The Upraised Hand
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Published by Michael Steptoe at Smashwords
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Copyright 2011 Michael Steptoe
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Thank you for downloading my book. I hope you enjoy it. When you have finished, please take a moment to leave a rating and comment at the site from which you downloaded this ebook. Your reviews are what help shape me as a writer.
~~Michael Steptoe
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The float bobbed up and down on the surface. It moved this way and that at the mercy of the elements, restricted only by the rope that it was attached to. At times it would crest the top of a wave and then fall into the belly of a trough as the swells rolled by, but always its buoyancy kept it on the surface where its bright-orange colour made it easily seen against the pale-blue water.
Logan Williams stood on the deck of the small fishing vessel, his hand raised above his forehead as he shielded his eyes from the glare. Squinting out to sea from under his work-soiled cap, he saw the float from a distance and signalled to his brother, Barry, who stood at the wheel. Barry altered course slightly in the direction of the float and as they approached he cut the engine revs to an idle, bringing the vessel around to the port side to let the current take them down. When they were close enough, Logan reached over with the grapple hook, collecting the float while Barry manoeuvred back against the current, providing enough slack in the rope to enable Logan to pull the float over the rail and position the loop over the winch hook. Barry turned the boat down current and held it there while Logan worked the winch, hauling the large commercial crayfish pot out of the water and swinging it onto the deck. There were no more than a dozen crayfish inside the pot, flapping their fleshy tails and waving their feelers in agitation as they crawled over each other on spindly legs. Logan glanced at his brother and the bitter look of disappointment reflected his own feelings. Without a word he went to work on the crayfish. Wearing a leather glove he picked out the largest first, careful to grab them by the back and not get his fingers under the tail, knowing well that one flap from a large cray can cut a man’s fingers to the bone, leaving a vicious wound, highly susceptible to infection.
He worked quickly, placing the crays in a plastic crate and then covering them with ice. Three of them he put to the measure, thrusting pressure to the base of the tail to push the tip beyond the six-inch mark. The last two crayfish he threw over the side, knowing they would never make legal size and not wanting to risk the severe fine imposed by the government, should they be inspected by a fisheries officer. In the stern of the boat was a sack of rotting fish heads. Logan reached it in three strides, shooing away two large gulls and disturbing a cloud of flies that had been attracted by the stench. Thrusting his hand inside he grabbed three fish heads and returned to the pot, taking a lung full of fresh air, for he had been holding his breath while his nose had been close to the evil smell emitting from the sack.
The fish heads were to be used as bait, as crayfish are scavengers of the sea, feeding on discarded carrion on the ocean floor. Logan threaded the heads onto the bait hook, in one eye and out the other so that the swells would not work them loose. After disconnecting the winch he heaved the steel cage over the side and no sooner had he tossed the float back into the water, Barry, always impatient, gunned the big diesel motor, sending them off towards the next pot.
The whole operation had taken only a few minutes, but Logan had worked quickly and for the time being the work was done. Taking a break he sat back on the engine hatch towards the stern and as he rested he let his mind drift. The water slapped on the hull as the boat skipped from wave to wave. Now and again the wind would catch the spray from the bow as it sliced through the water and send it showering over the deck. Logan could feel it cold on his face and bare arms and taste the salt on his lips. The drone of the engine and the occasional high-pitched cry of a seagull were the only other sounds to be heard.
Logan looked at his brother. At thirty-one he was two years older than Barry. They were both big men although Logan was taller by an inch standing at six foot one. But Barry was heavier by several pounds and thicker across the chest. Logan knew from experience that in an arm wrestle he was no match for Barry. Both men had blond hair and the years under the sun had tanned their skin and their eyes seemed to have taken on the blue of the sky that they spent so much time under. Barry kept his hair short and close cropped and it appeared white, while Logan let his hair long, almost shoulder length and it had become curled and bleached in the sunlight. The sun had formed wrinkles on their foreheads and crows feet in the corners of their eyes after years of squinting against the glare. This had a different effect on each of them. It made Barry look fierce and bad tempered and in general people were wary of him. For Logan it had the opposite effect. The lines and creases had formed a happy-go-lucky expression and a mischievous grin came readily to his lips. At the extremity of his smile an eye tooth was missing, giving him a jovial, piratical look. Women found him charming and he had long ago developed the gift of the gab to enhance his features. Men were drawn to his friendly and carefree nature, but in a pinch he could become equally as fierce and bad tempered as his younger brother.
Barry looked around at him now; an impatient frown on his face and Logan shook himself out of his daydream. Walking to the starboard rail he spotted the orange float almost immediately, pointing to it to give Barry direction.
By four-thirty in the afternoon they had pulled the last of the big pots and Barry spoke as he checked his wristwatch. ‘We’ve finished early today.’ ‘Not as many crays to handle, that’s why.’ Logan offered Barry a cigarette, taking one himself.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Barry as he fumbled for his lighter, ‘what do ya reckon?’
‘Well,’ Logan hesitated, considering the question as he examined the tip of his cigarette, ‘either there’s no crayfish down there…or somebody has been pulling our pots.’
They were quiet for a while, Barry pondering his brother’s words as he leaned back beside the wheel, staring across the reef before them. The tide was well on the way out and already the black rocks were showing their jagged heads between the surges where clumps of seaweed swayed to and fro, unresisting against the current.
‘One of these days, boy,’ Barry began. ‘One of these days I’m going to catch somebody doing that…and when I do.’ He paused, holding his chin as the bitter feeling of despair overcame him. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’
‘Well I do,’ said Logan, supporting himself against the port rail as a wave rolled under the boat.
‘What?’
‘Give em a good clop in the chops.’ They grinned helplessly at each other to cover their frustration. They both understood that pot raiders were seldom caught. No raider in his right mind would pull a pot if there was another boat in sight.
‘What are we going to do?’ Logan asked, for although he was two years Barry’s senior, Barry was the skipper. A position he had acquired over the years for his dedication and determination, where as Logan had sometimes been unreliable, allowing his private life to clash with his occupation. At times being unavailable for work because of what he termed, woman troubles, or occasionally for no better reason than that of having an alcohol befuddled brain.
Barry thought for a moment, considering the options. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Whatever. Doesn’t bother me.’
‘We could stay the night. We might even catch somebody with their fingers in our pots.’
‘What’s the weather forecast?’
‘Supposed to go southerly tomorrow morning sometime but we’ll be out of here by then.’
‘Sounds like a good scheme to me,’ said Logan, becoming distracted as he looked out over the stern. ‘We’ve still got a couple of hours until dark. Looks like the gulls are diving over there.’
Barry looked over his shoulder towards the flock of seagulls that had gathered to take advantage of a shoal of tiny pilchards, that were being hounded by a school of kahawai, as they fed close to the surface. The birds hovered and circled a hundred feet or so above the water, diving swiftly as they spotted their prey and folding their wings at the last moment before plunging into the sea. As Barry watched, one of the gulls returned to the surface with a small fish in its bill, resting as it gobbled it down before lifting off and climbing back up for another dive. ‘We can always do with more bait,’ he said, and he turned back to the wheel, pushing the control into the forward position.
As the boat began to move, Logan headed towards the tackle box in the stern to prepare the lines. He let the first line out about thirty-five to forty paces, fastening it to one side of the stern and then repeated the procedure with the second line. By the time the lines were ready, Barry had brought the boat to the edge of the school and he slowed to a trawling speed. Five seconds later Logan saw the first line whip and a large kahawai leapt out of the water thirty-five paces behind the stern. He threw himself at the line, pulling it in hand over hand then clasping the spinner he twisted the hook out, flicking the struggling fish into one of the plastic crates. As he tossed the spinner back over he noticed that the other line had caught as well.
They worked this way for an hour, cutting back and forth through the school, following the gulls that dived all about them in a frenzy, their excited cries dominating the scene. Almost as fast as they could clear the hooks the fish were biting. By now Barry had relieved Logan in the stern, letting him rest at the wheel while he took a turn at the hard work himself. He turned to Logan now and shouted, ‘Is that enough fish for ya?’
Logan looked around, noticing the sweat that was running down his brothers’s cheeks and dripping off the end of his nose. ‘There must be forty or more!’ Logan yelled back, glancing at the overflowing crates and the fish flapping about on the deck. He cut the revs to an idle and pulled the control lever into the neutral position.
‘Yeah, we’d better leave a few for next time.’ Barry smiled, wiping his forehead as he checked his watch. ‘We’d better head for the island. It’ll take twenty minutes to get there. We’ll drop anchor in the channel. It’ll be calmer there if the weather does turn to the south.’
Logan grunted an agreement and began to wind in the lines.
By the time Barry had lowered the anchor in the sheltered water between Portland Island and the coast, Logan had packed the fish away in the ice room and hosed down the deck. A single five-pound fish remained in one of the crates. He took this to the stern and with a rusty knife he scaled the fish with the speed of someone who had performed this task many times before. Taking the fish with him Logan descended the short companionway to the galley and after a minute of banging and clanging he returned to the deck, tossing the inedible parts of the kahawai overboard.
Meanwhile Barry had retrieved two bottles of cold beer from a crate that they had stashed in the ice room two hours earlier. The tops made a hollow pop as he levered them off with the rusty scaling knife. He handed one to Logan who blew away the froth, then placing his lips around the spout he tilted his head back, thrusting the bottom of the bottle skyward. This was also a task that he had performed many times before. After a long draw he lowered the bottle, belching loudly. ‘Nectar of the Gods,’ he uttered, and took another swig.
Dusk was approaching and the jagged cliffs, that towered up from the rocky beach half a mile away, threw shadows that reached out like fingers from a giant hand. They appeared to almost touch the glowing-orange cloud bank that hung far out on the eastern horizon, catching the last golden rays of the setting sun.
They stood there enjoying the beer and the beauty of the evening. A warm westerly breeze funnelled between the island and Mahia Peninsula and to the north and south, the coast of New Zealand disappeared into a dusky haze. To the north they could vaguely make out the top of Kaiti Hill, which land-marked the port of their hometown, Gisborne.
Suddenly Barry frowned and walked to the rail, craning his neck to see past the cabin. He stared into the dusk for several seconds and then Logan heard it too; the far away drone of another boat coming around the island.
‘Sounds like it’s coming into the channel,’ said Logan.
The noise of the engine became louder as the approaching vessel came down the channel in which they were anchored. Before long the foamy white spray, thrown up from the bow, became visible out of the gloom and when it was two hundred yards away Barry reached inside the cabin, turning on several lights to reveal their location.
*****
Hatfield Sullivan stood at the wheel of his craft, straining his eyes as he searched the water ahead for obstacles. He had passed through this channel a thousand times before, but in the dark each time was like his first. As the daylight grew dimmer his anxiety grew stronger. He cursed and slowed his speed slightly as the channel narrowed. He should have been through here two hours ago. Damn it, he should not have bothered with those Williams’ pots that morning. He had more than enough of his own to contend with. At the thought, an evil grin formed on his bristly cheeks as he visualized the expressions of disappointment on the faces of his rivals as they discovered the pathetic contents of their plundered pots.
He did not consider himself to be a greedy man, although the extra money from his rival’s catch did not go unwelcome. He had fished here for the last thirty years and in his self-centered world he considered these waters to be his own personal fishing ground. But always there was competition, like a pebble in a man’s shoe; they irritated him until he became compelled to do something about it.
So with cunning deliberation he went about raiding pots, always careful to check the routine of his competitors and make sure they were not in the vicinity. He would starve them; deprive them of the income they needed, so that they barely made enough money to cover their fuel expenses. In the past he had always won. The competition would eventually cut their losses and move to another area or would simply be forced into bankruptcy.
His tactics not only hit the competition financially, but also psychologically, for with each unsuccessful catch comes that sinking feeling of failure, as man's soul sinks deeper into the depths of depression until inevitably he is forced away, like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Now there was Barry Williams and his lanky brother. He was glad now that he had spent time on their pots that morning. The more often he did it, the sooner they would be gone and good riddance to them. Hatfield glanced back at his deck hand in the stern, still busy with his duties. He was a young Maori boy of fifteen and fresh out of school. Hatfield was pleased with him so far. The boy did what he was told and said very little. Hatfield’s last young employee had asked far too many questions and in the end had become disrespectful, so Hatfield had sent him away; minus his last two weeks pay. This one will do for a while, Hatfield thought. He will suspect nothing.
His mind drifted back to the time when he had first met Barry Williams only a month ago. Hatfield was still embarrassed about the way he had handled himself and the outcome of the conflict. His body shuddered at the sting of humiliation and once again he relived the belittling experience.
At the time Barry had been doing some routine maintenance on his boat and had it moored at the local jetty, not far from where Hatfield lived. While driving by that evening Hatfield had seen Barry walking away from his truck as he struggled with a heavy object towards the jetty. Hatfield had turned down the gravel road, passing Barry a moment before he reached the steps of the jetty. Parking his flat-deck Mazda, Hatfield had left the vehicle and followed Barry up the steps. ‘I see you’ve got your pots along the reef just north of Portland Island!’ Hatfield had stated in a loud voice.
Barry had stopped and turned, a large LPG bottle balancing over his shoulder. As he stopped so did Hatfield, so that there was a distance of about twenty paces between them.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Barry had replied and Hatfield recalled the look of concern that had appeared on the other man’s face.
‘Well, I just thought I’d let you know you’re wasting your time putting them there.’
Hatfield had watched the look of concern change to one of annoyance, noting clearly the tone of irritation as Williams replied. ‘And since when did you become interested in what I do with my time?’
Hatfield had looked back into Barry’s unflinching stare. Even at that range, the blueness of his eyes had been striking. Hatfield had not expected a reply like that. It was a challenge and it had made him angry. ‘Well, I’m just telling you what I know. I’ve been fishing around here for thirty years now. If you’re too stubborn to listen to good advice, to hell with ya!’
Hatfield remembered how the irritated expression had changed to anger. How Williams had stood there unwavering, the heavy gas bottle appearing like a feather on his shoulder and the tone of warning in his voice. ‘When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it and in the meantime I don’t appreciate your insulting attitude.’
Hatfield knew he had gone too far but was unable to resist one more snide remark as he started back to his vehicle. ‘Well, anybody who puts his pots outside of that reef has got to be pretty stupid.’
Hatfield remembered hearing the thump of the L.P.G bottle as it hit the deck. Glancing over his shoulder he realized that the big man was coming for him and Hatfield recalled the feeling of terror that had followed. Panic made him lose his dignity and composure and he had run headlong for his truck, scrambling inside and starting the motor. Just as Williams had reached for the door handle Hatfield had let out the clutch, lurching the Mazda forward in a shower of rocks and stones and he remembered how Williams had been forced to shield his face.
Hatfield’s embarrassing reminiscence was abruptly interrupted as a set of lights suddenly appeared ahead. He immediately pulled the throttle back to reduce speed. Who the hell could this be? he wondered. Maybe it’s someone in trouble. A number of figures flashed through his mind as a suitable fee for his assistance. Anyway he would have to pass very close to get by so he would stop and check them out.
He was close enough now to make out the shape of the boat amongst the lights and he cut the motor to an idle, letting himself coast in. As he drifted closer he turned on his own lights. He could see two figures standing on the deck but could not yet make out their features. He was close now, not more than twenty yards away and drifting closer. He was about to call out when his lights reached the side of the hull and with a shock the words ‘Sea King’ suddenly sprang out at him.
He had seen this vessel once before at his local jetty a month ago. The two figures on the deck were still not recognizable but he imagined he could see Barry’s penetrating, blue eyes piercing through the darkness, staring accusingly at him.
The vice-like hand of fear squeezed his heart and for a moment he was paralysed, unsure of what to do. Then again he panicked and swung the wheel hard to port giving the engine full power, then bringing it back hard to starboard he fled in a wild curve, out of the channel to the open sea.
*****
The moment the lights came on they heard a change in the engine note as the oncoming vessel slowed to a safe speed. It came on cautiously.
‘Looks like he’s coming in for a yarn,’ said Barry.
‘I wonder if he likes drinking beer,’ said Logan, and raised the bottle to his lips.
‘Whoever it is he’s running pretty low on daylight.’
They watched as the boat drifted closer, its own lights appearing out of the dusk as it came on. They were about to start preparing for the vessel to come along side when suddenly, for no apparent reason, it turned sharply to port, accelerating away under full throttle, curving back to starboard and out to the open water. In confusion they clung to the rails for support as their boat rocked wildly over the violent wake thrown up by the departing vessel. As it cut across their stern the rear facing lights lit the fleeing boat for an instant and Barry clearly recognized the despicable characteristics of the man behind the wheel.
‘Sullivan!’ he said loudly. ‘What the hell do you think he’s up to? You know, I don’t trust that bastard.’
‘He seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get out of here, didn’t he?’
‘He sure did!’
‘Is that the joker you had that hassle with at the jetty a while back?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He seems to be in the habit of making rapid departures.’
‘Every time I see him.’
‘A man can’t help but feel suspicious.’
‘Yup.’
They stood looking after Hatfield until he was out of sight and the distant hum of his engine had died away.
‘Maybe he doesn’t like drinking beer,’ said Logan.
It was dark now and the lights from the many farm settlements along the coast twinkled at them like stars in the night sky. The breeze had cooled slightly and Logan went to the cabin to retrieve his swanndri. He went about preparing a meal, leaving Barry to make the regular check-in with their father on the RT at seven o’clock.
Presently he went up on deck to dispose of the vegetable scraps and to collect more beer and when he returned he heard his father’s voice crackling through the static, warning them to get an early start because of the southerly predicted to arrive the next day.
‘No worries,’ said Barry. ‘We’ll be back for a late lunch, so we’ll catch you then. Over and out.’
‘Base out,’ came the reply.
‘What did the bald-headed old bugger have to say for himself?’ Logan asked with affection.
‘Oh just the usual,’ Barry answered. ‘Fussing and bothering…you know the old man.’
They ate mostly in silence, with Logan washing down big mouthfuls of kahawai and mashed potato with copious amounts of beer, belching loudly after each guzzle.
‘Do you eat like that in front of the ladies?’ asked Barry.
‘What? Hell no…I’ve got two sets of table etiquette,' Logan explained. ‘One for rough, boorish fishing-boat company like you and the other for the company of ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Oh yeah. Like the time you said grace at Trevor’s thirtieth.’
‘What did I say that time?’
‘I can’t remember. Something about the bowels.’
‘Oh yeah, that’s right,’ Logan chuckled. ‘Past the teeth and through the jowls, clear the gangway…’
‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ Barry interrupted. ‘From what I remember it didn’t go down too well.’
‘I can remember getting a few laughs,’ Logan defended.
‘Yeah well, I must admit…I chuckled a bit myself at the time…but I was looking around the room and for every laugh you got there were about three people who looked like they wanted to turn you into stone.’ They both began to laugh and Barry went on. ‘I remember old Mrs. Rutherford fixing you with a glare that could have vaporized a battleship.’
Logan
broke down again, partly to hide his embarrassment, displaying a
mouthful of partially chewed food as his eyes sparkled with
merriment. ‘Who cares anyway, the stuffy old bat’
‘Yeah,
to hell with them if they can’t take a joke.’ There was a pause
as they each tried to think of something humorous to say but in the
end Barry broke the silence on a more sober note. ‘You know we’re
going to have to shift the gear soon. We’re just not making any
money around here.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty depressing all right. It’s been like this for a month or more,’ said Logan.
While they washed and dried the dishes they planned the weeks to come, discussing alternative places to fish and mulling over the decline in the numbers of crayfish. Afterwards they lay on their bunks, sipping beer and smoking cigarettes while they talked about the suspicious circumstances that had occurred over the past few weeks. Around nine o’clock Barry stretched and yawned, checking his watch. ‘Well, early to bed, early to rise,’ he said.
‘Yes, time to hit the proverbial sack,’ said Logan, and he climbed up onto the deck to relieve himself off the stern. When he returned he quickly brushed his teeth, stripped to his underpants and singlet, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor before climbing into his sleeping bag. Barry did likewise, but preferring to sleep in just a pair of briefs. He hung his clothes on the pegs behind the door, showing his pale skin that never saw the sun, his face, neck and arms deeply tanned in contrast. After turning out the light he slipped into his own bag and with the mellow feeling brought on by the beer they were both soon in a deep sleep.
*****
The primary wave reached Wellington’s seismological observatory at 11:07pm, fourteen seconds past the minute. Forty-two and a half seconds later the secondary wave arrived. The shocks were monitored and recorded by seventeen different seismographs. Instantly the charts were automatically photographed and the results were relayed to a computer screen on the floor above. A buzzer sounded, alerting the seismologist on duty.
Wendy Ross glanced up from her desk and her attention was immediately drawn to the flashing light to the right of the screen, monitoring the area to the northeast. She took note of the arrival times of the two shock waves and the time interval between them. This gave her the information she needed to calculate the distance of the quake.
Having done this she fed the readings in and punched in a set of co-ordinates that took the computer to a point, three hundred and seventy-two point five kilometres to the northeast, inland from the Bay of Plenty. Comparing data from the recording stations around the North Island, it began its trial. On the forth attempt it fixed on a point, thirty-seven kilometres southeast of Portland Island.
Having positioned the epicentre, Wendy went to work on the focus and discovered the quake to be very shallow, a depth of approximately two kilometres below the surface. She then went to work comparing the photograph with Professor Richter’s scale and calculated the quake to have a magnitude of three-point-six. She did not become excited and she certainly wouldn’t be raising any alarms or getting anyone out of bed with the news. Wendy was aware that around the world, seismological stations recorded approximately one hundred thousand similar earthquakes each year. Many happened locally, for New Zealand is situated on an active fault line.
Because of the time, location and relative size of the quake, it would go largely unnoticed. Anybody who had been awake during the small quake could have easily confused the slight movement for the wind or passing traffic. I could well be the only one who knows anything about it, she thought with a superior little smile. But it was only a fleeting thought and she walked methodically towards the ledger room to make the entry.
*****
A sudden uplift in the ocean floor generated a wave that instantly humped its back and set off in the direction of the New Zealand coast at a speed slightly over four hundred kilometres per hour. It reached the southwest beach of Portland Island in nearly six minutes, crashing upon the rocks, noticeably higher than the normal high-tide waves.
Slightly to the north it funnelled into the shallow channel between the island and the peninsula. Abruptly it slowed and rose to a height of seven meters. The wave sucked the water before it with a drain-gurgling rush, causing a build up and with the momentum from behind, the wave curled at the top like ice cream in a scoop. The wind whisked the spray from its head, giving it a snowy-topped effect in the moonlight and its base glistened and sparkled the colour of Indian ink.
With tremendous force the wave cascaded across the reef. It slopped against the base of the cliff and then slid back into the seething, bubbling surf. For several minutes the reef was not visible, hidden under a blanket of foam. Then slowly the water drained, exposing the black-headed rocks once more and the sea returned to its normal level.
To the north and south, the wave rolled on into Poverty Bay and Hawkes Bay. As the ocean floor gradually became more shallow, the wave began to lose momentum so that when it reached the beaches minutes later, its energy was largely dissipated. Rearing up, it flopped onto the sand, stretching to a point slightly further than the largest high-tide waves. A group of surfers may have named it, wave of the day, if indeed they had been there to witness it, but otherwise it would not be worth a mention. The water flowed back into the surf and was forgotten.
The westerly breeze faded away and for several minutes it was quiet and still. The tranquil sound of the surf was all that could be heard, as it slowly worked its way towards high tide. Then without warning the breeze sprang up again, but this time it came from the south.
*****
As the water began to suck through the channel the little fishing vessel came around into the current and presented itself broadside to the wave. The anchor chain snapped taut and the bow heeled into the torrent, the water pulling at the hull as the vessel strained against the chain.
Logan awoke to the sudden jolt and lay there blinking his eyes. There was a rumbling sound as if he was standing close to a large waterfall and the boat seemed to be vibrating like a giant piano string. The first flurry of alarm stirred in the pit of his stomach. He opened his mouth to shout out to Barry but he never made the call, for in that instant the boat lurched violently up on its side and he was thrown off his bunk and through the darkness.
Logan landed hard on his shoulder and in a panic he desperately began to scramble out of his sleeping bag. He could see nothing in the pitch black and he was completely overwhelmed by the sound of breaking glass and pots and pans being tossed about the cabin. There was a deafening roar and he could hear the twisting and wrenching of timber. From out of the din he heard Barry calling out to him and he recognized the terror in his brother’s voice.
‘Barry!’ he screamed back, unable to conceal his own terror. ‘What the hell’s happening?’
He was on his feet now, squatting and groping for support.
‘Logan!’ Barry bellowed again. ‘Are you all right?’ The boat was spinning and rocking wildly.
‘Of course I’m not all right! What the bloody hell’s going on?’ A loud gurgling and popping sound added to the ruckus; like that of a bottle when its neck is held under water.
‘I think we’re upside down!’ Barry shouted.
Logan could feel his feet in cold water. ‘We can’t be upside down! Have ya gone nuts! We’re in a bloody boat, man! Of course we’re not upside down!’ Logan began to rave and he let his panic rage out of control. He was shouting as loud as he could, his voice flattening out as he tried to exceed his maximum volume.
‘Logan!’ Barry was by his side now, shaking him by the shoulders. ‘Logan! Listen to me! We’ve got to get out of here! The cabin is filling up with water! The steps are down below us! I’m going down to open the door! Stay close to me!’
‘What do you mean the steps are below us? They’re above us! The bloody door is above us!’
Barry grabbed Logan’s arm and began to drag his elder brother towards the door. Already the water was up to their thighs. Barry reached the door and released Logan’s arm. Gripping the handle he pulled back with all his might.
‘The bloody door’s up here, damn it!’ Logan’s voice was becoming hoarse. He began to search frantically above his head, groping with his hands in total disorientation.
At that moment the door burst open and the water gushed in, knocking Barry off his feet. He came up coughing and spluttering and forced his way back into the doorway.
‘Logan! Through here! Follow me! We’ve got to get out!’ Barry waited for a reply but Logan was babbling incoherently. Barry reached over, feeling for his brother in the blackness. He found one of Logan’s legs and getting a grip on his ankle, he pulled. ‘Logan! Listen to me! Through here!’
‘All right, all right, I’m coming!’ Logan yelled back, as he kicked his foot free from Barry’s hold.
Taking a deep breath, Barry plunged forward, reaching with his fingers for a hold. Using his arms he pulled himself along, kicking with his feet. He found a purchase with one foot and pushed forward again. He bumped up against a flat surface and explored it with his hands. He could see nothing. The water was cold and his lungs began to beg for air. Barry screwed up his eyes, fighting against the panic that tried to open his throat.
It must be the deck, he thought and a picture of himself trapped under a boat flashed through his mind. Barry knew then that he must go down and under the rail. He moved over to his left, feeling for it. With groping hands he found the familiar rail and as he pulled himself under it he saw immediately the dim light above. Pushing away hard with his feet he let himself rise, expelling his lungs just before his head broke through the surface. Gulping in fresh air he sank again, coughing and spluttering as he bobbed up a moment later. He could see the upturned hull of his boat five meters away and he struck out for it, remembering his poor swimming ability. Barry reached the side and holding the ribs of the hull with his fingers, he rested, waiting for Logan.
‘Logaaan!’ he bellowed, and strained his ears for a reply. ‘Logaaan!’ In the poor light he could see his immediate vicinity well enough, but there was nothing. ‘Oh, God, he’s still down there!’ he groaned. ‘Come on, you stupid bastard! Where are you? Oh, God, no. Oh, Jesus Christ, no. Come on, come on!’
Barry imagined his brother drowning in that black hole and knew he was afraid to go back down. It seemed that they were now so far apart and with a shock Barry realized that Logan was only a few short feet away. A rush of adrenalin pumped through his veins and he steeled himself for the dive. He breathed in and out several times, filling his lungs with fresh air and then he sank below the surface. He found the rail again and pulled himself under it, searching for the entrance to the cabin. He didn’t have to search long for when he was close he was sucked in like a leaf in a draining bathtub. He tumbled through the short companionway and thrust upward. As he broke through the surface his head crashed into the floor of the cabin, dazing him and bright lights flashed behind his eyes. He groped for a hold and crooked his arm around something solid, a support for the bunks maybe, he couldn‘t be sure. He waited, getting his bearings. He could feel the cabin floor pressed against the top of his head and water lapped at his chin. He could hear Logan muttering to himself close by.
‘Logan, come on!’ Barry started to shout instructions but Logan wasn’t listening.
‘It’s all over, Barry, we’re gonna die, mate. We’ll be lucky to get out of this one. Jesus Christ, I think we’re buggered this time.’ There was desolate resignation in Logan’s voice. He had lost hope. Barry moved over to him as Logan continued to babble.
‘Logan, we’re getting out of here! Come on!’
‘It’s no use. We’re buggered. He stopped abruptly when Barry struck him across the face with an open hand.
‘Listen, you bloody idiot! You’re getting out of here if it’s the last bloody thing you ever do! Do you understand?’ They now had to crane their necks to breathe. ‘Logan!’ Barry yelled impatiently.
‘Okay, Barry, okay! Let’s give it a shot, boy!’
‘Okay, let’s go!’ Barry replied. ‘Sailors grip!’ and they linked their fingers together the way their boy-scout leader had showed them years before.
A minute later they were clinging to the hull, gasping for air, coughing and spluttering.
‘I didn’t think we were going to make it out of there, boy,’ Logan sputtered between breaths.
‘Don’t worry about that. Worry about what’s to come.’
‘Let’s get up on top and out of the water for a start anyway.’
‘So much for that bloody self-inflating life raft,’ Barry swore bitterly.
‘Yeah, what happened to that?’ asked Logan.
‘I dunno…piece of crap.’
They moved around to the stern and were able to scramble up onto the hull using the exhaust ports for hand and foot holds. Once on top they lay on their bellies like two seals on a rock, the upturned boat rocking and rolling under them as the swells came in.
‘She’s going down,’ said Barry.
‘How do you know?’
‘She’s gone down a lot since I was up here the first time.’
‘What first time?’
Barry looked at his brother, puzzled. ‘Well, I came up once and when you didn’t follow I went back down.’
Logan looked away, confused. He had not realized that Barry had escaped and then come back for him and he wondered if he could have done the same. ‘How long do you reckon we’ve got?’ he asked, his last words coming out between clenched jaws as he tried to stop his teeth from chattering.
‘I’d say she’ll be under in about fifteen minutes,’ replied Barry, his eyes focused on the cliff face a thousand yards off.
They were silent for a time while they both considered their situation. Logan began to shiver violently, the cold breeze blowing against his wet skin. He wished he had been able to bring some clothes with him but realized he was lucky to have escaped with his life. So far that is, he thought grimly to himself. Logan looked at his brother who was dressed in nothing but a pair of nylon briefs. At least I’m dressed better than he his, he thought as he felt his saturated singlet clinging to his skin. A near smile touched the corners of his trembling lips, but the humorous moment did not last as he pondered their dilemma once again. A large swell rolled in, causing the boat to rise and fall and the stern sank a little further, a blast of air bubbles erupting from one side.
‘You know, swimming was never one of my finer achievements,’ admitted Barry, and Logan's mind flashed back to their school days when their physical-education teacher had sarcastically chastised Barry on his success at barely being able to complete a single length of the pool.
Logan nearly agreed with him but caught himself and instead he said, ‘Nah, piece of cake. We’ll wait until one of these big waves comes in and we’ll body surf all the way to the beach.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘We could always pray to God. Perhaps we’ll be able to walk on top of the water.’ In answer to his statement a wave lifted up one side of the boat, causing an explosion of air to escape in a series of large bubbles and the stern went under, twisting the boat up on its side so that the bow was pointing skyward at a forty-five-degree angle.
‘We ain’t gonna have much time for praying,’ said Barry, as they shinnied further towards the bow.
‘There’s some life jackets in that cubbyhole at the top of the companionway,’ Logan suggested.
‘Yeah, but there’s no bloody way I’m going back down to get them.’
‘Me neither,’ said Logan.
‘How far do you reckon it is to shore?’
‘About as far as we can swim. Are ya ready?’
‘No,’ answered Barry.
‘Let’s do it,’ said Logan. ‘Stay close.’ Logan encircled his arm around Barry’s back, stooping under his outstretched arm and shifting his weight so that Barry was forced to jump with him into the formidable sea.
They surfaced together and Logan flicked his head to remove his hair that had plastered across his face. ‘Stick together, Barry, and take your time. Deep, slow breaths.’ They struck out, side by side in breaststroke style and after a few minutes Logan looked back while they were at the crest of a swell. Only the tip of the bow could be seen shining in the moonlight. It rose up slightly as a wave rolled by, as though it were making one last feeble attempt to free itself from the hungry sea.
A little while later Logan looked back again and the boat was gone, as though it had never been there. He tried to guess how far they had come, but it was hard to tell, now that their starting point had disappeared. Not more than a hundred yards, he thought.
‘How’re ya going?’ he asked Barry.
‘I’d give anything…to be able to put my feet down…on something firm and take five.’ Barry replied brokenly, spitting salty water from his mouth.
‘Nah, that would be too easy,’ said Logan. ‘Save your breath for swimming, we can talk later.’
They swam on and Logan knew that he could make it if he paced himself. He had always been good in the water as a boy. Not competitively, but in a natural, lazy way. Like a walrus, he would frolic and clown around, practicing belly flops and uncoordinated dives designed to swamp his playmates. He was always a good member of a relay team, although he lacked the killer instinct to be a race winner on his own. On one occasion he surprised his class by completing a whole length of the pool, under water without coming up for air.
Logan was worried about Barry though. He was lagging behind and Logan had to tread water more and more often as he waited for him to catch up. Barry’s face was strained and his breath wheezed each time he inhaled. This time as he caught up to Logan, Barry stopped to tread water as well. His arms were working twice as fast as Logan’s were and he was having trouble keeping his head above water.
‘I’m just about…played out, Logan… I need rest… I don’t…think I’m gonna make it.’
Alarm flared from somewhere deep within Logan’s midriff and an expression of grave concern clouded his face. ‘You’re gonna be all right, Barry. You’ll make it. Just relax and keep calm. Slow your body movements down. You’re wearing yourself out.’ He swam over and put his hand on Barry’s shoulder. ‘Stop struggling. Just let yourself relax and float up on your back.’
Barry steadied a little and let his feet begin to rise and Logan cradled his arms to support him. He let Barry rest a while but he knew that he couldn’t keep it up long for his own legs were working overtime to keep them both afloat. He heard Barry’s breathing begin to ease after less than two minutes.
‘How do you feel?’ Logan asked.
‘Like I could lie here all night,’ said Barry, in a weary voice.
‘That’ll be the day,’ Logan replied, and marvelled at his ability to attempt humour in such a dismal situation. On they went. The rest had done Barry good and for a while he matched Logan’s easy pace but not for long. Again Logan supported him, giving his brother vital rest, the effort taxing heavily into his own reserves.
They pressed on again but this time Barry only made thirty or forty yards and as Logan cradled him, he felt his own strength beginning to dwindle. For the first time doubt clouded Logan’s determination. ‘God, give me strength,’ he prayed silently, glancing up at the moon. He looked towards the shore. We’ve got to be halfway, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. Ahead of them, not fifty yards away, was a place where the waves seemed to be breaking slightly. Each time a swell rolled in the water would foam and spray a little. A high rock, Logan thought and his spirits lifted.
‘You see that patch of white water ahead, Barry?’
Barry lowered his chin and looked out between his feet as he floated in the cradle of his brother’s arms. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Once we get past there it’s downhill all the way, mate. We’ll be building sand castles on the beach in no time at all.’
Barry looked solemnly up at him but Logan could not hold his eye. He did not feel the confidence that he was trying to portray. Again they started forward but Barry was slow, wallowing and floundering. He had not covered twenty yards when suddenly he cried out in pain. Logan looked around to see an expression of agony on his brother’s face just before he disappeared under the surface. In two swift strokes Logan was there. Instinctively he grabbed Barry by the back, wrapping his arms around his chest and under his armpits. Barry struggled weakly as he choked and spluttered; trying to clear the water he had taken in.
‘Bloody cramp,’ he coughed, ‘I’m not going to make it, mate… I’m through.’
‘Don’t say that, you’ll be all right. Take another rest.’
‘It’s no use… I can’t…swim anymore.’ Barry’s tone was desperate, his breath wheezing. ‘Leave me here… You can…make it by yourself.’
‘No, I won’t do it! You’ve got to try! Come on, it’s not too much further! Keep trying!’
‘I can’t… Leave me… If you try to save me…you’ll drown as well.’
‘Stop saying that, damn it! We’re both going to make it!’
Barry broke into a fit of coughing that finished off with a deep gut-pulling retch as his stomach involuntarily tried to rid itself of the salty water that he had swallowed. His eyes rolled up to look at his brother and Logan saw in the reflection of the moon what could have been water, but were probably tears and Barry’s next words caused a lump that felt as big as a golf ball to swell up inside his throat.
‘Do it for Mum, Logan… It would kill her…if we were both to drown here tonight.’
Tears flooded into Logan’s eyes and he put his cheek onto Barry’s forehead and sobbed shamelessly. He thought of his mother and how she still fussed over and mollycoddled Barry, doing little things for him that a mother only does for her youngest child. He thought of how he would have to tell her that he had left Barry to die, to save himself.
Suddenly Logan was angry at this thing that his brother was asking of him. He looked up and a grim, stony expression came over his face and he said in a firm, resolute voice, ‘You’re coming to the shore with me, boy, if it’s the last thing either of us ever do!’ He cupped his brother’s chin with his left arm and instinctively struck out with his right, the way a lifeguard would. For five minutes he battled on, then he changed sides to rest his right arm. Without realizing it they arrived at the point of white water that Logan had seen earlier. Looking down he saw a mass of moving seaweed and he reached out and grabbed a handful, pulling his feet down. To his amazement he felt hard rock under him and for a moment he was standing waist deep until the next swell picked them up and moved them off.
‘Barry, remember what you said about putting your feet down for five. Now’s your chance, mate.’
Barry did not answer for he had fallen into a state of semi-consciousness. The cramp had consumed the last of his strength. Struggling with his brother, Logan fought his way back to the rock.
‘Put your feet down, Barry. Grab a hold of some seaweed and hold on so these waves won’t wash us away.’
Barry balanced on the rock like a drunk on the sidewalk, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Logan positioned himself directly behind his brother, clutching a clump of seaweed in front of Barry so that his arms encircled him and together they faced the next wave. For ten minutes they rested. Logan had to hang on with all his strength each time a swell came in, their feet lifting off the rock as they clung desperately to the weed that threatened to tear loose at the roots as their combined weight went against the surge. But in between the swells their feet stood firmly on the rock, giving them the essential rest that they needed and when Logan asked Barry if he was ready for another try, Barry nodded with determination.
With the next swell they plunged toward the shore again and for a short distance Barry held his own before he was stricken with another attack of cramp. Once more Logan came to his aid and inch-by-inch they closed the gap between them and the shore. A while later, as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him; Logan actually considered again the idea of turning his brother loose. As a terrible feeling of despair threatened to engulf him he suddenly felt solid rock under his feet once more. Using the same technique as before he tried to rest but with the third swell the weed he was clutching pulled loose and he did not try to get back to the rock, but carried wearily onward.
Barry was limp in his arms now and in his own state of exhaustion Logan wondered if Barry was still alive, but he carried on, stroke after stroke until his thigh scraped against something hard. He turned and groped at it with his free hand, grating his knee across a jagged rock, swearing at the pain. A swell picked them up again and when they came down there was hard rock underneath them. Draping Barry’s arm around his neck, Logan clasped his brother around the waist and helped him to his feet. The water was only knee deep and Logan could see the shore not a hundred yards away. A feeling of elation came over him, bringing strength to his legs and supporting Barry he staggered on. A wave broke across the shelf that they were on, knocking them over and they tumbled forward, various parts of their bodies scraping on the sharp rocks. Again they scrambled to their feet and stumbled forward. With their next step they plunged into deep water again. A surge sucked them down a shallow channel and the next incoming swell lifted them up and deposited them once again on hard rock. They continued in this way, floundering across narrow shelves and falling into deep holes and channels until at last Logan noticed that the water was only ankle deep and the sound of surf was behind them. They splashed through a small tidal lagoon and at the edge of it was an area of damp sand. They collapsed upon it like dead men.
‘We made it,’ Logan whispered, hoarsely. ‘We bloody well made it.’ He could hear Barry close by, breathing heavily through his mouth and then Logan drifted into unconsciousness.
*****
Logan dreamed he was walking alone down a deserted beach. The waves were lapping gently at his ankles and the sun was low on the horizon. Suddenly the water drew away from him and formed into a monstrous wave that towered above him. He tried to run away but it easily overhauled him and he looked back at it over his shoulder in terror. The wave turned into a huge, yawning set of jaws and an unearthly growl echoed out of them as it moved in to devour him.
Logan woke abruptly to hear Barry, who was up on hands and knees, retching violently onto the sand between his hands. As he watched, Barry’s stomach sucked in and a long drawn-out sound like the baying of a bloodhound reverberated from his throat. It was starting to rain and Logan suddenly realized that he was very cold. It seemed to be darker now and he looked to the sky. The moon had gone and not a single star twinkled back at him. A cold wind blew in from the sea and he was shivering as the incoming tide licked at his feet.
He realized with a shock that their ordeal was not quite over yet. He wondered what the time was. Logan never slept with his watch on and he knew that Barry didn’t either. As a conversation point Logan said, ‘You wouldn’t have the time on you, would ya?’
‘Time you got yourself a watch,’ Barry replied, sarcastically as he doubled up for another heave.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Absolutely bloody marvellous…Never felt better,’ Barry managed, as he spat out a mouthful of vile-tasting stomach acids.
‘Well, I can see you haven’t quite finished spray painting the beach, so I’m just going to trot over this way a bit and try and find out where the hell we are.’
Logan stood up, his legs and feet stinging from the many cuts and abrasions he had received while coming across the reef but he tried to ignore the pain as he jogged down the beach. He had only gone a hundred yards when he came to a point where the waves were breaking against the base of a cliff. He could see that they couldn’t travel in that direction so he went back to where Barry lay in the sand.
Putting his back to the wind he spoke. ‘Looks like that southerly has arrived early.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you feel up to a bit of a hike?’
‘Well, I suppose that’s better than staying here and freezing to death. Jesus, I’m cold!’
‘Yeah, I’m not so warm and cosy myself. We can’t go that way, the tide’s right up against the cliff. If we head off around this way we might be able to make it to Dinna’s Beach. There are houses there…I’ve seen them from out on the water.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Barry, and Logan helped him to his feet.
There was not much light to see by now. The sky had clouded over and the rain had settled into a steady drizzle. A cold wind blew in from the south that cut through them, chilling them to the bone. They started off down the beach at a jog, hugging themselves to keep warm. The strip of sand that they had rested upon soon gave way to sharp rock. They had to watch where they put their feet and their pace was slowed considerably. It wasn’t long before they came to a place that was similar to the one that Logan had encountered in the other direction. They stopped at the edge of the water and stared at the sheer cliff face in disgust. Barry swore bitterly and sat down on a large boulder.
Logan stared up the coast and quietly summed up their situation. Here they were, in the middle of the night, trapped in a cove by the tide that wasn’t going to go out for several hours. It was cold and getting colder. They were both next to naked and were shivering violently. He sat down on the boulder and put his back against Barry. He could feel the warmth from his brother’s body and he knew that neither of them would survive the night unless they found shelter. Both of them were weak from exhaustion. He became bitterly angry and felt cheated by this latest act of fate, after what they’d already been through. The notion of building a fire crossed his mind but he dismissed the idea with a bitter cuss. The tide, he thought, was pretty close to being at its zenith and he guessed the time at somewhere around one or two in the morning. ‘What are you like at climbing up cliffs?’ he asked.
Barry glanced over his shoulder, thinking before he answered. ‘You’re bloody serious, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think I’d put cliff climbing on the same level as my swimming ability,’ said Barry dryly.
‘Well, in that case,’ said Logan, ‘you made it to shore, so you should be able to make it to the top.’
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