The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  “Yes sir.”

  The sergeant scratched his chin again. “I don’t like this. You kids are caught at the scene of the crime and one of you has a box of matches. Then you try to push the blame onto some other kids just because you’ve had a fight. It doesn’t look good.”

  Graham had to agree. It didn’t. He felt sick and angry.

  Kylie stepped forward. “I don’t know who started the fire but it wasn’t us.”

  “Maybe not Miss. Anyway, it looks like the fire brigade have it under control. I’m going to take all your names and then send you home. I will be investigating further.”

  “It wasn’t us!” Margaret cried. “We were up the top of the hill when it started. It began at the bottom.”

  “Yes Miss. What’s your name and address please,” the sergeant said, opening his notebook.

  When he had all their particulars he told them to go home.

  “Do we have to go to our own homes?” Graham asked. “We were all at Peter’s working on the Old Cat. His mum will be expecting us back.”

  “OK. Go there. I will be over later,” the sergeant agreed. “Now get moving.”

  Sadly the group set off. They drew curious looks from the crowd of spectators which made Graham ashamed and embarrassed.

  “We didn’t even get our mast!” Roger said.

  “Bloody Burford! I’ll get even with him,” Max vowed.

  “Stow it Max. Let it drop. And thanks for the matches,” Peter snapped.

  They walked back to Peter’s, a grimy, hot and unhappy band. Mrs Bronsky had to be told. She was horrified but at least believed their story. They cleaned up and were ushered to lunch.

  Afterwards they sat around feeling unhappy. No one felt like working on the Old Cat. They were all dreading what might happen next. Graham knew there were stiff penalties for lighting fires like that and the worry made him feel sick.

  A car pulled up and Graham looked up. It was his dad. In some ways that was worse than the police. He rose to his feet and walked out to meet his father. No point in putting it off. It would only get worse. They met at the gate. Captain Kirk immediately saw that Graham wanted to speak.

  “Yes. What is it son? You look a bit down.”

  “We’ve been in trouble with the police.”

  “The police!”

  Graham told him the story. His father’s mouth set in a hard line but he said nothing until Graham was finished.

  “You didn’t light the fire?”

  “No dad.”

  “And you didn’t get your mast either?”

  “No dad.”

  “OK. Thanks for telling me. Now let’s have a look at this cat.”

  Captain Kirk went through and greeted the others as though nothing had happened. He went and said hello to Peter’s mum, then returned and began a thorough inspection. From time to time he made a pencilled note in his notebook.

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  The boys looked at each other. “We haven’t decided. We couldn’t agree. We’ve just been calling her the Old Cat,” Peter replied.

  “That’s no good. A ship’s got to have a name,” Captain Kirk replied. “You’d better think of one. Now, here’s the first thing we will get rid of.” He held up the anchor and chain. “This thing is big enough to bring a battleship to a standstill. And the chain! You could tie up an elephant with that. A light nylon line will do. If the weather is so bad that breaks then the Old Cat wouldn’t last anyway.”

  He went on through all their equipment. He was just examining the sail when the police arrived. Captain Kirk and Mrs Bronsky went to meet them. The adults stood talking at the gate for ten-minutes, the children feeling more and more apprehensive. Then the adults walked towards them.

  Peter’s mother spoke first. “Peter, go and get the cannon.”

  Graham looked at Peter hoping he would forgive him. Peter reluctantly left. The police stood looking at the Old Cat and talking to the parents. Graham noted that they were discussing sailing and not bushfires and that gave him a spark of hope.

  Peter brought the cannon out and unwrapped it on the Old Cat’s foredeck. Captain Kirk and the policemen crouched down to look. The sergeant whistled and ran his fingers along the barrel.

  “She’s a beauty!” he said. He turned to Peter. “And it fires all right?”

  “Yes sir. We put a ball-bearing through a rubbish bin,” Peter replied.

  “And another through a dunny wall,” Constable ‘Pimples’ added.

  “No sir. That was a piece of chalk,” Graham replied.

  “Chalk! Holy cow!” the sergeant exclaimed. He gave a chuckle and stroked the cannon again. He asked more questions about how the gun was fired. Graham by then was in an agony worrying that they would confiscate it.

  “Right,” the sergeant said as he straightened up. “This is an official warning. The cannon is not to be used except for its proper purpose, that is as a starting gun for sailing races, and only under the supervision of an adult. Is that clear? Any other use and I will consider laying charges.”

  “Yes sir,” Peter said, his eyes lighting up.

  “That’s a promise.”

  “Yes sir. Scout’s Honour,” Peter replied.

  “Good. We will be off then. And I’ll bet the navy cadets win.” The sergeant grinned and walked off. Constable ‘Pimples’ didn’t look too pleased but he said nothing and followed the sergeant.

  “Good,” Captain Kirk said. “Now the mast.”

  “Where will we get one dad?” Graham asked.

  “From the Bamboo Patch, where else?”

  “But?” Graham was feeling a bit too battered emotionally to think clearly.

  Captain Kirk grinned. “I went to school with the son of the lady who lives there. You boys get in the car. Bring a saw. How would you girls like to scrub this sail and hang it up to dry? We will be half an hour.”

  They were actually nearer an hour, mostly because Captain Kirk had to gossip to the lady, then accept her invitation of afternoon tea. The boys were allowed to select the best available bamboo in the yard - nearly nine metres long, still slightly green, and so thick at the base that Graham’s hands could not meet around it.

  They sawed it down, trimmed it, thanked the lady and set off back with it over their shoulders as it was too long to fit on the car. As they went down the drive they could see the smouldering hillside below and the memory was nearly enough to spoil Graham’s sense of achievement.

  But they had it. A new mast!

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘MUDSKIPPER’

  The boys carried the new mast home on their shoulders. Graham was very relieved nothing more had happened about the fire. He hoped that was the end of it.

  The group were next driven to a Chandler’s Store and Captain Kirk set about purchasing new lifejackets, some safety flares, a large waterproof torch for signalling and a fluorescent torch in case they needed a safety light at night – ‘if they were becalmed’ - more pulleys and rope and some blocks of polystyrene foam. This was all transported back to Peter’s and they set about re-rigging the Old Cat.

  Graham’s dad could not stay. He had to get back to work but he left the group buoyed up and happy. Helped by the girls they re-rigged the Old Cat. This time Graham added some refinements to the rig: a double forestay, a rope with loops and knots in it from the top of the mast so he could climb it if he needed to, more tell-tales and safety lines.

  Peter glued and screwed a wide, thin plank across just in front of the centre cross-beam. This was to provide a better seat, more secure footing and something to secure the blocks of polystyrene to. These were trimmed to shape, then forced into the hull under the new ‘thwart’ and glued in place.

  “She won’t sink now,” Peter averred.

  “Maybe we should call her Unsinkable?” Roger asked.

  They laughed. Peter shook his head. “Don’t tempt fate. Remember the Titanic.”

  “But there are no icebergs in Trinity Bay,” Margaret said
. They laughed again.

  It was a happy group that pedalled home that afternoon. Once again they had agreed to sail the following morning. The girls were aggrieved that they couldn’t come.

  Peter shook his head. “No. We have to try out our new rig,” he had said. “Besides, we don’t want you spying on our secret techniques.”

  “Secret techniques!” Kylie spluttered. “Man overboard! Capsize Drill! Capsize Drill!” she cried. She and Margaret shrieked with mirth, much to the boys’ annoyance.

  Margaret said, “Never mind. Carmen and Jennifer get back from their cadet camp tomorrow.”

  Jennifer! Graham had all but forgotten her. ‘How could I!’ he wondered.

  Friday morning found the four boys out on the bay in the Cat. They all wore their new bright orange buoyancy vests but after a while Max took his off and put it in the locker, claiming it was too uncomfortable. Also in the locker, at Graham’s insistence, were the cannon and its accessories.

  “She’s good Pete!” Graham exclaimed happily as they slipped along. He went from one piece of rigging to another and carefully checked it. He patted the new mast and stood feeling the vibration through it. It certainly had a better feel to it than the old one.

  They cruised up the Inlet to Smiths Creek. Graham noted that the destroyer was gone. A white-hulled survey ship was in its place. The whole time Peter made them practise all the manoeuvres he could think of ‘to get the bugs out of the new rig’.

  After three hours they headed for home. It was midday by then, two hours after high water. The Old Cat dropped gently down the Inlet with the tide and the boys ate their lunch as they coasted along.

  “I don’t like the way this wind is dropping,” Peter observed. “We will miss the tide if we aren’t careful.”

  They were off the Marlin Jetty by then. The wind continued to weaken until only the outgoing tide was pulling them along.

  “Paddles out,” Peter ordered.

  They untied the paddles. There were still only three so Max took the spinnaker pole.

  “It will reach the bottom,” he said. They were now out of the main channel and had a two kilometre distance to cover, moving parallel to the Esplanade and across the ebb.

  They set-to with a will.

  “Work hard now,” Peter said. “It will be easier than pushing across the mud.” Already the tide had retreated enough to expose a few metres of black mud.

  “Row you galley slaves, row!” Max cried, swinging the pole to whack against Roger’s buoyancy vest.

  “Stop it Max! Just push!” Roger snapped.

  Max did so. No sooner had he pushed the pole down into the mud than it stuck. He tried to pull it free and almost overbalanced. It slipped from his grasp.

  “Bloody hell!”

  The top of the pole just stuck out of the water. The Old Cat slid past it, leaving it behind.

  “Backwater all!” Peter yelled.

  But a gust of wind filled the sails and nullified their efforts. Within seconds the pole was ten-metres astern.

  “Stop paddling. I’ll get it,” Max said. Before any of them realised what he intended he had dived in. He swam back to the pole and wrenched it free.

  Peter yelled angrily. “Max you silly bugger! Get back on board!”

  Max laughed and swam towards them pushing the pole. Peter grabbed it and hauled it aboard as Max came splashing alongside.

  “Get aboard Max! It’s not safe,” Peter repeated.

  Max snorted. “Crap! I can nearly touch the bottom. Look!” He suddenly held his nose with his left hand, put his right hand straight up and sank from sight. Graham stood up, feeling intensely worried.

  This changed to genuine concern when Max did not re-appear and his bubbles stopped. The three boys leaned over the side, staring into the muddy water.

  “What’s happened?” Roger cried, his voice quavering with apprehension.

  “Perhaps he’s stuck in the mud?” Graham said. “Stop us moving Pete. Anchor us with the pole.”

  Peter did so while Graham tore off his buoyancy vest. Still Max hadn’t surfaced. Graham swallowed, felt sick, then tried to suppress the trembling. He checked his knife. What had happened to Max? Was he stuck in the mud or tangled in some seaweed or wreckage? Had he drowned? Had a shark taken him?

  With an effort of will Graham lowered himself into the water.

  “For Christ’s sake be careful!” Peter said.

  Graham nodded, took a breath and went under. He swam down with one hand sliding on the pole and within two strokes struck mud. It was terrifying. The water was cloudy with suspended particles and was like a murky grey soup extending into shadows.

  Graham tried not to think about sharks or crocodiles but he couldn’t stop himself. He cringed as he groped around. All he could feel were slime, weed and shells. Nothing! He could barely see his hand in front of his face. ‘How can I find him in this?’ he thought, desperately aware that if he needed to go up for air then Max was way past that.

  When he could stay down no longer Graham slid back up the pole. It wasn’t far. The depth was just over his head. He broke the surface, gasped air and shook his head to clear the water from his eyes.

  “Can’t find him,” he gasped, feeling sick with dread.

  “He’s here,” an unsmiling Peter informed him, jerking his thumb behind him. Graham heard Max laugh. He gripped the side of the Old Cat uncomprehendingly.

  “Is he alright?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes. The bugger was just playing a practical joke. He swam under the cat and hid at the bow,” he replied, pressing his lips together.

  Graham exploded in raw anger, fuelled by the fear. He swore, then heaved himself dripping back aboard. “You bastard Max!” He scrambled across the Old Cat towards a Max who was doubled up with laughter.

  Graham punched him on the arm and then on the chest. Max fended him off with his feet and stopped laughing.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you take a joke?” he cried.

  Graham hit him again in the leg, then backed off from the flailing feet.

  “Bugger you Max! I thought a shark had got you, or that you were tangled up in something. Christ!” He started to shake and sat down. Angrily he shook his head.

  Peter stepped between them. “OK. That’s enough. It wasn’t funny Max. It was bloody silly, and dangerous. You owe Graham for that - and us. Now bloody well paddle or I’ll chuck you overboard for good!”

  Max took the paddle with ill grace and began to use it. Peter and Roger resumed paddling. After a couple of minutes Graham took the pole and moved to the opposite side from Max. He began to use the pole as a sort of paddle.

  After an uneasy twenty minutes the Old Cat finally slid to a standstill in a few centimetres of water. They were still a hundred metres from the beach.

  “Everyone out and push,” Peter ordered.

  They leaned on the Old Cat and used their feet. Fifty-metres were covered easily. Then they stopped to get their breath back.

  “Look at that crab!” Peter said, pointing to a large grey and green mud crab scuttling away from them. It was at least twenty-centimetres across its shell.

  Graham sat on the stern dreading the next part. That was the twenty-five metres closest to the beach where the drunks had lobbed their broken bottles. His cut foot had only just begun to heal nicely. It took an effort of willpower to take each step. He supposed it must be a bit like how soldiers felt walking in a minefield.

  They started pushing again but after ten paces stopped.

  “Roger! Push!” Peter called.

  There was a squelch, squelch, Splat!

  Roger went flat in the mud a few metres away from the Old Cat. “Look at this! I got him!” he yelled. Graham looked. Roger was lying on his front in the mud. Something was wriggling between his clasped hands. Suddenly it squirmed free and plopped onto the mud. A mudskipper- a huge mudskipper at least twenty-centimetres long, with big bug eyes.

  Before Roger could grab it again the mudskipper ski
ttered and hopped away. Roger stood up, flicking mud off himself and grinning.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  “No you haven’t. It got away,” Peter observed. He was not in the mood for more foolery.

  “No. I’ve got an idea. A name for the Old Cat,” Roger cried. He looked from Peter to Graham.

  “Oh yeah, what?” Peter asked.

  “The Mudskipper,” Roger replied with a smile. “And we are the Mudskippers!”

  “I like it!” Peter said.

  “So do I. It’s good!” Graham agreed.

  Roger beamed happily. “And the prize for the sailing race: that is the ‘Mudskipper Cup’.”

  They all laughed and cheered. “Mudskipper it is,” Peter said.

  Joking and laughing they pushed the Old Cat the last few metres to the beach. Roger went to the tap to clean himself while the others un-rigged the Mudskipper.

  “Yes, Mudskipper. I like it,” Peter repeated.

  They carried the Mudskipper up the beach and across the lawn to receive a rude shock. Peter had chained the trailer to the fence with a padlock but both tyres were flat.

  “What the....?” Peter said.

  Graham’s mouth set in a grim line.

  “Burford.”

  “Could be. It’s the sort of thing they’d do,” Peter agreed. “Bugger it! What a nuisance!”

  There was nothing for it but to go to Peter’s to get a jack and wheel wrench, remove the wheels, roll them to a service station, pump them up, roll them back and put them back on. It wasted an hour and a half.

  “We will have to take the trailer home after we launch the Mudskipper,” Peter said as they pushed the cat along the footpath. “How annoying!”

  When Graham got home he told Kylie of the new name for the Mudskipper, and for the Cup. She clapped her hands in delight. “Oooh! Yes! That’s wonderful. I like it! I must tell Margaret.” She scuttled off to the phone.

  Graham had a bath, washed his muddy clothes, dried and oiled his sheath knife, put polish on his belt and the knife’s sheath, then went to work on his model. He painted many of the small deck fixtures and relaxed.