The Backpacker

by John Harris

  Surely it must be possible to find a bar job in a modern city like this. I’d seen foreigners working in some of the pubs and restaurants, and...

  ‘Agreed?’ they asked together.

  I sighed. ‘OK, agreed,’ I said reluctantly, and put my hand on top of theirs.

  SIX

  That whole day was spent searching the bars all along Orchard Road, frantically looking for jobs. Bars, restaurants, nightclubs, we perspired through them all in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. I should correct that sentence, I went through them all, Dave and Rick were not interested.

  At first the pair of them trudged into a few places out of a sense of duty. After the first two refusals they both started to hang around in the doorways, letting me go in alone, and by lunchtime they were giggling every time I emerged, rejected. I soldiered on, unwilling to admit defeat without at least having given it a shot.

  My token spell of childhood delinquency had never been anything more serious than a bout of mild kleptomania and an interest in lighting fires. Joyriding in stolen cars was something that I admired from afar and left to those who were determined to make a career out of crime. Stealing a boat was way out of my league. Stealing penny chews from the newsagent’s, yes, but stealing boats?

  By the time evening came I was shattered. Covering miles of concrete paving in flip-flops had left my calf muscles shaking uncontrollably. Add to that a nice open wound where I’d stubbed my big toe on a curb, and you get some idea of what kind of mood I was in.

  I went to bed that night less than happy, and resigned to stealing a forty-two-foot yacht.

  The whole of the following day we spent apart, each with our own task, and each with a clearly defined set of objectives.

  Rick’s job was to go to the yacht club, suss out the lie of the land and buy the correct nautical charts that covered the area we intended to sail through. Failing that he was to go to the Singapore marine department and get them, and if that failed the whole plan was off. If he didn’t appear back at the guest house rendezvous at the agreed time of six o’clock in the evening, we were to assume that he had been successful, and meet him in Changi Village at midnight.

  Dave’s task was shopping. As someone who knew less about sailing than Rick, but a million times more about it than me, he was to go around town and buy ‘essentials’. Every time I asked exactly what he meant by ‘essentials’, he patted my shoulder and said, ‘John, just you leave it to the men of this outfit.’ Dave was to meet me at the guest house at six, and we would go together to meet Rick.

  My job was twofold: I had to settle the bill at the guest house (our attempt at running off without paying had already failed) and pack everyone’s gear, ready for the off. All of which took no more than an hour so I drifted around the streets for the rest of the day feeling like I was hopping off school: playing video games in the arcade, eating Big Macs and hanging around the shopping malls. I don’t know if I’m alone in this, but whenever I kill time in shopping centres I feel guilty. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are, I always feel guilty as hell.

  At six o’clock on the dot, Dave turned up at the guest house with a holdall full of ‘essentials’ that ranged from torches to fishing lines and hooks to a pocket pin-ball machine. ‘Neat huh?’ he said, holding up a telescopic fishing rod. He flicked his wrist and it shot out, nearly hitting a traveller who was waiting in the reception area.

  ‘Oh! You will go fishing, no?’ the boy said, leaning to one side to avoid having his eye poked out.

  ‘Something like that, yeah,’ Dave said, and collapsed the rod.

  Rick didn’t return, so we hung around the dorm until nightfall and caught the night bus out to Changi Village.

  It hadn’t occurred to either of us how on earth we were going to get so much gear out to the boat, and I think we assumed somehow that there’d be a rowing boat waiting to ferry us over to the mooring. Dave and I had even had trouble getting it all onto the bus. I was carrying mine and Rick’s gear, while Dave carried his plus the essentials.

  ‘Rick’ll have a boat waiting,’ Dave said confidently in answer to my query.

  ‘Hope so.’ I lifted the two bags as the bus cleared the brow of the hill towards the village. It was hard to recognise at night, there were hardly any street lights on and all of the houses along the way seemed to be unoccupied. Either that or the occupants were all asleep. Everyone else had already alighted from the bus so I asked the driver to drop us as close as possible to the yacht club.

  The driver checked the bus in his little overhead convex mirror to see if there were any other passengers onboard and said, ‘Take you right inside if you want?’

  ‘No!’ I shouted, slightly panicky. ‘Um, just by the junction, next to the sign post, that’ll be OK.’

  He drove over the hill and put his lights on full beam. ‘Where that man is standing you mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, squinting at the road ahead, ‘that’s exactly where I mean.’

  SEVEN

  Once I started laughing I couldn’t stop. Rick put his hand over my mouth and ordered me to ‘Shh!’ but it just made me worse. It was the sight of Dave trying to be stealthy, swimming out to the boat, that was doing it to me, that and the sight of us two crouching low behind the bushes. In the end I had to turn away and look at the darkened hillside behind me to take my mind off the scene.

  After meeting Rick at the bus stop we had walked through the village to the golf course, climbed the fence and run across the greens, using the tree line as cover to the beach. Dave thought he was on special ops, and when Rick took his shirt off to make the swim out to the boat, Dave put his hand out firmly and said, ‘No! This is my job.’ He said it so seriously that I burst out laughing and hadn’t been able to stop since. I think if he’d had a tin of green paint he would have camouflaged his face.

  The swim was about a hundred metres, and when I stopped giggling enough to look back again Dave was almost there. I wiped the tears from my eyes and tapped Rick on the shoulder. ‘Got any–’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘Got any cigarettes?’ I whispered, trying not to start laughing again.

  ‘He’s almost there,’ he said, offering the packet to me. ‘Looks like that old geezer’s asleep.’

  I leaned forward, parting a bush to look along the beach, and stood on a twig. It cracked like a banger going off.

  Rick sighed heavily. ‘It’s like being with fooking Laurel and Hardy.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I bit my lip and leaned forward again, scanning the dark bay.

  Chan-the-boatman’s shack was just along the beach from where we were, and I could see his silhouette, back-lit by the light coming out through his window. Either he was asleep in a chair or dead, because he hadn’t moved for the past half an hour. An opaque column of blue smoke drifted up from a small chimney on the shack’s roof into the night sky, before being caught by the breeze above the palm trees and dispersing seaward.

  To our right was the clubhouse, but from where we were it was almost entirely obscured by trees as the beach curved out of sight. There were no lights on in the building, as expected for a weekday, and apart from the old man we hadn’t seen another person anywhere, even in the village.

  ‘Mmm,’ I mumbled thoughtfully, and leaned back into the bushes to light the cigarette. ‘What’s he doing now? I can’t see him.’ Dave had vanished from sight, leaving only ripples in the inky water where he had been a second before. A moment later his head came back up through the surface, like a buoy.

  ‘Checking the anchorage,’ Rick replied quizzically. ‘What’s he doing that for, it’s tied to a mooring isn’t it?’ He leaned forward, thinking aloud. ‘Come on, Dave, get the tender. Get the fooking tender.’

  Dave appeared to hesitate, treading water, as if thinking, then disappeared around the other side of the yacht, and a moment later came up on deck. Unless you were specifically looking at that boat among the many moored up, you would never know he was there. Occasionally there’d be th
e glint of moonlight against his shiny wet skin but that was all. He made the perfect secret agent.

  ‘He’s like James Bond,’ I whispered.

  ‘Shaft.’

  At that moment there was an enormous splash, and we both sank back into the bushes, waiting to see what had happened, unsure exactly where it had come from. A dog barked in the distance and we held our breath, praying that no one had heard, until a set of ripples echoed out from the yacht, indicating that it must have been Dave. The sound of a squeaky pulley wheel drifted over. I couldn’t stand the tension.

  ‘Must be the tender,’ Rick said firmly, ‘got to be.’

  There was another, quieter splash more like a wet ‘slap’ before a white square edged its way around the front, rowed by Dave. He ducked under the bow of the yacht and paddled towards us, constantly keeping an eye on the sleeping Chan.

  ‘He’s done it!’ we both whispered, and crept down to the water’s edge.

  Dave beached the little fibreglass dinghy and we quickly threw in the gear. ‘It’s not anchored,’ he whispered enthusiastically, ‘just tied to a buoy.’

  ‘Told you it wouldn’t be.’ Rick chucked his rucksack in and pushed us off the sand before jumping in behind. ‘I think he must be stoned,’ he said, looking back at Chan’s house. ‘If that splash didn’t wake him, nothing will.’

  We rowed silently out to the yacht, Dave painstakingly dipping the oars so as not to make a sound, and climbed up a small ladder, hauling the dinghy in behind us.

  ‘Smaller than I thought,’ I said as I climbed on deck, grinning and giggling as my apprehension turned to excitement and I forgot to whisper.

  Dave clamped his hand over my mouth. ‘Shh! Sound carries over water. Wait until you see inside, it’s deceptive.’

  I had a million questions to ask about what we were going to do next. How do we get the engine started? Which direction do we go in? Can we sail at night? But I thought it best just to say nothing for the time being and let those two sort it out. I’d never been on a yacht before and I didn’t want to go around asking stupid questions if the answers were staring me in the face. Even though I knew precious little about boats, I was determined not to show it. Look natural, act chilled, I told myself, and leaned against the mast.

  ‘Great, it’s unlocked! No need to break it open.’ Rick pulled open the double doors that led down into the living quarters and went inside. I went to follow but a second later Rick came back up, blocking the entrance. ‘Dave, you’re not going to believe this,’ he said, beaming.

  Dave was tying up the dinghy and turned his head. ‘What?’

  ‘The keys are in the ignition!’

  Dave mouthed, ‘No way!’ and quickly knotted a loose end before jumping across the deck and darting into the hole behind Rick.

  ‘Fucking dark in here,’ I said, following in behind. They both tutted at my ignorance.

  ‘Did you get that booster-pack, Rick?’ Dave asked, lifting a small hatch in the floor. ‘The battery’s gotta be flat.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rick turned to me. ‘John, up on deck, get that holdall with all the shit from the yacht club in it.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’ I saluted and went out to fetch the bag, wondering if I had inadvertently assumed the position of onboard skivvy.

  When I came back down, all the doors were open inside and Rick was reeling off names of things that I’d never heard of, while Dave rummaged around to see if the items were onboard. Every reply was, ‘Yep’, and sometimes, ‘Yep, got two o’ them suckers’. I dropped the holdall at Rick’s feet and went for a look around.

  Dave was right, the size of the boat upon first glance was deceptive. From the outside the yacht looked tiny, about as long as a stretch limo and only a little wider. I’d have believed that its depth was only four feet, and couldn’t accommodate a grown man. However, when I walked through from one room to another, only slightly stooped over, I was agog at its size. Not only at how big it was but also at its level of comfort: almost luxurious.

  From where Rick was standing, messing about with something called GPS, there was a small step and sliding doors that led into a kitchen/dining area, before terminating in two small doors that separated living from sleeping quarters. ‘There’re only two beds,’ I called out from the bedroom doorway.

  ‘The dining table pulls down,’ came a bored response from the darkness.

  I did a walk-through in both bedrooms, opening up drawers and cupboards to see what had been left onboard. There were plastic oilskins on hangers and some bedding, but otherwise it was empty. Catching my reflection in a cabinet mirror made me jump and then smile at myself. ‘Guilty,’ I mumbled before turning and somersaulting onto the bed, landing squarely on my back. ‘Guilty of finding the easy way out.’

  I lay on the bed looking up at the white formica ceiling, hands behind my head, and began to wonder.

  I wondered what the owner did for a living. I hoped it was some rich businessman who’d forgotten he even owned a yacht in Singapore. I hoped he’d got so many houses and toys in different parts of the world that he wouldn’t care less if one went missing. Anyway, I reasoned, he’d only claim on the insurance when it was reported stolen.

  On the other hand, it could’ve belonged to someone who’d worked their whole life, toiling day-in day-out, scrimping and saving in the pursuit of a childhood dream. A little unlikely, I told myself, all the odds were pointing to it being owned by a wealthy businessman; Chan-the-boatman had said as much. And if it did belong to a local who’d spent his life nurturing his dream there would have been signs of use onboard: cups in the sink, sheets on the beds, shoes and socks in the cupboards.

  A gift, I thought to myself, a gift from someone who’s too busy to have a good time to three young men who can’t get enough of it. Maybe the owner would be happy to know that all his hard work was being put to good use. Maybe.

  I’ve thought about these things quite a lot since that night we first took the yacht, and however much I try to feel ashamed of stealing it I can’t. I once stole a kid’s dinner money at school, but an hour later gave it back to him because I knew he’d have no lunch and would go hungry. If that same kid had been throwing his money around all day, leaving cash here, there and everywhere, I would have had no qualms about keeping it.

  The bed shook slightly and I sat up, leaning on my elbows. There was the cough and splutter of an engine before it roared into life and settled into a steady chugging sound. I looked out through the doorway and Dave appeared.

  ‘We have ignition. Woo-hoo! C’mon, John, I need you up on deck.’ He disappeared again.

  When I got outside, the tree line was already moving past us and I could no longer see Chan’s shack or the clubhouse. The wind was rushing into my face. ‘We’re moving!’ I gasped, scarcely believing we were. I was grinning so much that it was hard to see.

  ‘John!’ I spun around and looked to the rear of the boat. Rick was turning a huge chrome wheel in his hands and he had a cigarette gripped between his teeth. ‘Is this living or what?’

  I stretched and almost touched the sky, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this! What’s the penalty for TDA in Singapore?’

  He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, sparks flying in the wind. ‘TSA you mean. This is taking and sailing away.’ He turned the wheel slightly. ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t get a job now?’

  ‘This is fucking brilliant,’ I shouted at no one in particular and jumped up onto the mast. ‘Dave, this is the best moment of my life.’

  ‘Thought you’d like it,’ he shouted back, and pointed over Rick’s head. ‘Look.’ Behind us in the distance we could see the city lights, glowing against the black sky above the landscape, shrouding the heavens in a warm glow. ‘Impressive, huh?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I shouted at the sky. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’

  CHAPTER 8

  THE WET DREAM

  ONE

  None of us went to sleep that first night. Dave was
like a cat on hot bricks, flying about from the mast to the deck: first running up to the bow, to lean over and watch the waves as we chugged through the inky water, and then skipping along the sides, whooping and hooting his way to the stern.

  Every time he reached the rear, Rick would say something to him to check this, or look over that and he’d bolt off down the hatch like a rabbit, only to come up a minute later, beaming, both thumbs held up. He handled the motion of the boat beautifully, much the same as Rick, while I held on to everything and anything within arm’s reach to steady myself.

  I could barely contain my level of excitement, and because I was restricted physically (I didn’t want to pull the wrong ropes) the energy and enthusiasm eventually worked its way out of my system verbally. All of the things that I’d told myself not to voice through fear of appearing idiotic came out in a torrent. I may not yet have had the sea legs to sprint about like Dave, but I matched him word-for-step.

  ‘Why don’t we put up the sail, Rick?’ I’d shout, while hanging on to the rigging.

  ‘We don’t want–’

  ‘What’s this stuff do?’ I’d ask impatiently, cutting him off in mid-reply.

  ‘That’s for when we–’

  ‘Which direction are we heading in; north, east, south or west?’

  ‘Well at the moment we should be–’

  ‘Can I have a go at steering?’

  ‘Fooking hell!’

  I don’t think I kept quiet for more than a minute that first night. Looking back now, I wish I’d taken some more time to quietly reflect on what was going on around me. In fact my whole time aboard that boat now seems more like a snapshot than an adventure lived. It’s like it happened to me, but because it was so new and exciting, and because I didn’t allow my eyes or brain time to take it in and store it properly, the memory of it isn’t as clear as it should be.

  In contrast, Rick, characteristically, took it all in without a word. I do remember standing on the boom that first night, clinging to the mast and looking back at Rick holding the wheel, and thinking: so young and yet so wise.