“Go back. We need it,” he called to Peter.
“No. Get the other one,” Peter called. The bucket was already sinking. Then Graham made another discovery. He crouched and felt in the water. “The paddles! We’ve lost the bloody paddles!”
That brought them round. They tried to backtrack but it was hard to do. Nor could they work out which would affect the drift of the paddles the most: the wind down the Inlet, or the incoming tide. They resorted to quartering back and forth, with Graham standing holding the mast and shielding his eyes.
“The sea’s too choppy,” he said, keenly remembering the lost oars in just this stretch of water. “I need some height.”
Before they realised what he was going to do Graham had begun to climb the mast. He gripped it between his feet and pulled himself up.
“Graham! You bloody idiot! You’ll break the mast!” Peter cried.
“She’ll be right,” Graham yelled back. By then he was already half way up. He looked down and saw that, because of the angle the Cat was heeling at he was already over the leeward hull. He could feel the mast moving but it seemed to be just the normal vibration of the sails. Enjoying the thrill he crawled up another couple of metres until he could grab the forestay.
“Come down you bloody drongo!” Max yelled.
Graham ignored him and looked around. Almost at once he spotted something in the water. “Over there. There’s one,” he cried.
Peter sailed them to it and heaved the Cat to while Roger scooped the paddle aboard. Without forward motion the Cat began to pitch uncomfortably. This caused whipping and jerking of the mast and rigging. Graham felt the change at once and feared his extra weight so high up might break the mast so he quickly slithered down.
He took the paddle from Roger and began tying it to a cross-beam.
“That’s what you should have done in the first place,” Max said.
“I know that,” Graham replied hotly. “Sorry Pete. I’ll buy another if we can’t find the other one.”
They got under way again. Graham completed tying the two paddles in the starboard hull and went back to the mast.
“Don’t climb the mast again Graham. I think it is splitting,” Peter said.
Graham stood and scanned the waves feeling ashamed of his thoughtlessness. Some bosun! First the bailer, then the two port-side paddles! They sailed back and forth for another twenty minutes but there was no sign of the paddle.
“How long are we going to keep this up?” Max asked.
“It’s good practice,” Peter replied.
“What about lunch?” Roger requested.
“OK. We will give up the search and eat,” Peter agreed. He steered them downwind across the channel past the rows of moored yachts until they were close under the lee of the belt of mangroves on the east side of the Inlet.
“Will we anchor?” Graham asked.
“Yes, if you like,” Peter replied. Graham was anxious to try the anchor. He went and undid the locker and lifted it out. It was only a shankless, small boat anchor weighing about five kilograms. He checked it was securely shackled to the chain.
Max called to him as he stood to throw it over the bow. “Make sure the other end of the chain is secured.”
“It is,” Graham replied shortly. He tossed the anchor towards the mangroves then realised he had made a mistake. The anchor splashed into nice clear water where he intended but the chain rattled out across the focsle, scraping and marking the nice new paintwork. He bit his lip and berated himself.
The Cat came to rest nicely held clear of the mangrove branches by the offshore breeze. The boys lowered the sails and Graham realised he had done nothing about lashings so while the others dug out their lunch from the lockers he got to work cutting short lengths of thin cord and tying it to the boom so that two ends were left which he then tied around the mainsail and boom.
“Make sure you use a reef knot,” Max said.
Graham had been and he was nettled. He made no reply but Peter did.
“Why Max? We aren’t reefing. We are furling the sail. He should use a furl knot.”
“What’s that?” Max asked.
“There isn’t one. Now sit down Graham and eat. You look all hot and bothered.”
Graham went to the starboard aft locker and took out a plastic juice bottle of cordial and a packet of sandwiches. This was what he particularly liked about the Cat. She had compartments and was big enough to move around. In his mind he pictured them living aboard her. He had a big drink and said, “We could do an expedition in this Cat, like a hike. We could stow all our camping gear on board. Maybe even sleep on her.”
“What a good idea!” Roger cried through a mouth full of sandwich.
“I don’t know about sleeping though,” Peter said.
“Two on the focsle and two in the hull,” Graham said.
“Oh yes!” Max snorted. “I can just see it. Roger sleeping on the focsle. He’d roll over to get comfortable in his sleep and splash!”
They all laughed.
“Or you’d dangle an arm over the side,” Peter added. “And some bloody monster of the deep would drag you in.”
Graham didn’t laugh at that. He glanced at the murky, green water and shuddered, then took a bite of his sandwich.
“We could sleep on the beach though,” Peter went on. He obviously liked the idea of an expedition by sea and they discussed it for half an hour.
It was midday by then and quite hot. The breeze had stayed steady. They sat for a while and watched one of the large ‘wave-piercer’ ferries go past. Minutes later the waves of its wake reached them and made the Cat rock. The waves swished and gurgled on into the mangroves. Graham watched the waves swirling in the roots of the mangroves and realised they had drifted right in so that the mast was touching an overhanging branch.
“The tide’s still on the flood,” he noted, watching a small grey crab with purple legs scuttling up a tree trunk.
“Time we were gone,” Roger said. Then he began to scratch himself. “Ow!” He pulled up his trouser legs. “Oh. Bloody sandflies or something.” A dozen red spots on each ankle showed where he had been bitten.
“Time to go alright,” Peter said. “Max, you pack up and stow lunch. Roger, pole us clear and hoist the jib. Graham, pull up the anchor.”
Graham made his way to the port bow and knelt with one foot on the crossbeam. He began pulling in the anchor chain. Then his spirits dropped.
“It won’t come up,” he said. “It’s stuck on something.”
He stood up, feeling acutely embarrassed, and tried pulling with all his strength. All that happened was that the Cat went forward into the trees, making Roger cry out in alarm. The bow dipped as he hauled.
“No good. She’s stuck.”
They clustered at the bow and discussed the problem.
“Caught on a snag. Probably a mangrove root,” Peter suggested.
“Yes,” Graham replied miserably, berating himself for not thinking of it.
“That was clever!” Max commented.
“Shut up Max. I threw it into clear water. It obviously didn’t hold in the mud and we’ve drifted,” Graham retorted.
“Don’t fight you two. It won’t solve the problem,” Peter said.
It seemed nothing would solve the problem. They tried slacking the chain. Then they tried letting it out to its full length and paddling in various directions. They then tried jerking and flicking. All four took hold and pulled but that dipped the bows so deep the stern came clear of the water.
“This is hopeless,” Graham said bitterly. “It’s obviously snagged in a mangrove root.”
“Fouled is the technical term, is it not?” Peter commented. Graham made no reply. Even that hurt.
“So what do we do? Sit here till help arrives?” Max asked sarcastically.
“No. I’ll swim down and free it,” Graham said. He began taking off his lifejacket.
Peter shook his head. “We could just undo this end and dump it,”
he said.
“No. I lost your paddle. I’m not going to lose your bloody anchor and ten-metres of chain,” Graham cried. He tossed the lifejacket down and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Don’t be silly Graham,” Roger said. “You don’t know what’s down in that water.”
“I know what might be,” Graham replied stiffly. His mind had been filled with terrible thoughts of sharks and crocodiles ever since the idea had come to him. Already his stomach was knotted in a tight ball and his knees felt weak. His fingers seemed stiff and he tried to stop them shaking as he undid the buttons.
“You don’t have to Graham,” Peter said. “It’s not worth the risk.”
“It’s my fault. I’ll fix it,” Graham grated between clenched teeth. He was truly scared now but there was no way he would back down in front of his friends.
He took off his trousers and undies; unconcerned at their seeing him nude. Not that there was much to see. Fear had contracted his manhood into a little wrinkled knob. He buckled his belt with the sheath knife about his waist then moved to the bow. He ignored Roger’s entreaties not to go in, licked his lips, glanced fearfully into the murky shadows under the Cat, then turned and lowered himself slowly into the water.
CHAPTER 21
‘THE DEEP BLUE SEA’
Graham was careful not to make a splash. ‘Splashing attracts the predators,’ he told himself. The water was colder than he had expected and he felt extraordinarily vulnerable hanging nude in the dark green water. Small waves sloshed past into the mangrove roots nearby. Fear hammered in his skull and made his heart race. He felt out of breath before he even dived.
“Don’t be stupid Graham,” Roger pleaded. “You don’t have to do it.”
Peter looked very anxious. “Don’t get tangled up in the mangroves,” he cautioned, taking off his own lifejacket.
Graham took a deep breath. Nothing to be gained by waiting. “Slack the chain,” he said. Then he took another deep breath and pulled himself under. He used his arms to drag himself down the chain, his feet just trailing behind. It was darker than he had expected. To his left the bottom sloped rapidly into deep water. It was like a black haze.
“Don’t look! Don’t think about it!” he told himself. “You won’t see it before it gets you so just concentrate on the job.”
He wanted to turn and swim up but he made his trembling muscles continue to haul him deeper. It seemed further than he expected but his mind told him it was only about five or six metres. He came to a web of hideous black shapes: mangrove roots. His hand slid down the chain and came to the anchor.
He hung on with one hand and felt with the other, fearing to be grabbed or bitten by some sea-creature lurking in the shadows: sea snake, crocodile, groper. His mind raced over the awful possibilities.
The anchor was just wedged between two roots. Graham began to think he would have to go up for more air but knew he would never dredge up the courage to make a second dive so he stayed down, his lungs starting to strain and hurt, pain building up in his head and his vision blurring. After feeling all around the anchor and testing how firmly it was wedged he reached through the roots, pushed the anchor forward while holding its flukes up level with the shank, then eased it back out.
As soon as it was free he turned and began swimming up. He tried to carry the anchor but the combined weight of it and its chain was too much. He let it go and struck out for the surface, eyes turned upwards so he wouldn’t strike the bottom of the Cat.
Going up seemed to be even worse. Dark shadows appeared to flit in the murk and he felt dizzy. His mind conjured up more terrors. He imagined the jaws or the tentacles closing on his legs to haul him back down.
Graham broke surface just in front of the Cat. His water-filled eyes noted the anxious faces but were only interested in the cross-beam. He snatched at it and heaved, cascading water onto the foredeck, bumping against Roger’s legs and nearly knocking him over the side. With a convulsive heave fuelled by fear Graham flipped his legs up out of the water, his toes curling up protectively as he did.
For a minute he lay gasping and shivering.
“It’s free,” he croaked, then coughed.
Peter grabbed the chain and began hauling. “Pole us out Roger,” he ordered.
A couple of minutes later they were fifty-metres out, drifting on the breeze. The anchor was stowed and sails were trimmed. Peter set a course north across the channel. Graham sat up shivering and wiped his eyes.
Peter called to him. “Well done mate. Now you’d better get dressed. I think this is the girls coming.”
Graham looked around and saw a yellow catamaran scudding along a few hundred metres away. It was the girls. He quickly pulled on his clothes and tied on his lifejacket. The girls were running down channel and Peter turned onto a converging course. The girls were all leaning out on steel-wire trapezes and their windward hull was out of the water.
“Strewth! They are fairly flying along,” Max commented.
“Yes,” Peter agreed glumly. It was obvious the Old Cat wasn’t sailing as fast. Even on the same course their hull did not lift, nor did they match the girls’ speed.
‘This doesn’t auger well for the next race,’ Graham decided, but he kept the thought to himself.
They never got within a hundred metres of the girls, who waved and cheered. Laughter rippled across the wave tops.
‘Jennifer’s there,’ Graham thought, seeing her golden hair waving in the breeze. He could also see Kylie and Margaret. Carmen was at the helm.
Rather than keep so obviously losing Peter turned downwind.
“We don’t want them to learn our best points of sailing,” he said with a grin.
Graham laughed. “Or our worst points!”
“What will we do now?” Max asked.
“More practice. Downwind runs with lots of gybing for half an hour, then beam reaches to get us inshore. The tide should be on the ebb now so we’ve only got an hour or so.”
They headed across the channel, skimming along ‘wing and wing’, Roger holding the jib out to starboard with one of the poles. Peter pushed them hard: seven gybes in as many minutes, then came about onto a run to the west, in towards the Esplanade until they were starting to skim mud only a hundred metres from the sea wall near the hospital.
Then they wore and went racing out to sea again.
“Ease up!” Graham cried. A tear had suddenly appeared in the mainsail just above the leech. Even as he watched the hole grew larger. The sail tore for a metre just above its footrope.
“Bloody useless stuff!” Max cried. “What do we do now?”
“Furl the main and go home on the jib,” Peter said.
Graham was disappointed but in truth they had all had enough for one day. They made a slow trip back across the bay to the beach, hauled the Cat out of the water, unrigged it and wheeled it home.
“What now?” Graham asked as they pushed the Cat into the shed.
“Patch the sail,” Peter said.
“I’m going home,” Max said. “What time do we race tomorrow?”
“After lunch,” Peter replied. “We need to be in the water by about midday so we can sail to the start in time.”
“Where’s the start?” Roger asked.
“At the Yacht Club,” Peter replied.
Max left them. Peter went off to ask his mother about repairing the sail while Graham and Roger cleaned all the accessories. On Mrs Bronsky’s advice they pedalled around to a dress-shop in the shopping centre on Sheridan St. They couldn’t afford canvas or any of the proper sail materials like Dacron so they purchased ordinary white calico, the largest needles in the shop, and thread that was more like thin string.
Armed with this they returned to Peter’s and set about repairing the sail, after stitching up the tear itself. Several small rents were also patched at the same time.
Graham enjoyed the work, finding it very satisfying.
“She’s a beaut Cat Pete,” he said. “I don’t care if w
e don’t win the Cup. It’s fun just to sail her.”
“What Cup?” Roger asked.
“I dunno! There’s always a Cup as the prize: Admiral’s Cup, America’s Cup. Some Cup or other,” Graham replied.
Later Graham and Roger pedalled home. Graham felt pleasantly tired and decided it hadn’t been too bad a day, in spite of everything.
However he didn’t enjoy Kylie’s teasing when she came home.
“What was that old scow you boys were on - a garbage barge?” she asked.
Graham scowled. Kylie laughed and went on. “We went past you so fast we thought you were anchored.”
“We were,” Graham replied. “Wait till tomorrow.” Then he had a vivid memory of swimming down the anchor chain and was ashamed of his cowardice.
“I thought we weren’t in the race?” Kylie asked with an impish grin.
Graham snorted and went off to work on his model ship.
One pm Friday found the Old Cat and the four boys on the beach in the Yacht Club yard. Andrew and his crew were there with a sleek blue and white cat with a blue and white mainsail. The girls were there with their yellow cat.
“So what is the course to be?” Peter asked.
“What about from the Harbour Beacon to the Trinity Bay Beacon – that’s a run; then across to where you jokers launch your boat – that’s a reach; then a beat back up to the Harbour Beacon. That’s about three nautical miles,” Andrew replied.
“I’m not sure which is the Trinity Bay Beacon,” Peter replied.
“Just watch the one we turn at,” Andrew replied with a confident grin.
“Do we get out at the beach?”
Andrew nodded. “Yes. In line with that street near your place.”
“Where do we start, and what is the signal?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s drop down to the Harbour Beacon and look. The start should be beam or upwind if possible.”
They boarded the cats and set sail. Ten-minutes of dodging ferries and pleasure cruisers found them hove to near the huge steel pylon to which the Harbour Beacon, a bright orange bar of light, was fixed.
The Mudskipper Cup Page 19