor I could see his eyes shining with fear. Then the engine coughed once…and again. The tractor slowed. It was enough to give Blue some hope. He scrambled backwards with his eyes fixed on the bucket. After a final backfire, the motor stopped, and Blue was safe—the blade of the bucket millimetres from his face.
For a moment, everything seemed quiet. For the first time in many hours the raucous bark of the tractor had ceased.
Blue got to his feet and stood, staggering and staring. For a moment I thought he was hurt until I saw him laughing, and realised it was the alcohol. Eventually, he lifted the bike and managed to climb back on. He kicked it into life and roared off towards the other two. They faced us for a while, before turning and weaving their way down the beach, into the darkness.
I turned to Dad and touched his face. It was cold and now drained of all colour. He lifted his head and turned towards me, stretching out an arm for support. His face twisted with pain. He stared at me with frightened eyes. ‘Help me, Ben,’ he cried. ‘Help me.’ Then he collapsed again.
My first thought was to somehow get myself into the driver’s seat and hold on to him while I drove. I soon realised that that would be impossible. For a brief moment, I even considered bundling him into the bucket and taking him home that way. If we’d still had the calf pen on the back it would have been easy.
Eventually, I realised that I had to get him off the tractor, and then off the beach. The best place would be Treetops, but I could never get him up there without his help.
Getting him off the tractor was easy. When I unthreaded his arms from the steering wheel he fell, landing with a thud on his side. Getting him off the beach was more difficult. He was about double my weight. I hooked my hands under his shoulders and hauled him along with his legs dragging in the sand and water. Every few metres I stopped to catch my breath.