The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  Graham looked around and saw that Andrew’s skiff was skimming along level with them only five-metres to leeward, and also saw that Luke and Blake were both leaning out using a trapeze. ‘That’s not fair!’ he thought, then realised it probably was.

  The girls had waited until both boys’ boats were underway before they sprang into action. They launched their boat and set off in pursuit.

  For a while Graham was too interested in the race to think of anything else. It was only after the initial excitement had worn off that he remembered the shark. A surreptitious look around revealed no sign of a fin in the tumble of wavetops. He soon forgot about it and concentrated on the sailing.

  Each boat followed a different tactic on the upwind beat. Andrew opted for a long starboard tack which would ultimately take his skiff several kilometres out to sea. Peter went for a series of short tacks to keep them as close to the direct line as possible, the port tacks bringing them close in to the beach. The girls opted for a series of longer tacks. This made it very difficult for the boys to judge how they were going in relation to the others.

  They watched Andrew’s skiff getting smaller and smaller as it plunged on into the head sea, apparently heading for the horizon.

  “Strewth! Where’s he heading for? New Zealand?” Max asked.

  “Why are they doing that, heading out to sea?” Roger asked. He was kept soaking wet by the spray battering in as they met each wave.

  Peter bit his lip in indecision. “I think he is hoping for better wind further out. And maybe he hopes to lose less speed and distance with fewer tacks.”

  Graham tried to remember what he had heard and read about racing. Was it best to stick close to their opponent in a tacking duel, or to go their own way? Graham watched the girls’ skiff come about onto the port tack. It was at least a kilometre out. The boys did three tacks before the girls came in close, still running on the port tack. He measured the speed and distance by eye and shook his head.

  “They are ahead of us. They are going to pass us to windward,” he said.

  “If we stay on this course we could collide,” Roger said.

  “Keep going! Cut them off!” Max cried.

  “No,” Graham replied. “That’s against the rules. It is the responsibility of both boats to avoid a collision.”

  Peter held his course, his eyes continually judging the distance.

  “What are you going to do?” Roger cried.

  “Nothing,” Peter replied. “They are on the port tack, and there’s a rule which says that port tack yachts have to keep out of the way of starboard tack yachts. And another says that the windward yacht must keep out of the way of leeward yachts.”

  “What if they don’t know the rules?” Graham asked anxiously, seeing how close the other skiff now was.

  Peter grinned. “Then we lodge a complaint; after we collide!”

  Even as he said this the girls’ skiff turned and seemed to aim straight towards them. Peter grunted and held his course. Roger cried out in dismay but Graham relaxed. They would now miss.

  The girls’ skiff shaved close under their stern and Kylie shouted, “Time for Capsize Drill boys!”

  “Keep out of our way!” Max yelled back.

  The girls laughed and resumed their port tack, heading rapidly in towards the beach. Graham saw that they were also using a trapeze to help balance their boat. Jennifer was leaning as far out as she could, her golden hair streaming in the wind.

  “Stand by to go about!” Peter called.

  They changed to the port tack and headed after the girls. They followed them right in to near the beach. Graham saw that the girls had managed to eat up to windward and that they had crossed ahead of them to regain the windward position.

  A few hundred metres from the beach the girls came about onto the starboard tack and headed out to sea. Peter held their course till they were closer in.

  “Too close in Pete,” Graham said. “We are getting into rougher water.”

  They tacked just short of the breaker line. That confirmed what Graham had suspected. “We need to tack further out. This close in the waves are touching bottom. That makes them steeper and closer together.”

  At that moment the skiff met a wave so high and steep Graham feared it would break and swamp them. Water swirled over the hull but the skiff rose. She went up and over so fast that the mast jerked savagely, making all the standing rigging tremble and twang. For a while Graham feared they would be dismasted but he was pre-occupied trying to keep his grip and to hold the sheet taut.

  They made it safely back into less troubled water. Graham saw with dismay that the girls seemed to be a long way ahead. Andrew’s boat was now so far out he could only see it as a tiny white triangle when they rose on a wavetop.

  “Is Andrew still going out or heading in?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the glare.

  “Coming in,” Peter said. “I saw them come about a moment ago.”

  The boys held to their policy of short tacks but turned further from the beach on the inshore runs. As they crossed the curve of Cook Bay off Clifton Beach this was progressively easier to do. The tree covered mass of Taylor Point began to bulk larger on each tack. They could distinguish individual trees and see the detail of houses.

  The girls had done a long starboard tack out to sea and now came back in again, apparently shaving the edge of the rocks which ringed the point. Andrew’s skiff was about a hundred metres in their wake.

  “They are going to beat us,” Peter said.

  “We are too much in the lee of Taylor Point, I think,” Graham said. “It is blanketing the wind.”

  “It’s slowed them down too now. See how their sails are shivering and flapping,” Max observed.

  Peter nodded. “Yes, but they will both reach the beach in one more tack. We need to do three more,” he said gloomily.

  He was right. The boys were only just going into their last tack right in the bight of Cook Bay when the girls beached their boat, jumped out, turned it and started their run to Double Island. Andrew’s skiff was after them within two minutes but was now about two-hundred metres behind. By the time the boys had beached and turned the other boats were a kilometre or more ahead.

  “We will never catch them now!” Max cried despondently.

  “We will try,” Peter replied. “Get in and let’s go.”

  They shoved off and followed but the issue was never in doubt. If anything they fell further behind. The girls maintained their lead and were almost back to the start before the boys rounded the anchored yacht near Double Island. They came in a long way last, a good ten-minutes behind the others.

  By the time the boys beached their boat the others had been to the shop and were eating ice-creams and drinking soft-drinks.

  Kylie was gleeful. “We won! We won!” she cried as the boys pulled their boat up the beach.

  “You did not. You weren’t in the race,” Andrew replied. He didn’t look happy and obviously wasn’t amused when his sister teased him.

  The boys wanted to get a drink but Peter looked at his watch and stopped them.

  “Our two hours is up. We will have to pay for another hour if we don’t return the boat now.”

  “We’ll help you pack,” Andrew offered. “Here, have a corn chip.”

  They unrigged and returned the boat, went to the shop, then sat in a group in the shade.

  “Do we race again?” Andrew asked. “Or do you admit defeat?”

  “Race again of course,” Peter replied. “It was just a lucky fluke you won today.”

  “He didn’t win. We did,” Carmen insisted.

  Andrew scowled and ignored his sister. “When? And where?”

  “When can we all make it?” Peter asked. They discussed this.

  “Can’t be next weekend,” Andrew reminded. “We go into camp on Friday evening.”

  “Where do you go for camp?” Peter asked.

  “Townsville,” Andrew replied.

  “What are you going to
do?” Peter asked.

  “I am doing a training course for promotion from Seaman to Able Seaman,” Andrew answered. He smiled and was obviously looking forward to it. On hearing that Graham felt a sharp stab of jealousy.

  Peter nodded. “Can we race again this week?” he asked. He looked around their faces. Simmo was the only one who shook his head. “I’m off visiting ‘rellies’ until Thursday."

  “Friday then?” Peter asked.

  “Er... ye-es. I suppose so,” Andrew agreed, pulling at his left ear-lobe. “Where?”

  “Here?”

  “Hmm. If we have to. It’s a bit inconvenient though,” Andrew replied.

  Carmen backed him up. “Mum has to do two trips with the boat trailer. It’s a long drive and a lot of to-ing and fro-ing.”

  Max agreed. “Expensive hiring these boats too,” he grumbled.

  The problem stumped them for a while so they talked around it.

  Andrew gestured at the nearby boat. “I’m not happy with these skiffs either,” he said. “They are really only designed for two people, three at the most. With four they are badly overloaded. It makes them unstable and slows them down.”

  “What do we do then?” Peter asked. “Drop a crew member each or what?”

  “We could drop Max,” Graham said, “over the bloody side.”

  “I’ll drop you!” Max snapped back.

  “Stop it you two!” Peter ordered.

  Carmen looked thoughtful. “What about bigger boats?” she suggested.

  “Like what?” Andrew asked.

  “Twenty foot catamarans,” Carmen replied.

  “That’s fine!” Andrew cried. “We own one, but which of us gets it?”

  “Me of course! It was my idea,” Carmen replied with a laugh. “You could borrow one from Cadets.”

  “What about us? Where do we get one?” Roger asked.

  Peter suddenly slapped his forehead. “Oh! I’m a fool! We own a cat. Grandad built it years ago and it’s been parked in the shed for years.”

  “What sort is it?” Andrew asked.

  “Don’t know. I don’t think it’s a standard design. It’s a home-made job. It’s a fair size though, half the length of the house I guess. I’ve never actually seen it out of the shed.”

  “Can you move it?” Blake asked.

  “It’s on a trailer - I think,” Peter replied.

  “You only live a couple of blocks from the Esplanade don’t you?” Carmen said.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Peter replied.

  “Maybe you could put it in the water there? We could race in the Inlet then. That would save a lot of driving and trouble.”

  Peter tugged his chin. “Possibly. I’ll have to look. We might need a boat ramp.”

  “It would depend on the tide too,” Luke put in. “You wouldn’t sail very far at low tide.”

  They all laughed, remembering the vast mudflat which every low tide exposed off the Cairns foreshore.

  “It’s something to investigate,” Peter said. “I’ll have a look and let you know.”

  “Can we help?” Graham asked.

  “Sure. Come over tomorrow morning and we will dig the old cat out,” Peter replied.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE OLD CAT

  The next morning Graham wheeled out his bicycle to pedal over to Peter’s. To his annoyance Kylie insisted on coming; and on picking Margaret up on the way. They also collected Roger en route. Max had said he wasn’t coming because he had to help his father around the house.

  Peter was waiting for them, being irritated by his little brother Paul, who Graham privately thought was a little toad. They parked their bikes and Peter led them around to the side of the house, a high-set ‘Old Queenslander’ set in a large lawn.

  “There it is,” Peter said, pointing under a roof built out from the side of the house. Graham could see why Peter had forgotten the Cat’s existence. The front part of the shed was used as a garage. Behind the car were some drums, then a stack of old boxes and furniture which completely obscured what was behind. From the side the catamaran was all but hidden by hanging baskets, old bags and boxes, odd bundles and a rusty bicycle.

  Mrs Bronsky leaned out the kitchen window. “Don’t you children make a mess,” she called.

  “No Mum,” Peter replied.

  “And put it all back where you found it!”

  “Yes Mum.”

  Under Peter’s direction they began removing objects from along the side and top of the boat. Roger moved a bundle of old cloth and dropped it, then waved his hands at the resultant billowing of dust.

  “Pssshaw! I’ll bet this hasn’t been disturbed in years.”

  “It hasn’t,” Peter replied with a grin. “Great hoarders the Bronsky’s.”

  Margaret gave a shriek and dropped a cardboard carton. “Eek! Oh! Cockroaches! Look at all the cockroaches!”

  These diverted them for a few minutes, which were spent emptying old boxes of worm-eaten books and killing cockroaches and silver fish. Graham dusted down several of the old titles and flicked through them. “Hmm. These might be interesting to read.”

  “Not now. Let’s uncover the boat. You can browse later,” Peter replied.

  As they uncovered more of the Cat, Graham felt a mounting sense of excitement. But this began to change as he saw how old and dirty the boat was. The last covering, a rotten old tarpaulin, was dragged off by Roger and they stood and stared at the Cat.

  Used as they were to the bright plastic catamarans and sailboats, the Old Cat looked shoddy and bedraggled. Graham felt disappointed and a little bit ashamed. He had pinned high hopes on their find and felt sorry for Peter as he moved forward to touch the hull.

  “Ye Gods!” Roger exclaimed. “This looks like it was one of the lifeboats on the Ark!”

  “Looks like a heap of junk to me,” Peter said, but his face reflected hope. He blew some dust off and leaned to look into one of the hulls.

  Graham met Kylie’s eyes. She shrugged and looked sympathetic. She moved forward next to Peter. “It will look better when we get it out and clean it up.”

  Peter smiled at her and agreed. “Come on! Hands on. Let’s get her out in the open.”

  With some difficulty they manoeuvred the boat on its trailer so these could be hauled out of the side of the shed. Both of the tyres on the trailer were flat, the rubber long perished, which made the job more awkward.

  They could at least see the shape of the vessel then and it at least looked like a catamaran. Peter picked up the hose and they set vigorously to work to loosen and scrub off the grime and cobwebs.

  Unlike modern cats she was only half-decked, so the water collected in the open hulls. Graham and Roger bailed this out onto the lawn while the girls set to, drying and polishing with old rags. When it was done they stood back and looked at her.

  “She looks a lot better now,” Kylie said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “She looks good,” Peter said. He was obviously pleased with their discovery and proud of his Grandfather’s craftsmanship.

  That the Cat was home-made was obvious. Peter set to work with a ruler and measured the basic dimensions. Graham stood and studied the vessel.

  She had two long, slim hulls. These were joined together by five solid timber planks each about five centimetres thick and ten centimetres wide. The hulls were made of some sort of sheet metal, like smooth roofing iron. Peter stepped back and said, “Six point one five-metres long.”

  “What a funny measurement,” Max said.

  Peter shook his head. “It would have been made to the old Imperial measurements, you know, feet and inches, like the Yanks still use.”

  He did a conversion and completed measuring. This revealed that the Old Cat was twenty-feet long and each hull two-feet in the beam (about 0.6 of a metre). The front third was decked over by plywood, as was a bit over a metre at the stern. The bows even had a straight stem and a nice clean run to them but the sterns ended in a square, flat transom board, to which
the metal had been screwed.

  There had once been a close-mesh net between the hulls but it had mostly rotted away. Graham tried to guess at what her freeboard would be when loaded.

  “Are those hatchways, or lockers or something?” he asked, pointing to the objects in question.

  “Don’t know. Let’s get her off the trailer so we can look at her better,” Peter said.

  They grouped around her and on Peter’s command lifted.

  “Oh, that’s OK!” Roger said. “She’s not as heavy as I expected.”

  “No. The four of us should be able to carry her alright,” Peter agreed.

  They laid the Cat on the lawn and began to explore more thoroughly.

  “Check for rot or rust or any holes,” Peter instructed.

  Graham found that what he thought was a locker was shut with an ordinary gate bolt. It had long since rusted solid.

  Peter looked at it and shook his head. “Nothing for it. We will have to use a bit of force.”

  He went and got some machine oil and gently dripped some on all the rusted fittings he could find. Then he used a hammer and screwdriver to carefully, but firmly, break the rust’s grip.

  Luckily the hinges were brass, which, although corroded, still allowed them to lever up the small hatch cover. They peered excitedly in, to be rewarded with a fetid stench and the sight of a rusty anchor and even more rusty chain.

  Graham pointed to a cross bulkhead.

  “This locker only takes up half this covered space. Can we get into the forward part?”

  They couldn’t. No opening was visible.

  “I think it’s a buoyancy space,” Peter said. “I’ll write to dad and ask him.”

  “What’s in the other locker?” Kylie wondered.

  They moved across to the other hull and forced open the small black hatch.

  “Nothing,” Peter replied.

  “What was it used for I wonder?” Kylie asked.

  “Dunno. Spare sails or ropes maybe,” Peter replied. He fingered several stainless steel rings bolted to the solid timber frames which comprised the thwarts. “For the shrouds I suppose.”

  They next examined the stern of each hull. In each there was a small door in the front of the covered space. These gave access to two small lockers, each about sixty-centimetre long. The stern section of each hull seemed to be a buoyancy space.