The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  “Oh. You shouldn’t have! You didn’t have to. I...” He looked up and met Margaret’s eyes and took her hand.

  Somehow they kissed. It just seemed to happen naturally. Margaret then gave him a brief hug and sat down again.

  “I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but you need it now. It’s very sharp. It’s to replace the one you lost,” she said.

  Kylie snorted. “Max should replace it, not you,” she said.

  Margaret nodded. “Maybe, but I wanted to.”

  Graham gave her a smile and pressed against her. “Thank you. It’s good. It’s nice. I...thank you.”

  “No, thank you. Now I can go in the last race,” Margaret said happily.

  Kylie grinned. “And we will win it to prove to these bone-headed boys that girls really are superior,” she cried.

  Margaret stood up. “Let’s phone Carmen and tell her,” she said. The two girls ran to the telephone.

  So Friday came and went in mounting excitement. The only thing bothering Graham was his conscience. He did not go to visit Max and felt guilty and he resented that because he did not think any of it was his fault. Rather than face the possible emotional upset he opted not to go. By now his cut feet were nearly healed and he carefully sharpened his new knife.

  Overlaying all was mounting interest in the approach of the ‘Show’. It was due to begin on the next Monday and already the large trucks with the many ‘rides’ and Sideshow Alley’ attractions were arriving in town. During Sunday the Show would be set up. Mrs Kirk would be involved in this as the Church ‘Mother’s Union’ were running a Tea and Coffee Stall and setting that up was timed for Sunday afternoon. She did promise to try to get away to watch the end of the last race.

  Friday night was Scouts. Saturday morning Graham sat quietly at home working on a model wharf to put on the railway. The project had begun months before but had been pushed aside, half-finished, by the model ships.

  “I wonder how my ship went in the judging?” Graham mused as he worked. He was quite anxious about it, afraid of scorn and ridicule at his poor efforts. ‘I can see people sneering now,’ he imagined. And there was Kylie’s model to compete with too, plus heaven only knew how many other models which would make his look pathetic.

  Graham pushed these gloomy thoughts aside and resumed work on the model wharf. Then he began on a storage shed to go beside it. What he really wanted to do was go to Peter’s to work on the Mudskipper but had been told firmly that he must stay at home and rest so his feet would be in good condition for the race. He had also suggested they do some practice so that Alex had some idea what he was about, but Alex had refused.

  On Sunday morning Graham went to church with his mother and Kylie. To rest his feet they went by car. Margaret was there with her mother and sister. So was Jennifer with her parents. Graham said hello and was surprised to note that he wasn’t all anxious about her. Instead he had a normal, friendly conversation with her. They were all in high spirits over the impending race.

  “We will win,” Kylie said. “You boys may as well just give up now.”

  In church Margaret came and sat between Kylie and him. Graham noted that both mothers smiled at this and did not seem concerned. It nettled him a bit. ‘It’s as though they have all decided Margaret and I are to be married or something, and she isn’t even at High School!’ But he was still nice to Margaret.

  Afterwards they rushed home. The tide would not wait for social niceties like tea and biscuits. Graham changed, collected his cut lunch and found Alex.

  “Come on Alex, let’s go. The race starts at twelve and it’s ten thirty now,” Graham cried. Alex grumbled, put down the comic he was reading, and rose from his bed.

  Mrs Kirk called from the kitchen. “You boys make sure you have your sleeves down and your hats on. And Graham, don’t you dare get your feet muddy.”

  “No Mum,” Graham replied. He buckled on his Scout belt with the new knife attached. Several times he slid the knife out and admired it. It looked good and it felt good. But now he had few illusions. Against a shark any knife would be about as much good as a bayonet against a rhinoceros. He slipped the shining blade back in and clipped the leather holder over the handle.

  “See you later Mum. Have a good time at the Show,” he called as he and Alex walked down the stairs. They wheeled their bikes out, waved goodbye to their father and Kylie, who were just leaving in the car, and set off for Peter’s.

  Roger was already there and they had the Mudskipper out of the shed ready to go. Bikes were parked and the four set off for the Esplanade, pushing the cat on its trailer along the verge of the road. Graham soon found himself limping. His right foot was still quite tender.

  They carried the Mudskipper down to the beach and Alex wheeled the trailer back while the other three set up the rigging. It was a beautiful day: clear blue sky, fresh wind, waves only twenty or thirty-centimetres high. The tide was well up the beach so no mud was exposed.

  So practised had they become that by the time Alex returned the Mudskipper was rigged and afloat. Graham was able to board dry shod. He made his way forward to the main hoist. Roger hopped on next and went past onto the focsle. Alex was ordered on, then Peter shoved off and scrambled aboard.

  “Hoist the main! Hoist the jib! Starboard tack,” Peter called. “Alex, grab that rope. That is the mainsheet.”

  Graham began hoisting with rapid arm movements. “I’d better take the mainsheet,” he suggested. “I know what to do.”

  “Don’t be ignorant little brother,” Alex retorted. “I’ve been sailing before.”

  “Alex is right Graham,” Peter agreed. “I think it’s best if we have as little change as possible from the way we trained.”

  Graham didn’t agree and it annoyed him. “If you say so. Anyway, if a useless bugger like Max could do it I suppose Alex can.”

  “Don’t get cheeky little brother or I’ll chuck you overboard,” Alex threatened as he pulled in the mainsheet.

  “None of that,” Peter said sternly. “No silly behaviour. And make sure you all have your lifejackets are properly done up.”

  It was only then that Graham thought of the shark. With an effort of willpower he resisted the temptation to look. Instead he knelt to secure the main hoist. Later he cast a few apparently casual glances around but soon forgot about sharks as they began a series of tacks to practise Alex in his duties.

  Graham relaxed and began to enjoy himself. In his heart he did not think they had any chance of winning and really he didn’t care. It was just fun to take part. He moved happily around tidying up and checking all the rigging. The Mudskipper was tacked up across the bay to the start line.

  The other two cats were already there, as was the runabout. Once again the Navy Cadet Sub Lieutenant sat beside Graham’s father, along with a number of other naval cadets. As the Mudskipper tacked up to join the others she was greeted by ribald comments and good-natured jeers.

  “Last, and the race hasn’t even started,” Andrew called.

  “Looks more like a mud crab than a mudskipper,” Blake added.

  Peter snorted. “Don’t forget the tortoise and the hare,” he re-joined. This brought more laughter and comments.

  “Sea slug more like,” Kylie said.

  “With a crew of land slugs,” Luke added.

  Graham ignored all this. His focus was on the cannon. He knelt and unwrapped it then carefully loaded it and secured its lashings. Satisfied it was ready he passed the matches to his brother.

  “Here Alex. After it has fired you just grab that mainsheet. I will pull the sail up and then pack the cannon away,” he instructed.

  As the final preparations were made everyone tensed with excitement. Alex waited till he got the nod then struck a match.

  Boom! The cannon coughed white smoke and the last race began. There was a scramble of activity as sails were hoisted and the three cats got under way.

  The Mudskipper was first over the line and developed a fifty-metre le
ad, largely because her more primitive rigging was easier to work. The sails just rattled up. For a minute or two Graham even entertained the notion that they might have a chance of winning. But then he was glad he had said nothing as the other two cats, seemingly neck and neck, began to steadily catch up.

  The course was another variation with a run down channel to the Main Channel Marker, then a reach inshore to near the mangroves, where the runabout would provide a marker, and ending with the upwind beat.

  Graham felt like singing with the sheer pleasure of it as they raced down channel. He looked around and sniffed the air and gazed at the semi-circle of mountains. Home! And it was a great place to live and wonderful to be alive.

  By the time they were halfway down the run the other two cats had caught up and began overhauling. Andrew’s Blue Cat was leading the Yellow Cat by half a length. Cheerful insults were hurled as they crept past the Mudskipper, an illusion heightened by the flying speed, creaming wakes and occasional fountain of spray.

  The three cats rounded the mark within metres of each other: Blue Cat, Yellow Cat and Mudskipper.

  They began the reach. Now the better design of the more modern cats clearly told. Their crews hung out on trapezes while the windward hulls lifted clear of the water. The blue and yellow cats quickly increased their lead.

  By the time the Blue Cat rounded the next mark it was still only a length in front of the girls’ Yellow Cat but both were half a kilometre in front of the Mudskipper.

  Roger watched the other two cats begin a tacking duel as they began the upwind slog. “Well, I guess poor old Mudskipper isn’t going to take out line honours.”

  Peter laughed. “She won’t even win on handicap. Never mind. It’s been a lot a fun.”

  They came up to the anchored runabout with clearly no chance of winning.

  Sub Lt Sheldon waved. “Come on you lot. Get your anchor up. This is a race,” he called as they passed.

  They went onto the port tack while the runabout up-anchored and sped off for the finish line. The last leg had begun.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE RECKONING

  Graham looked around as he checked the rigging. The Blue Cat had gone inshore on a long port tack and was a kilometre away. The Yellow Cat was heading the other way on a starboard tack. It was impossible to tell which was in the lead. The runabout was now a creaming speck in the distance. Other small boats and ferries dotted the bay.

  The Mudskipper was punching lightly through the small waves and throwing up fine spray. Graham wiped drops of water from his face and licked the salt on his lips. He stood and leaned out to watch the two leading boats.

  They were all so busy doing this that none of them noticed the tinnie coming up from astern until they heard the roar of its motor and the thumping of its hull as it bounded over the wave tops. Graham ducked down to look under the sail.

  “Burford!” he shouted.

  Peter looked back but held his course. The tinnie pounded past close alongside, drenching them with spray and insults. Macnamara made obscene gestures and Harvey pulled down his shorts and bared his bum at them. The Mudskipper rocked sharply in the tumbling waters of the tinnie’s wake. The rigging creaked and groaned.

  “Oh no!” Graham cried. “Why can’t they just leave us alone!”

  The tinnie swept around in a wide circle and came racing in from the starboard beam. It cut close across their bows with more obscenities and insults. Again the Mudskipper lurched and rocked. Graham sprang up to check the rigging.

  “They will break something if they keep that up,” he cried.

  The bullies laughed and whistled and the tinnie turned once more, this time racing straight towards them from the port beam, bows tilted up, spray creaming out. Roger looked ashen-faced with worry and Graham wondered if he looked the same.

  Peter shook his head. “Mad bastards. There will be an accident if they keep this up,” he grated. He set his jaw firmly and held his course as the tinnie zoomed close under the stern.

  Graham looked around for help. The other two cats looked a long way ahead, a kilometre or more, and were converging on the Finish. Nothing else was close. He could not even distinguish the runabout from other small boats at that distance. Even the shore was over a kilometre away.

  The tinnie circled off on their starboard beam and came racing in, obviously intending to pass close alongside to swamp them.

  “Stand by to go about!” Peter called. He watched the approaching boat then put the tiller over. “Helm’s-a-lee. Mainsail Haul!”

  They swung sharply over onto the other tack. The tinnie crossed their stern ten-metres off and even as it did Peter went back onto the original tack. They heard snatches of angry swearing from the tinnie as it creamed around in another circle. The Mudskipper floundered for a moment in the confused water. The rigging swung and jerked alarmingly.

  “He’s going to try it again,” Peter warned. “We will start to go about then wear round to try to avoid the worst of the wake. Stand by!”

  They began the turn. The tinnie turned instantly.

  “Belay!” Peter yelled, seeing a collision imminent. “Back on the port tack.”

  The Mudskipper swung back. So did the tinnie, now close astern. It was instantly apparent to Graham that Burford had miscalculated. Peter pushed the tiller over to turn away to port as the tinnie roared up close on their starboard quarter. The Mudskipper began to turn, but too late. The tinnie caught her a glancing blow and scraped along her side.

  Spray and foam flew up. Burford swore. The tinnie sheered away to starboard and Graham saw Harvey tumble over the side.

  A pale-faced Roger pointed back at him. “Will we pick him up?” he called.

  Peter shook his head. “No. Serve the bastard right!” he replied. “Let his mates fish him out.”

  But the sight of Harvey splashing in the sea sent a flood of terrifying images of Max through Graham’s mind. Filled with anxiety he stood gripping the shroud, eyes scanning the waves for the shark. The tinnie circled, slowed and, to his relief, Harvey was hauled aboard.

  Then the tinnie came surging in again.

  “I think they are angry now,” Roger said.

  Alex shook his fist. “I’ll give the bastards angry!” he snarled.

  The tinnie surged in from their starboard quarter again, but more slowly. It came up close alongside, the bullies’ angry faces clear. Only at the last moment did Graham realise what they intended. He saw Harvey and Macnamara, both only clad in shorts, rise to their feet with wicked looking fish knives in their hands.

  ‘They are going to board us!’ he thought in stunned disbelief. Then the two boats ground together and Harvey and Macnamara sprang across.

  “Repel boarders!” Graham shouted. He ducked under the boom and stopped. Macnamara lunged at Roger who jumped back. Another threatening slash by the knife sent Roger across to the port hull in a leaping bound. Macnamara jeered and laughed, then slashed at the mainsail. Roger yelled at him to stop and sprang forward and grabbed at his arm. The two began wrestling on the foredecks.

  Harvey grabbed a shroud and began sawing at it with his knife. Graham was shocked and could not believe his eyes. “Hey! Stop that!” he shouted. Then he leapt forward to try to stop him. Harvey snarled and slashed out. The knife glittered in the sunlight for a second and Graham felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He sprang back in fear and shock, nearly falling between the hulls. He clapped his hand to his shoulder and looked in disbelief.

  Blood!

  Alex saw it too. With an angry snarl he swung at Harvey with one of the paddles. Harvey sprang forward, waving the knife. Alex swung the paddle hard and took Harvey in the shins. Harvey tried to jump but failed. He cried out, stumbled and fell.

  Alex went to hit him again but Burford, who had been holding the tinnie alongside, swung an oar. This took Alex in the ribs and tumbled him down between the hulls. Peter reached forward and seized the oar.

  Graham’s shock gave way to fighting anger. He s
prang forward, snatched up the paddle dropped by Alex and hooked it up hard between Harvey’s legs. Harvey tried to dodge, slipped, fell heavily and went down between the boats.

  For an instant Graham feared Harvey would be minced by the tinnie’s propeller but then saw him bobbing in the wake, waving his arms and shouting. Further back was Alex, safely held up by his lifejacket.

  There were more yells and shouts, then splashes. Roger and Macnamara had both fallen over the port side. Graham turned to swing the paddle at Burford, who abruptly let go the oar and sheered away.

  “Come around Pete, quick!” Graham cried. The thought that now dominated him was that they had to pick the others up as quickly as possible in case the shark struck again. Peter scrambled back into his seat and put the tiller over. Graham snatched up the mainsheet and passed it to him, then scrambled forward to grab at the flapping jib sheet.

  The Mudskipper began to wear round to port. Graham hauled the jib taut and looked around. He was astonished to see the tinnie racing towards them. “Look out Pete! He’s going to ram us,” he shouted.

  Peter looked back and tried to turn onto a course parallel to the tinnie.

  Burford was enraged. He screamed abuse. “Bastards! I’ll teach youse. Cop this!”

  Graham gaped. His mind refused to react. Burford was obviously beside himself. As he roared alongside he raised a spear-gun and fired. Graham shouted, even as the vicious steel spear flashed across. It thudded into the hull only centimetres from Peter’s knees. Water began to spurt in.

  Graham shouted again, let go the jib sheet, snatched up a paddle and hurled it. The paddle whirled across the gap. Burford put an arm up to shield himself. The paddle cracked hard on his left forearm and head making him yell in pain and scream obscenities. He sheared off.

  Peter looked frantically around “What’s he doing?” he yelled. They were now hundreds of metres from the people in the water.

  “He’s reloading that bloody spear-gun!” Graham cried in disbelief tinged by fear. “He must be bloody mad. He wouldn’t dare.”