The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  Kylie flushed with pleasure and put his model down. “No. Yours is better. The workmanship is better. Mine is just prettier.”

  It sounded comforting but Graham couldn’t help thinking that in competitions appearance counted. He sighed.

  Their mother beamed at them. “I think they are both wonderful. Now you can stop worrying and let the judges decide. I will take them in when I go shopping today. Now sit down and have your breakfast.”

  But Graham didn’t stop worrying. He went to school feeling as though a tiny rat was gnawing at his stomach. Whether his model was good enough to stand public scrutiny or not was not his only worry. They still had not recruited a fourth crew member.

  By lunch time the problem had become urgent.

  “What will we do?” he asked Peter and Roger.

  “Ask someone at Scouts tonight,” Roger suggested.

  Peter frowned. “We might have to make do with my little brother, or...” he began. His voice tailed off and he looked past Graham’s shoulder. Graham turned. Max was standing there, looking very anxious.

  Max gave a half smile. “I hear you are still short a crewman,” he said nervously, his voice just above a mumble.

  “So?” Graham said.

  “I’d like to come back. If you’ll have me,” Max said. He raised his eyes and met Graham’s, then shifted to Peter’s. ‘He’s pleading!’ Graham thought with a shock. Then the realisation came to him that their rejection of Max must have been very hurtful. Graham felt a bit of a heel. He also appreciated that it must have taken courage for Max to come and ask.

  Peter looked at Graham, eyebrows raised: “Well?”

  Graham looked at Max. “Will you promise not to do anything silly?”

  “Yes. I promise,” Max said eagerly. “I’m sorry for the other day, truly sorry.”

  Graham weakened. He still had doubts but he felt sorry for him. He’d noticed Max moping around the school on his own. ‘The poor coot’s lonely,’ he thought. Aloud he said. “OK, you’re in.”

  Max beamed and thanked them. Peter gave a wry smile and Roger gave a slight shake of his head but Graham felt relieved. They fell to discussing the details and tactics of the next race.

  When he got home that afternoon Graham felt almost light-headed with relief. His model was finished. That was in the lap of the Gods. He tried to imagine what sort of people the judges were. Elderly ladies with pursed lips and long noses he thought. Better still he had survived a week of school without serious trouble; and it was Friday evening.

  That meant chocolates, comics and Scouts. Graham was very boisterous that night, entering into all the rough and tumble games like a mad thing.

  Saturday he spent at home at a bit of a loose end. He was vaguely disappointed his father wasn’t back. There was something the Malita had to pick up in Cooktown and it had caused a delay. He might return that afternoon. For the first time he could remember in years Graham looked forward to his dad’s return.

  “I hope he likes my model,” he said to himself. Then he corrected himself. “Our models.” The memory of Kylie’s galleon, with its cloud of golden silk sails made him fret again. It was so pretty! She would win.

  He did some chores, read a book and frittered away the day. The TV news said there would be clear skies and light winds. He went to bed at his normal time, to be woken just before midnight. It was his dad, very tired.

  “Hello son. How are you? Still racing tomorrow?”

  “Yes dad.”

  “Same time and place?”

  “Yes dad.”

  “Good. I’ll see you there. Sleep well.” His father patted his shoulder and went off to have a late supper. Graham snuggled down and felt happy.

  His father wasn’t at breakfast. He slept in, rising just as Graham, his mother and Kylie set off for Church. Church was ordinary except that Jennifer was there, as beautiful as ever - and as unattainable as ever.

  After the service she kept talking to Kylie and Margaret. Margaret came over to Graham and put her hand on Graham’s forearm. “It was very kind of you to give Max another chance,” she said. “I’m pleased.”

  “You can have him in your crew if you like,” Graham replied, blushing with pleasure.

  “He’s alright. I know he’s a bit silly but he’s not bad. Besides, who would you swap for him? Which one of us would you want in your crew?” Margaret’s eyes searched Graham’s face.

  ‘Youch!’ he thought. ‘Where did that barbed little question come from?’ He looked at Jennifer and his mind raced - but than he relaxed and smiled.

  “You or Kylie.”

  “Really?” Margaret said. She blushed and her eyes sparkled. “You aren’t just saying that?”

  Graham felt a surge of affection. He put his other hand over hers. “Really.”

  “Me or Kylie?”

  “I would prefer you. I think Pete would prefer Kylie.”

  Margaret seemed to glow with delight. “Does Peter like Kylie?” she asked a little breathlessly.

  Graham felt awkward. “Aw. I think so. A bit anyway.”

  Luckily for Graham, Roger’s arrival terminated the conversation.

  “Come on Graham. Wave to her as we rush past them during the race,” Roger said. “We’d better move if we are going to get the Mudskipper on the water in time.”

  They moved.

  Even so they only just made it in time. The others could launch their cats at the yacht club whereas the Mudskipper had to be wheeled to the Esplanade, the trailer returned to Peter’s for safekeeping, the rigging set up and then they had to slog upwind for two kilometres (more like six by the time they had tacked four times). Still, it was a good warm-up practice.

  As they got closer Graham was pleased to see his dad in the runabout. They hove-to and the captains began to discuss the course. Graham saw Margaret smiling at him and he smiled back. Her face lit up. ‘She’s a good kid,’ he thought. ‘Pity she is only in Year 7.’ He knew the boys at school would tease him mercilessly as a ‘cradle snatcher’, if he admitted to having a girl friend in Primary School. ‘Besides,’ he told himself, ‘I just like her. I’m not in love with her.’ He decided to be nice to her, feeling sure that once she really got to know him she would lose interest.

  The course had been agreed - the same as the previous Sunday.

  “This wind is a bit fluky,” Captain Kirk said. “It could die altogether. You don’t want to be too far from home.”

  “Will we do two races?” Carmen asked. There were only two to go to make the seven.

  “May not need to,” Andrew said. “If either the girls or us win then we will have an unbeatable lead with three.”

  Peter snorted. “What if we win?”

  This brought hoots and shrieks of laughter from the other crews. Carmen however shook her head.

  “Still won’t do. If Andrew wins this one and we win the next one we would be three each and have to sail an eighth race.”

  Graham pulled a face. It was starting to look as though the Mudskipper and her crew weren’t even considered.

  Peter agreed. “We haven’t been scratched yet you know.” More jeers and hoots greeted this.

  They prepared to race. This time Roger was given the honour of firing the starting cannon. At 11:45 it boomed and he scrambled back to the focsle where Graham had already hauled the jib taut. Graham handed the sheet over and moved aft to pack the cannon away.

  The wind was so gentle there was no urgent task for him so he carefully cleaned the cannon first. The three cats passed slowly round the marker beacon, occasionally coming so close to each other that a foot or arm was used to fend off. They didn’t fuss over collision rules or the finer points of racing.

  Graham packed the cannon carefully in the stern locker then sat and daydreamed. The pirate ship was close alongside. A last broadside with the cannon. White smoke billowed. The two hulls ground together (he fended Andrew’s Blue Cat off with a jibe about ‘Welcome aboard ye lubbers’). Then pirates began swarming aboard: -
black eye patches, cutlasses, earrings and pigtails.

  Graham noticed that Max was wearing an earring and his lip curled. He hadn’t spoken to Max except on technical matters. He looked around to see how the race was progressing. The three cats were sailing along at walking pace side by side, the girls on the left, then the Mudskipper and Andrew’s on the right. The sea was hardly moving: no wind waves at all, just a few small ocean swells and the ruffling of small gusts. The cats slipped along with a pleasant rippling sound. Gulls sat on the water or swooped overhead. It was just warm enough to make them start to sweat.

  Graham took off his lifejacket, peeled off his pullover, then put the jacket back on. Max and Roger did likewise, except Max did not put his lifejacket back on. He wore only T-shirt and shorts. Peter wore a flannel shirt. He rolled its sleeves up.

  After ten-minutes they were half way along the downwind leg. Peter looked carefully from side to side. “I hesitate to suggest this, but I fancy we are going slightly faster than the others.”

  Graham looked. It appeared that they had gained a metre or more.

  Max sneered. “Nah! Only a tiny bit. They’ll soon pull ahead.”

  Graham met Peter’s eye. Peter pressed his lips together. Graham thought, ‘Why did I bother?’ He said, “I don’t know. These light airs seem to suit the old girl.”

  “I agree,” Peter said. “Max, see if you can push the boom further to port. Roger, get the pole and put the jib out to starboard. See if ‘wing and wing’ works any better!”

  It did. After another hundred metres the Mudskipper had drawn ahead so much that her stern was level with the others’ masts.

  “See you later.” Roger waved to the others.

  This brought hoots and laughter and they didn’t. The lead increased so slowly that for any practical purpose the three cats were sailing in a tight formation a few metres apart.

  Peter began edging to port until Graham could have held Margaret’s hand. She grinned at him and teased him. Kylie splashed water at him and Graham responded. This brought shrieks and cries. He realised he was wetting Jennifer so he stopped. ‘God she is beautiful!’ he thought.

  After another five hundred metres the Mudskipper had inched past the Yellow Cat and Peter eased her across almost into a line ahead position. He was aiming at the Main Channel Marker, now close ahead, and wanted the inside position on the turn, with no chance of a ‘foul’.

  The Mudskipper was still only two metres ahead of the Yellow Cat as they reached the mark. They rounded it and lost a metre, the bow of the Yellow Cat almost touching their rudders. They began the beam reach in towards the beach. Peter fussed then with the exact setting of the sails. “We want to get the perfect angle,” he said.

  The race progressed slowly. The wind died so that they almost lost steerage way. Then it gusted for a few minutes and the other two cats came gurgling up close astern. The Yellow Cat overhauled to half a boat length but because the rules said they had to pass to leeward the Mudskipper stole just enough of their wind to maintain their slender lead.

  Only then did Graham dare to hope they might have a chance in this race. He said nothing but his heart beat faster and he moved carefully, seeking the perfect trim so that the twin hulls could slide through the water with minimum resistance and least turbulence.

  The Mudskipper was still leading, three metres in front as they rounded the inshore mark and began the last leg, the upwind ‘beat’.

  “We can do it,” Peter said quietly. “Max, just ease that sheet a bit. Bit more.” Peter’s eye was on the small pieces of wool he had sewn across the belly of the sail so that the ends were free. He could tell by their pattern, of trailing in neat lines or of fluttering, whether the wind flow over the sail was perfect or not. “Hold it. There. We should have all the ‘Bernouli effect’ we are going to get.

  “Ber-whoei effect?” Max said.

  “Bernouli. An Italian scientist who worked out the theory,” Peter explained. “On an upwind run the sails don’t work by the wind pushing them. They work like an aeroplane’s wing. Because of the curve the air moves faster over the outside edge and gives a pressure difference. In an aircraft it gives ‘lift’. In our case, because the ‘wing’ is vertical instead of horizontal, it sort of sucks us along.”

  Max made rude sucking noises which the others ignored. Graham wished physics in school was as interesting. Peter called to Roger to trim the jib so that the airflow over and around it reinforced the flow over the mainsail, rather than interfering with it. But the wind made things difficult. It kept gusting, then dropping. It became so gentle they slid forward at a bare walking pace. Then it died altogether and they began to drift slowly seawards, the tide having turned.

  When the wind returned Peter had them use their hands to paddle the bow to the correct angle. The girls did not do this so had more distance to make up. Andrew’s Blue Cat almost spun around as it drifted. It was only a gentle breeze and they hardly made enough speed ‘over the ground’ to counter the ebb current. It took over an hour to crawl the last leg.

  But at the end of it the Mudskipper was still in front by nearly a boat length. The girls came second. Andrew’s Blue Cat came last.

  “We won!” Roger cried incredulously.

  “Yippee!” They shouted and cheered.

  CHAPTER 33

  MAX!

  “Will we race again?” Andrew called as the three cats and the runabout came to a bobbing standstill just upstream of the Harbour Beacon. Peter looked at his watch and wrestled with his conscience. He wanted to, if only to get it all over with, but it was now 1pm. The tide had been on the ebb for over an hour. Already a strip of black mud showed clear along the Esplanade. He didn’t want a repetition of the previous week’s ‘mud march’ and with the wind the way it was - or wasn’t - it could be two hours or more before another race was finished.

  “I’d like to,” he called back. “But I doubt if the wind will serve.”

  “It could pick up later in the afternoon,” Andrew replied.

  “Maybe. But it’s already late. The tide’s going out,” Peter answered.

  Carmen called across. “Don’t be selfish Andrew, you don’t want them to have to drag that lumping great scow across the mud do you.”

  “I do then!” Andrew replied cheerfully. “Besides it’s now ‘two all’. We need one more race to settle the competition and prove we are the best.”

  Graham snorted. Roger blew a raspberry. Max jeered. Andrew’s crew laughed.

  “Sorry,” Peter said, shaking his head. “We will have to run the grand final of the ‘Mudskipper Cup’ next Sunday. It’s time we headed home.”

  Graham’s dad agreed. “This wind can’t be relied on. You will find the tidal current stronger than it.”

  Reluctantly the others agreed. Next Sunday it would be. Peter called quiet orders and put the helm over. The sheets were hauled taut and the Mudskipper turned lazily and headed slowly downwind. The other cats began a slow tack out across the channel. The runabout headed up channel and was soon lost to sight.

  The Mudskipper slid along with barely a ripple. The boys’ elation at winning began to wear off. They were very aware that, with every passing minute, more mud was being exposed.

  “This is pathetic,” Max cried in exasperation. “I could walk faster than this.”

  The others made no answer but Graham did wonder if they weren’t moving sideways as fast on the ebb tide as they were forwards on the breeze.

  “We could paddle,” he suggested.

  “Good idea,” Peter agreed. “OK galley slaves, out oars.”

  The paddles were untied and handed round. Peter took the mainsheet as well as the tiller. Roger tied the jib sheet. Max called to him, “Here, catch!” and tossed him a paddle.

  “Oops!” Roger dropped the paddle. It splashed over the side. He knelt on the deck and leaned far over to reach for it. Max lifted his own paddle and before Graham, who was opposite in the port hull, realised what Max was going to do, he pushed Rog
er in the bum.

  “Hey!” Roger cried. His right arm flailed to grab a shroud and missed. Over he went.

  Splash!

  Max hooted with laughter. Peter swore. Graham felt his temper rise. Roger came up spluttering and gasping and began swimming back towards the cat.

  “Don’t forget the paddle!” Max cried.

  Roger, visibly shocked and frightened, grabbed the gunwale. “You get the blasted thing.”

  “What’s wrong? Scared?” sneered Max.

  “Yes,” Roger gasped. He began hauling himself aboard. Graham sprang over to help him. Peter swore again. The paddle was now ten-metres astern.

  “Bugger you Max! Now I’ll have to go about.”

  “No you won’t. I’ll get it,” Max replied.

  “Don’t be stupid Max,” Peter said. But too late. Max had launched himself over the side in a dive.

  Graham shook his head in disbelief and helped Roger into the boat. Roger was tight-lipped.

  “You OK Roger?”

  “Yeah. It’s only my dignity that’s hurt. I got a real fright. Silly bugger!” He turned to watch as Max swam back to the paddle. Peter tried to slow the cat but even with the mainsail hauled flat it still slid along. Max came splashing in its wake, pushing the paddle. Graham moved aft and waited, reaching down.

  After about ten-metres of hard swimming Max caught up. Graham grabbed the paddle and tossed it into the hull then knelt and reached back to help Max.

  Max laughed. “This is good! It’s nice and cool.”

  Peter snapped angrily. “Max, get back in the bloody boat!”

  Instead of complying Max put his head down in an overarm crawl and struck out to one side.

  “Come on!” he called. “I can swim faster than this.”

  “Max!” Peter called.

  “Max!” Graham yelled. To his horror he saw the tip of a fin arrowing towards Max. Heart in mouth he sprang up and pointed. “Lookout! Oh my God!”