The House At Salvation Creek

by Susan Duncan

  'Look!' says Kerry jubilantly, holding up a package. 'I've brought custom-made seasick bags. They fit over your nose so there's no mess.'

  'More luxury!' we all chorus gleefully.

  By late afternoon when commuters start returning from work, we're still anchored on the mooring. They slow as they pass, their tinny's nose rising like it's sniffing the wind before dropping back onto the water, a bit baffled. We should be long gone. They're wise enough not to ask any questions, though. It's a good way to get your head bitten off.

  'Have a great trip,' yells Steve.

  'Good luck,' calls Lewis.

  'Enjoy,' says Lisa.

  The summer sun's about to sink when Bainy calls it quits. 'You can take off now,' he tells us. 'Just give her a short trial run and you're on your way. Might as well take her to The Point. Wouldn't mind a rum and coke.'

  We all look at each other.

  'Sleep on the boat tonight but leave departure until tomorrow, d'you think?' asks Bob.

  'Nah,' we all agree. 'Let's get going!'

  Pete goes home. Kerry looks abandoned, then reaches for a ciggie. This trip is her symbolic leap from headmistress into the next stage of her life. Whatever it may be. She can't weaken now. 'I've got a heap of new, matching, uncrushable outfits for cocktail hour every night,' she announces brightly. But really, it's to hide her fears.

  As we untie from the mooring, Annette dives into the freezer for her spag-bol sauce, Jackie drags out a packet of dry pasta from under a seat. No-one even thinks about parmesan, probably because we can't remember where we've put it.

  'Never thought thirty-five years ago that one day I'd own an ocean cruiser,' Jackie says, shaking her head at the wonder of the way life turns out. 'My mother was a servant in an English home in Malaysia.' And we both get emotional as we wait for the water to boil.

  Bainy docks us at the Church Point ferry wharf with a featherlight touch. We're all grinning madly. He jumps off and waves. Big Dave rolls the palms of his hands over the control levers and we pull away. Everyone at The Point waves. Then hands stop, mid-air. Faces lose their smiles.

  'Shit,' yells Bob.

  'Dave!' yells Jackie.

  'The fucking bow line's still tied on,' Bob yells, racing forward. Intrepid is about to smash the pontoon. Everyone sees it coming and, unperturbed, steps well back. I suddenly remember why boats are an acquired taste. There's always a crisis. Dave slips the gears into neutral, Jackie races to the stern to fend off the pontoon. Intrepid's just had a new paint job for the Wooden Boat Festival. Bit early to scratch it.

  We're finally away, unscathed. We all look at each other.

  'This calls for a glass of bubbles,' Jackie says.

  'To celebrate,' Kerry replies. But it's probably to settle our nerves.

  'How do you feel?' Bob asks me.

  'Fit as a flea!'

  We clink plastic glasses, backslap a little. Bob opens the laptop and keys in our position. Pittwater! Glorious and smooth as a baby's bottom. Annette sets the table.

  Kerry pulls a journal out of her handbag. She says she won't bother to change for dinner on the first night. 'I'll change tomorrow. And . . . I'm going to write a diary,' she tells us, opening the journal at page one. She's also ship's purser. 'Ok, expenses. What's been spent so far?' she asks, looking at our faces.

  'Ah, let's leave all that till tomorrow,' we insist. 'This is too good.'

  Lights come on along the shore, like stars anchored to the earth. Occasionally a tinny scoots past close enough to wave but we are a self-contained, self-sufficient little metropolis. And from now on, there's no escape.

  19

  DINNER'S OVER BY THE time we reach Barrenjoey Point where the sinister profile of a hook-nosed witch bulges out of the ochre cliffs like an evil nemesis. It's barely visible in the dark. From here, we plunge straight into the uncertain waters of the mighty Pacific Ocean.

  It takes about half a minute for me to realise I am about to bring up my dinner. I dash outside. Puke. Facing the right way so it doesn't blow back in my face. It's one of the first rules you learn when you're a puker.

  Half an hour later, I'm fully dressed in my bunk with a sick bag over my face, paralysed by nausea. Under the hull, I can feel the currents of the ocean, Broken Bay and the Brisbane Waters, clashing and corkscrewing the boat. My stomach heaves. I try to think of Canadian geese flying across a field of pumpkins in upstate New York, a sight I saw once and will never forget. The image has soothed me through many a rough time. But I'm sick again. 'There are fairies in the bottom of the garden', I recite, like I used to when I was a kid to help me fling a nightmare into space. But nothing works. Then Jackie hits me with a pill.

  Sometime during the night, I vaguely hear Big Dave giving Kerry and Annette a crash course in navigation before they begin their first watch. Two hours on, four hours off. Twenty-four hours a day.

  'No drinking at all,' he says firmly. 'No-one is allowed alcohol on a watch. It's an unbreakable rule.'

  By the time I wake up early the next morning, we're well on our way to Eden with a perfect tail wind and Jackie's on her bunk with a stack of sick bags. Big Dave's talking to the girls.

  'Putting whisky in your coffee is the same as drinking straight alcohol,' he says.

  'It was hot coffee, Dave. That's different,' explains Annette.

  'Yeah,' Kerry adds, 'the heat burns off the alcohol.'

  Dave sighs loudly. 'No. It doesn't.'

  'But we needed to stay awake,' Annette says. 'And it was the tiniest, little-est amount.'

  'No more whisky on a watch. That's final.'

  Bob comes in to our cabin with a bottle of water.

  'Sounds like Dave's got a mutiny on his hands,' I joke.

  'Annette and Kerry are doing brilliantly,' Bob says. 'They're amazing, actually.' He unscrews the lid and passes me the water. 'You've got to get some fluids into you.'

  'Thanks.'

  When he leaves the cabin, I hide the water. If I drink it I'll have to pee. To pee I have to get up. If I stand, I'll puke. Slight dehydration seems like the lesser of two evils. I struggle into my pyjama bottoms lying down. It's a start. When my stomach settles, I'll have a go at changing into the top. I take another pill. Sleep, surely, is the greatest of all cures. I roll back and forward in the bunk in time with an ocean rising on a two-metre swell. Above, Kerry and Annette are flattening their bums against the galley cupboards to keep them steady while they fix breakfast, lunch and dinner. All day, laughter floats down the stairwell. Bob's right. These two middle-aged women who have leapt into the unknown are handling the rough conditions like they're on a picnic.

  'I kept waiting to hear a whinge,' Big Dave said later. 'The sea got rougher and rougher and I thought they'd crack it because it was hard going. But they never did. Even when they got blisters on their backsides from trying to stay steady.'

  At some time, I don't remember when, I bang my top lip and it is bleeding. Occasionally I wake to hear Big Dave, Bob, Kerry and Annette laughing.

  A girlish voice giggles. 'I'm pole-dancing. Look at me. I've always wanted to pole-dance.' There's more laughter. I feel as envious as hell.

  We average seven and a half knots and slide into Eden late on the second night. The anchor hits the water with a splash, the engine gives a final throb, the deck levels out. The crashing and banging ends as though a switch has been flipped. Peace. Everyone bunks down and no-one moves until the sun comes up, bringing with it a cool, light breeze. It's a perfect day. My stomach flips back to normal. It's as though seasickness was nothing but a bad dream.

  ***

  In the morning, Dave manoeuvres Intrepid into a slot alongside the jetty between two yachts. After tying, testing, tying again, throwing out fenders the size of large gas bottles, we jump ashore. Everyone except Kerry.

  'What's the problem?' we ask. We're lined up on the wharf like sailors ready to salute.

  She's wearing one of her new off-boat outfits, her hair is washed and she's got makeup on (didn't
matter how rough it got, Annette, I was told later, never appeared on a single morning or watch without eyeliner and mascara!).

  'There's a gap,' she mewls, pointing at a six-inch space between the boat and the jetty.

  We all look at each other in amazement. This is a woman who's just completed a rough passage on what boaties refer to as a confused sea (rocking, rolling, corkscrewing). She's cooked, cleaned, stuck her head in the freezer and fridge and even managed to light a ciggie on the back deck in a howling gale. She's learned navigation, how to steer a boat and done her share of the night-time watches. She's been tough, stalwart and utterly courageous. Six inches?

  'Oh, get over it,' we say. And some terror deep inside her lets go. Her shoulders fall, her face relaxes. She steps onto the gunnel, grabs Bob's hand, and jumps.

  'Nothing to it,' we say, turning towards shore.

  'Yeah. Nothing to it.'

  'Breakfast first! What do you reckon?'

  My appetite is ferocious. Bacon, eggs, a vanilla milkshake, toast. We skip the tea when we see another customer being handed a cup of hot water and a teabag.

  Bob shakes his head. 'I can't believe how quickly you bounce back,' he says.

  'Easy,' I reply.

  We hit the local library to get a weather report. 'Not looking good,' he says. 'If we don't leave this afternoon, we'll be locked in for a couple of days. There's a strong sou'easterly coming in.'

  'Bugger.' There goes a night in a quiet, level motel room and time with Bob alone.

  We find the others in the supermarket. Bob gives Big Dave the news.

  'Why don't we talk about it over lunch at the club,' Big Dave says. 'See what everyone wants to do.'

  We order deep-fried fish, scallops, prawns and calamari. The dining room is nearly empty except for the tinny ring of pokies which drifts in from somewhere out of sight.

  'The weather's building,' Big Dave says, pushing his plate away. There's plenty left on it. He looks a bit pale. 'We could hang around for a couple of days until it goes past, or we can race it. What do you want to do?'

  The vote is unanimous. Race it!

  Outside the shelter of Eden, the boat slaps back and forth like a pendulum on even more confused seas. I grab a handful of sick bags and stagger below. I hate the weakness of it, am ashamed I am no use to anyone. Loathe, even more, that there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Drifts of conversation from the main cabin float through the pill haze. Jackie's almost well although she's taking it gently. Bob is invincible. Big Dave thinks he might have food poisoning. He's gonna rest up till his watch. Annette and Kerry are planning a proper cocktail hour. They, too, are invincible.

  Bob, Big Dave who's still feeling crook, and the girls share the four-hour watches. Then the sea isn't confused anymore, it's rough as guts.

  On day four from Sydney, we make it to notorious Bass Strait. Unbelievably, the water mutes to a smooth little tango, dipping and teasing. It's dark and oily instead of ferociously unkempt. I climb out of my smelly lair, struggle into the shower and wash off two days' stink. My stomach is almost under control and I'm fit enough to do a watch. Ten pm to midnight, longer if I'm able to.

  'I'll sleep on the sofa. Wake me if you're worried about anything. And I do mean anything!' says Bob.

  I grab the helm although we're on automatic pilot, run my hands over the wood. The boat smoothly surfs the swell. Everyone creeps off to bed. Big Dave says he's feeling better and we're all relieved. Bob pulls up a blanket and closes his eyes. Outside, moonlight frosts the water. Within a few minutes, the boat is silent. There's just the sound of water licking the hull and the steady, reassuring beat of the engine. I have memorised my instructions: Watch for lights. If they're green, don't worry. It's a boat that will pass safely. If they're red, be careful. If they're red and green, change course immediately. We're on a collision course.

  A thin film of cloud softens the moonlight and we float like a matchstick on a sea that rises and falls as steadily as a heartbeat. It's a pure world.

  Nearly two hours into the watch, eyes strained from searching the horizon for lights, I jump. From the outside deck, a black hand reaches for the door into the cabin. My heart thumps, panic pushing aside reason. It's an illusion. There is nothing but emptiness.

  I check the time to see how much longer it is before the next watch begins. Then I notice the date. February the fifth. My brother's birthday. It's thirteen years since he died and out here on the water with no-one to hear, I have a long conversation with him. To bring him up to date. On the sea, with only unknown depths and a vast universe for company, it seems a completely normal thing to do. 'Life's good,' I tell my brother when I have nothing more to add. 'Life's good.'

  We race the weather and make Wineglass Bay on the east coast of Tasmania before the wind builds to thirty knots and the seas turn black and ugly. A pod of dolphins escorts us through the entrance passage. It is a moment so exquisite none of us can speak. Inside the protective headlands, the turquoise bay is flat and almost tropical. The dolphins frolic around the boat, sticking their heads out of the water and grinning at us before plunging deep and swimming back out to sea. I lie on the bow in the sun and count clouds. Then Jackie gets out the vaccum cleaner. Kerry mops the floor. I cook lunch. Annette washes the dishes.

  'Feeling a bit crook,' Big Dave says, scrunching the skin on his chest into a ball. 'But I'll be right.' He helps Bob lower the tinny from the deck to the water so we can go ashore for a walk. Kerry climbs aboard, no problems. On shore, we follow the curve of the white sand until Intrepid looks no bigger than a dinghy in the distance.

  The next morning, boats not as lucky as we were limp in. Someone's broken a wrist, another an ankle. It is hellish rough beyond the bay.

  Big Dave says he's having back spasms. We discuss calling for a chopper to airlift him to hospital. His face looks green, yellow sometimes, too.

  'It's not a heart attack, though,' says his wife, who's the midwife. 'He'd be dead by now.'

  'No chopper,' Big Dave says. 'No way.' But he doesn't eat much lunch. Or dinner. He sleeps through breakfast. It's such uncharacteristic Big Dave behaviour that we think of overriding his orders and organising to evacuate him. He threatens to whack the first hand that reaches for a mobile phone.

  A day later, the weather report sounds ok. Big Dave looks a little fitter.

  'Must've pulled a muscle,' someone suggests.

  'I reckon it's his gall bladder,' says Kerry.

  'Nah. He doesn't fit the profile,' I tell her. 'You've got to be fair, fat, female, fertile and forty.' I know, because I've had mine out.

  'Well, at least it's not his heart. The rest can be fixed in Hobart,' says Annette.

  Bob doesn't even try to guess. 'He looks crook, though, that's for sure,' he says.

  We up anchor and make our way south. The weather is kind, the water smooth. Sleek dolphins appear out of nowhere and dive through our wake, wild and free. Along the coast, breaking waves surge towards the rugged shore. Shoals of fish scoot in glittering turmoil. Terns skate, smooth and precise, barely breaking the surface. Then the dunny blocks up. Bob finds a thick ball of hair – Annette's colour. She's cleaned her hairbrush.

  'Don't do that again!' Bob pleads.

  'Sorry,' she says, mortified.

  Late in the afternoon, we cut through the waterway between Cape Pillar and Tasman Island. Lobster pots marked by colourful buoys linger outside mysterious dark caves that must fill and empty with the tide. Seaweed sways like ballroom skirts from the hemline of the rocky shore. Surrounded by a bleak, forbidding landscape of iron-grey escarpments and arid peaks razored flat by wind and weather, the cliffs are like prison bars, an echo of the island's violent past. It's impossible not to shiver.

  We anchor in smooth, protected waters near the convict ruins of Port Arthur. Red bricks, wreathed in brutal history, ring the roofline like broken teeth. The sky turns black as thick low cloud creeps towards us from the south west. Inside the cabin, even the cheery yellow sunflowers
printed on the tablecloth fail to shift the gloom. Big Dave's face is a pale shade of green. He rallies to find some local lobsters to buy for dinner. Our moods lift. But when they're cooked and waiting lusciously on our plates, split down the middle and fat with pearly flesh, he takes a few bites then goes below to lie down. His expression is hammered, his eyes cloudy with pain.

  Jackie throws together a handful of pills and gives them to him with a glass of water.

  'What do you think is wrong?' we ask her anxiously.

  'How would I know? I'm a midwife!'

  In the morning, Big Dave says he's definitely feeling better, but he doesn't touch breakfast and his skin has turned yellow.

  'Next stop Hobart,' someone mutters. 'Let's get going.'

  ***

  Rounding Cape Raoul into Storm Bay on the final leg of the voyage, the weather blows up hard and fast. It's so rough the boat is tossed from side to side and water pours over the gunnels to drain away at the stern.

  'Feels more confused than usual,' I say, grabbing a sick bag and lurching towards the cabin. Halfway down the steps, I puke.

  'Oh no,' Bob groans. 'Thought you'd broken through the barrier on Bass Strait.' He grabs my soiled bag, hands me another. 'I think this might be your last ocean voyage, my dear,' he adds.

  'Like hell!' Wretched times, after all, are so quickly forgotten. Or at least the pain of them. What I will remember is sliding into the captain's chair, reaching for the helm, being part of the glistening night. Navigating dark waters. In such synchrony with the physical world, for a moment or two I felt immortal.

  'I don't want to go to my bunk. I'll miss our arrival. Does anyone mind if I hang on the sofa? If I promise not to puke again?'

  Bob looks at the girls, his eyebrows raised. 'Go for it!' they insist. I stretch out with my head on one of Jackie's red and gold brocade cushions where I have a perfect view of the outside world.