The drone of the diesel engines wore away at the tension, replacing it with tedium. Chook put the boat slightly abeam of the swell to introduce a yawning sideways motion. The pacing and fidgeting and glaring and scheming began to subside as general unease crept first into the stomachs, then into the hearts and minds of the ill-prepared. Andy was glad Chook had told him to take some motion sickness pills.
‘Fuck me, that was close,’ said Chook, perched on the back of the captain’s chair, steering with his feet.
‘Impressive trick,’ said Andy said.
‘Won’t last. Most guys get their sea legs by about day three,’ Chook said. ‘We’re gonna have to come up with a more permanent solution. I’m thinking I might put one lot ashore for a couple of days.’
‘You’re going to strand them on an island or something?’
‘Sort of, but we’ll make it feel more like an adventure. I reckon the Saffers might go for it, actually. Make it like a hard-man contest.’
They talked as the boat ate up the nautical miles in the darkness. Chook gently cursed the real Marty once more for his cunning. Andy marvelled at the absurdity of people who fly thousands of miles and spend thousands of dollars to escape their everyday lives, only to bring their complications with them. They finished the beers in the small bar fridge in the cockpit and Chook convinced Andy to go below decks to mix up a couple of dark and stormies.
‘A real sailor’s drink,’ Chook explained with a smile. ‘Because I reckon you might have earned it, Marty.’
Relaxing for the first time since stepping aboard, Andy eased himself down the ladder and crept into main cabin, where the sleeping crew occupied every cushioned surface. This was more like it, Andy thought to himself as he stepped between the bodies on his way to the galley. This was life on the ocean. Making your bed wherever you can find space, too exhausted to care. Charting a course through the dark, in search of your very own secret spot. Keeping a level head and besting your enemies using only your rat cunning and the angle of the swell. Drinking rum and talking long into the night with your captain. Drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the waves that will greet you with the dawn.
‘Thanks, Marty,’ he said to himself with a smile.
He switched on the small lamp above the bench and gathered the required ingredients: glasses, ice, rum, ginger beer, limes, chopping board. He stared for a moment. There, in the dim light of the galley, it became terrifyingly apparent the large, dull carving knife was missing.
‘Here. I have it.’
Andy could just make out a figure emerging from the cramped circular stairway that led up from the forward cabins. As the figure came closer, the light from the galley fell first on to the dull metal of the large blade.
Andy raised his palms and started backing away. The cramped galley offered him nowhere to go.
‘Look, I…’ but Andy couldn’t think of how to convince a man pointing a knife at him to stop pointing a knife at him. He slowly edged his right hand down to the bench, feeling for the heavy wooden chopping board.
‘Chico took it. But I take it back,’ Renato stepped fully into the light of the galley and offered the knife to Andy, handle first. ‘Now, you take. Otherwise big problem.’
‘Fucking hell, Renato,’ said Andy, shaking his head and putting his hand to his chest, breathing deeply. ‘Does Chico know you took the knife back?’
‘I think no. He still sleeping,’ said Renato.
‘No sleeping!’ said another voice, again from the top of the stairs. Andy reached for the galley light switch, revealing a furious Chico.
Renato rolled his eyes before turning to Chico and exploding into high-velocity, emotional Portuguese, using the knife as punctuation.
‘Having trouble, boys?’ came a snarl from the other side of the cabin.
Andy, Renato and Chico watched TP move into the light, backed by his tribe and cradling something heavy. Muffled voices from below deck became louder as the remaining Brazilians appeared at the top of the stairwell behind Chico.
Chico barked at Renato, who looked at him for a moment, shook his head and moved toward to Andy with the knife, offering it handle first.
Chico threw himself at Renato with a half roar, half grunt, sending them both to the galley floor. Andy stepped back, taking the knife with him. Both groups of surfers surged into the cabin, fists raised.
The overhead lights came on and half a dozen bright flashes of steel brought the activity in the main cabin to a halt. The crew were all now in a low crouch, armed with long curved Parangs, the traditional knife of the Indonesian archipelago. The Zillas and the Saffers were subdued by the sight of so much steel, so carefully sharpened and so deliberately pointed.
The scrape and click of a rifle bolt wrested everyone’s attention from the field of Parangs. Chook sauntered into the cabin, holding a crusty yet serviceable weapon at his hip and flagrantly breaking one of his own on-board rules: no smoking in the main cabin.
‘If you are not a crew member of the CrossShore,’ commanded Chook through his cigar, ‘your job now is to drop any object in your hands or in your pocket. Even if that object is your cock.’ A series of dull thuds issued from both sides of the cabin. ‘Keep going.’ A second round of thuds followed. Chook kept the rifle at hip height, pointing it first towards the Brazilians and then at the South Africans. His crew gathered up the torches and screwdrivers and fins that the guests had abandoned to the floor. Judging by how calmly Chook read the riot act to the surfers, Andy suspected that this scenario was not without precedent.
The surf trip was now officially over. The guests had breached the terms of the charter they had all signed, specifically regarding the use of weapons. The CrossShore would make for Padang harbour where all guests were to be offloaded. All fees and charges paid by the guests were to be forfeited. No refunds would be granted. No correspondence would be entered into. Chook paused to draw on his cigar, the shotgun continuing its slow sweep of the cabin. Everyone was to be confined to bunks until the CrossShore made land. Except for Blue Shorts and Yellow Shorts, who were to be assigned the bow head and the stern locker, respectively. This last detail was not in the charter agreement but, as he was the one holding the shotgun and had had ‘an absolute gutful of this bullshit’, Chook decided it was his prerogative to amend the terms as he saw fit.
To close proceedings, Chook announced that the guests, and any known associates, were no longer welcome on the CrossShore for this or any future charters.
‘Now, do any of you stupid fuckers have any stupid fucking questions?’
The guests stared at the floor, realising that their dreams of surfing the Mentawis were now officially over. Chook motioned with the shotgun. ‘Off you go, then,’ he said.
‘I thought you said you didn’t smoke?’ asked Andy as the surfers melted back below decks without a sound.
‘Only on special occasions,’ grinned Chook, patting the shotgun and winking at his crew.
Dawn crept into the harbour as the CrossShore pulled up to the dock. Andy stared at the bags on the back deck, waiting to be offloaded. He might be able to change his flight, but more likely he’d have to kill a few days in Padang before heading home. Angie had been right. ShelfLife had been too good to be true. Although, for a moment, he had almost truly become Marty.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder. ‘Can I buy you a beer?’
Andy summoned a smile, but a grimace emerged. ‘Maybe the real Marty would have said yes, but it’s a bit early for me. Thanks, Chook.’
The Captain retained his grip and took a long look. ‘You know, you did a bloody good job out there. Not sure Marty would have been as cool under pressure, to be honest. That’s half the reason I wanted to get him off the boat this week.’
The remainder of Andy’s smile began to spread.
‘He was going a bit crazy, the last few trips, and I knew he needed a break, but I didn’t want to go shorthanded.’ Chook retrieved his hand and employed it to casually scratch his own crotch.
‘When he told me about his mate’s business, this life swap thing, and then you came into the mix, y’know, sensible business guy, I thought it was the perfect answer. Until these fuck-knuckles started World War Three.’
‘Thanks Chook, but better to end it now, before someone gets hurt for real.’
Renato lifted himself off his luggage and walked along the jetty, to the side of the boat. He squinted up at Andy.
‘Sorry boss. Chico no good. He too crazy,’ Renato gestured towards the figure in the Blue Shorts, slumped on the parched timber of the jetty. ‘My friends, they sorry too. Everybody sorry.’
‘You’re a good kid, Renato. But the captain says you guys are too dangerous. It’s over,’ Andy’s shoulders fell. ‘For all of us.’
Chook looked to Andy and then back to Renato. ‘No. Just him,’ he pointed to Chico. ‘And him,’ he pointed to TP, also on the jetty.
‘I don’t want to hang around this stinking harbour for the rest of the week. You’ve still got a few days of being Marty, and there’s a decent swell filling in from the south tomorrow. Whaddaya say we get back out there?’
Chook waited for Andy to register, then allowed himself a small smile. He climbed up on to the transom, hands locked on hips and addressed the surfers milling on the jetty
‘All right. Listen up, you fuckwits,’ Chook’s voice boomed across the quiet bay. ‘This here is the CrossShore. It is a surf boat. It was built for surfing. Not for fighting. Or moaning. Or sneaking around with knives or any other cowardly bullshit like that.’
The surfers on the dock abandoned their fiddling with their gear and took a couple of shuffling steps towards the boat.
‘Here are the new rules: only four guys in the water at any one time. No more separate meals. No more separate cabins. Zillas and Saffers, chose a new best friend. You bunk together. This is your last chance to tell me if you do not understand.’ Chook cupped a hand behind his ear. ‘Good. This is your last chance to tell me if you do not agree.’
Renato offered up a rapid-fire translation for his Brazilian brethren, who then nodded in agreement.
‘Okay. No problem. We only want to surf,’ said Renato, his eyes pleading to be allowed back on board.
‘And how about you dickheads?’ Chook asked the South Africans, who were quietly arguing amongst themselves.
A stocky, ginger-haired guy with a serious beard spoke up. ‘Yeah, all right. We just want to surf. Us three.’
‘What about you? Whatever the fuck your name is?’ Chook pointed at the remaining South African, who oscillated between the boat and the ailing Yellow Shorts.
‘Name’s Craig. And I. I mean. Look, it’s… Aw, fuck man, I’m married to his sister,’ said Craig, pointing at Yellow Shorts. ‘If I leave him here, she’ll kill me when I get home.’
‘Suit yourself. All right, everyone who wants to surf, grab your stuff and get back on the boat.’
The CrossShore reloaded with military precision. Whether they were more motivated to get back to the waves or to get away from their respective leaders wasn’t entirely clear, but their new-found compliance wasn’t lost on Chook. He hit them up for a few hundred US dollars, each, to cover the extra fuel before the boat cast off.
‘Everyone better get on like the fuckin’ Brady Bunch or I offload all of you on the nearest island. Which may or may not be inhabited,’ Chook warned with a grin.
‘I’m not sure The Brady Bunch was ever broadcast in Brazil,’ said Andy.
‘Missed out then, didn’t they? That Marcia was a minx.’ Chook swung up onto the ladder and disappeared into the wheelhouse. The twin diesel engines started their rumbling, industrious hymn. Andy was going to be allowed to be Marty for just a while longer.
***
Crash-landing back to his Sydney life like a returning astronaut, Andy found himself not so much changed as re-wired. Gone were the slightly hesitant answers, the dweeby fashion choices, the safe restaurant suggestions. It was as if someone had taken Andy, the generally likeable, generally competent corporate banker and shaved off the generalities. He was more expansive in meetings, more assertive in the line up, more aggressive in the shopping centre carpark. He reached for the TV remote without hesitation. None was more taken with the new, improved Andy than his wife, for whom he also began reaching without hesitation.
Word spread quickly through the investment banking community of the mild-mannered mid-level risk analyst who clicked a web link and became someone else for a week: a seafaring, knife-wielding, Bintang-chugging, tube-riding legend. Everyone wanted the password, the secret recipe, the keys to the kingdom.
‘No, seriously Andy,’ they’d ask, standing shoulder to shoulder at the office urinal. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Do what?’ he’d reply, smiling to himself.
‘How’d you change your life?’
Downward dog day afternoon
‘A drug dealer in Los Angeles, a DJ in Sweden, a celebrity chef in Taipei and a dominatrix in London,’ Shanti read from the print-out, her other hand shielding her Bellini from the jostling crowd.
‘What? Another one?’ grinned Gavin.
‘You can never have too many dominatrix,’ announced Trent, as much to the room as to his colleagues. ‘Or is that dominatrii?’
‘Dunno,’ said Gavin, ‘they didn’t teach the collective noun for dominatrix at my school.’
‘At this rate we’re going to have to learn it,’ said Shanti, scanning the list.
‘Or invent it,’ said Trent.
‘A whip,’ said Gavin, with a little too much enthusiasm. ‘It should be a whip of dominatrixes.’
‘Too obvious,’ said Shanti. ‘How about a clamp?’
‘Perfect,’ Trent said with a smile. ‘A clamp of dominatrii.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Gavin.
‘Oh Gav,’ Shanti placed a hand on his cheek. ‘You want everyone to think you’re mister urbane, but you’re just an innocent country boy at heart, aren’t you?’
Gavin blushed and reached for Shanti’s hand, but she withdrew it as quickly as it had landed. Trent called for another round. It was their first night out together since escaping the wreckage of Vietnam. It also felt like the first time they could exhale. Trent’s emergency phone calls from Saigon airport had secured a rambling villa in Bali, part-owned by his business mentor and currently between tenants. The near-deportation experience had given the team a renewed focus and they had fast-tracked the site for launch.
‘Some of those are going to be impossible to get insurance for, don’t you think?’ asked Gavin.
‘It’s not about possibility, it’s about affordability. Everything is insurable, for a price,’ Trent took a sip. ‘We just have to factor that into the listing price and then let the market decide.’
Securing the first ‘Marty the Deckhand’ rental had required a frantic round of smoke and mirrors by the founders, who created the façade of a much larger company. Once Customer #0001 had confirmed he wanted the rental, the logistics of delivery became the team’s focus: turning Marty’s ramblings into an instruction manual, arranging flights and transfers, negotiating an equitable split of the fee for Marty’s boss and, crucially, verifying that Andy the Banker had the basic surfing skills to perform Marty the Deckhand’s job for a week.
The effort had all been worth it. Marty got a break from the boat, Marty’s boss got a break from Marty and Andy got a new lease on his own life. Andy was telling the world and the world was starting to listen. Web traffic, sign-ups, enquiries, referrals, backlinks; by every metric, ShelfLife was starting to go ‘next level’. So Shanti fretted about infrastructure capacity and security threats while Gavin spent his time pacing and muttering, ‘But how do we scale?’ in a self-defeatist mantra. Trent, however, believed wholeheartedly in one of the last maxims of his startup launch bible: the need to celebrate all wins.
Ordering tools down, Trent led the team to a sprawling beachside bar with a superb view of the sunset over the Indian Ocean. Both the music an
d the crowd were growing in intensity but the three founders barely noticed, transfixed by the ream of site analytics Shanti had printed out and the story it hinted at. For ShelfLife, the genie appeared to be out of the bottle. And so, therefore, were the rums, vodkas, gins and anything else Trent could put on his last functional credit card. The list of individuals who had offered their lives up for rent was long and varied enough to silence the nagging question hanging over the founders since Saigon: should they just shut the whole thing down and head home to their former lives?
‘I see potential in the drummer in Belgium, the gardener on Maui, the tea taster in Sri Lanka, maybe the stockbroker in Chicago as he’s just a pit runner and also the woman in fashion publishing in New York,’ said Gavin, running his finger down the list.
‘What does she do in fashion publishing?’ asked Trent.
‘Wait a minute,’ Gavin stalled as he retraced his way back to the listing. ‘Ah, here it is: junior ad sales co-ordinator.’
‘Forget it. That’s the worst job ever. Not worth the negative ratings from all the wide-eyed kids from Idaho who pay three thousand dollars for a week of taking dictation, doing coffee runs and getting yelled at.’
‘Ohhh, we’ve got a Private Investigator here,’ said Shanti. ‘In Scotland. Just like in all those carbon-copy crime novels.’
‘Would that even be legal?’ asked Trent.
‘I don’t see why not,’ she replied without looking up, ‘he’s a private citizen, self-employed – oh wait, it’s a she – so she’d be within her rights.’
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