by Judy Nunn
‘And how exactly would your advance research be right up our alley?’ he asked, his tone a dangerously supercilious imitation of Ian’s.
Mike turned to Fats. ‘What do you reckon I’m studying, Fats?’
‘Eh?’ Fats was caught out; people usually addressed their questions to Tubby.
‘The topic I’m studying – what do you reckon it is? What’s right up your alley?’
‘Crayfish?’ Fats asked hopefully.
‘Spot on.’ Mike once again addressed the older brother. ‘As well as the study of tammars, the Pelsaert and her crew are doing a pre-season cray census. The object of the exercise will lead to a better estimate of the catchable cray population later in the season, and maybe even the following year as well. Does that interest you?’
‘My oath it does,’ Tubby said. Any insult was forgotten, the kid had won him.
Twenty minutes later, as they were polishing off the next round of beers – Muzza’s shout – Mike was still talking, Tubby was still asking questions, and Fats was still hanging on every word. The brothers knew only too well that the whole of the Abrolhos was a hatchery and nursery area this time of year. All down the west coast the cray season ran from mid-November until the end of June, with the exception of the Abrolhos where it didn’t start until mid-March. They’d been wondering what the Pelsaert was doing laying pots, and now Mike was explaining the mark-and-recapture techniques employed in the research.
‘Tail-punching,’ he said. ‘It leaves an identifiable mark when they’re recaught.’
‘Well, bein’ a Fisheries vessel, we didn’t exactly think you were doin’ something illegal,’ Tubby said. Fats nodded, although they’d both had their doubts. ‘Whatever experiments they’re up to, I bet they’re keepin’ a good few crays on the side,’ Tubby had said as he’d watched them blatantly setting their pots, and Fats had agreed.
Mike didn’t go into detail about the recent breakthrough. The discovery of puerulus in numbers – the elusive settling phase before the juvenile hard-shelled crayfish emerged – had caused much excitement in academic circles. But it wasn’t necessary to explain the finer points; both brothers understood the impact of the research. An advance and accurate prediction in the numbers of mature crayfish would revolutionise their industry.
‘Time to go.’ Ian replaced his empty glass on the table with a little more force than was necessary. Aware that he’d overstepped the mark earlier, it was the only way he could signal his boredom and irritation. He stood. ‘The girls are waiting.’ He forced another smile, his second of the evening, and again it didn’t work. ‘Nice to meet you, Tubby, Fats.’
Muzza looked to Mike for his cue. He was a bit bored himself. The cray fishermen had lost their appeal now that the girls were beckoning.
‘Sorry, Muz.’ Mike smiled apologetically. ‘I got a bit carried away. You go and have a good time.’
Muzza shook hands with the brothers as he rose from his chair, but Ian kept his distance, his eyes on Mike.
‘You’re not coming?’ he asked.
‘I never said I was.’
‘Jeez, mate,’ Tubby said to Mike, nudging Fats as a signal they should make a move. ‘If you’ve got women lined up don’t let us stand in your way.’
‘You’re not.’ Mike’s tone was definite, but his reply was directed to Ian. ‘I told you from the start I didn’t want to be in it.’
Fats rose from the table, a decision seemed to have been made. ‘Goodo then,’ he said. ‘My round.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Mike continued to look at Ian. He was wondering how on earth he’d remained friends with Pembo for the past several years. But he knew the answer. He was sorry for the bloke. ‘It’s Ian’s round. Isn’t it, Ian?’
Tubby watched, intrigued by the second or so of power play between the two young men, but it was no competition.
‘Sure,’ Ian said, ‘my shout’, and he went off to the bar where he ordered three beers. He and Muzza certainly weren’t hanging around with the Lard brothers when there were women to be had. Mike had turned into such a square, he thought. God, Mike McAllister had been the biggest womaniser of them all – the bloke could score in a convent, women always gravitated to him. But he’d changed since he’d met Johanna. What a bastard, Ian thought as he paid for the beers. Without Mike he probably wouldn’t score tonight. Mike had always been his lucky draw card, and now he was left with young Muzza who was a loser.
He returned to place the three beers on the table. ‘You ready, Muzza?’ he asked, and Muzza once again stood.
Mike leaned back in his chair, raising his glass to them both. ‘Thanks, Pembo,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You guys have a great night.’
Ian made his farewells tightly but politely.
‘See you, Muzza,’ Mike called as they left. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Leaves me plenty of licence,’ Muzza called back over his shoulder.
‘You sure you don’t want to go with your mates?’ Tubby’s question was incredulous. Why didn’t Mike want to chase after women? Crikey, they’d be queuing up for a young stud like him.
‘Yep, quite sure. I’m not interested.’
As he said it, Mike realised that he genuinely wasn’t. He certainly would have been six months ago – six months ago he would have been leading the troops – but since he’d met Jo, he’d lost the urge to bed other women. Not because he felt the need to remain faithful – he’d made no commitment and neither had she – but for some reason the thrill of the chase no longer seemed important. Funny about that, he thought.
‘I’ve got a girlfriend in Perth,’ he said to avoid any further questioning.
‘Ah,’ Tubby replied, sharing a nod with Fats. The kid was in love – that explained it. He took a long draugh of his beer and settled back in his chair. ‘So, where were we up to, Einstein?’ He could listen to the kid all night.
‘The Batavia.’ Mike decided it was his turn to ask the questions.
‘Eh?’ The non sequitur took both brothers by surprise.
‘Do you know about the wreck of the Batavia?’
‘Do I what!’ Tubby’s grin was triumphant. ‘She was a Dutch East India trading vessel that founded on the Abrolhos in 1629.’ He looked like a schoolboy who’d topped his class; he was glad of the opportunity to show off his knowledge to the kid. ‘There was a bunch of mutineers on board and they were going to pirate her, but she hit the reef instead. And after the shipwreck they murdered just about all the survivors.’
‘Women and children as well,’ Fats interjected, the gleam of morbid fascination in his eyes. ‘Them islands is covered in bones.’
It was more historical fact than Mike had anticipated from the brothers. ‘Do you know where the wreck is?’ he asked.
‘Too right.’ It was Fats again, suddenly and uncharacteristically articulate. ‘Tubby and me was on hand when it was discovered a couple of years back. We know the exact spot, don’t we, Tub?’
‘Yep, we helped the expedition team when they were diving on it. They needed our local knowledge of the area,’ Tubby said with a touch of pride.
‘I’ve heard it’s in shallow water, is that right?’
‘Around twenty feet or so.’
‘Could you take me to it?’
The look Tubby exchanged with Fats was dubious. ‘Well, we could,’ he said tentatively.
Mike presumed the brothers were concerned about money. ‘I’ll pay …’ he added hastily.
‘Nah, nah, it’s not that.’ Tubby waved a hand airily. ‘It’s just that you need the right day. If the weather’s crook, you can’t make an approach, it’s bloody impossible.’
‘So if the weather’s right, will you take me out there?’
Fats was nodding vigorously. Fats had taken to Mike. But then so had his brother.
‘Yeah, if the weather’s right,’ Tubby agreed.
Mike tried to negotiate a price, but the brothers would have none of it. ‘Well, at least let me pay for the fuel,’ he i
nsisted.
Tubby shrugged. ‘If you like, but we’ll be takin’ the boat out anyway. We gotta make a living.’
Prior to the commencement of the cray season, the brothers fished with set-lines for dhufish and baldchin grouper, both prize table fish for the West Australian market.
‘Okay, it’s a deal. And I’ll bring along a case of beer.’
‘You’re on, Einstein.’
Three days later, the squally winds had died down and the weather was perfect.
Tubby followed the deep channel that led from the safe anchorage behind the reefs out into the open ocean. He and Fats would lay their set-lines before taking Mike to the wreck site. The Maria Nina churned smoothly through the gentle swell, the sea and the sky so peacefully clear they seemed to merge as one. Mike sat on the icebox helping Fats bait up the lines. An hour or so later, when they’d set them, floats bobbing on the ocean’s surface, Tubby turned the vessel about.
‘You can only approach the wreck from the open sea,’ he said as Mike joined him in the wheelhouse. ‘Treacherous bastard of a place – no way you can come into it from the land. That’s Beacon Island,’ he pointed at the low, rocky island up ahead. ‘Batavia’s Graveyard, it’s known as. The wreck’s just a mile south of it.’
Mike gazed at the island, barren and desolate like the rest of the Abrolhos. Batavia’s Graveyard, he thought, and couldn’t help feeling a thrill of anticipation. This was the highlight of his trip. It was strange, he hadn’t expected it to be – there’d been far too much else to preoccupy him. He’d been intrigued by the lunatic notion of nightly tammar chasing, and excited by the prospect of next year’s PhD study when he’d be working as a field assistant with Dr Bruce Phillips of the CSIRO, the man who’d made the breakthrough puerulus discovery. Not once had the Batavia entered his mind, and why should it? He’d known little about its actual history when he’d left Perth – only that the site of an old Dutch wreck had created headlines when it had been discovered on the Abrolhos in 1963. But he’d been enthralled by the tales he’d heard aboard the Pelsaert on the night of his arrival, the crew members infecting him with their own fascination with the Batavia’s brutal past. The very vessel that was accommodating them, he’d been told by the crew, was named after the commander of the Batavia himself, Francisco Pelsaert. And then they’d embarked upon the grisly story of mutiny, murder and mayhem.
Ever since that night, young Mike McAllister had viewed the islands of the Abrolhos through different eyes. Ecologically, their make-up was simple – in studying the ecology of the crayfish, he had also studied their habitat – the islands were formed of coral shale and sand built up by the conflicting currents on the shallow plateaus. Plants sprouted from seeds in bird droppings to form sparse vegetation, binding the sand with roots and resulting in a series of low-lying islands that somehow defied the elements. It was that very defiance which he found remarkable. For hundreds of years, these desolate and insignificant-looking outcrops, little more than a combination of reef and sandbank, had withstood the full force of nature. They, and the treacherous submerged reefs surrounding them, had become indestructible demons feared by seamen over the centuries. Infamous graveyards to many a ship and its sailors. In fact, as the crew of the Pelsaert had told him, the very name Abrolhos meant in old Dutch, ‘keep your eyes open’.
No longer did the islands appear insignificant to Mike. He was seeing them with a sense of history, perhaps through the eyes of a seaman. The islands of the Abrolhos were to be respected. They were a timeless and impressively powerful force in the landscape: pristine, primitive and untameable.
‘We’re coming in nor’-east on the original course of the Batavia. That’s the reef up ahead, a bit to port.’
As Tubby’s voice broke into his thoughts, Mike looked to where the man was pointing. The only giveaway sign of the reef was a ripple of white frills playing teasingly across the ocean’s surface.
‘We picked a good day for it,’ Tubby said, cutting back the speed until they were idling. ‘You can get ripped to pieces out here – in crook weather the place is like a bloody cauldron. Let her go,’ he called to Fats who was standing by ready to drop anchor. They were barely a hundred yards from the reef.
When the Maria Nina was securely at anchor, Tubby cut the engine. ‘We’ll hang back fine in this breeze,’ he said. ‘Grab us a beer, will ya, Einstein?’
Mike lifted out an icy cold bottle. Fats was already handing around three grimy plastic beakers. ‘Not for me thanks, Fats,’ he said, stripping down to his Speedos.
The brothers swigged on their beers whilst they baited up – two hooks on each handline. They had no intention of sitting idly by whilst the kid explored the wreck.
‘She should be about dead ahead of us,’ Tubby said as Mike donned his flippers. ‘Take your time, we’ll be jake, there’s good fishin’ here.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘And where there’s good fishin’, there’s sharks.’
‘You wouldn’t get me down there,’ Fats said, slinging his line over the side and watching it spiral from its reel down into the depths. The fact that their baits might well be an added attraction to sharks was of little concern to either Tubby or Fats. If the kid was mad enough to go swimming in shark-infested waters then that was his problem.
‘No worries.’ Mike grinned at the brothers’ dire warnings. They didn’t alarm him, he’d dived many a time with sharks.
He slid over the side and trod water whilst he rinsed his facemask and snorkel. When he was ready to take off, he gave the brothers the thumbs up.
‘Good luck, Einstein,’ Tubby called, chucking his own line into the water and holding his beaker out to Fats for a refill. He watched the kid’s easy style as he swam towards the reef, sliding through the water as if he was born to it. Just like Murray Rose, he thought. The kid was pretty to watch.
As Mike swam, a slow energy-conserving freestyle, his powerful flippers barely moving, he relished the sensation of the water and his sense of oneness with it. He always did. It wasn’t something he analysed, but neither was it something he took for granted. He was always aware that in the water he felt as if he were in his element, as if he and the sea shared something special.
Through the surface swirl he could see the reef below, and he made a shallow dive, just about seven or eight feet, to get a clearer view.
Then that exhilarating moment when sound ceased to exist and everything stopped, even time itself. It was what he loved most about free diving. There was no echo of laboured breathing through scuba equipment, there was just him and the world under the sea. A world where colour and action abounded and drama unfolded all in breathtaking silence.
Beneath the dappled silver canopy of sun and sea, the visibility was perfect and the colours vivid. The blues and greens of the corals, the fiery reds of the sponges, the delicately wavering mauves of the anemones, all were as riotously colourful as a spring garden in full blossom. He pressurised and swam a little deeper, following the reef’s terrain, through castle-like turrets where gaudily painted fish disappeared like magic, past ledges from which crayfish watched, their protruding feelers the only giveaway of their presence, down canyons where silver schools of skipjack and kingfish maintained their restless patrol.
He’d be around twenty feet now, he guessed, but no sign of the wreck. Time to go up. He stopped swimming and allowed himself to slowly drift upwards, just a gentle flick of the flippers now and then, depressurising as he went, watching the dappled silver above grow closer and closer.
When he broke surface, he heaved in a lungful of air and looked back at the Maria Nina. She was a good two hundred yards or so away. He must have drifted with the current. He circled back with slow, easy strokes, regaining his breath, studying the reef beneath him, conserving his energy. Perhaps, even from the surface, he’d be able to see the wreck. Given the calm conditions and the fact that she was lying at only twenty feet, surely it was possible. But try as he might, he could see no sign. Perhaps the brothers had got it wrong, h
e thought. He dived again, allowing himself more distance this time, he’d go with the flow of the current.
He was down about fifteen feet, once again lost in a world of silence and colour, and his attention was so focused on a vivid blue cluster of staghorn coral that he failed to notice the sinister grey shape that had appeared out of nowhere. It was the disturbed reaction of a school of silver bream that caught his attention, and he turned to see the shark gliding towards him effortlessly with no apparent movement of its body, like a robot on automatic pilot, majestic and omnipotent.
He anchored himself against the reef and watched, prepared to lunge forward in attack should the creature show any interest in him – attack was always the best form of defence. The shark was around ten feet in length. Barrel-shaped, yellow-eyed, with long gill slits and a high tail fin, it was a whaler, a dangerous species. But it paid him no attention as it passed by barely four feet away; he could have reached out and touched it.
He watched as the shark cruised a little deeper, gliding through a shallow valley in the rocks below. Perhaps it was unaware of his presence, or perhaps it was merely uninterested. He continued to admire its shadowy form as it cleared the valley and disappeared into the misty beyond.
Then the glint of something caught his eye, drawing his attention to a shape resting amongst the valley’s coral growth. It was a long, cylindrical shape at odds with its surrounds, far too regular to be fashioned by nature. And, as the sun’s light played teasingly through the ocean’s surface above, it glinted again.
His lungs told him he needed to resurface. He had no time to examine the shape, but he knew what it was. A cannon. He’d found the site. The wreck itself must be nearby.
When he broke surface, heaving in air, he looked towards the Maria Nina. In his excitement he wanted to shout to the brothers, ‘It’s here! I’ve found it!’, but they were paying him no attention. Tubby was heaving a dhufish over the side and Fats, having also struck lucky, was hauling in his line.