by Des Hunt
Chapter 10
On Friday after school, I got off the bus at Afi’s stop and lugged my two bags the short distance to the Moores’ house. It was a smart wooden building not far from the town centre. While the grounds were not big, they were beautifully groomed with multi-coloured flower-beds.
Afi’s mum was a big woman, wide and tall. She was wearing a full-length colourful dress with her hair tied up in a bun. As soon as Afi introduced me, she took me in a big hug. I could feel my ribs almost cracking. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel embarrassed about being hugged. When I called her Mrs Moore, she said that I should call her Tiresa.
Matt Moore’s welcome was just as friendly, except we shook hands instead of hugging. My hand almost disappeared inside his big mitt. Although he was quite short, I got the feeling that he was very strong. I knew he was a truck mechanic, so I guess he had to be pretty tough.
After Afi and I had changed out of our school clothes, we threw our bags in the back of an aging twin-cab ute and were ready to go.
At first we followed the road that the bus took every morning, through Tuakau and across the Waikato River. Then, instead of taking the school turn-off, we continued alongside the river heading towards the coast.
Twenty minutes later, we reached the first part of Port Waikato. By then the river must have been at least half a kilometre across. There was a wharf, a couple of sheds, a small shop and a petrol pump. After the wharf, we skirted an estuary, passing a fire station, a camping ground and fifty or so houses, before reaching the ocean beach. And there, guarding the path down to the sand was a large Norfolk pine.
My heart missed a couple of beats when I saw the pine. It was almost as though it was the tree at the other end of the golden pathway Dean and I had seen in Wollongong. I realized then that Norfolk pines would always be a symbol of my friendship with Dean. Maybe, sometime in the future, I would appreciate the memories, but at that time they still hurt.
Instead of going down to the beach we turned right, onto a street called Ocean View Road. This didn’t yield any ocean views, although some of the houses on top of the sand hills might have got a peek at the sea. The view we got through the windscreen of the ute was of a whole lot of wasteland with the river in the distance. A couple of more turns and we had reached our destination.
The contrast between the Moores’ bach and their house in Pukekohe was surprising. Here the section was overgrown with weeds; the caravans were covered with lichen; the iron garage was rusting.
Matt must have seen my surprise, because he said, ‘We come here to relax, Pete, not work.’
‘But it does need some attention,’ said Tiresa.
Matt nodded. ‘Maybe next summer.’ Then he chuckled. ‘But we don’t want to smarten it up too much or it will look out of place.’
I could see his point. The surrounding sections weren’t much different. While most of them contained small houses, they were equally in need of some work. I gathered that fishing was considered a much more important activity at Port Waikato than home maintenance.
Afi and I had our beds in one caravan; his parents, in the other. The garage had a bathroom, kitchen and lounge. There was also a shed behind the garage which Afi said contained the fishing gear.
While I helped Tiresa empty the food from the back of the ute, Matt and Afi replaced it with fishing gear. Apparently us males were about to go flounder fishing.
The flounder lived in the river and could be caught in nets at the estuary also known as Maraetai Bay. Matt drove the ute past a whole lot of signs and right down onto the sand, stopping just short of where the mud began. Footprints leading towards the water showed that the mud was quite deep in places. And yet at least one vehicle had driven through it, for there were wide tyre tracks leading away from the shore.
Matt looked at them grimly. ‘Some mongrels have set a net, I bet,’ he said.
I looked at him questioningly. Aren’t we going to do the same?
‘It’s illegal to set nets anywhere along this coastline,’ he explained. ‘Little Maui dolphins live in these waters. There are only about a hundred left. If they get caught in nets, they drown. I’ve never seen them in here, but it’s not worth taking the risk for a few fish which you can catch just as well by dragging.’
That was what we were going to do. After putting on wetsuits and removing our shoes, we were ready.
There were several types of birds feeding on the mud flats we had to wade through to get to the water. I recognized oystercatchers and stilts from back home. There were also a couple of ducks. One was black, the other brown with a white head. They moved apart as we got closer, but kept in touch by calling to each other. A deep quonk, quonk! from the black one alternating with a squeaky queek, queek! from the other. Despite the noise, they let us get quite close.
‘Paradise ducks,’ said Afi. ‘The female has the white head.’
‘“Paries” to a duck hunter,’ added Matt. ‘That pair have been here so long they’re almost local pets.’
Just short of the water, Matt dumped the net on the mud. ‘OK, let’s see what’s out there.’
The net was about 30 metres long, with lead weights along one edge and plastic floats the other. Poles were tied to the ends so that it could be hauled through the water.
‘We’ll keep away from that set net,’ said Matt, pointing to a couple of buoys some distance out in the water. ‘We’ll head the other way.’
We entered the water, with Afi and me dragging on one pole and Matt on the other. By the time we were knee-deep I’d got used to the coldness, but not to the slippery bottom. Fortunately, as the water got deeper we moved onto sand.
While we weren’t far enough out to be affected by the flow of the water, we had to drag the weights along the bottom, and that took a lot of effort. Afi, being so much taller, found it much easier than I did.
We were going along fine when suddenly my feet were knocked out from under me. I ended flat on my face in the water.
‘What was that?’ I yelled, splashing wildly to get back to the pole.
‘What?’ asked Afi.
‘Something hit my legs.’
‘Probably a shark, or a Maui dolphin.’
‘Shark?’ I squealed, gripping the pole harder.
‘Maybe not,’ he said with the hint of a smile.
‘C’mon you two,’ yelled Matt. ‘You’re getting behind.’ I noticed he was smiling, too.
I started pulling again. We’d gone another few metres when it happened again. This time I realized it was Afi’s foot. Without saying anything, I got up and resumed hauling. When it happened yet again, I let myself go right under the water and stayed there until I’d located Afi’s legs. I then pulled them sideways, bringing him down with a mighty splash.
We surfaced at the same time.
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘That was a big one.’
‘Hey!’ yelled Matt. ‘Quit fooling around. You’re scaring the fish.’
Afi gave me one of his big smiles. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’ll think you’re a baby white shark.’
‘Better than being a killer whale,’ I replied.
He gave me a friendly punch on the arm, before grabbing the pole and continuing with the job.
Pulling the net ashore was exciting. I had to run across the mouth of the net, splashing the water so that the flounder didn’t escape. As it got into ankle-deep water I saw that parts of the net were moving. We’d caught something.
There were seven of them, but three had to go back because they were too small. I didn’t mind. This was my first experience with shore fishing and I liked it.
‘Four’s plenty,’ said Matt as we rolled up the net. ‘One for each of us. You don’t want to catch more than you can eat.’ He looked over to the buoys of the set net. ‘Not like some mongrels who will catch anything.’ He paused. ‘I wonder if there are any names on those floats. I’d like to know who they are. Let’s go and take a look.’
There were no names, so Matt decided we should h
aul the net ashore.
When it was out, we walked along it looking for fish. There were none. But there were two birds: shags which had been diving and had probably followed sprats into the net. The little fish could swim through, but not the shags. They were long dead.
After we’d untangled them, we stood looking down at them.
‘They could have been dolphins,’ said Matt, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Who do you think it belongs to?’ asked Afi.
Matt took his time answering. ‘Who knows? It could be some visitor from the city. But if it’s someone from around here, then more than likely it’ll be the Redferns. They’re just the sort of mongrels to do something like this.’
At the name I looked sharply at Afi. ‘Redfern?’ I said. ‘Isn’t that the name of that cleaner at school?’
Afi nodded.
‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘The wife does work as a cleaner, although I didn’t know she was at your school. June Redfern is all right. So is her daughter. It’s the husband and son who are the problem. Criminals, both of them. Carl Redfern spends more time in prison than he does out. The son, Harry, is still a teenager but he’s already covered with prison tats.’
Nothing more was said, but it sure had me thinking as we carried both nets back to the ute. If it really was the same Mrs Redfern, then maybe the man we’d seen with her had been her husband. His criminal background would fit in with our stolen-cigarettes theory.
When we reached the ute, we loaded our net and dumped the other on the grass, along with the floats and anchors.
‘It’ll be interesting to see if it gets picked up,’ said Matt. ‘We might drive past the Redferns’ tomorrow and see if we can spot it.’
‘What if you do?’ asked Afi.
Matt thought for a time. ‘Nothing, I guess. We’ve already sent a message by pulling it out of the water. Maybe that’s enough to make a difference.’
‘What about going to the police?’ I asked.
‘No!’ he said quickly. ‘It’s best we sort it out our way. The last thing I want is to get offside with the Redferns. Do that and our bach will be burnt to the ground.’
Chapter 11
The main beach at Port Waikato is called Sunset Beach. The access way next to the Norfolk pine is four-wheel-drive only. For other vehicles there’s a car park in front of the surf-lifesaving club which provides good views of the spectacular sunsets that give the beach its name.
It was sunrise, not sunset, when I saw the beach for the first time. I was impressed. To the south, the beach curved around under cliffs until the sand disappeared at a rocky headland. The northern part was black sand all the way to the mouth of the river, several kilometres away. Sand hills separated it from the wasteland I’d seen the previous day.
Directly in front of the access track was the surfing area. Even though it was almost the shortest day, five surfers were lying on their boards waiting for a decent wave to come in. As we drove past, one caught a medium swell and stayed with it for half a minute or so. I felt jealous: Dean and I could handle those sorts of waves. Then the feeling quickly turned to sadness when I remembered that he and I would not be surfing together again.
Matt drove the ute along the sand until we were about halfway to the river. This was where we would go kontiki fishing. An electric torpedo would drag our hooks out to sea, catch some fish and then we’d winch it back in.
With all the hooks baited, we leant against the back of the ute and watched the torpedo heading towards the horizon. It had a small red flag, but that soon became nothing more than a dot.
Twenty minutes later the torpedo stopped pulling, and then it was just a matter of waiting. While Matt settled back for a smoke, Afi and I headed for the sand hills, where we could hear the engine of some vehicle moving around the dunes.
At the top of the first hill we got a 360-degree view of the whole area. Not far to the north was the mouth of the river. From there, the river curved back in a sweeping bend which ended at Maraetai Bay. Between there and us was a desolate wasteland. About half of it was bare dunes, with the rest covered in weeds and lupins. All of it was criss-crossed with sandy tracks just wide enough to take a quad bike.
The noise we’d heard was caused by a strange vehicle that looked more like a stock-car racer than something you’d see at the beach. It was screaming around the dunes, spraying sand as it drifted from one hill to the next.
‘Beach buggy,’ said Afi. ‘They’re not meant to be in here.’
‘Must be fun, though,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Usually we just see quads and trail bikes. That thing’s much more powerful.’
‘Sounds like a V8,’ I said, thinking that was a good thing to say.
Afi looked at me. ‘Doubt it! A V8 engine would be much too heavy. Even those fat tyres couldn’t support a V8. More likely it’s a V6. Probably a VR Holden, the one with the dual cam and the alloytec block.’ He paused before adding, ‘What do you think?’
I stood there stunned. ‘Um …’ was all I managed to say.
Afi burst out laughing. ‘That shut you up, didn’t it?’
I gave a sheepish smile.
He laughed a bit more. ‘I don’t know anything about motors either. But if you use enough technical words you can fool most people.’ He looked to where the beach buggy had moved into the lupins. ‘Dad knows about vehicles. He’d be able to tell you more about that than the person driving it.’
We watched in silence for a while as the vehicle roared through the weeds, leaving a track where none had existed before. All the time it was getting closer to us. I could now see that the motor had no cover except a protective shield at the front. The cab was basically two roll bars joined with a sheet of metal. Sitting between the rear wheels was a large, covered wooden box.
It seemed a strange place to have a box. I figured they used it like the tray of a ute. The lid was in two parts, rather like a coffin where one part can be lifted to show the face of the deceased.
‘Maybe it’s the local undertaker,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Afi. ‘Maybe that’s why the driver’s dressed in black.’
He was, too. Black T-shirt and black jeans. But his hairstyle could never be that of an undertaker: the bleached hair was shorn at the front but grew down to the shoulders at the back. Nor would an undertaker have the tattoos covering both arms. While we were too far away to see clearly, I got the impression they were homemade tats, and that got me thinking.
‘Is that Harry Redfern?’ I asked.
Afi nodded slowly. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to ask Dad.’
Matt had started winching in the line when we arrived back at the ute.
‘I like this sort of fishing better than fishing from a boat,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to do any work and you don’t get seasick.’
‘Boats are OK,’ said Matt, ‘but not along this coastline. It’s too dangerous getting them in and out. Around here you’ve either got to go over the bar or do it off the beach down by the rocks over there.’ He pointed across to the cliffs at the other end of the beach where a tractor was towing a boat on a trailer.
‘It’s all right at the moment,’ Matt continued, ‘but it’s dangerous if the swell’s much bigger.’
I looked out to sea. There were several boats dotted across the water. Further north I could see a sail.
‘That’s quite a big yacht,’ said Matt. ‘I was following it with the binoculars earlier. It looks like it’s sailing down the coast. Could be from overseas.’
After that we stood around watching the line wind in. At times something seemed to pulling on the line and I suggested that maybe we had some fish. Matt just laughed, saying that it was the sinkers dragging on the seabed.
All the time the noise of the beach buggy was getting louder as it moved closer. It sounded like it was now over the first line of dunes.
‘Did you find out what’s causing that noise?’ asked Matt.
‘A beach buggy,’ replied Afi
.
Matt shook his head in annoyance. ‘They shouldn’t do that around there. If they destroy the vegetation, then everything will go.’
‘We think it might be Harry Redfern,’ I said.
‘That would figure,’ said Matt. ‘It’s the sort of thing that lot would do.’
Just then there was a roar from further up the beach. We turned to see the buggy sliding sideways down the dune. The rear wheels were spinning madly, throwing sand and plants high into the air as the driver struggled for control.
Eventually he succeeded in getting the vehicle down onto the flat. The motor quietened as it came to a stop.
Matt swore before turning his attention back to the line where a join was winding onto the drum.
‘That’s the start of the trace line. We’ll be in business shortly,’ he said.
The line had now lifted off the sand to stretch tightly from the ute out into the top of the waves. It was bobbing more than ever.
‘We’ve got something,’ said Afi.
I looked out to sea and for a moment saw a tail waving above the surf. ‘Is that a shark?’
‘Hope not,’ said Matt. ‘We want —’
The rest of what he said was lost in a roar from the buggy. It was nearby and coming straight at the line.
Matt threw himself at the winch lever. ‘Get the line down,’ he yelled.
Afi was much quicker than me. He had his big foot on the line, forcing it down to the sand, before I’d even worked out what to do.
No sooner was the line down than the buggy roared over the top of it. Then, instead of continuing down the beach, the driver swung the steering wheel fiercely, pulling the thing into a slide. There was an even louder roar when he hit the throttle. Sand plumed off the spinning wheels as he drifted past the other end of the ute to come by us again. This time the line lifted and almost wrapped around the tyre.