Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘“And does caviar not require refrigeration?” he asked.

  ‘“Vladivostok has been sending fish to Moscow since 1916. The ice cars exist because my father was an engineer seconded from the army to work on the Trans-Siberian Railway. The Turks controlled the Black Sea when a desperate shortage of fish occurred. One of his tasks was to send fish across Russia to Moscow, so he built twenty ice-making depots from Moscow to Vladivostok. Then he designed a four-axle wooden ice car that loaded ice through its roof hatches. The complete plans for the cars and the ice-making depots are among his papers.”

  ‘“Well, it’s a madcap idea that may just work with the right social introductions. As you say, everything is in the perception and, as conventional wisdom would have it, it’s not what you know but who you know, and I imagine I’ll be able to open a few of the right doors with letters of introduction.”

  ‘“When you travel to America will you introduce my caviar to your rich friends?” I pleaded. “That is, of course, if my product is of the very highest quality?”

  ‘He was silent for a while, then said, “Why not? It might be fun. I’ll throw a big party.” I longed to go with him but knew Big Boss Yu would greatly disapprove. Having an affair with Sir Victor was taking too big a chance as it was, but I was too much in love to give him up.’

  We had long since eaten the cray, along with fresh bread and butter, and had drunk another cup of tea. It was getting a bit chilly and a fairly stiff breeze had sprung up. I’d been so intrigued by the story Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan was telling us that I hadn’t noticed the change in the sky and the sudden drop in temperature. We had been totally sheltered, but I now realised the extent of the wind – it was no longer a breeze and the water in the bay was becoming choppy. It was just after one o’clock and I decided it was time to get back. ‘I don’t like the look of the sky,’ I said. ‘Think it might be time to head home.’

  Jimmy looked at me quickly. He’d picked up the hint of concern in my voice. ‘It okay, Brother Fish?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but we’d better get goin’ – this time of year the winds on the Strait can be tricky.’ I could have kicked myself. It is a ritual for every fisherman out on the Strait to listen to the weather ‘scheds’ from Hobart Radio. There were three of these a day and I’d tuned into the seven a.m. report, which had forecast a high-pressure zone over Bass Strait. The next had been at three minutes past one p.m. and I’d just missed it, too busy listening to the story to take the dinghy back to the boat to tune in. The third forecast was scheduled for five-fifteen p.m. We were six hours’ sailing from Livingston, which was about four hours as the crow flies but due to the myriad rocks and reefs three miles or so offshore and south of the harbour we’d have to keep well out for safety, which would add another two hours. With a bit of luck, a fair wind and, if necessary, the use of the engine, we would be home just after eight p.m., an hour after sundown. I’d only had a few days sailing the Janthe and it takes a lot longer than that to become totally familiar with a new boat, so I wanted to be cautious. Alf would always say, ‘Mistress Caution is a fisherman’s best friend; only fools and drunks take chances. ’

  Jack McGinty, the printing foreman on the Gazette and a keen amateur weather buff, took barometric readings three times every day, which he passed on to the Hobart Weather Bureau. The bureau, in turn, would give him a complete run-down for the next few hours. If you missed a ‘sched’ you called Jack, simple as that, so I wasn’t too worried.

  We went aboard but had a bit of trouble with the winch that hoisted the dinghy, so it was nearly one-thirty when we pulled anchor. I turned the engine key to the heat position and held it for ten seconds so the glow plugs heated to the point where I could push the starter, fire the diesel–air mixture into the cylinders and fire the motor. I was tempted to move out, but nothing wears a diesel out quicker than running it at high revs while the engine is cold. So I waited a further ten minutes, pushed the throttle lever up and, spinning the wheel, moved the Janthe out of the lagoon. Fifteen minutes out to sea we hoisted sail. It was now just after two o’clock.

  I contacted Jack McGinty and told him we were on our way, and he told me what I didn’t want to hear. A low-pressure system was developing and moving over the Strait. Not good news, but not all that unusual. I gave Jack our position and asked him to inform the Listening Watch on Hobart Radio as a precaution.

  The Janthe responded well to the quickening breeze and I began to feel a little better, although the wind was getting decidedly cooler and the seas were growing. The boat started to rock with a steady rhythm that meant the wind had moved slightly. I called over to Jimmy to take the wheel, and adjusted the sail. But when, an hour later, the rocking progressed to an elongated roll I decided to lower the sail and run only on the engine. Pretty soon the rolling increased even further and the engine revs increased as the boat started to slide down the seas that were now coming from behind.

  At three-thirty p.m. the wind was still picking up, the cloud racing from the south-west tearing at the sun, which appeared in brilliant glimpses. As you will have gathered by now, I am not an optimist. Jimmy was a fast learner and had picked up a bit from being out on the various cray boats as temporary crew, but he was still a long way from being competent. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan was a self-confessed landlubber, despite her background in shipping. She was apt to get violently seasick and I could see she was already growing very pale, trying to hide her distraught expression by turning away from me. ‘Better go below, Countess. Take the sick bucket,’ I yelled over the wind, and watched as she struggled to get below deck. ‘Grab a blanket!’ I shouted at her back. It was the best I could do. It was better to have her out of the way, even though being below deck was likely to make her seasickness worse. With Jimmy only half a capable deckie I had more than enough on my plate as it was, and in big seas like this I didn’t want her on deck.

  Jimmy came into the wheelhouse, his huge frame filling almost all the available space, his head touching the ceiling. ‘How we goin’, Brother Fish?’

  I searched my mind for something positive to say. ‘The sea is up our arse and not against us, which means we’ll save fuel and get home quicker.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ he replied. ‘We got trouble, eh?’

  ‘Not yet, mate. It’s probably a passing cold front and then we’ll have a nor’easterly swell, which will help a fair bit.’

  ‘Yoh done did dis before?’ he asked.

  ‘This much, sure. Don’t know what’s yet to come, mate – could be we’re in for a bumpy ride.’

  I’d used up all the optimism I had and I hadn’t fooled Jimmy. He might not be a good sailor yet but, like so many kids with his kind of background, he was expert at gauging someone else’s state of mind. ‘Here, hang onto the wheel – I want to check the barometer.’ I shifted places with him and showed him how to hold onto the wheel, let her move a bit, go with it and then when it slackened off, correct her to keep on course. I knew from experience that while we were less than twenty miles from shore, in a wrong sea we might as well be halfway to South America. Jimmy may well need to take his turn at the wheel.

  By the time we were off Livingston, any hope of getting into the harbour was out of the question. The entrance to Livingston Harbour is shallow with a series of low-lying rocks directly in front of it. Even in calm weather you had to know your way in, as many a visiting sailor had discovered in the past. In these conditions any attempt to enter the harbour would be an act of insanity and we would almost certainly lose our lives in the process. So near and yet so far, but that’s the nature of sailing – the sea dictates everything.

  I thought for a moment that the barometer must be out of order – it was down to a fraction under twenty-nine inches. I was getting out of my depth – I had never seen the glass so low at sea before. Alf used to keep a barometer at home and I’d seen it lower on land, but never at sea. He would describe the prevailing conditions out to sea at a given reading, and as kids we’d listened, fascinated,
as he talked about the changing waves and winds and what a boat must do to handle the conditions. I hoped to Christ that I’d remember a bit of what he’d said.

  There was a small natural harbour on the northern point of Queen Island. In fair sailing time it was four hours away, and if I could get through the narrow gap between the island and Navarine Reef it might provide shelter. There was a lighthouse built on the top of Cape Wickham that could be seen at night for ten miles out to sea. Although I hoped at least to have reached the shelter of the small harbour before dark, if we didn’t make it the light might guide us in.

  With the seas behind us I had to try to slow the vessel. This is done by making a drogue – that is, tying anything you can to a piece of rope and tossing it into the water behind the boat. The craypots were already tied together and I lifted them one by one in sequence until they were all in the water at the stern, the drag they created slowing her somewhat. I did the same with the sea anchor. This gave me just sufficient control to hold the vessel, although we were still tearing along much too fast for comfort and if the waves and the wind increased I would be back with a boat I couldn’t steer with confidence.

  I took the wheel from Jimmy and altered course to the north-east once we’d cleared New Year Island. It was an hour after sundown and already black as pitch. By now I simply dared not leave the helm. In these conditions helming required all the skill I possessed and then some. With the seas running behind us we were doing in excess of twenty knots at times and this kind of speed required me to be absolutely one with the boat, tuned into her every movement down the huge watery slopes. The slightest movement to one side or the other in the downward plunge required me to turn the wheel as fast as I possibly could in the opposite direction, at the same time applying all the power the diesel could deliver so that the vessel didn’t broach.

  Perhaps I can explain. When a boat surfs down a wave, if she should remain unchecked in her rapid descent the boat will suddenly veer to port or starboard. This means the vessel is going in one direction one moment, and a moment later has turned ninety degrees to port or starboard. Imagine a motor car moving at high speed and then attempting to negotiate a tight corner on the side of a mountain – it will leave the road and tumble over the edge to oblivion. It is exactly the same with a boat, which will simply roll over and continue to do so until perhaps it rights itself – by which time you are history, anyway.

  It had now stopped raining, but to negate this small blessing the wind was now gusting at over a hundred miles per hour. I could quite simply take in the mountain of water that was building up behind us. I’d been in the odd bad storm before, though never in control at the helm, but I’d never seen anything like this. The water simply rose and rose. The Janthe was little more than a surfboard on a giant wave. I worked the wheel with all my strength in a frantic effort to keep her straight. I must have been doing around thirty-five knots as the bow dug in and the boat skewed sideways with a terrifying jerk.

  I turned on the sounder to measure the height of the waves we were sliding down, although I’d angled the Janthe so that we were moving away from the waves halfway between stern-on and side-on. This was a compromise between the safety of a stern-on run down the wave and the possibility of a rollover, which can occur if a boat is struck with sufficient force by a rogue wave, a notorious possibility on the shallow bottom of Bass Strait. The sounder indicated that the wall of water coming behind us was forty feet high. As every seaman knows, if the waves on the Strait are forty feet then it’s only a matter of time before you meet up with what’s known in the fisherman’s vernacular as a ‘rouger’ – a wave half as high again, or even higher.

  We’d gone another hour and were level with Cape Wickham. I made the decision to avoid the gap between the cape and Navarine Reef. What should have been the passage was now occupied by set after set of hundred-foot breakers. The wind had shifted back to south-south-west, so I decided to run for it for a further ten miles before making a turn that would have the effect of putting the sea almost directly on our nose. It was going to be one hell of a punch, but every mile forward would be a mile closer to the safety of the east coast of the island.

  ‘Jimmy, get below and strap the Countess in. See she’s wrapped in a blanket – it’s going to get a lot rougher before we’re through. Then get back here.’ Jimmy turned to leave. ‘Oh, and tell her there’s nothing to worry about,’ I grinned, hoping he wouldn’t catch on to my concern. I spun the wheel to starboard and headed into the unadulterated mountains of shit that now lay in front of us.

  Jimmy grinned back and said something, but he’d opened the wheelhouse door and the roaring of the wind drowned him out. We’d been out for over ten hours and I estimated we’d come more than eighty miles and were at least eight miles from shore. Punching into the waves I needed to see what might be coming at us, so I turned on the C47 light. Holy shit! I couldn’t believe it! We could see with almost absolute clarity what was coming our way from 200 yards out. I promised myself if we came out of this alive I’d drop a note to Mike Munday to thank him for his ‘overkill’ Dakota landing light. At least I’d have a bit of warning if a truly big one came at us.

  Of course it came. Half an hour later a sixty-foot wall of water came rushing at us. The light allowed me to spin the wheel starboard to meet it head on. I pulled the revs back to reduce our speed and lessen the inevitable collision. The wave struck, but almost immediately the Janthe started to slowly climb the slope of the wave (Alf again, watching over us). We reached the top and began to slide down the other side. And so it went – up and down, with each wave seeming to be the one that would bring the boat finally undone.

  By this stage the wind was registering sixty knots, with gusts up to seventy-five knots. Technically speaking we were right in the middle of a hurricane on a stretch of water known worldwide for its ferocity. For those who may know little about Bass Strait, it used to be a land bridge to the Australian mainland before the rising seas flooded it. This means it’s pretty shallow, so when massive waves roll in from the Indian Ocean on one side and from the Tasman on the other, and warm tropical air from the Pacific Ocean off the New South Wales coast moves down, you have the beginnings of a disaster. The low pressure formed over the Strait sucks cold air from the Southern Ocean and suddenly you’ve got a hurricane that affects the winds and the tides in a totally unpredictable manner that can be catastrophic. We were now in the dead centre of such a performance.

  Jimmy wasn’t back yet, and I was beginning to worry. The wheelhouse is the most stable position on a boat such as the Janthe. He was down in the fo’c’sle, and if he wasn’t strapped in he was in serious trouble. A man of his size – in fact, even someone my size – could be thrown up against the deck beams and easily sustain a cracked skull. If he’d secured Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan she’d be safe, and hopefully he’d done the same to himself in the other bunk. But it wasn’t like Jimmy to take the safe option, and I’d instructed him to return to the wheelhouse. The problem was that I couldn’t leave the helm.

  We travelled just ten nautical miles in the past seven hours and daylight didn’t bring any change to the weather. It was approaching seven o’clock on the morning following our departure from Livingston and the conditions, if anything, were getting worse. The speed of the waves was often so fast that the Janthe would be suspended in mid-air with only a small length of the rear portion of the boat in contact with the water. We would fall fifteen feet before meeting the water again, and Jimmy was below in all this. I felt a weird sort of panic growing within me – not because of the sea that threatened to kill us but at the prospect of losing my mate because I’d acted like a bloody skipper, telling him to secure the Countess and then report back to the wheelhouse. I could have easily told him to strap himself in for several hours until the storm died down. I could hang on alone another four or five hours before I’d have to take a break from the wheel. I turned the radio on for the seven o’clock weather report.

  ‘Here is the for
ecast at 0.700 hours.

  Situation: A slow-moving high is situated in the Bight and a very deep depression has developed in mid Bass Strait and is moving slowly to the north-east.

  Here is the forecast: There is a storm warning for all Tasmanian coastal waters.

  East Coast: Gale-force south-east to south-westerly winds with an increasing high southerly swell.

  Tasman Island to Cape Sorrell: Gale force winds from the south-west with high to very high sou’westerly swells increasing during the day.

  Cape Sorrell to Rocky Cape including all of Bass Strait: West to south-west wind changes of sixty to seventy knots extending from the west this morning and increasing to ninety knots in Bass Strait this afternoon. Signed Weather Hobart . . . all ships, this is Hobart Radio. I have traffic on hand for the Denalis, Western Star and Janthe.’

  Well, they knew we were out here somewhere, but a fat lot of good that would do. It was pointless trying to get them back – there wasn’t anything they could do. So I turned the radio off. I now knew that things couldn’t get a lot worse, and we’d survived so far. But life is never like that – I guess it never rains but it pours. I’d hardly completed the thought when the bilge alarm started to ring in the wheelhouse. We were taking water, so I switched on the electric bilge pumps and hoped for the best. I needed to check the engine room urgently. Christ help us if the water was coming in there. The other likely place was the fo’c’sle where Jimmy and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan were. I couldn’t leave the wheel, and was trying to think how I might tie it so that I could go and take a look when I saw Jimmy crawling towards me. He disappeared from my view almost immediately but not before I’d seen that his head and face appeared to be covered in blood. Then there was a banging on the wheelhouse door and I opened it to let him in and nearly passed out with shock – Jimmy’s skull was cracked wide open.

  ‘Fuck!’ I yelled.