The Backpacker

by John Harris

  ‘Enough to keep us three travelling for a few years, that’s how much.’ Rick lifted the rod behind his head and cast it a short way out into the shimmering blue sea. He had woken up early that morning and had taken the only rod capable of handling a fish of any real size. Dave had his flimsy little telescopic that he’d bought in Singapore (the gear he’d bought in Bangka broke the first time it was used).

  To one side of us was nothing but shades of blue that changed colour the further away from the boat I looked. Beneath us the highs and lows in the reef created a patchwork of different shades, until the angle of my vision was at about forty-five degrees and the colours became more uniform.

  Over the prow, a far away island that looked like a policeman’s helmet protruded from the water, a single, almost circular white cloud hanging above it like a Red Indian’s smoke signal. Probably a volcano, I thought, vaguely remembering something called the ‘ring of fire’, and turned around.

  On the other side of the boat was the nearest island. A single peak tapered each side into what looked like smaller islands that had once been separate, but were now glued onto its sides, a bit like a half submerged head and a pair of ears. There didn’t appear to be any beach, but because we’d arrived late the previous night and anchored against the first dark shape we’d come to, it didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t approachable.

  I went over to that side of the boat and looked at the sheer face of rock that ran down into the sea, letting my head tilt down slowly until I was looking directly at the side of the boat. With nothing else to occupy my mind, I took off my shorts, stood up on the side rail and dived off into the cool water.

  The first thing that struck me when I opened my eyes and looked down was the depth. I blew out a little air to maintain equilibrium and studied my dangling feet, and the amount of space beneath them, before looking horizontally at the boat’s keel to gauge the depth. About fifty feet I reckoned.

  I love to look at the underneath of a boat, to see the parts that are not normally visible. Seeing it in dry dock is no good, it has to be in the water, surrounded by blue sea, its shadow cast onto the seabed, giving it scale and definition. A boat in dry dock is like a fish on a fishmonger’s slab, it’s out of context and has no place in a dry world, no meaning among its surroundings.

  Time for a game, I thought, looking to the stern and seeing two pairs of feet: grab the two fishing lines and give them a yank, then surface in time to watch Rick and Dave fight over nothing and later tell me about the one that got away. If they had only been fishing at different ends of the boat I could have tied their lines together.

  Coming up and taking another gulp of air out of sight, I dived back under the boat and swam to the rear in search of the lines. I had just reached their ankles when a dark shadow passed beneath me. Automatically I flinched and froze, blinking rapidly as though it would clear the water from my eyes. Without the movement provided by my arms, my body drifted upwards and my back bumped against someone’s feet, making me jump. The dark shape cruised along the seabed then doubled back on itself, apparently heading towards me.

  Surfacing with a gasp of air, I looked up to find the other two no longer sitting on the low platform at the back of the boat, but looking down at me from the deck, astonished looks on their faces. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, John, you scared the living shit out of me!’ Dave slumped, as though releasing built-up tension. ‘We thought you were a shark, man.’

  I giggled and hauled myself onto the platform. ‘Reel yours in, Dave.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Your line, reel it in. There’s a fucking big fish down there.’ I stood up, wiping the water from my eyes with both hands. ‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s about this big.’ I held my arms as far apart as I could. ‘It’ll snap your rod like a twig.’

  At that moment Rick’s rod arced violently downwards and he almost let go under the force. ‘Fooking hell!’

  I immediately looked from him to the water. ‘That’s it, I think you’ve got it!’

  Rick ordered Dave to reel his in, and then told me to put some clothes on, which I did. The three of us stood on the edge of the deck and watched the water, as Rick fought against whatever was on the other end. ‘Fooking hell!’ he kept saying, and the only other thing he said over the next thirty minutes was, ‘Light me a fooking fag’.

  ‘There she blows!’ Dave shouted, and the line, the rod, Rick, Dave and I all turned and went to one side of the boat as the fish shot off towards deeper water. Wherever the fish went, we three followed, like a tightly packed herd of sheep, all bunched together. Rick would strain and gasp, sucking in air through the corner of his mouth, as he let the rod drop almost horizontal and then heaved it up again, emitting his usual expletive. He talked and breathed through a tiny slit in the corner of his mouth, the other side being occupied by the limp, saturated cigarette.

  I plucked it from his mouth and he gasped as though breathing for the first time. ‘Another.’ I lit him another one and poked it in. ‘Here we go,’ the cigarette said, bobbing to the words.

  We all turned on the spot, watching as the shiny, taut line, like a precisely aimed laser-beam from the tip of the rod to the surface of the sea, slowly swung through ninety degrees.

  ‘The front,’ Dave said excitedly, and the three of us all moved as one, up to the prow.

  Rick suddenly had a look of concern on his face, the cigarette hanging down, almost resting on his chin. He began to wind slowly, and we watched as the laser beam began to shorten, coming nearer to the boat. He reeled harder and faster, trying to take up the slack, before the rod arced once again and the fish darted off, this time towards the island. ‘Fooking hell!’

  We all shuffled over to the other side of the boat and stared at the water, the fishing line almost pointing downwards. There was a screech of the ratchet, the reel letting out line under too much pressure, and once again the fish swam out into the distance. We waited, tensed. Dave and I jumped down to the lower platform while Rick stood on the upper deck sweating and holding the rod up in the air.

  ‘Is it moving? The fish?’

  ‘No. Hasn’t done anything for five minutes. Can you see it?’

  ‘No, but I can feel it,’ I shouted, ‘in the line.’

  There was a puff of smoke and he put both hands back onto the rod. The cigarette was immediately doused by dripping sweat and I could see him sucking frantically to re-light it. ‘Stick your head under and have a look,’ he shouted.

  It wasn’t easy to see something that wasn’t moving because of the changes in shade presented by the holes and dips in the reef, but then, just as I was about to surface for air, something down to my left moved three feet and I saw it. From where I was it appeared as just another dark shape, but it had moved, revealing its location. Looking back up out of the water I quickly checked the angle of the fishing line and followed its probable direction under water, before going under again. It was exactly where the shape was, and I raised my arm, making an OK sign while still looking down.

  Dave tapped me on the shoulder and I came up, wiping the water from my face. ‘See it?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Nggh,’ I gagged, clearing my nose. ‘Down there. Huge fucker.’

  ‘Shark?’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so.’ Rick called over and asked the same question and I gave the same response. ‘It’s just lying there, Rick. It looks fucked.’

  He nodded wisely. ‘Yeah, they always do that when they’re exhausted. He’s probably had enough. I know I have!’ He gripped the rod suddenly. ‘Ooh, fook!’ and the fishing line came cutting through the water towards us. The angle between the line and the sea surface became more and more acute until, about twenty feet from us, the fish broke the surface with a huge splash and a flip of its tail fin.

  ‘Garoupa!’ Rick shouted. ‘It’s a fooking garoupa!’

  The fish had started its final run, swinging around to the rear of the boat, the line slicing through the air. Dave a
nd I ducked, almost too late, and nearly got scalped, much to Rick’s amusement; Dave patted his afro to make sure it was still there. The fish surfaced again, this time rolling over languidly, its huge pink belly like a giant shiny blancmange in the sunlight. It was bigger than our dinghy!

  ‘How the fuck are we going to land that?’ The fish was more or less finished and was lolling around on the surface, only occasionally righting itself for a token dive before it came back up. ‘I’ve never seen a fish that big before,’ I said shaking my head at the sight.

  ‘It’s fuckin’ huge, man. And ugly too.’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ Rick said, sweating from the exertion, ‘I haven’t seen a fish that big either.’

  I don’t think any of us really thought we’d be at the point of actually catching it, and none of us were sure what to do next.

  ‘What are we going to do with it?’

  Dave looked at me. ‘Eat it?’

  ‘It’s six-foot long, Dave! And about six-foot wide. How can we eat that between three of us? Be serious, that’d feed a family of four for a month!’

  ‘It’ll taste like shit, anyway,’ Rick said knowledgeably, and we both looked up at him. ‘It’s too old.’

  ‘How d’you know it’s old?’ I said.

  ‘Look at him! No fish gets to be that big without being very, very old.’

  We all stared for a moment, and I said, ‘What then?’

  ‘Let him go.’ Rick sat down on the edge of the deck. ‘Dave, there’s a pair of pliers in that tool kit down below, go and get them.’

  Dave went off and came back with the whole toolbox, opening it up on deck. ‘These?’

  Rick looked up. ‘Yep.’ I reached up and grabbed them. ‘Right,’ Rick said, easing himself down onto the low platform next to me, ‘I’ll reel him in to the back of the boat. John, you take out the hook.’

  ‘Me?’ I exclaimed, slightly taken aback at the idea.

  He nodded.

  I held the pliers out to him. ‘You take the fucking hook out.’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a pussy.’

  ‘Yeah, John,’ Dave said from the safety of the deck, ‘don’t be a pussy.’

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ I said, shaking my head vigorously.

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘Nope.’ I pushed the pliers into his chest.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Cause I don’t want to get my hand bitten off, that’s why not.’

  Rick laughed. ‘They haven’t got teeth. Anyway, that thing’s so old it’s probably lost all his by now.’ The fish, as if insulted, tried a final run, but gave up almost as soon as it had started. Rick reeled it in like a piece of flotsam until it was floating right beneath our feet.

  I still held the pliers out to Rick. He sighed. ‘Oh, OK, you hold the rod and I’ll take the hook out.’ We exchanged implements. ‘Now pull him round, John. Bring the mouth towards me.’ He knelt down and I pulled the rod to one side with all of my strength. I couldn’t believe how much effort it took just to get the fish to rotate in the water. I wondered how on earth Rick had managed to play it for over thirty minutes.

  Rick tilted his head and looked at me. ‘If he runs, for Christ’s sake don’t let go of that rod.’ He reached out and grabbed hold of the line, pulling the fish through ninety degrees so that they were head to head. ‘Great, just lipped him. Slacken off a bit, John.’

  I dropped the rod down a foot and Rick grasped the hook with the pliers and twisted it free, taking a two-inch chunk of lip with it. The fish was full of battle scars so I don’t think a split lip bothered it.

  ‘Look at the size of that mouth, boy. Whoo-ee!’ Dave jumped down between us. ‘And those lips, like fuckin’ liver sausage.’

  I couldn’t have put it better myself. Its mouth was two feet in diameter and rimmed by a pair of lips as full and round as a salami. ‘Is it dead?’ I asked, gingerly leaning closer, the fish’s big inky eye staring blankly back.

  ‘No, but it will be if it doesn’t get oxygen. It needs to move through the sea so that the water passes over its gills.’ Rick held one of its dinner plate-sized gill flaps open, revealing thousands of soft, feathery red ridges, all in rows. He looked around and swore. ‘We’ll have to use the dinghy. Dave, get the dinghy untied.’

  Dave went over to the dinghy and stopped halfway. ‘What for?’

  ‘We’re going to row out. I’ll hold the fish and you row. We can’t use the boat, it’ll take too long.’

  So, five minutes later, with Rick hanging over the back of the dinghy holding on to the fish and Dave pulling on the oars for all he was worth, they edged away at a pathetic speed. ‘Can’t you row faster, Dave?’ Rick said, looking under his arm.

  Dave put his back into it and one of the oars snapped, sending him sprawling and cracking his head on the hard plastic shell of the dinghy. He cursed, rubbing his head. ‘Now what?’

  I don’t know if the fish just needed the rest or whether it had been given enough oxygen, but it turned over from its side onto its front, and with one flick of its tail, drenched the two of them and swam off.

  I looked into the distance to catch another glimpse but it was gone. It was only then that I noticed just how dark the sky had become.

  THREE

  Being at sea is a bit like being in the desert; when the weather changes you get warned in advance because of the amount of unobstructed space. Nothing creeps up on you at sea, unless of course you’re too preoccupied with a big fish to notice. If we’d have taken time to look up at the sky that morning we would have seen the clouds boiling up in the distance. As it was we didn’t even realise that the sun had been blocked out; it was the first time we’d been in shade in two weeks and that there was no longer enough light to see the corals.

  Rick looked at me from the dinghy and then looked skywards, the smile he’d been wearing as we watched the fish swim away instantly disappearing. All of the muscles that were used to hold the grin suddenly relaxed and his whole expression dropped an inch. I didn’t need to be a meteorologist to know that the sudden appearance of cloud, plus the alarmed look on Rick’s face, equalled bad weather.

  Dave looked up too and frowned, making an O-shape with his mouth. ‘This looks bad... ’ I heard him say, before a roll of thunder in the distance obliterated the rest of the sentence. He pulled the remaining oar out of its holder and started to paddle them back in, canoe-style.

  Within minutes the wind began to pick up and it started to rain.

  ‘We’ve got three choices,’ Rick said as we crammed into the small radio room-cum-galley. I think he must have been talking to Dave more than me because he started to use technical terms that I’d never heard before. Dave was nodding, so I assumed that he recognised the vocabulary and I just nodded anyway. ‘We can stay anchored here and hope that we don’t get torn off the anchorage. If we do break free we’re going to get battered on the rocks, guaranteed. Or we can look around the island for a beach and moor offshore. That way we can take the dinghy and paddle in if the boat breaks loose. At least we won’t be on it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The problem with that is we don’t even know if the island’s inhabited.’

  ‘Why do we need to do anything?’ I asked. ‘Maybe it’s not a bad storm.’

  Rick leaned across me and flicked a switch on the radio. It buzzed and crackled with static, nothing else. He switched it off as though my question had been answered. ‘There’s nothing coming through, John. Either all of the radios on all the boats in the vicinity have broken down, which is very unlikely, or that’s a typhoon and it’s buggered all reception. I’ve tried every channel and there’s nothing.’

  Dave looked sceptical and leaned back against the stainless steel sink. ‘Typhoon?’

  ‘Either that or a very bad tropical storm.’ He reflected for a moment and added, ‘It’s not strictly typhoon season, but weather patterns around here can be pretty weird. I’ve seen it before.’

  I leaned against the ladder that led up to the deck as the boa
t rolled gently. ‘Number three?’

  Rick looked blankly at me.

  ‘You said we had three choices. What’s the third one?’

  He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘We put up the sail and head off to Bali; try to ride it out, get in front of it. It looks like it’s coming from the north-east so that should suit us, seeing as how we want to go south.’

  I sat down on a rung. ‘I don’t know, you two are the experts, I’m only here for the ride. You decide.’

  ‘Dave?’

  Dave shook his head, thought for a moment and said, ‘I think we should go for it. At least then we’d be moving along. You know what it’s like in a boat without forward motion.’

  I didn’t know, but I guessed from his expression that it wasn’t a pleasant experience. I pictured a person riding a bike, and the ease with which it’s done providing one has forward motion. As soon as you stop pedalling, the bike tips over. I supposed that a boat in a storm was a bit like a push-bike.

  ‘What time is it?’

  Dave checked the clock. ‘Twelve.’

  Rick put his hands flat against the ceiling. ‘OK. We’ll try to make it to Bali. John, you get the life jackets out; they’re in the bedroom beneath the bed. Dave, how’s the GPS working?’

  ‘Seems OK.’ He turned on the stool and started to fiddle with some knobs.

  ‘I hope so. With so much cloud cover we won’t see the sun or the stars.’

  There was a flurry of activity and noise as each of us went in different directions. Dave went to the controls while Rick ran out on deck to untie us. I heard him curse as he went up, and then the sound of his footsteps thumping above my head. Rummaging around beneath the bed I pulled out a crate full of life jackets and put one on. It stank of mildew so I took if off again, intending to wash it in the sea, when I heard Dave say something that left me cold.

  ‘Oh no... ’

  It wasn’t a loud ‘Oh no’, but it was the way he said it that was so ominous. Not full of alarm, but the sort of ‘Oh no’ you express when you hand in an exam paper to an invigilator, realising too late that you’ve added up a sum incorrectly.