The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  The others laughed and made rude comments but Peter kept on. Then they joined in. The Old Cat skimmed smoothly along and it was wonderful to be alive.

  It took them less than an hour to reach Ellie Point. As they got closer Graham could see that the point was fringed by a small sandy beach. Behind that were mangroves. The beach was larger than Graham had expected and curved away to the North. Inshore the seabed shelved gently upwards and there were several offshore bars and gutters. The Old Cat, drawing only about fifteen centimetres, scraped and slid through the shallows and grounded about a dozen paces from the beach. Small waves lapped up in a gentle swash.

  “We will haul her up stern first,” Peter said. “Turn her into the wind - and watch out for stingrays.”

  Roger and Graham sprang over the bow on each side and hauled the nose into the wind. The Old Cat was dragged clear of the water and the sails lowered and furled. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “What will we do now?” Max asked.

  “I want to explore the beach,” Graham said.

  Max looked both ways. “So? I’ve explored it. What now?”

  “I want to see what’s in those dunes, and around the point,” Graham replied, keeping his voice level with difficulty.

  “Me too,” Peter agreed. “You don’t have to come Max. You can mind the boat.”

  Max grumbled but he followed the others when they set off along the beach. It was a nice day for a walk. As they rounded the point an area of tumbled surf came into view and, beyond it, another sand spit with a scattering of wind bent she-oaks on it similar to the beach they were on. Graham had his map and noted there was an inlet which ran in to the mangroves for about a kilometre.

  The beach kept curving, with tiny bays and headlands. On the back of the beach were small sand dunes topped with tufts of spiky grass, vines and dry-looking she-oaks. A litter of driftwood and other debris marked the high-water mark. Scattered among the natural debris were plastic containers, bits of nylon rope, a rubber thong, bottles and other human rubbish.

  Roger bent down and picked up a greyish stone pocked with tiny holes. Astonishment showed on his face. “Strewth! This is light.” He tossed the stone in the air and caught it. “What is it?”

  “Pumice stone,” Graham answered. “It gets blown out of volcanoes. It’s full of gas bubbles which is why it is so light and floats.” He bent down, picked up a handful and threw it onto the sea. Roger watched it float in amazement. He then threw several large lumps in. The others followed suit. Roger found what looked like a nice lump and pocketed it. They walked on.

  Around the next small sand headland they discovered an aluminium dinghy. It was pulled up on the sand and its anchor thrown further up the beach. Something about the boat rang a tiny alarm bell in Graham’s mind. He read the registration letters painted in black on the dinghy’s side.

  It was the bullies’ boat. He bit his lip and looked anxiously around.

  “This is Burford’s boat,” he warned the others.

  They all stopped and looked. Footprints led up over the sand hill.

  “That way?” Peter suggested.

  “Maybe.” Graham walked over to the ‘tinnie’ and looked in. It had a powerful outboard motor on the stern, connected to a fuel tank by a rubber hose. There were boxes, fishing rods and reels, a cast net, a spear-gun, two crab pots with mudcrabs in them and some plastic lunch boxes. The bottom was an untidy mess of oily rags, mud, fish scales, a few rotting prawns and bits of rope. The stench of rotting fish rose from it.

  “I wonder what they are up to?” Peter mused.

  “Let’s go,” Graham urged. He was scared now. He didn’t want to meet the gang, even though it would be four against three.

  “In a minute. I’ll just have a look,” Peter said. Graham pursed his lips and frowned, then followed him, checking he had his sheath knife ready. Roger followed, but Max stayed beside the boat.

  The three friends climbed up the low sand dune and passed through a narrow belt of the she-oaks and down into a sandy hollow. There was another low dune beyond and the footprints led up over it. Peter pointed under the trees. “A camp. I wonder if it’s theirs?”

  Graham saw the remains of a fire, a lean-to of corrugated iron and a litter of empty tins, rubbish and beer cans. The place smelled of unburied waste. He wrinkled his nose and wanted to go back but Peter walked on.

  As they reached the crest of the next sand dune Peter crouched and peeked over through a tuft of grass. He then gave a thumbs down and motioned the others up. Graham and Roger crept up and peered over. On the inland side of the dune was a small salt marsh, then black mud and the mangrove swamp. The thunder of a large jet airliner taking off reminded them that the airport was only a couple of kilometres away.

  A rough pathway of planks lay on the mud and led across to the nearest mangroves. A path of sorts had been hacked through the vegetation and the planks appeared to be nailed to cross pieces to form a walkway about a metre above the mud.

  Nearby, on the edge of the mud, were Burford and Macnamara. They were only wearing muddy shorts and appeared to be digging.

  “What are they doing?” Roger whispered.

  “Using a shovel to dig up crabs I think,” Peter commented.

  “Is that legal? Is fishing allowed here?” Graham asked. He dimly knew there were all sorts of laws and regulations about fishing.

  “Crabbing you mean,” Peter corrected. “Don’t know. Hello! Here comes Harvey.”

  Graham looked. Harvey, also only in shorts so that the muscles in his sun-tanned skin really showed to advantage, came walking along the walkway through the mangroves carrying a crab pot and a long pole. His two friends stopped digging and moved to join him.

  “Time we were gone,” Peter said. He turned and slid back down the dune. Graham and Roger needed no second invitation. They scuttled quickly back the way they had come. Peter refused to run but he did walk fast. They went up over the seaward dune. Graham looked anxiously back to see if the bullies had seen them but they were not in sight. Max was leaning over the tinnie.

  “Max, don’t touch anything! Come on! They are just over there,” Graham called.

  The four boys walked quickly back the way they had come and did not start to relax until they were out of sight of the boat.

  “I’m glad they didn’t see us,” said Graham with a nervous laugh.

  No sooner had he said this than there was a shout behind them. They spun round. Harvey was at the last headland, calling back to his friends.

  “Come on!” Max cried and started to run.

  “Don’t run!” Peter snapped. “We haven’t done anything. We’ve as much right to be on this beach as them.”

  But Max kept running. Graham ran a few paces then slowed to a walk, ashamed of himself. Roger followed Max, then turned to look back. At the next small headland Graham looked back. He saw Harvey still had his stick. Burford and Macnamara suddenly came into view, running and calling on them to stop.

  That decided Peter. He started to run. “We don’t want a fight,” he said. The boys had a hundred metre lead. It was hard running on the sand but they only had a hundred metres to go to reach the Old Cat, which was just as well as Roger was falling behind and running out of puff by then.

  By the time Roger caught up the other three had dragged the Old Cat down to the surf. Roger came splashing in to join them as Max scrambled aboard and started untying the mainsail. Peter leapt in next and ran forward to the jib.

  “Get in Roger,” Graham cried. “Grab the tiller. I’ll push.” He leapt over the stern bracket and ducked under the tiller, then leaned on the centre cross beam with his chest and ran, driving the Old Cat out into deeper water. As he did she smacked into the small waves, throwing up spray.

  Max cast off the last ties, then grabbed the main halyard and pulled. The sail rattled up the mast. Roger grabbed the sheet and pulled it taut. By this time Graham was in chest deep water and unable to push effectively. Then a wave went right over his he
ad as the Old Cat slid out over a gutter. He had been expecting this so he just surfaced, hauled himself dripping aboard and reached for a paddle.

  Harvey was close. He came racing into the surf shouting obscenities and sending up showers of spray. Burford and Macnamara were close behind. For a moment Graham feared that Harvey would catch them. Then a wave washed to Harvey’s waist and slowed him. The next was up to his chest.

  For a moment the Old Cat slid sideways and back until the wind caught the rapidly rising sail. She began to move forward. Harvey struggled in waist deep water, reaching for the stern. Just when it seemed he would make it he came to the gutter and sank to his chest. He changed to an overarm swim but had lost his momentum, just as the Old Cat got properly under way.

  Harvey stopped and shook his fist at them. “Bastards! Come back!” he yelled.

  Burford raced into the shallows. He waved a wicked looking sheath knife with a serrated back edge. “You mongrels touch my boat again and I’ll cut yer guts out!”

  “We didn’t touch your boat,” Peter shouted back.

  “Pig’s bum! We seen yer tracks,” Burford screamed.

  “We were just having a look,” Peter replied. “We didn’t take anything.”

  “You’d better not have or we’ll come after you,” Burford threatened. The three bullies had given up the chase by this and just stood and watched as the Old Cat punched out through some small breakers on an offshore bar.

  Peter scrambled aft. “OK Roger, I’ll take over.” Roger handed him the tiller and moved to his normal position on the focsle. Graham sat down and a shudder ran through him. He had been scared but didn’t want to admit it. Sadly he shook his head.

  Peter looked at his watch. “Eight fifteen. High Water. We’d better head home.”

  None of them felt much like practising after that confrontation. Besides the wind had risen and was pushing up a nasty, short sea which made the mast and rigging creak alarmingly as they took the waves on the port bow. Graham became too busy bailing to do anything else.

  The strong wind gave them a quick run back but started a tear in the mainsail two thirds of the way up. They could do nothing about it but watch as the sail slowly split from edge to edge.

  “We should have brought a spare sail,” Max said.

  “What would be the point? We couldn’t rig it without lifting the base of the mast,” Graham said, adding, “I wouldn’t care to try that while we were pitching about like this.”

  “There must be a way,” Peter said thoughtfully. Graham got up and checked the rigging, then stood looking up, thinking hard. Then he clicked his fingers. “Yes, I have it. Rig her like an old time ‘Snow’. They had a second mast, stepped just behind the mainmast for the ‘driver’ to work on. We could strain a rope down from the masthead. It would bend of course but it would still work.”

  “More rope!” Peter cried as he rolled his eyes. “We will have enough rope to rig the bloody Cutty Sark soon!”

  Graham ginned. “That’s a good idea. We could hoist a yardarm for a square sail,” he said. He liked that idea. To him the only ‘real’ sailing ships were the square-riggers; preferably with rows of cannon poking out of gunports and bulwarks lined with cutlass armed pirates.

  Peter laughed, well aware of Graham’s romanticism. The idea stayed firmly in Graham’s head so that, after they had stowed the Old Cat at Peter’s he went home and worked for hours making the deck details for his model: pin-rails, gratings, skylights, gangways, balustrading, two ships boats, the galley chimney, capstan and ship’s bell. He was very pleased with his progress.

  The boys had agreed to have another practice on the following morning’s tide. This was about forty-five minutes later but they were still on the water by 0700. Peter had sewn up the tear in the sail. There was a light breeze which wafted them smoothly out over gentle ripples.

  “Where to this time?” Roger asked.

  “Just up and down the inlet will do,” Peter replied.

  Graham stood up and shielded his eyes. ‘What sort of ship is that on the horizon?’ He knew instantly it was a warship. But which one? He watched it growing larger as it came in from the open sea. After ten-minutes he could clearly see the radar antennae and radio aerials.

  “A destroyer,” he said, pointing.

  As the warship came up-channel Graham watched hungrily, feeling the sharp hurt with an intensity he would not have believed possible. His eyes took in every detail as it slid by a kilometre away: the sharp bow with its plume of white spray, the sweeping sheer of the grey hull, the pennant number in black and white numerals on the bow, the gun turrets, jumble of superstructure, black masts with rotating radar scanners, missile launchers, white life raft canisters, rows of white-clad sailors manning the sides, the white caps of the officers on the bridge.

  With a faint haze of funnel smoke and her ensign snapping crisply in the breeze the long, sleek ship looked both graceful and powerful. It was exactly as Graham had imagined it in his daydreams: a grey ship on a green sea; dark green mangroves beyond, with the jungle-clad mountains in the background. It had been one of his most powerful dreams to one day sail His destroyer into Cairns to a hero’s welcome at the wharf, before the admiring gaze of his friends and the girl(s) he loved. He bit his lip and sighed. If only!

  They followed the destroyer up channel and watched her turn and berth at the naval base. Peter then took the Old Cat close alongside for a good look, so they could hear the muted rumble of her machinery and smell the distinctive odours of oil and paint. Most of the sailors took no notice of them. They were too busy. But an armed sentry called a warning and waved them away. Graham looked wistfully up at them.

  Next Peter took the Old Cat on a zigzag further up the Inlet past the Sugar Terminal. As they were passing the mouth of Smiths Creek a tinnie appeared, heading downstream. It was only one of half a dozen boats moving but Graham instantly noted it. The tinnie had three people in it- the bullies.

  Suddenly the tinnie did an abrupt change of course and headed straight for the Old Cat.

  CHAPTER 24

  MAX!

  Graham swallowed nervously, then pointed to the rapidly approaching tinnie, its bows canted up between two plumes of foam. “I don’t like the way that boat is heading for us. It’s Burford and his mates.”

  “So what?” Peter said. “We haven’t done anything to them.”

  The boys watched with growing unease as the tinnie drew rapidly closer. The heads of the three bullies were clearly visible.

  “I don’t like the look on their faces,” Roger commented.

  Peter held his course. The tinnie came rushing in at right angles. For a moment Graham thought they were going to ram the Old Cat. He half rose ready to spring aside. At the last moment the dinghy swerved and cut across the stern. Spray showered aboard, then the wash struck the Old Cat beam on and waves began bursting aboard, swamping her.

  The boys cried out in alarm. The rigging jerked and slatted. The tinnie did a skidding turn and came back rushing in along the port side and again swamping the now waterlogged and floundering Old Cat. The bullies jeered and laughed. They circled for another run. Graham and Max began bailing frantically but the Old Cat was so waterlogged and sluggish that more water slopped on board from the waves.

  Peter stood up and yelled as the tinnie creamed past close along the starboard side. “Leave us alone! We haven’t done anything to you.”

  “Like hell!” Burford snarled. “We owe you!”

  “What the bloody hell?” Peter cried, looking at the others in mystification.

  The Old Cat was wallowing now. Roger was bailing with his hands. Graham knelt in water up to his waist using the ice-cream bucket but it seemed to him the water was flowing in faster than they could empty it.

  “Will we sink?” Roger asked fearfully. They were several hundred metres from either shore.

  “We shouldn’t,” Peter replied, but there was doubt in his voice. He tried to turn the Old Cat to avoid the tinnie’s next ru
n but she was too sluggish and did not respond. Again he yelled at Burford. “Leave us alone Burford. What have we done to you?”

  Burford screamed back as the tinnie raced past. “You mongrels nearly sank us! Took out our drain plug.”

  Again the waves swamped the Old Cat. Some washed clear over it as it had no freeboard left. The tinnie arced away in another curve.

  Graham stopped bailing and looked around.

  “Max!”

  Max looked up. “What?”

  “You stayed with their boat yesterday. Did you do anything to it?”

  Max wouldn’t meet his eye and muttered “no”. He kept on bailing. Graham stood up and sprang across to the other hull.

  “Max you bastard! You did something to their boat didn’t you? What was it?”

  Max looked up defiantly. “Yeah. I did. I took out their drain plug.”

  Peter spoke next as the tinnie raced past so close the hulls briefly touched. The boys seemed to be half submerged.

  “Max, did you do anything else?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do with the plug?” Graham snarled.

  “I chucked it away,” Max replied. Then he laughed.

  Graham suddenly lost his temper. “You stupid bastard Max! As if I haven’t had enough trouble from those mongrels.” He raised his fists.

  Peter sprang forward. “That will do. Save your fight for later. Let’s deal with these turds first.”

  Graham glared and ground his teeth, then glanced to see what the tinnie was doing. To his surprise it was heading away up the Inlet. He looked around and the reason was obvious. Heading out of the mouth of Smiths Creek was the Police launch and it had turned towards them.

  The boys resumed bailing and waited as the launch approached. It heaved to close alongside. Graham felt his stomach turn over. Staring at him from the bow was the tall, thin policeman with pimples. At the wheel stood the same police sergeant he’d met before.