Gold Sharks (5 page)

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Greg and Oscar reported to the harbour as arranged. The fisherman was standing on the boat eating a bowl of food with his fingers, sucking each one greedily as he relished the stray bits of rice left sticking to them. He greeted them with a beaming smile. “On time I see. Good, come aboard,” he gestured with a sticky hand.

They climbed down to the deck of the tidy little vessel.

“Put your kit below.” He gestured towards the cabin entrance. At a little over sixteen metres overall, with sweptback miship wheelhouse and large cockpit, she was low and sleek, a strikingly elegant looking craft. Unlike almost every other boat of the type in the region she did not have a fly bridge.

Through a central access in the open wheelhouse was a cabin with galley and large seating area. Forward again was a sleeping cabin with an en-suite shower and toilet. A similar adjacent facility was for general use. Two further twin berth cabins were located partly under the wheelhouse floor aft of the saloon.

Her elegance belied her rugged structure; constructed in multi layered glass fibre she was designed with a heavy deep-v planing hull to give her maximum stability in rough seas. Two gleaming white twelve hundred and fifty-brake horsepower MAN diesels powered her. Her huge fuel capacity provided a cruising range of almost one thousand miles at twenty-five knots; her maximum speed when needed was in excess of forty knots.

The vast teak decked cockpit area provided ample safe space for fishing or diving activities. There were seats and cool bait boxes strategically located at the stern. To protect the passengers and crew from the searing tropical sun the whole cockpit was covered by a colourful Bimini awning.

A woman they presumed to be the fisherman's wife was preparing something at the cooker and looked up shyly when Greg entered the cabin to deposit their kitbags. Contrary to Greg's expectations, it was neat, tidy and smelled fresh; it was immaculately.

Oscar, his arms folded, leant casually against the narrow flush decked transom as Greg reappeared from below.

“Looks as though she was designed for something more than just fishing,” he whispered as Greg took up a similar position.

“I think you're dead right my friend,” Greg whispered back. “One thing though, I think that's his wife on board, so it's probably their home as well.”

The fisherman jumped back onto the boat having released all but one of the mooring lines, which he left as a temporary spring to a ring in the wall. He stepped up to the controls and started the massive engines. The throaty roar from the initial flip of throttles deafened the passengers still standing at the stern of the boat. He throttled back to let the engines rumble comfortably at one thousand revs.

“You need to let these babies warm up a bit before you open them up,” he smiled as he tidied away the fenders and mooring lines. He checked the gauges; apparently satisfied, he crossed to the ring and released the line. The boat drifted slowly away from the quay, nudged gently by the outgoing tide. The fisherman slipped the engines into gear and, still at idling speed, let them drive the boat slowly towards the harbour entrance.

“By the time we're at the harbour mouth she'll be perfectly warmed up.” He held the steel-rimmed wheel lightly in his gnarled hands.

“By the way, my name is Dick. What will I call you?” he smiled

“I'm Greg and my father is Oscar,” he replied earnestly.

“Is he really your father?” Dick queried with genuine curiosity.

“Well no not really but I have to treat him like a naughty son some times!” It was Oscar's turn to laugh.

Staring ahead, Dick just nodded his head and smiled understandingly. Soon afterwards they reached the harbour mouth.

“We're going to try a wreck about three miles into the bay to start with. It's on the way to the main place; I want to try and catch some small fresh bait to use on the much deeper wrecks further out, OK?”

He eased the throttles forward and the vessel gathered speed instantly. Dick scanned his instruments then gradually pushed the control levers fully forward. The boat surged, assuming quite a steep angle at first and then as the powerful engines gently lifted the heavy hull onto the plain the boat's attitude levelled out and she accelerated away with tremendous force. The two men were obliged to grab at the nearest handholds to avoid falling back into the cockpit.

The boat was soon racing along at thirty knots. Dick slowly pulled back the throttles until the motors were humming gently in unison. The log showed ‘speed through the water' twenty-five knots.

“My God that is some power!” exclaimed a thrilled Oscar.

Dick ignored the remark, seemingly absorbed with the business of navigating the boat to the site of the first wreck. Greg used the opportunity to go down to the cabin where he took the hand-held ‘Garmin' GPS (Global Positioning System) from his bag. The instrument, no bigger than a mobile telephone, was capable of continuously charting your position, anywhere on the face of the planet, with an accuracy of about one square metre. He switched the tiny device onto standby mode and put it into his pocket.

Six or seven minutes later, Dick eased the boat back to the displacement speed and slowed to a few knots. The woman appeared suddenly from below and made her way forward carrying a large orange float with a coil of nylon rope attached. She opened a hatch and extracted an anchor already attached to its own line, onto which she expertly looped the buoy line before looking back at Dick, indicating she was ready. He then released the main anchor using the remote control at his helm position. The woman threw the buoy and line over the bow.

Dick smiled back at his guests.

“Just a couple of minutes and we should be right over the wreck,” he said, adding in anticipation of the question, “The buoy is a trip line for the anchor in case we get tangled in the wreckage down there.”

They used rods with feather lures and were soon bringing up small fish of various descriptions to be deposited in the refrigerated bait box at the stern. After about an hour of fishing Dick proclaimed that they had more than enough for their needs. Almost disappointed to have to stop, they gathered up their gear and moved away and were soon flying gracefully through the oil flat water, leaving a straight frothy white wake behind them. They stopped at a couple of sites but Dick decided that there was too much run for them to hold position.

“You just end up losing all your gear if the run is too strong!” he advised with his knowing smile. “Don't worry there's plenty of choice out here!”

They moved off to the next site.

Each time they stopped, Greg pressed the ‘Mark' button on his GPS. This created a trail of positions and the courses to them.

“I think the next one will be OK. It's in about sixty-five metres of water and should produce some the larger groupers you're so keen to catch,” Dick announced seriously.

They spent the next three or four hours trying various locations catching three medium sized groupers weighing between twelve and twenty pounds. They kept the smallest and returned the others alive to their own world.

Oscar held the fish in his arms, with Greg at his side, for the traditional photograph. “This,” Oscar announced, “is going to be cooked simply and slowly on the Bar-B-Q with just a little salt pepper and butter and perhaps the merest squeeze of lemon juice”

His mouth watered in anticipation of the feast.

With the day's fishing over, the three men sat in the stern of the cockpit leisurely sipping cool cans of beer as they skimmed back to the harbour with the woman at the helm.

“I have to say a big thank you for the excellent day we've had,” Greg announced, thumping the contented Dick on the shoulder. “Shall we do it again tomorrow?” he asked Oscar innocently.

“I'm game if you are,” was the simple reply.

“Good, very good,” Dick agreed happily. They opened more beers. “You liked the lunch my woman prepared?” Dick queried cautiously.

“We certainly did. It was delicious!”

The woman turned around from the wheel and smiled shyly.

“Thanks and cheers,” they raised their beer cans in salute. “Same again tomorrow will be perfect,” they confirmed. She nodded and returned her attention to the sea ahead of them.

That evening, back at their rented chalet. Oscar was busily preparing the Bar-B-Q for their prized fish. They had already made casual friends with their neighbours, who were also renting the adjoining beach chalet for a couple of weeks and invited them to share the Bar-B-Q.

Meanwhile Greg transposed the numerous locations from his GPS onto his chart.

“We don't seem to have gone anywhere near the site indicated on the old map. I think it's going to take more than another day to get to our destination without raising any suspicion.”

Oscar remained silent as he poured a glass of chilled white wine. Savouring it carefully, he nodded acceptance then poured a second glass, passing it across to Greg.

“ Here try this, it's quite good.”

Greg took the glass, sipped.

“ Yes it is, where did it come from?” he asked absently.

“It's local would you believe.” Oscar topped up the glasses.

“What do think of Dick? Do you think we could trust him, if we were to be a little more open about our real objective?” Greg asked almost hopefully.

“I know what you mean Greg but I've been thinking about things too.” Oscar looked at the wine in his glass. “That boat must have cost a great deal of money, yes?”

“Sure did,” Greg agreed.

“So how do you think a fisherman like Dick can afford such an investment?” Oscar poked the Bar-B-Q with his other hand and returned to Greg. “I know for a fact, that a boat like that must cost at least four hundred thousand dollars. Now on top of that, you have fuel and maintenance. Those enormous engines must be very thirsty. I bet they'll burn at least one gallon of diesel per mile cruising. Flat out you can double that!” He sipped at his wine. “Such a configuration is not economic as a fishing boat; even if he had game fishing charters every day, it would be touch and go. He has to have a more profitable supplementary occupation.”

He wandered back to the terrace, poked absently at the Bar-B-Q and returned to the room waving the long cooking fork at Greg. “There has to be another side to our friend Moby Dick.” as Oscar had christened him.

“I guess you're right. The question is what?”

Greg reached for the bottle and refilled the glasses.

“This stuff is OK isn't,” he said as he drank with relish. “We'll be pissed as newts before our guests arrive if we keep sipping at this rate.” He grinned then added after a pause, “You're absolutely right. I wonder what he really does to justify that rig?”

At that moment there was a call from the terrace.

“Hello there, I didn't bother with the front door. Hope this will help you to forgive me.” The young man walked into the light holding two bottles of wine. He was followed by an older lady. “Hope you don't mind but this is my mother, she arrived this afternoon.” The lady stepped into the light. Oscar's heart missed a beat. The lady was a few years his junior but still strikingly beautiful. She bowed politely holding out her hand. “Marion,” she introduced herself. “I apologise for imposing myself upon you but Remi insisted.”

Oscar stepped forward.

“We're glad you made it!” He bowed gently, shaking the offered hand. The touch of her soft skin made him tingle with long forgotten excitement. The hand was cool but the grip positive the skin like silk.

“We'd have struggled a bit if you'd found a better restaurant to go to,” he stammered nodding towards the huge fish already steaming on the Bar-B-Q

“Sophie you've met.” Remi introduced the younger lady entering the room carrying a big bowl of mixed salad.

“Hi everyone,” she greeted them cheerfully. “Here's the salad as promised - the pudding is still in the fridge.” She handed the bowl to Greg.

“You have gone to an awful lot of trouble,” he said, holding the bowl awkwardly.

“True,” she preened. “I've been toiling for hours,” she chuckled infectiously.

Greg looked truly guilty. “It's only supposed to be a simple Bar-B-Q you know.”

She looked contrite, placing a reassuring hand on his, realising that he was genuinely perturbed.

“It's no trouble at all. The truth is, I bought it readymade at the beach café!” she laughed. “But I still think I deserve a glass of wine though.”

Greg laughed. “Well we bought the wine from the same place actually.”

The party rolled forward, comfortably encouraged by the delicious food and abundant wine. Eventually Oscar took off his gaudy chef's apron and sank gratefully into a chair.

“I think a little digestive is appropriate don't you?” Greg stood up and looked towards Oscar for approval.

Oscar nodded. “The perfect moment I would say.”

Relaxed they sat in silence on the terrace. It was balmy warm; the sea lapped gently across the coarse sand. A strange mixture of music drifted inoffensively from neighbouring beachside restaurants and cafes. A multitude of colourful lights danced in a kaleidoscope of reflected colours on the calm water. The atmosphere was soporific. They nosed and appreciatively sipped at the rich aromatic liquor in the large Cognac goblets.

“Managed to obtain the only bottle of Hine Antique in Manila. Most suitable for the occasion don't you think?” Oscar philosophised.

“The perfect conclusion to our meal,” Marion agreed with her modest smile.

The others were equally content. Greg was sitting silently relaxed in his chair gazed dreamily out to sea, when quite suddenly he leaned forward.

“I was just wondering what made you choose the Philippines for your holiday?” He asked Remi.

Remi looked up, startled by the sudden question. “Well actually mother's dad, my grandfather, was in the Japanese military and stationed here during the war,” he responded quietly with a sense of guilt, as if not wanting the others to hear.