by Des Hunt
I had turned to check my direction when the wave hit. The boat lifted for a moment before rolling and dumping me onto a rock. I sensed the dinghy passing over me, before it crashed into the rocks beside me. Then the second wave came, submerging me for a while. When I surfaced, the dinghy had gone. I looked up and saw it floating along with the wave. It was already well on the way back to the estuary.
Somehow I scrambled to the little beach and collapsed onto the sand. All of one side ached where I had hit the rock, yet there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage. I lay on the sand with my eyes closed, thinking about my situation. I was alive and safe, but I was also marooned. The only thing was to wait to be rescued. Sooner or later something would happen when Mum found she couldn’t make contact with me.
It was surprisingly pleasant lying on the beach, letting the sun dry my clothes. I must have dozed off, for I was woken by something moist touching my face. I lifted my hand to wipe it away and felt a hairy snout, like that of a pig. I quickly pulled back my hand and rolled to get away from the thing. Then I opened my eyes and saw that it wasn’t a pig at all. It was Peg, looking at me with a stupid grin, her tail wagging madly. I opened my arms and she jumped into them. I rolled back and forth cuddling her, and laughing and crying with joy. ‘You’re alive!’ I cried. ‘Oh, Peg, I thought you were dead. But you’re alive. You’re alive!’
I will always remember that moment, and not just for the images. I’ll remember the feel of her nose against my face, the warmth of her licking, and the smell of her breath. Oh, I’ll definitely remember that smell: it was one of the foulest you could ever get. Later, I found she’d been eating the remains of a dead possum. The thing was so rotten that even the flies had abandoned it. Yet it had probably helped to keep her alive and I was thankful for that—no matter how much she stank.
We spent the rest of the morning playing games, lying on the sand and just enjoying each other’s company. The sun was high in the sky when we heard the helicopter approach. Soon we could see it over the tops of the trees. It was not Wiltshire’s. This was a bigger, yellow one with lettering on the side. As it got closer I saw the words TV NEWS.
The helicopter swooped down over the estuary, heading straight towards us. I stood waving my arms and yelling. ‘Help! Help!’ Peg got the message and joined in with her loud, deep bark. The chopper banked when it got to the island, and I saw that the door was open with a TV camera directed at us. Beside the cameraman was the famous Tim Bourke, the man who had interviewed me about the Lapita hoax. My stomach did a few turns when I saw him. He stirred memories that I had hoped to bury.
After doing a couple of circles of the island, the pilot carefully lowered the machine onto the tiny beach. Tim signalled us to get on board, and soon we were in the air moving towards the spit.
We landed on the beach not far from Treetops. The cameraman jumped out and the pilot took the chopper up a bit to repeat the landing so it could be filmed. The camera was still rolling as Tim, Peg and I stepped onto the sand and away from the rotor.
When the motor had stopped, I found Tim beside me with a microphone. ‘How did you get into that predicament, Ben?’
I wasn’t sure what to do. The only time I’d been anywhere near TV NEWS it had been a disaster. What was he going to do this time? Pick on me some more? Have another go at the kid who lied? Yet, this could also be my moment. It was an opportunity to talk about the bay and its birds. Maybe the publicity would make a difference.
‘Could you stop filming and turn the microphone off, please?’ I asked in my best mature voice.
He gave me a surprised look, before switching off the mike and signalling the cameraman to stop.
‘Thank you for rescuing us,’ I said. ‘But why did you come here?’
‘We want to do a follow-up story on the storm. Some human-interest stuff. That sort of thing. I hear that you saved some people. We’d like to tell that story.’
I thought for a long time before answering. ‘Yeah, OK. But I tell it my way. I’ll tell you what happened and you can record it. I don’t want you interviewing me and putting words into my mouth, like last time.’
Tim spread his arms as if submitting. ‘Whatever you want. So long as I get a story.’
So we began. I started by saying how important the spit was as a breeding place for birds and why it was important they were protected. I talked about the phalaropes and how Tiny-M had arrived and I’d helped her. Then I led them to the estuary where Tiny-M was feeding in the water. What a show-off she turned out to be. As soon as the camera turned to her, she started her funny feeding routine: swimming gracefully for a while and then tearing around in circles with her head in the water. Tim Bourke couldn’t get enough of it.
Next I took them to Treetops. As soon as I opened the door, I got greeted by one very angry bird. It was Bigmouth. She’d been locked in all the time since we had taken Dad out. She too did a performance, bobbing up and down, calling and generally moaning about things. Again it was all recorded. When she saw I had no food, she gave a final indignant tseeoo and flew out the door heading into the bushes.
From the lookout I explained why we had formed the barrier and what it had been like. I just said that Dad had been ill for some time without going into details, and I didn’t mention the bikers at all.
When I got to the night in Treetops, I closed my eyes, listened to the sea, and told the story as I could still see it. The men remained silent throughout. It was an emotional time for me, and I think they felt it too. When I’d finished I opened my eyes and stood gazing blankly over the spit.
After a time, Tim asked, ‘So where did Darryl fit into all of this?’
‘Who?’
‘Darryl Whitaker. The boy you rescued.’
‘Oh, him,’ I said. ‘I didn’t find him until the afternoon, when I was looking for Peg. I found him on the sandbank there.’ I pointed to the sandbank and the camera dutifully turned and zoomed in on what was left of the rubbish.
‘I visited him in hospital,’ said Tim. ‘He’s a good rugby player. One of the most promising in the schools’ competition. But he won’t be playing for a while after what happened here.’
I waited for him to continue, wondering what story Yamaha had told.
‘He said he’d been out with a couple of mates riding in the bush when they got separated. He was trying to get back when he misjudged crossing a stream and crashed his bike. Next thing he knew he was waking up in hospital.’
Yeah, I thought, and with a hangover I bet. Yet I was pleased that Yamaha had not mentioned the encounter on the beach—nobody could be proud of what had happened there.
The silence that followed was broken by the cameraman. ‘Can you point out where the nest was?’
‘Yeah, there,’ I said, pointing. ‘Just to the left of the driftwood that looks like a cat.’
He panned the camera for a while before focussing on one spot. ‘OK, I’ve got it now. The one with the broken eggs.’
‘I didn’t know they were broken.’
‘What I’m seeing,’ said the cameraman, ‘is eight empty half-shells.’
My heart skipped a beat. ‘What?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Can I have a look?’
‘Sure.’ He flipped out a LCD screen. ‘Have a look here.’ He was right: there were four half-shells in the nest and another four nearby in the sand. The ones in the nest had tipped so that the round side was up, giving the impression that they were buried.
‘They hatched,’ I whispered to myself. ‘They hatched.’ Then I started yelling it: ‘They hatched! The chicks hatched!’ I danced around hardly able to control myself.
‘So where are they?’ asked Tim.
In answer, Bigmouth flew into Treetops to sit on the window sill and look at us. I knew that look: it was the one she had whenever she’d found something. For a while she looked at me sideways, as if trying to decide whether she should tell me or not. Then with a little bob and a loud tweet, she did a loop outside before returning to the sill. Nex
t, just in case I hadn’t got the message, she went into her full come-and-look-at-what-I’ve-found routine.
‘What’s she doing that for?’ asked Tim.
‘Answering your question,’ I said with a big grin. ‘You want to find the chicks, then follow that bird.’
What a procession we made. Four humans and one ancient dog following a crazy bird that kept twittering and dancing from one bush to the next. Me in the front, Peg right behind, followed by Tim and the pilot. The cameraman was prancing around us trying to capture it all on tape.
Near the edge of the scrub, close to the estuary, was a sunny glade surrounded by manuka. Bigmouth flew into the glade, did a circle, and then perched on a nearby branch. Below her was T-Boy squatting in the grass. Bigmouth gave a tseeoo, tseeoo, and out from under T-Boy’s feathers popped four tiny, hairy heads.
I knelt in the grass and watched, scarcely able to control my emotions. Oh, how I had hoped for this moment. I don’t know what the others were experiencing, but to me it was like the start of a new beginning. All the things that had happened over the past few months no longer seemed to matter. This was what it had all been about.
After a while, one of the chicks, braver than the others, came out from the safety of its father’s feathers and moved towards me. It was so tiny that it had trouble pushing through the blades of grass. When it was almost at my knees, it stopped, looked straight up at me and went peep.
‘Hello to you, too,’ I whispered. ‘Welcome to Mansfield Bay. I hope your stay here will be a long and happy one.’
Chapter 22
Again I watched the news by myself. The previous night I’d been in the depths of despair—now, I was over the moon. It was my big moment. Soon the whole world would find out about the special birds of Mansfield Bay. I sat on the edge of the sofa, shaking with excitement.
The story began with a view of our bay filmed from the helicopter—it looked incredible. Tim’s voice was in the background. ‘This is Mansfield Bay in the Coromandel. Just a few short weeks ago this was the scene of an archaeological hoax unprecedented in New Zealand history.’ The image changed to show Professor Waghorn with the two pieces of Lapita pottery. I had prepared myself for this, yet the picture of Waghorn still upset me.
But the professor soon disappeared, and Tim continued. ‘Today, I revisited the bay, and I now understand why someone would go to extreme lengths to try to preserve this place.’ The scene changed to a shot from Treetops, showing the rock wall. ‘At the height of Tuesday’s storm, a boy and his father fought for hours to stop the sea from flooding the birdnesting area here on the sand spit. It almost cost the man his life. He was only saved by the resourcefulness of his son, and the bravery of an old dog called Peg.’ We were then shown a video clip of Peg. She smiled and wagged her tail, as she always does.
‘And why did they do it?’ asked Tim. ‘It was to save this little fellow.’ The screen filled with a close-up of the chick. The cameraman must have filmed it from over my shoulder. ‘It is a phalarope chick—one of four which are now the rarest birds on earth.’
The photo was a masterpiece. Nobody could look at it without feeling affection for the cheeky little thing. I knew then that this photo would become the image that people would have of Mansfield Bay. The Lapita would be forgotten. This little fellow tugged at the emotions: he would be the saving of the bay and its wildlife.
Most of the rest of the news passed in a blur. I know they covered the story of Tiny-M and T-Boy. They also had footage from the arctic wastelands. I saw the pictures and yet took little in. My feeling of relief blocked out almost everything.
Later, when I watched it again on video, I discovered there was an interview with an unhappy-looking Bill Wiltshire. He kept on saying that, yes, the plans may have to change, but it was too early to say anything definite one way or the other. Then came a spokesperson for the Society for the Protection of Coastal Birds. She said that the development had to be stopped, no matter what. ‘We’ll oppose it with every means we have. We’ll make sure it’s tied up in the courts for ever.’
Finally there was the panel of experts who explained how, why and when the chicks would become a new species. They’d even agreed on a possible scientific name: Phalaropus mansfieldus was their choice. At that I burst out laughing and couldn’t stop.
Peg looked up at me as if I was weird.
‘That’s not what Dad and I’d decided to call it,’ I told her.
Still she looked at me.
‘Do you want to know what we’re going to call it?’ Peg cocked her head to one side. ‘We’re going to call it Phalaropus tittytowers,’ I announced, laughing. ‘What do you think of that for a name?’
I never got her answer, because at that moment Mum rang. Towards the end of the following long conversation, I told her the new species’ name.
‘Over my dead body,’ she said, with a chuckle. ‘You call it that and I will personally kill every one of those chicks, so you’d better start thinking of another name.’
I didn’t need to. Mum and the scientists could use whatever name they liked. I knew what I would always call them, and I hoped Dad would do so too.
The next day—ten days before Christmas—I was taken to Auckland in Wiltshire’s helicopter. I was surprised he was still prepared to help us. I expected him to be peeved about the TV story (to put it politely), because now he would miss out on his ten million dollars.
I thought about these things during that helicopter ride. Bill Wiltshire’s loss also meant our loss, of course. We, too, would miss out on millions of dollars. How would my parents react to that? Mum had not said anything during our phone conversations, yet I doubted she was feeling good about it. While that was a concern, I was more worried about what would happen when I met Dad. I had promised not to interfere. Not only had I interfered, I had interfered and won. I had stopped the development. In his current state of mind that could trigger all sorts of reactions.
We landed at the downtown helipad where Wiltshire’s limo waited for me. He sure was laying on the treatment. Mum was staying at a hotel near the hospital. I hadn’t recognised the name, but when the limo drove up to the front, I realised it was one of the poshest in the city. By then I should have been suspicious. This hotel was well outside our price range, even with Wiltshire’s one hundred grand.
A bellboy rushed out and took my bag. The lift was a glass bubble that went up the side of the building, giving magnificent views of the harbour and its islands. We rose right to the top—Mum’s room was the penthouse. The bellboy knocked on the door and we waited silently. The door opened and a woman peered around at us. It was Lucy Petersen. My heart started doing flips inside my chest. If Lucy was here, then so too might be Sarah-Lee. I was not prepared for any of this.
‘Hi, Ben,’ said Lucy, giving me a big hug. ‘Hazel’s getting changed at the moment. I guess you’d better come in.’
We moved through into a lounge area. The place was more than a hotel room, it was like a house. Sarah-Lee was standing with her back to me, looking out the window. She turned as I entered and smiled. ‘Hi, Ben. You look surprised to see me.’
I sure was. ‘Yes,’ I managed to blurt out.
‘You shouldn’t be. I’ve sent three emails saying I was coming and two since I arrived. You haven’t been reading your emails, have you?’ She tried to make out she was annoyed with me, but I could see that she was as thrilled as I was starting to feel. We stood for a moment staring at each other.
Just then Mum poked her head around a door. ‘Lucy, come and have a look at this,’ she called. ‘Hi, Ben,’ she added as an afterthought.
Now Sarah-Lee and I were by ourselves. I moved to the window and made out I was admiring the view.
‘Don’t I deserve a hug?’ asked Sarah-Lee, moving alongside me. ‘You’re not still mad at me?’
‘No!’ I said turning.
‘Then cuddle me.’
I did. At first it started out as one of those welcoming hugs. Then our cheeks
touched and things started changing. I pressed my hands into her back and pulled her tight against me.
‘Mmmm. That feels nice,’ she said, pressing back. It did feel nice too—nice and a bit strange. Things were happening inside me that I wasn’t too sure about.
‘Ah, it’s good to see you two are getting to know each other again.’ That was Lucy. Both her and Mum had stupid, knowing grins on their faces. As we separated, I could feel the blood surging into my face. I must have been glowing as red as a brake light.
‘It’s good that you get on so well,’ said Mum. ‘Sarah-Lee is coming to stay with us for a couple of months while Lucy and Steve do some work at Te Papa. They’ll be joining us for Christmas.’
I looked at Sarah-Lee: as they say in the novels, she looked radiant. Again my body started doing funny things. We’d only been back together for five minutes and already I knew that things had changed between us. What was it going to be like after a couple of months?
Mum and I walked the short distance to the hospital. My mind was a mix of emotions. I wanted to keep thinking about Sarah-Lee, but thoughts of Dad kept butting in. What would his reaction be when we met? Would he be Real Dad or Bacteria Dad? Oh, how I hoped it would be the first.
Mum interrupted my thoughts by handing me an envelope. ‘Here, a nurse delivered it to your dad’s room. It’s from Darryl Whitaker. I went and saw him, and he says he wants to meet you.’
The name shocked me. I had forgotten he was in the same hospital. I opened the letter, wondering what he wanted to say. The letter was handwritten, and in much better English than any of the emails. It made me wonder if the bad grammar of the emails had been like the helmets—another way of the bikers not revealing their true selves.