The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  Peter swore and eased the tiller but they had to do a wide circle and heave-to to pick up the offending can.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Max sneered. “It will sink. Gawd you lot are a bunch of worriers!”

  “You don’t have to come with us if you don’t want to,” Peter replied evenly.

  Roger fished the can out and added it to a rubbish bag in the forward locker.

  They resumed their journey. Soon after that they met the runabout punching up channel past the tanker berth. Captain Kirk was the only occupant.

  “Who won?” Graham called.

  “Andrew Collins. The Blue Cat,” his father replied. They exchanged waves and kept on going. Graham was secretly very pleased that his dad had given up his Sunday to come and watch the race. ‘He isn’t such a bad old bugger after all,’ he mused.

  As they passed the yacht club they saw the other two cats, already unrigged and on their trailers. They gave a wave and kept going. Past the Marina their worst fears were confirmed. It was 3pm and the tide was well out. Nearly a kilometre of mudflats was exposed.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE MUDFLATS

  “Bloody hell!” Max cried in dismay as he eyed the vast spread of mud. The others said nothing. Peter shrugged and aimed the Mudskipper at Ellie Point. They sailed out into the centre of the bay then turned and ran in directly for the beach. All too soon the cat was touching bottom, slipping over beds of sea-grass. Graham peered curiously over the side.

  “I’ve heard that dugong and the turtle come to feed on this sea-grass,” he said. He had seen both before on trips with his father but wanted to see another.

  Seagulls swooped over them and Roger threw a few crusts. The birds plummeted to snatch them. The Mudskipper ground to a standstill. The boys made wry faces and groaned.

  “How far do you reckon?” Peter asked.

  “More than half a kilometre,” Graham estimated.

  “Oh well. Let’s get it over with.” Peter swung his legs over into ankle deep water. “Aargh!” He seemed to drop. The others looked in alarm but he had only slipped into the mud up to his waist.

  “Strewth! That’s dangerous. You could get trapped and be drowned,” Roger cried.

  “Bull Roger. You just lie flat and swim on the stuff instead of trying to walk,” Peter replied, disgust plain in his voice. “It’s all to do with pressure-to-weight ratios.”

  With an effort Peter hauled himself free. The mud gave a vulgar sucking noise as he hauled himself half back onto the cat. “OK you lot, the show’s over. Now start pushing!”

  Reluctantly they did. As before they lay on the Mudskipper and pushed with their legs. As Peter said, it was ‘all pressure to weight ratios’.

  The first three hundred metres was easy as there was still a film of water to help float and lubricate the cat’s progress but then it became increasingly difficult. After ten-minutes they stopped to get their breath back. ‘About half way’, Graham estimated. ‘Three hundred metres to go.’ It looked a long way. So far they had remained relatively clean, at least from the knees up; except for Peter.

  Now it became a real slog. They had to push with all their might, all grouped at the stern to stop the bows digging in. They stopped frequently. Max swore and grumbled the whole time. “Bloody Mudskippers!” he cursed. “Bloody idiots more like.”

  It took nearly half an hour of grunting, perspiring effort but at last they neared the shore. By then all had a spattering of mud on their clothes, arms and faces.

  “Not far now. Fifty paces,” Peter said. “Two more shoves. Come on, push!”

  They put their heads down and pushed. Graham began worrying about broken glass.

  Splat!

  A large lump of mud splattered onto the quarterdeck, covering them in gobbets. Graham stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few moments then heard laughter and looked up.

  Burford.

  With Harvey and Macnamara. They were standing on the beach twenty-metres away with handfuls of mud.

  Splat! Splot! Slosh!

  The bullies began hurling mud as fast as they could scoop it up. The friends gaped for a few startled seconds, then ducked.

  Too late. A huge lump struck Roger’s head, caking his hair and almost knocking him over. Graham saw red instantly. He bent, scooped up a handful of mud and hurled it back.

  Missed! He bent again. Peter joined in, then Max and Roger.

  Splot! Graham was struck full in the face. His eyes stung with salt and grit and for a minute he was blinded. He could only turn his back on the shower of filth while trying to wipe his eyes clear. His eyes watered and burned and everything was blurred. More mud struck him on the back, then in the hair. He bent to scoop water out of a crab hole and tried to wash the mud clear.

  That stung too. More mud hit him. There was shouting and more yells of laughter from the bullies. Graham heard Burford yelling. “That’ll teach you bastards to leave our boat alone.”

  Graham rinsed his eyes and blinked. His right eye was relatively clear. He just screwed the left one shut, bent down and scooped up more mud and re-entered the fray. He was appalled by what he saw. All four of the friends were plastered in mud from head to toe. Worse still the Mudskipper was covered in it: on the decks, in the hulls and splattered all over the rigging and sails. Big dollops slid down the mainsail leaving shiny smears of black and grey.

  So far the bullies had hardly been hit at all. They were jeering and laughing as they stood in ankle deep mud just near the beach.

  The mongrels! Graham’s temper exploded. He began floundering towards them. As he did he scooped up a solid lump and pegged it. It struck Harvey in the mouth just as he was jeering at another hit on Roger. Harvey began to spit and swear and backed off.

  Peter followed Graham’s example. Roger joined them. Mud flew fast and furious. Large dollops struck both Burford and Macnamara and they retreated.

  “Come on! Charge!” Graham yelled. His blood was up. He struggled and floundered ashore as fast as he could go. He stopped throwing mud. Now he wanted to get his hands on them, to hit, to hurt.

  As he reached the beach the bullies retreated hastily to the lawn. Graham was five paces ahead of Peter but he was too angry to care. He raced up the beach and onto the lawn, straight towards Burford.

  Burford didn’t wait. He and his cronies turned and fled. Graham chased them for fifty-metres till they crossed the road and ran off along the footpath. There he stopped, chest heaving, eyes stinging and aware that he had sliced his foot open again.

  “Leave us alone damn you!” he shouted, waving his mud-caked fist at them.

  “You leave our boat alone,” Burford yelled back. The bullies slowed to a walk but kept going. Graham turned and stamped back across the lawn past Peter and Roger.

  “Max you bastard! What did you do to their boat?” he snarled, fists on hips.

  “Nothing.”

  “You bloody well did! Now tell me or I’ll belt you to pulp!”

  “It wasn’t their boat. It was their motor. I didn’t want them to swamp us again so I pulled a couple of wires off,” Max replied defiantly. Then he snickered. “And I pissed in their petrol tank.”

  Graham shouted and rushed forward, fists flailing. Max tried to fend him off but Graham punched him hard in the face and sent him sprawling. Max tried to crawl away.

  “Get up!” Graham grated, fists raised and eyes blazing.

  “Leave me alone!” Max shouted. “What’s wrong? Can’t you take a joke?”

  Peter took hold of Graham’s shirt to restrain him. He stood over Max, legs apart, hands on hips and face grim.

  “That does it Max. You’re out! Finished! Get your gear and get going!”

  “But...”

  “Get!”

  Max stood up, rubbing his cheek and scowling. He didn’t go back out to the cat. Instead he swore, turned his back and walked off.

  The friends watched him go. Graham put his fists down and sighed.

  “Sorry! It was just the last stra
w. Bloody Burford and his mates have made my life hell for months, and just when I’m really enjoying myself bloody Max has to stir them up!”

  Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “I know, but it was him lying to us that got at me.”

  Graham nodded. His eyes watered and he hoped the others would think it was the mud and salt. He looked at them and gave a wry grin. Roger grinned back, from relief as much as anything. “Well, we are mudskippers now,” he said.

  They looked at each other. Mud covered them from head to toe. Only their eyes, nostrils and mouth seemed clear. It was impossible to distinguish the colour of their clothes or their hair.

  “We look like those mud-men from New Guinea,” Peter said. Then he laughed. They all did.

  “It was a good fight too,” Graham added, as he savoured the memory of his enemies’ fleeing backs. It was a good feeling. He had charged them and they had run!

  They laughed and discussed the mud fight but this drew their attention to the Mudskipper. She looked woebegone.

  “Poor old Mudskipper!” Roger said.

  Peter shrugged. “It’s only mud. It will wash off. Come on, let’s get her ashore.”

  It took an effort for the three of them to drag the cat to the beach, then haul it up the slope and across the lawn. She was just too heavy for the three of them to manage. Peter walked home to get the trailer. Graham and Roger washed off the worst of the mud under a tap. Graham examined the new cut. It was smaller but deeper and he couldn’t get all the muck out. At least his eyes seemed OK.

  They wheeled the Mudskipper back to Peter’s, where a horrified Mrs Bronsky gasped at the mud. She was quite angry with them till the situation was explained. Then she cooled down a bit and produced afternoon tea while the boys set to work scrubbing and cleaning everything out on the front driveway.

  It was nearly 5pm before they finished. The cat was stowed carefully in the shed.

  “Oh well. School tomorrow,” Peter said. “It was a good holiday though.”

  “Yes. Yes it was,” Graham agreed. It was one of the best holidays he could ever remember.

  He and Roger rode home in companionable silence, the double shadow of the day’s events, and the end of the holidays, over them. At Roger’s house Graham paused briefly. Roger looked at him. “Sorry about Max. What will we do? Find someone else, or race with three?”

  Graham shrugged. He felt sad and confused. Was Max really a friend? Roger was, he was sure of that. “Don’t know. I’d better get home. See you tomorrow.”

  “School! Yuk!” was Roger’s response.

  Graham pedalled home. Kylie and Alex were sitting on the front steps as he arrived. Kylie shrieked with laughter. “The Mudskippers! Hah! Hah! Hah!”

  “What happened?” Alex asked.

  Graham told them. He picked up the garden hose and dragged it out onto the footpath and tried to remove the worst of the mud. Then he went to the laundry and threw his clothes into a tub to soak, wrapped a towel around himself and went upstairs to the shower.

  Over dinner he again described the afternoon’s events. Graham didn’t want to dwell on his clash with Max but Alex blurted it out. Graham’s mother looked unhappy but his father nodded.

  “Good. That lad Max is a dill. He will get someone hurt,” Captain Kirk said. Graham warmed to the approval in his voice.

  Kylie wasn’t so sure. “Who will be your fourth crewman then?”

  Graham shrugged. “We thought we could race with three.”

  Kylie was horrified. “Oh no! That wouldn’t be fair. You need four to handle the Mudskipper, and we don’t want to have to ask any of our crew to stand down. That would be awful. You will have to find a fourth person.”

  Graham pulled a wry face and looked at Alex who held up his hands. “No fear. Not me. I’m too busy.”

  Captain Kirk leaned forward. “So you’ve had five races. When is the next?”

  “Next Sunday at eleven thirty,” Graham replied. He met his father’s eyes and, on an impulse, said. “I’m sorry you will miss it dad.”

  His father smiled. “I may not. I’d like to see it. I’m only taking the mining machinery and fuel to Cape Flattery up past Cooktown. We can get there in one day if the weather’s fine. I’m hoping to be back on Thursday at the latest, to start loading on Friday.”

  “That’ll be great dad,” Kylie said. Graham agreed. He did want his dad’s approval and interest.

  In the morning they farewelled their father early. He left at 7am by taxi, hoping to sail before midday.

  “Be good kids,” he said. He hugged Kylie and shook the boys’ hands. Graham felt more emotion at his father’s departure than he had felt for many years. Usually he barely noticed his comings and goings and generally had been happier when he was gone.

  Then it was off to school.

  He hated the prospect; dreaded it even. It meant misery in class and the bullies in the playground. He sighed. What a marvellous holiday it had been. Reluctantly he trudged off, schoolbag over his shoulder.

  The first person he noticed when he got there was Max. Their eyes met across the grass quadrangle, then Max turned away. Graham felt all mixed up over it. He regretted the outburst and fight - yet he was still annoyed with him!

  Graham saw no sign of the bullies. Classes resumed their usual grind. Graham hesitated over where to sit, then moved to his usual place; beside Stephen.

  “Good holiday?” Stephen asked, adjusting his glasses.

  “Beaut! Fantastic!” Graham enthused. “We went sailing nearly every day. We dug out an old catamaran Pete’s grandad built and ...” He prattled on happily and only slowly became aware of the look on Stephen’s face: boredom? Envy? Graham remembered that Stephen had been ‘grounded’ for weeks and bit his lip. ‘I’m being selfish,’ he thought. To change the subject he asked, “How was your holiday Steve?”

  Stephen’s lip twisted and he shrugged. “Dull. Boring. Apart from going to see relatives I didn’t go anywhere. Don’t mind me. Tell me about your sailing. It sounds like lots of fun.”

  “It was,” Graham replied. Then he paused as the memories flooded in. “Except when I was scared witless; or when that mongrel Burford and his mates were giving us a hard time.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell us about it.”

  So Graham described the various incidents and adventures. This went on during classes, which drew stern warnings from teachers, during intervals: and in the breaks. They joined Peter and Roger at little lunch and the stories continued.

  At lunch time Andrew and his crew joined them. “How are the ancient mariners?” he asked. “I heard you had some problems Sunday afternoon.”

  “Problems!” Pete cried. They all laughed. “My main problem is the bunch of splay-footed, two-thumbed land-lubbers who call themselves a crew.”

  There were cries of outrage and Roger tossed a Mintie which bounced off Peter’s skull. Blake deftly caught it and proceeded to unwrap it.

  “I hear you’ve only got three in your crew now,” Andrew said. “What will you do?”

  “Find a fourth I guess,” Peter said. He turned to look at Stephen. “What about it Steve?”

  Stephen shrugged. “I’d like to, but I’m still grounded,” he said.

  “That’s bad luck. What if we asked your parents?”

  Stephen’s eyes lit up. Then he pulled a face. “That would be great but you’d better not. I’ve only got a few weeks to go. Besides I won’t be available next Sunday. We are going to Mackay for an orchid convention.”

  Peter nodded. “Too bad. Oh well. We will find someone,” he said.

  “Press gang ‘em if we need to,” grinned Graham.

  The problem continued to bother them for the next three days. Several friends were asked but all said no for various reasons. School settled into its dreary routine, a sort of grey blur for Graham, who sat wistfully wishing he was out on the bay with the wind in his hair and salt spray on his face.

  He managed to avoid the bullies, in fact saw very little of them. As th
e whole group were now marked as ‘enemies’ they gave themselves some collective protection anyway.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE MODELS

  Graham’s main pre-occupation became finishing his model sailing ship. Friday was the closing date for entries in the Show Exhibition of Crafts and Hobbies. This would allow a week for the judges to study them before the annual ‘Show’ in mid-July. So Graham worked for many hours - each afternoon after school and every evening until late. He completed the rigging and added some flags - drawn on white paper using coloured felt pens.

  By Thursday morning he had begun to panic a bit as he still seemed to have a hundred small details to complete. He considered asking his mother if he could stay home from school to finish it, then shook his head. He wasn’t sick and he didn’t want people lying on his behalf. So he worked late on Thursday night. So did Kylie, who had the same problem.

  Graham woke early on Friday morning to add the last little touches. When his mother called him for breakfast he sighed. He hadn’t made the ‘sea’ and now there wouldn’t be time. The ‘Falcon’ would just have to sail as she was. He picked the model up and looked at her from all angles. She was good. He was sure she was the best model he had ever made. Proudly he carried her upstairs.

  To receive a shock.

  Kylie’s model was on the table.

  Graham stopped in surprise - and admiration mixed with dismay. It was very good. Indeed it looked splendid. It was the Spanish treasure galleon, all ablaze with gilt work and red and gold banners and shields, with red crosses on golden sails.

  “Kylie it’s marvellous!” he said. Kylie beamed and took his model to look at it. Graham bent down to look more closely at Kylie’s Golden Galleon. He felt sharp twinges of envy. Those ‘brass’ cannons that shone as though polished! The neatness of the sails, the sparkle of what looked like real glass in the stern windows, the bright paintwork. He bit his lip, and felt his hopes sliding down.

  “It’s the best you’ve ever done Kylie,” he said. It hurt but perversely he was pleased she had done so well. “It’s better than mine. I think I’ve spent too much time sailing.”