The Winter Sea

by Morrissey, Di

  Joe’s anguished cry rose above the clamour of the wind and rain. ‘Can anyone see Ricardo? We have to find him. I can’t leave him here.’

  Then, suddenly through the noise of the weather and the sea there was a loud crackle in the damaged cockpit and Joe could hear the voice of Chris the spotter over the radio.

  ‘Egret, I see you. Are you in trouble?’

  Joe fell onto the microphone and shouted back. ‘Chris! Ricardo’s gone over the side. He’s got a life jacket on but we can’t see him. The waves are too bloody high. Can you can see him? Direct me. Over.’

  ‘Roger. On to it. Over.’

  Chris’s aircraft appeared and descended low over the ocean. It began to circle methodically above them. Everyone on board was frozen in shock. Time had gone into slow motion. Even the roar of the wind and water seemed to fade into the background so that the only sound they could hear was Joe’s agonised mantra. ‘God, save my son. I don’t want him lost at sea. God, save my son.’

  Then the radio again exploded into life.

  ‘Egret, I can see him. To port, to port . . .’

  Joe, his face a picture of agony and concentration, brought the boat about and headed in the direction of the low-circling plane.

  Patrick sent up a shout. ‘There he is. Throw the other buoy!’

  Sliding into view one minute, swallowed by a wave the next, Ricardo could just be seen ahead of them. Joe positioned the boat as close as he could to his son and Carlo threw the second buoy.

  It seemed an endless wait for them all and then the line attached to the buoy went taut.

  ‘He’s got it!’ Chris’s voice over the radio was elated. ‘Haul away, boys.’

  Joe signalled to Patrick to take the wheel as he rushed to the side of the boat where Carlo and the rest of the crew were hauling in the buoy line as hard as they could. Finally he saw Ricardo, his arm through the buoy, literally hanging on for dear life.

  Joe was the first to grasp the sodden figure of his son as he and the others pulled the exhausted man over the side of the boat. Ricardo collapsed onto the deck. Joe pulled off his life jacket and rolled him onto his side.

  ‘Son, son, Ricardo, you’ll be fine. Someone get him a blanket,’ Joe shouted to no one in particular, tears streaming down his face.

  Then Ricardo coughed, throwing up the water he had swallowed. His eyes opened and he gave a weak smile. ‘Shit,’ he managed to say. ‘Did you land the fish?’

  Patrick smiled. ‘No, we went after you instead, though it was a toss-up.’

  ‘This is no time for jokes. Your brother could have been killed and it would have been my fault,’ Joe shouted.

  Ricardo looked at his father and managed a weak smile. ‘Well, I wasn’t. I’m not that easy to get rid of, but if we all sit around talking, we won’t get these tuna to market and the whole day will have been a waste.’

  The tension was broken. Patrick quietly went back to the wheel, turned the Egret around and headed back into port. Joe continued to hug his son, crying unashamedly for the loss that might have been. He had spent his life on the sea and for the most part he had loved it, but now it had almost taken his precious eldest son from him. Joe remembered how his own father had warned him that the sea was a cruel and dangerous place and that to forget that fact was tempting fate. He had been foolhardy in risking the lives of his sons and his crew just to chase tuna. He swore to himself that he would never do such a thing again.

  Joe only let Ricardo go when he heard a shout from the radio. ‘Well done. Have a drink on me. Catch you soon. Over.’

  ‘Thanks, Chris, for all your help,’ said Joe over the radio. ‘I owe my son’s life to you. Thank you, thank you,’ said Joe again.

  The men on the deck of the Egret waved as the small plane dipped its wing and soared away into the stormy sky.

  Wrapped in a blanket and holding a limp cigarette, Ricardo sat quietly beside his father in what remained of the cockpit as they motored slowly homewards.

  *

  The following year, 1957, Pietro flew home to Australia on a Pan American Strato Clipper for a holiday. He hadn’t been home for more than ten years. It wasn’t just Joe and the rest of the family who were excited by the visit. The whole town was thrilled and the local papers, even as far as Wollongong, had written extensively about Pietro’s achievements. With the stardust of Hollywood success on his shoulders he had become a local celebrity.

  On the first Sunday he was home, it was decided that all the family should go for a picnic.

  ‘It might be July,’ said Joe, ‘but the day is so lovely we don’t want to waste it inside. If we wear warm clothes, we’ll be right. I want to remind Pietro just how lovely Whitby Point is.’

  Emilia, who was not as physically active as she used to be, watched carefully as the picnic food and utensils were packed into clean fish crates, and ice was put in another to keep the seafood cool. There had been some discussion about where to go: the beach at Pelican Point, Blue Crane Lake or the lighthouse. They settled on the strip of grass next to the flat rocks under the lighthouse. When they arrived, Carlo and Ricardo went fishing from the beach, while the women went to look for pipis. The pipis they found were then cooked in a large kerosene tin, blackened from previous fires, while Emilia supervised the cooking of fish over the open fire. In case the morning’s fishing was unsuccessful, Joe had brought along some prawns and lobsters that had been caught the day before.

  Pietro shook his head. ‘I don’t think you could get seafood as good as this anywhere else in the world. The fish – sublime!’

  ‘It’s nothing fancy, just straight from sea to pan,’ said Emilia.

  After they had all finished their lunch, Rosina and Gail decided to take the children for a walk along the beach and Emilia sat in a comfortable deckchair to have a nap. The five men sat around the fire with a beer or a glass of wine in their hands and started chatting.

  ‘How long since you went fishing?’ Ricardo asked his brother.

  ‘Not since I was forced to help in school holidays,’ said Pietro, laughing and stretching out his legs that were encased in a pair of expensive-looking slacks. ‘I don’t have the Aquino touch.’

  ‘Fishing has served our family well for generations,’ said Joe. ‘Keeps you honest. You can’t cheat the sea. You know who is the boss out there.’

  ‘Pietro, what is it exactly that you do? Our job is pretty straightforward. We’re fishermen. But what is an art director?’ asked Patrick. ‘It doesn’t sound as though it has anything to do with acting.’

  ‘When we saw you with the Whitby Point Players, or whatever they were called, you looked pretty happy on stage,’ said Ricardo, putting his arm around his brother affectionately.

  ‘I did like acting when that was all I knew about the stage,’ said Pietro, ‘but when Bridie took me to the theatre all those years ago in Sydney, it was the whole atmosphere I fell in love with. After I joined the Independent Theatre Company in North Sydney, I found that what I loved doing was creating that setting, that atmosphere.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ asked Joe.

  ‘For the stage, theatre, you design the sets. You create the atmosphere for the play. I do much the same thing for the movies. It’s a bit more complicated, but it’s the same idea.’

  Joe nodded, but in truth he really didn’t understand what Pietro was talking about. He had only seen one stage show and that was Pietro in the silly play Bridie had made him go along to all those years ago.

  ‘I suppose you were so good in your theatre work that you didn’t have a lot of trouble getting into the movies,’ said Carlo a little peevishly.

  ‘No, little brother. Like so much in life there was a lot of luck involved. How about you pour me another drink?’

  The conversation paused while they all got themselves another drink and Joe tiptoed over to Emilia to see that she was all right. When they settled themselves back down again, Pietro continued.

  ‘When I first arrived in Hollywood I knocked on a
lot of doors. Eventually I managed to get a job with one of the smaller studios working with the construction manager, making sure that the sets were properly built, when the art director was killed in a car accident. The picture was nearly finished, so they made me the art director – just to get the job done – and I managed to do a satisfactory job, so I was hired for another film. I’ve worked on several movies over the last few years, working with the set designers, with the construction managers and the people who do the set decoration, props and so on. On some films I have to work with the costume designers as well so that every visual aspect of the film is co-ordinated. And I have to make sure that everything stays within budget. That’s the really hard part.’

  ‘It sounds complicated,’ said Ricardo.

  ‘It can be, but if you really enjoy doing something, I don’t think that matters,’ replied Pietro.

  ‘Have you met any famous movie stars?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Dozens.’

  ‘Who do you like the best?’ asked Carlo, now very curious about his brother’s career.

  ‘I think that the nicest one I know is James Stewart. I wasn’t the art director for Rear Window, but I did help with the set, so I met him a few times.’

  All the Aquinos looked very impressed.

  ‘Did you meet Grace Kelly, too?’ asked Carlo.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Wait till I tell Gail. Grace Kelly is her favourite actress,’ Carlo said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  The men continued to quiz Pietro about Hollywood. It seemed incredible that one of the Aquino family should have such an exotic life.

  ‘Son, what you are doing sounds wonderful. I am very proud of you,’ said Joe.

  ‘That’s nice, Papà,’ said Pietro. ‘There is one more thing that I want to tell you all, that I think is very exciting. The studio has told me that my work on their latest film is so good that they expect it will be nominated for this year’s Academy Awards. Imagine an Aquino with an Oscar!’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Patrick. ‘Do you have to do anything more to win it?’

  ‘No, if the Academy thinks my work’s good enough, it will nominate me and then my peers on the Academy will hopefully give me their votes. So for now all I have to do is to keep my nose clean and my fingers crossed.’

  ‘What do you mean, keep your nose clean?’ asked his father.

  ‘Papà, the Academy doesn’t like to have any scandal associated with the awards, so I have to be a very good boy for the next few months. But I’ve got so much work coming up, I won’t have time for anything else . . . Enough about me! Tell me what you lot have been up to, apart from producing children.’ As Pietro said this, he winked at his older brother.

  Ricardo explained how the Aquinos had moved into tuna fishing and then added, ‘While you’re here, we could all go out and chase some big ones. Like the old days. Come with us, Pietro.’

  Pietro flung up his arms. ‘I don’t think so. I have lost the touch. If I ever had it.’

  ‘The gear is much better now,’ said Carlo. ‘You should see how we work. Or are you too afraid of getting dirty these days?’ He smiled but there was a challenge in his words.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Pietro was rescued by the children, who had returned from their walk and now wanted Uncle Pietro to play with them.

  *

  One of the most important events on the Whitby Point social calendar was the annual mid-winter dance, which was always held at the local School of Arts. Probably more than any other function, this event united the community, regardless of age, background or occupation.

  A barbecue was set up under the trees at the rear of the hall, while inside a refreshment table, staffed by women from the Country Women’s Association, served soft drinks, punch and snacks. But the main attraction was the music and the dancing. A four-piece band from Wollongong – saxophone, drums, accordion and piano – sawed and thumped away with enthusiasm.

  The Aquinos always took a big table. This year, as usual, Joe sat at the head of the table surrounded by his four sons. Ricardo and Rosina had brought their children, and Carlo and Gail had brought Greta. Franco and Silvio and their extended families had come down from Wollongong and would stay the night at Joe’s and Ricardo’s houses.

  Everyone stopped at the Aquino table to chat, drink a beer, try the wine, to sample an oyster or a prawn from the giant platters of seafood, or taste the home-baked bread, pickles, cheeses and Emilia’s famous salami. But mostly it was to ask Pietro about the movie stars he knew and what they were really like.

  The music catered for everyone. The Italians sang along lustily when Neapolitan songs were played. Most people got up to dance under the swirling lights covered with red and orange cellophane. The dance floor was constantly crowded for the barn dance and the Pride of Erin. The older people showed off their quickstep and foxtrot, while the younger ones wanted to dance the latest craze of rock and roll. When the band did manage to play a fast-paced jive, the teenagers had the floor to themselves for their gymnastics, as Joe called it. And as long as there was music playing, the younger children gyrated and bopped around the fringes of the floor, where nearby adults kept an eye on them.

  The watchers were country women with their strong arms, wind-reddened cheeks, cushioned hips and sensible shoes, who were happy to dance a slow waltz, but nothing more. Another group of watchers were the Italian women of the community. Knitting needles clacking, crochet hooks dipping rapidly in and out of lacy concoctions of collars and doilies, chattering in the language of distant Italy, and dressed in their uniform of black modesty, they kept a wary eye on their charges.

  The girls had spent weeks preparing their outfits. Laughing late arrivals caught everyone’s eye when they entered the hall. They had travelled from their homes out of town standing in the backs of utility trucks so their layers of skirts and stiffened petticoats weren’t crushed, their beehive hairdos protected by scarves. Even though Emilia’s eyesight was not so good, she had helped put together the party frocks for little Greta and Ricardo’s girls, who had all insisted on stiffened petticoats and frilled socks.

  Ranged around the dance floor were the over-protected Italian beauties and their brothers, who strode the stage of the dance floor with suave nonchalance, confident in their handsome looks, while the uncomfortably shy Australian boys looked longingly at the Italian girls but felt warned off. The cheerful, pretty Australian girls flirted and teased all the boys.

  Joe and Franco had not the slightest interest in dancing and they sat quietly together, talking about the old days. Seeing Patrick wander towards them, Joe asked if he would get them a couple of drinks.

  ‘We might be too old for dancing, but we’re not too old for the vino, you understand,’ he told Patrick with a smile. As Patrick walked off, the two resumed their conversation.

  ‘Of course I didn’t have to spend as much time as you did in that wretched internment camp, Franco, but I can appreciate what you’re saying.’

  ‘How I missed my family, Joe. Years without seeing them. And for what? I wasn’t a common criminal. There was no justice.’

  ‘You are right. We were not common criminals and yet I felt as though I was because there I was, locked up behind barbed wire. It was as though I had done something to disgrace the name of Aquino, and yet I had done nothing. Sometimes I still think that because of the internment camp I have brought shame to my family. Shame is a hard thing to live with.’

  As Patrick leaned over to put the drinks in front of Joe and Franco, he patted Joe’s shoulder. ‘Papà, you could never bring disgrace to the Aquino name. We are all so proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Pat. That is a kind thing to say. The Aquino name is very important to me.’

  ‘Who knows, maybe Pietro will bring it even more prestige if he wins an Academy Award,’ Patrick replied.

  ‘Who knew that Pietro would have such a career? He has done well, Joe,’ added Franco.

  It was getting late. E
milia, Rosina and Gail had taken the children home, but the men insisted that they were not yet ready to go. The teenagers had taken over the dance floor and the crowd had thinned as some of the men had gone outside to talk and drink. Suddenly one of the men hurried back into the hall, looking for Joe.

  ‘Joe, quick. There’s a fight outside. It’s your sons!’

  ‘What!’ Joe jumped to his feet and hurried out, followed by Ricardo.

  The fight appeared to be more than threats and a scuffle. Patrick and Carlo were struggling together, panting and cursing, their bodies locked, their free arms punching each other without restraint.

  ‘Hey, you two! Break it up. Who started this?’ Joe and Ricardo immediately tried to get between Patrick and Carlo. Eventually they managed to separate the two brothers who stood glaring at each other, fists still raised.

  ‘It started over the footy. They argued about the results of the last game,’ said one of the onlookers. ‘But it seemed to get out of hand. Those two are certainly hotheads.’

  ‘They’re always arguing,’ said another. ‘Righto, come on, boys, do as your father says, settle down. Enough.’ But even as the onlooker spoke, Carlo lunged again at his brother and threw another punch. Patrick lifted his arms to protect his face.

  ‘Basta!’ bellowed Joe. ‘That is enough.’

  ‘You bloody idiots. Stop right now,’ said Ricardo. He moved between them and hissed at them. ‘You are disgracing our family. Think of Papà. Pat, go and get cleaned up. Carlo, come with me. But first, you two shake hands.’

  Patrick held out his hand but Carlo turned on his heel. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Carlo, don’t be stupid. Get back here. You can’t let Gail see you like that.’

  But Carlo, nursing sore hands and a grazed cheek, slipped away into the darkness.

  ‘Patrick, you look a mess. I hope that eye looks better in the morning,’ said Ricardo.

  ‘I can’t believe you got into a brawl in public over a football game. I thought you had more sense,’ said Joe sadly. ‘What will people think of us?’