Mystery Bay Blues

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey Nev!’ he yelled out. ‘Did you see that?’

  Neville turned around from the wheel. ‘See what, Les?’

  ‘That bloody big shark out there,’ pointed Les.

  Neville shook his head. ‘Nah. No sharks out here. It was probably a dolphin.’

  Les stared at the skipper for a moment. ‘Yeah righto,’ he said, and returned to his seat.

  Les knew a shark when he saw one. He’d seen them up close and personal. He’d seen them eating people. And that was a bloody shark. A big one. Les gazed at the deck and gave his head a slow, thoughtful shake then sat back with his bottle of mineral water as they bumped and rolled their way out to Montague island. Eventually they got there and Nev slowed down on the leeward side. Les stood up with the others to check it out.

  There wasn’t much to see. A long, low, uneven island of lumpy, grey rock with a small lighthouse on top near some old houses. Sitting in a small cove down from the lighthouse, was a landing with a crane and a lifeboat next to a rail leading up to a white shed with a red roof. There were no trees and little colour. The only vegetation was brittle scrub and patches of green and brown kikuyu grass. The place reminded Les of documentaries he’d seen about bleak, windswept islands off Scotland and Northern England. Maybe if the sun was out it might have looked all right. But on a cloudy day with a southerly blowing — VFO. Les took a few photos and returned to his seat. Nev left the engine idling and came down from the cabin.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ he said, warmly. ‘Montague Island. Only land mass between Australia and South America.’

  With Big Ears butting in again, trying to be funny, Nev went on with his spiel about the island. The tuna industry. When Zane Grey started big game fishing off the island. Penguins, whales, giant squid. How an entire tribe of Aborigines paddled their canoes out over a hundred years ago then got caught in a storm going back and they all perished. Les, however, wasn’t the slightest bit interested. He was wishing he was somewhere else, instead of bobbing up and down on a boat out in the middle of nowhere on a lousy day, having to put up with Big Ears. Les stayed in his seat and did his best impersonation of a Trappist monk, till Neville said they’d check out the rest of the island, along with the seal colony, and they got going again.

  Les took his binoculars out and scanned the island. It looked even worse. Then Neville informed them the seal colony was coming up and went in closer to the rocks. There were two seals: an old, brown bull and his mate.

  The only sign of any other seals were patches of white seal shit splashed all over the rocks, as if a team of gyprockers had just emptied their work buckets. Nev yelled down that the seal colony must be out chasing fish. Les couldn’t really have given a toss and went back to searching around with his binoculars hoping he might see a whale or something.

  They got to the south side of the island, with Les focusing out to sea, when charging up the coast came a fleet of over thirty yachts under full sail, taking advantage of the southerly. They were all shapes, colours and sizes and made a great sight, ploughing through the white-capped swells about half a kilometre out from the island. Les saw them before the others and yelled up the stairs.

  ‘Hey Nev! What are all the yachts in aid of?’

  Nev peered out to sea. ‘Ohh yeah. That’s a special Bermagui to Ulladulla and back yacht race they organised for the long weekend. I forgot all about it.’

  ‘They look good,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes, they do,’ agreed Neville.

  Les went back to peering through his binoculars, as the others crossed over for a better view.

  The yachts were tacking and straining, their sails billowing in the wind, and as they drew closer Les could make out some of the names. Trumpeter. Witchy Woman. Wind Dancer. Emily. Barbarella. Kerouac. Hey, that’s a good name for a yacht, thought Les. I’ve read On the Road twice. I’ll check it out and see if its spinnaker’s at the right end.

  Les zeroed in on Kerouac. It was a wide-beamed, blue and white, ten metre ocean-going job with a sizeable cabin and the name along the side in red. A black rubber ducky was lashed securely across the bow, and an Australian flag flew off the stern. There was a man at the helm and two other men and a woman sitting up on the far rail. The yacht was tilted towards him and Les hit the stabilising button. The crew were all wearing sunglasses and dark sailing outfits with laced up hoods. Les could make out thick moustaches on the men and a strand of bright hair wisping across the woman’s sunglasses. He zeroed in on the woman when the yacht tacked and the crew all ran across to the opposite rail and sat with their backs to him as the yacht angled in towards the rest of the fleet. Les watched the yachts move up the coast before they disappeared, as Neville brought The Kingfisher back around to the leeward side of the island.

  They stopped in the same sheltered place as before. Neville cut the engines then came down and went into a bit of a spiel about the seals. While he was talking, he picked up a bucket and started tossing pieces of fish over the side of the boat. There was a swirl of shiny black in the water as several seals came in and took the pieces of fish.

  ‘There you go,’ said Nev. ‘I knew they were here somewhere.’

  ‘Oh look at that.’ The thinner of the two girls turned to her friend. ‘Quick Massoameh. Get the camera.’

  By now Grace’s mineral water, along with the other water he’d been drinking, had flushed through Norton’s system and he was bursting for a pee. He got up and went downstairs to use the toilet. Like all fishing boats, the galley stank of rotten bait and diesel, and when he opened the door, the toilet was jammed. Les looked around for something to piddle in. But there was nothing, and the smell downstairs, along with the pitching boat, was making him sick. Les went back upstairs to find Big Ears and the thinner of the two girls had stripped down to their costumes to go snorkelling with the seals. The girl noticed Les watching them as Neville handed out the diving gear.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Before they swim away.’

  Les turned to Neville. ‘What about sharks?’

  Neville ignored the worried look on Norton’s face. ‘Nah. No sharks out here,’ he replied, breezily.

  Les peered over the side of the boat. They were in around fifteen metres of water next to a ledge that dropped into bottomless, cobalt blue. Running beneath the water towards the island he could make out some huge, white rocks edged with grey and black. It was overcast, the water was deep and gloomy and full of fish pieces, and seals were a shark’s favourite food. Especially White Pointers. And Les had already seen a possible Great White on the way out. Les turned to watch as the young girl and Big Ears got into their face masks and flippers while Neville kept tossing more bloody pieces of fish to the circling seals. By the time Big Ears and the girl had geared up, the boat had drifted well away from the seals. Nevertheless, Big Ears and the girl pushed off the back and swam blissfully out to them. Les watched in horror. But he was absolutely busting for a pee. He also felt like a big blouse still standing by the side of the boat with his snorkelling gear in his bag.

  ‘In you go mate,’ said Neville.

  Les stared across at Big Ears and the girl swimming around out in the middle of nowhere circled by half a dozen seals chewing on pieces of fish.

  ‘Oh,’ squealed the girl. ‘One just swam between my legs.’

  ‘Go on,’ her friend said to Les, holding up her camera. ‘I’ll take a photo of the three of you.’

  Les looked at everyone watching him. ‘Yeah righto,’ he said.

  Les got into his rubber vest, slipped into his flippers then shuffled to the landing bay at the back of the boat and rinsed his face mask and snorkel. He put them on, saw Neville give him the thumbs up, then took a deep breath and pushed off the landing bay.

  The water was deep and dark and cold, and edged in gloomy blue-black, with huge, shadowy boulders tumbled across the bottom. No seaweed and no movement except for a few clusters of small school fish. Exactly as Les had seen in other documentaries about White Pointers in The Grea
t Australian Bight. All that was missing was the shark cage and a six metre Great White, with its teeth bared, either coming in out of the gloom or up off the bottom. Without letting go of the landing bay, Les strained and pissed as hard and as fast as he could, feeling blessed relief and the water warming up around him. As soon as he finished, Les gave Mr Wobbly a quick shake, then hopped back on the boat and took his face mask off.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, brightly. ‘It was good. Didn’t see any seals though.’

  Ignoring the others, Les pulled his vest off then wrapped a towel around his waist and got his camera. If Big Ears and the girl were going to get taken he may as well get a photo. Nothing happened, however. The seals swam off, Big Ears and the girl snorkelled in and got back on the boat safe and sound. Les put his camera away, got dressed, then went back into Trappist monk mode, as Neville started the engine and they headed for Narooma.

  With the wind behind them going home, it wasn’t long before they were approaching The Bar and it was time to put their life jackets on again. They crossed The Bar without incident and Les was the first one off the boat when they tied up at the jetty. He thanked Neville for a wonderful day, said goodbye to the others and walked up to the house glad to be back on dry land.

  Warren’s car wasn’t outside, the key was under the mat and there was no sign of Warren when Les let himself inside. He made a cup of coffee then had a shower and rinsed his snorkelling gear. By now Les was getting hungry. He put on a blue T-shirt, cap and cargos, got his overnight bag and Visa cards and headed for the festival.

  The venue was fairly crowded with people getting the most from the last day of the concert. Les showed his wristband and walked straight across to the foodstalls at the back of the park. The Turkish stall smelled enticing and the owner in his braided vest had a swarthy friendliness about him. Les got a plate of beans, lamb, rice and vegetables and other things that looked tasty, then found a seat at the table where they’d had the drama the day before, and washed everything down with a freshly made pineapple and orange juice. While he was eating Les checked out the punters and listened to some music drifting across from the tents. It sounded like Jimbo’s Blues Band. Les finished his meal then got a takeaway coffee and found a seat in the red tent and sat back to watch Jimbo and his band do their thing. They were just as tight as the day before and had the crowd rocking. Jimbo finished in his Indian headdress, Les applauded loudly with the rest of the crowd, then left the tent and walked over to the souvenir stall.

  There were that many CDs Les didn’t know where to start. So first off he bought a stack of T-shirts and caps for Billy, himself and anyone else he could think of, including Roxy in South Australia. Then he started on the CDs. He just pointed to the ones with covers he liked and finished up with everything from Ronnie Dawson to Pete Cornelius and the DeVilles to Blue Katz. And a stack of compilation records. Big City Blues to Blues Road Trip featuring everybody from The Johnny Nocturne Band to James Harman to Pat Boyack and the Prowlers. Most of the musicians and bands Les had never heard of. After leaving both his Visa cards quivering wrecks, Les crammed as much as he could into his overnight bag and carried everything back to the house.

  There was still no one home. Les got a beer and packed all his purchases into two cardboard cartons. He was drooling at some of the music but decided to wait till he got back to Chez Norton then get into it with the help of Warren’s prohibited substances. Les tidied his room and sorted out a few other things and later, when he was sitting in the kitchen reading the paper, a car pulled up in the driveway. Warren walked in wearing a T-shirt and jeans, designer sunglasses and driving gloves.

  ‘Woz,’ said Les. ‘What’s happening baby?’

  ‘I found a nice, winding road in Bodalla State Forest. So I thought I’d see what the Celica could do.’

  ‘The westie finally come out in you, eh.’

  ‘You bet. I was chucking donuts and burnouts. It was megaramic.’

  ‘That’s good, Woz. I like to see you enjoy yourself.’

  Warren got a glass of water from the fridge. ‘So how was Montague Island?’

  ‘In a word Woz, up to shit.’

  They exchanged pleasantries about their day. Les told Warren about the trip out to the island, seeing a shark and shitting himself when he went in the water. The only thing of interest was the yachts. Warren had a sleep in then breakfast on his own at Carey’s. He read the paper at the house and listened to the radio then went for a burn along the backroads. He didn’t have a bad day. Les showed Warren what he’d bought, then Warren made two mugs of coffee, tuned the ghetto blaster to Season FM and Les followed him out onto the verandah. They sat facing the ocean. Despite the overcast sky, it was still pleasant watching the boats bobbing up and down at their moorings and the people walking around the jetty. Les held up his mug.

  ‘I wonder what your crazy girlfriend’s coffee’s going to be like tonight?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder,’ replied Warren.

  ‘What if we trip out and never come back.’

  ‘Yeah. We might finish up living in Nimbin or somewhere. Just another couple of hippies with our brains fried.’

  ‘I think yours are fried now.’ Les was about to mention Warren’s sleepwalking, but he thought he’d wait until Clover and Grace arrived so Warren would have to face up to it in front of the others.

  ‘At least you don’t have to worry, Ugly,’ said Warren. ‘You ain’t got any brains to fry.’

  ‘If I take too much lip like that from you, I’m sure I ain’t.’

  ‘So how’s your back now, anyway?’ asked Warren. ‘Grace going to give you another massage?’

  Les looked into his coffee. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Woz.’ Les told Warren about his romp on the rubber ball with Grace and how she topped him off afterwards. ‘You know me, Woz. I never say too much. But it was some of the best porking I’ve ever had. You ought to get one of those rubber balls and give it a run with Clover.’

  ‘And she just handed you the bottle of oil, and said rub it into that giant monster set of hers.’

  Les shrugged. ‘I could only do what she asked, Woz.’

  ‘Fuck! What are they like? Are they as good as those photos of Tara Moss in Black + White magazine?’

  ‘Are you kidding, Woz? They make Tara Moss’s tits look like a couple of old football socks.’

  Warren drained his coffee and raised the cup to Les. ‘You are truly the chosen one, Les. You have been blessed.’

  ‘They don’t call me Lucky Les for nothing,’ winked Les.

  Warren looked at his watch. ‘Well it’s not getting any earlier. I might have an Eiffel Tower and get my shit together.’

  ‘Okey doke.’

  They rinsed their cups and Warren got in the shower. Les lay on his bed and read some more of his book then had a shave when Warren finished. He dabbed a bit of CK on his craggy face then got into his jeans, And ls and a blue and white polo shirt with a light blue collar. When he walked into the kitchen, Warren was wearing black jeans, a brown shirt with black stripes and his black leather jacket. He’d just made them a monstrous delicious each.

  ‘Cheers Woz.’ Les took a mouthful and blinked. ‘Christ Warren. How much bourbon did you put in this?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Warren. ‘But there wasn’t much room for the ice, the slice and the soda water.’

  Lionel Hampton and his Octet were wailing ‘Jack the Fox Boogie’ on Season FM in the loungeroom while Les and Warren were hitting the trail to deliciousville in the kitchen, and it wasn’t long before they had a glow up. It was Norton’s turn to make the drinks when there was a knock on the door. Les walked out and opened it. Clover was standing on the bottom step in a pair of white hipster jeans, a collarless white shirt and a blue T-shirt with yellow parrots on the front that she’d obviously got from Grace.

  ‘Yes young lady? Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the one that’ll need help if you don’t get out of the road,’ said Clover. ‘W
here’s that man of mine?’

  ‘You must mean Mr Edwards. Do come in.’

  Clover walked into the kitchen and threw her arms around Warren as Les closed the door.

  ‘My God,’ she said, smelling Warren’s breath. ‘How long have you two been on the turps?’

  ‘Not long,’ said Warren. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t mind.’

  Warren snapped his fingers and nodded to the fridge. ‘Another delicious, Riff Raff. Plenty of ice.’

  ‘Yes master,’ bowed and scraped Les. ‘Coming right up.’ Les just about had the drinks made, when there was another knock on the door. ‘Ohh shit!’ he groaned. ‘Who the bloody hell’s this?’ Les opened the door again and it was Grace. Her brown hair was down and shining like silk and she was wearing tight blue jeans, a Wrangler jacket and a black T-shirt with magpies on the front. A pair of black coral earrings caught the light as they dangled from her ears, and over her shoulder was a smart, black denim bag.

  Les looked down at her. ‘I suppose you want to come in too.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘It doesn’t worry me that much. I can go over the RSL and have a drink if you like.’ She stepped inside and gave Les one on the lips. ‘How are you, George?’

  ‘Good,’ smiled Les, closing the door. ‘Clover’s inside. She beat you by about two minutes.’

  They walked into the kitchen and the old house seemed to light up with the arrival of Clover and Grace. Les got all the drinks together then they sat back and talked about their day.

  ‘So your trip out to Montague Island wasn’t so good, Les,’ said Grace.

  ‘On a nice day, it’d probably be all right,’ replied Les. But today …’ He shook his head. ‘And I was certain Big Ears and that girl were going to get eaten.’