Peter stood in the hull, then sat down on the small aft deck.
“Captain’s on the bridge!” he called.
“Is that a bridge or a quarter deck?” Graham asked.
“Neither. It’s a poop deck,” Roger said.
“A poop deck more like,” Graham replied, changing the pronunciation.
“Oh Graham!” Margaret gasped, her cheeks tinging red.
Graham grinned. ‘If she wants to be my girlfriend she will have to like it,’ he thought.
“I wonder how she was steered?” Peter speculated. He got up and poked around among the assorted junk. After a while he tossed several wooden paddles out, then appeared with a plywood rudder. Rods on this slid down through a stainless steel bracket and a bolt and split pin then held it in place. He struck his finger into a square bracket made of stainless steel which was screwed to the top of the rudder.
“This must be where the tiller went. Let’s see if we can find it.”
“Shouldn’t there be two rudders?” Graham asked, pointing to a similar bracket on the other hull.
“Should be. Let’s look.”
They searched. Some mildewed old lifejackets were found, then the second rudder, but no tiller bars.
“Doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “We can easily make our own.” He sat down and patted the hull. “I like her. I don’t care if we don’t win a single race. It will be a lot of fun just getting her to sail again.”
His enthusiasm was infectious. Graham grinned and agreed. Already he had developed some affection for the queer old boat.
“How was she rigged?” he asked.
“Hmm. You’ve got me there. Let’s have a look. There must be masts and what not somewhere.”
There were. Kylie spotted them, stuck up in the rafters of the shed. They hauled out a four-metre long boom with pulleys and shackles bolted or screwed on, several smaller, thinner poles, and a huge eight-metre mast. The mast was a length of bamboo, so thick at the base that Graham could not get his fingers and thumbs to meet when he gripped it. It was yellow with age, split in places and had black splotching all over it.
“Oh my God!” Roger cried as they eased the mast from its resting place. “This is positively Medieval.”
“If it worked then, it will work now,” Peter replied cheerfully.
“It looks a bit rotten,” Kylie observed.
Peter shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got. It’ll do. I wonder how it was rigged?”
“Are there any sails?” Graham asked.
That caused an uneasy silence. No one remembered seeing any. They searched through all the junk but found no sign of any.
“I’ll ask mum,” Peter said. He went off upstairs. A minute later his head stuck out a window. “Mum says you are all to come up and have morning tea. She thinks she knows where they are but she doesn’t want us making a mess.”
They all trooped up into the kitchen and were shooed onto the enclosed side veranda, which doubled as a very pleasant lounge. Cakes, scones, cordial and coffee were produced. They sat and talked excitedly about their finds while Peter’s mother went to search for the missing sails.
After ten-minutes she returned. “They are in a cupboard in the storeroom. I’ll show you. Now don’t wreck everything while you get them out.”
The sails were another sharp disappointment. They were grey with age and mottled with mildew. The children carried them out and unrolled them on the back lawn.
“Canvas!” Graham cried.
“Yes, the real McCoy,” Peter replied. “None of that fancy Dacron and stuff when Grandad was a boy.”
“When was that?” Roger asked. “Did he come out with the First Fleet?”
“Don’t be cheeky!” Peter replied with a laugh. “It was earlier than that. Before Captain Cook I think.”
They laughed. “Rot!” Graham said. “He was probably one of the Bounty mutineers. He built the Cat so he could escape from Tahiti.”
Peter hauled the sails out flat and looked at them. “Two jibs and two mainsails. No spinnaker.”
“Perhaps we can buy one?” Margaret suggested.
Peter snorted. “Some hope! What with? Bottletops?”
“Borrow one then,” Kylie suggested.
Peter shook his head. “Fat chance!” he replied.
Graham leaned down and pointed. “These two jibs are different sizes.”
“So are the mainsails,” Peter agreed.
One mainsail had a wider cut to it and lines of stitching across it.
“What are these little pockets for?” Kylie asked, inserting her finger into one.
“Battens,” Graham replied.
“Don’t swear Graham, there are ladies present!” Roger cried in mock severity.
“Bollocks!” Graham retorted. “I said ‘battens’. They are wooden strips which are inserted to stiffen the sail, so that it doesn’t get too full a belly.”
“Hmm,” Roger replied. “I don’t think I like them. I prefer a full belly.”
They all laughed again. Peter rummaged through the junk boxes, then called to his mother again. “Hey mum! Have you seen any rigging? Steel wire ropes and so on to hold the mast up?”
His mother shook her head. “No. I don’t think there were any. They didn’t have fancy stuff like that in Grandpa’s day.”
“What did they use?” Peter asked in astonishment.
“As far as I can remember they just tied it all together with rope,” Peter’s mother replied.
“Rope!” Roger cried incredulously.
“Rope. Just like they did on the old sailing ships,” Peter’s mother replied.
“That’s OK,” Graham said. “We can do that too. We know all the knots. We learn them at Scouts.”
“Is there any rope mum?” Peter asked.
They found a box of it after half an hour’s search but even a glance showed it was useless. Peter picked up a thick strand and gave a jerk. It snapped and crumbled into dust and fibres.
“Rotten!”
“So we buy some,” Graham said. “How much do we need?”
He and Peter began measuring and calculating. The others began to lose interest. Paul wandered off to play. Mrs Bronsky vanished upstairs.
“About sixty metres at least,” Peter said.
Graham whistled. He had a sinking feeling that such a quantity might be beyond their financial resources. In fact the problem of getting the Cat afloat appeared more daunting by the minute. Discouraged, he sat down on the focsle and pulled a wry face.
Peter grinned. “Cheer up. We will manage somehow. Let’s make a list of all the things that need to be done.”
It was a long list: new tyres and tubes on the trailer, greasing the trailer axles, cleaning and oiling all the rusty chains, bolts and screws, oiling the mast and spars, checking the shackles and pulleys and oiling them, cleaning, painting wood that had dried out and cracked with age, making new tillers, checking and repairing the sails, buying new rope for the rigging, cutting it to the correct lengths, then whipping the ends, or splicing them.
“Do you still want to be in it?” Peter asked.
“Yes,” Graham replied. He now had a stubborn desire to see the Old Cat afloat. ‘She’s like me’, he thought, ‘a relic of a bygone age!’
“Tomorrow then?” Peter asked.
“Definitely!”
CHAPTER 18
THE OLD CAT RESTORED
They picked the Old Catamaran up and put it back onto the trailer, then wheeled it back under the shed. The sails were rolled up and stored. The mast and booms were laid on the Cat. Then all the junk had to be found a home where it wouldn’t block easy access to the Cat. The junk almost defeated them and they were hot, bad-tempered and filthy by the time it was all stored away.
The children dispersed to their respective homes. Graham then retired to his ship room and worked on his model, his mind full of ideas about the Old Cat. He felt wonderfully happy and hummed while he worked.
On Tuesday morning Graham
and Kylie again pedalled over to Peter’s, collecting Margaret on the way. Roger said he had chores in the morning but would come in the afternoon. Max said he had to go to visit his Aunt.
Peter was already at work when they arrived. He had moved most of the junk and was busily applying a liquid to the boom with a brush.
“What’s that stuff?” Kylie asked.
“Linseed oil,” Peter replied. “You use it to stop cricket bats drying out.”
“That’s a funny looking cricket bat,” Graham jibed.
“Very droll! How would you like to try cleaning the rust off that old anchor and chain? Make sure you put down plenty of old newspaper and don’t make a mess on the concrete or mum will have a fit.”
“Aw! Alright,” Graham reluctantly conceded. ‘Just like working on dad’s bloody ship!’ he thought sourly. But Peter was right. He did know exactly how to go about the job.
“What can we do?” Kylie asked.
“How about washing and scrubbing the sails and checking their stitchings while they hang out to dry?” Peter suggested.
Kylie bridled. “Huh! That’s sexist. Just because we are girls!”
Peter shrugged. “Someone’s got to do it and you will do it better than me or bozo there.”
Kylie sniffed. “I don’t see why we should help at all. After all, we are the opposition!”
“No you aren’t,” Peter replied. “We are racing against Andrew’s mob. And if that’s how you feel then you can leave!”
Kylie pursed her lips. Margaret looked worried and hurt. But the last thing either of the girls wanted to do was to leave these two boys. They were both in love.
“Come on Marg. We will move that junk and pull the boat out. Then we will scrub it ready to paint,” Kylie said.
“Scrub - wash! What the hell!” Peter cried. He shook his head and bent to his task. “Women!”
After the girls had cleared all the odd items away they called on the boys to help them haul the Cat out of the shed. It was lifted onto the lawn and they set to work hosing and scrubbing, laughing and singing while they worked. Graham went back to his rusty anchor and Peter took the opportunity to examine the trailer. Then he collected a jack and wheel wrench from his mother’s car and removed one wheel.
“I’ll take this to the service station and get a new tube put in,” he said.
“Can you afford it?” Kylie asked.
“Yes. Mum said she would pay for the repairs to the trailer. The boat is our problem.”
“What about the tyres?” Graham asked.
Peter shrugged. “If we are only going to pull the trailer by hand a couple of blocks they should be OK.”
“Why not both wheels?” Kylie asked.
“Because I can’t carry two,” Peter replied.
“I’ll come. I can roll one,” Kylie said.
Peter set to work and soon had the other wheel off, despite rusty nuts. The trailer was left perched on a box and a carpenter’s horse and he and Kylie set off, rolling the tyres along the footpath.
It took Graham a while to realise he was alone with Margaret. Their eyes met but she was too shy to make an advance. Graham pretended he was busy and set to, scrunching the rusty chain up and down and scouring it with a wire brush. He was soon covered in red dust and his face and hands were grimy and sore. It was a mild relief for him to see Peter and Kylie come back three quarters of an hour later.
Both were eating ice-creams.
“Oh you greedy pigs!” Margaret snorted. “Where’s ours?”
“Here!” Kylie said with a laugh. She took two from behind her back.
“How are you getting along?” Peter asked Margaret, indicating the hulls.
“I’m finished. I’m waiting for them to dry. Then we can paint them. What colour will it be?”
Peter laughed. “Whatever colour is left over in the workshop!” he replied.
They went to look and returned with a variety of mostly empty cans of paint, and an assortment of brushes.
“Yellow hull,” Kylie said.
“No fear! Black!” Peter replied. “This is a Black Cat.”
“That’s not very safe,” Kylie answered.
“Too bad. Black Hull.”
“Alright. Then a yellow stripe along this board.”
“That’s the gunwale,” Peter replied. He pronounced it ‘Gun’l’.
“Gun what?” Margaret asked.
“Gun wale,” Graham replied. “In the old days they placed extra timbers called wales along the outside of the hull to strengthen it, and to act as rubbing strakes. The earliest cannons were swivel guns which were mounted on them, hence the name gunwale.”
“We haven’t got any guns,” Kylie replied.
Peter looked up. “Oh, yes we have,” he replied.
Kylie knew that in Peter’s house there was at least one shotgun and two .22 rifles.
“I didn’t mean those sort of guns,” she said. “I meant cannons, like on the old sailing ships.”
“That’s what I meant,” Peter said.
“Nonsense! You haven’t got a cannon!” Kylie cried.
“I have so.”
Graham stood up, intensely interested. “Show us.”
“OK.”
They were led into the workshop beside the laundry and Peter dug around in several cupboards. At last he hauled out what looked like an armful of old rags which he dumped on the bench. They gathered around, eyes alight with curiosity, while Peter unwrapped it.
It was a cannon. A small one. But a real cannon. It was made of brass and mounted on a timber carriage, an exact miniature of one of the cannons off an old-time square-rigger. The barrel was about forty-centimetre long and had a bore just big enough for Graham to poke his little finger into. The wooden carriage was painted and varnished and stood on four small brass wheels which squeaked when it was pushed. There were small rings and hooks for where the various ropes were attached.
Graham stared at it in wonder. He was filled with envy. ‘What a wonderful object!’
“Don’t tell me,” Kylie said. “Your Grandpa?”
“Yes,” Peter replied.
“Was he a midget?” Margaret asked with a smile.
“Very funny!” Peter answered as they all laughed.
Graham felt the cool brass and ran his hand along the barrel. “Did it fire? I mean, was it a toy, or a signal gun or something?”
“It fires alright,” Peter said. “One of my earliest memories is of Grandpa firing it one evening. It went off like the crack of doom. There was a huge cloud of smoke and I nearly cacked my pants.”
They all laughed at the story. Graham continued to stroke and touch the cannon.
“How did it work?”
“Just a simple muzzle loader,” Peter said. “Gunpowder in here, ram with a paper wad, then the shot. This little hole in the top is the touch hole. A small fuse is stuck in there. Light the fuse, stand back and ka-bam!”
“Can we try it out?” Graham asked. He could hardly take his eyes off the little cannon.
“Fair go. Let’s get the Cat going first,” Peter said. To Graham’s intense disappointment Peter wrapped the cannon up and put it back in its box.
They were diverted to morning tea. After that the painting debate resumed. Peter relented on the yellow gunwale and accepted cream for the decks. The girls spread newspapers on the lawn and with some difficulty the four of them turned the Cat on its back. The two girls then set to work painting the hulls black. Peter completed his task and went to begin hand washing and scrubbing the old sails.
Graham joined him, working at the adjoining tub. He pulled a face and looked dubious. “These sails look pretty rotten to me. Look, all this rope hemmed around the edge is rotten, and half the stitches have come out.”
Peter shrugged and smiled. “So what? It’s all we’ve got. We will be OK.”
They hung the sails on the clothes lines and hooked them up to the back of the house. By then it was lunch time and Mrs Bronsky called them all. Th
ese invasions of friends were a normal and accepted thing, especially during holidays, and she was only too happy to bear the work and the cost if it meant her son was with a group of good kids who wouldn’t lead him into trouble.
After lunch the four of them were squeezed into Mrs Bronsky’s car. Graham was enjoying himself so much he did not mind Margaret sitting beside him, pressed against him by Kylie. He even returned a shy smile.
Mrs Bronsky drove them to a hardware store and they set about the business of buying rope but soon discovered that they had to do some hard thinking. A bewildering array of types: nylon, sisal, hemp, cotton; with different weaves and obviously different uses, had them measuring thicknesses and testing flexibility. Peter and Graham did most of the choosing.
“Two different colours, or even three,” Graham insisted.
“Different colours? Why?” Kylie asked.
“On the old sailing ships they used to tar their standing rigging; that’s the ropes that were tied in place and didn’t move, like the shrouds, backstays and so on. It was so it wouldn’t rot so quickly,” he explained.
“So? Nylon doesn’t rot,” Peter queried.
“I know that,” Graham replied. “It was just an idea. The old sailors could tell at a glance which ropes moved. They could even tell in the dark by the feel. I thought that if we made the running rigging, the sheets and topping lift, a different colour or colours we wouldn’t grab the wrong one in a crisis.”
“That’s a good idea,” Kylie said. She laughed and continued. “You’ll need that. You will have plenty of crises!”
Margaret joined her in more laughter. Peter and Graham bristled indignantly.
“We will not,” Peter replied. “They were just teething troubles. I think it’s a good idea.”
“Teething troubles!” Kylie shrieked. “The babies had teething troubles! Capsize drill! Man overboard!”
Peter tried to ignore them. He turned back to the array of cordage displayed on rollers. Graham glared at Kylie and turned to join Peter.
At length the boys made their choice: fifty metres of dark green nylon cord as thick as a finger, ten-metres of bright yellow rope for the mainsheet, twenty-five metres of orange rope for the foresheet, ten-metres of red cord for the main hoist and a ten-metre white rope for a tow rope and odd uses. It was expensive and made a big bite into both their bank accounts.
The Mudskipper Cup Page 16