Pescador's Wake (13 page)

Dave is dreaming about Sam when he hears Cactus crowing nearby. ‘We're right on 'er tail, Davo.' Dave opens his eyes and sees the prickly, red-skinned face above him. ‘You can see the buggers on the back deck, clear as day. Closest we've been in the whole seventeen days—but who's counting? Seems they're heading northeast now though. D'you reckon they're on their way back to Oz?'

Dave brings his wrist close to his face to better see his watch. He has been asleep for less than three hours and feels nauseous from tiredness and the sudden shot of adrenaline. Straight away he notices that the seas have again picked up. The
Australis
is bobbing like a Halloween apple in a deep barrel of water. He can hear waves tearing at the boat, like the chasing teeth of hungry children keen for a bite of the prize.

‘Well at least they're heading in the right direction,' he declares to Cactus, who appears high on life. It makes a welcome change.

Cactus indicates his agreement with a click of his tongue. ‘I'll leave you to get your gear on,' he says as he departs.

Dave struggles to pull on his track pants and sweatshirt as the boat pitches and dives. His eyes fall on a novel on his small
bedside table. The book is by Joseph Conrad, his favourite author, and Dave surprises himself by remembering the writer's description of the sea being the ‘irreconcilable enemy of ships and men ever since ships and men had the unheard-of audacity to go afloat together in the face of its frown'. He wonders what Conrad would have made of this chase – making an enemy of a boatload of men for a hold full of fish. Back in the novelist's day it was thought that the ocean was a bottomless source of seafood. How wrong they had been.

He makes his way to the wheelhouse, where Harry is watching the illegal vessel through binoculars.

‘They're not entirely of one mind, Dave,' Harry says.

‘How do you mean?' Dave takes the binoculars that have been handed to him. He locates the rocking red-and-white vessel, steaming ahead against swollen seas. It's perhaps three hundred metres from them. The huge waves are exaggerated through the lenses, and the sight of vast white seas consuming the pirate boat somehow makes his own boat feel smaller. It's as if he is watching a film that has been slowed for dramatic effect.

‘When we first caught sight of them, the name was being covered. Now some idiot has uncovered it again. He's still on deck. Can you see him?'

‘Yep,' Dave answers. A small tremor has started in the muscles at the corner of his eye. He has felt the faint twitch before when he has been particularly tired, or nervous. ‘Crazy
fools, buggerising around with the name in these conditions. Whoever's giving the orders doesn't know if he's Arthur or Martha. Wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall, though. Something fishy's going on.' He laughs at his accidental pun. He imagines the mayhem on board. The foreign voices swearing. The fury at being chased. The panic at being caught. He wonders if they're still carrying their stolen cargo, or if it has been dumped in frozen waters. Wasted, like everyone's time.

‘Get a load of the damage on the starboard stern,' Harry says. ‘Reckon something gave them a pretty good whack down south. Bit of Southern Ocean corporal punishment. Probably what made their minds up to head north.'

‘Yeah, I saw that. Looks like she copped a bit of a ding.' But Dave is distracted. He is watching a lone hunched figure dressed in the familiar safety orange making his way along the
Pescador
's deck towards the cabins. There's something painted on his back: ‘
Pa—
' Dave can't make it out.

The pirate looks like any other seaman battling the southern seas as he slips and skates on the icy deck: tired but determined. Dave sees him lose his footing as the ship swerves unpredictably to port. The figure hits the deck hard, the waves washing him towards the painted white rails. He clearly isn't strapped on.

‘Stupid fool,' Dave mutters.

The man remains lying on the deck against the rails, not moving.

‘Jesus! Stupid bugger's on a death wish.' Dave feels a panic swell inside him, and is caught off-guard by the memory of Sam's dead face in the hospital morgue. He feels himself go faint. A large wave hits the
Australis
and he falls heavily against the instrument table.

‘You right, mate?' Harry reaches for the binoculars but they are still glued to Dave's face.

Cactus enters the wheelhouse.

‘He's giving up,' Dave says, seeing the figure as someone's son or father. He wants to reach out an arm to hold him. The orange body wraps around the metal of the rails with the force of water running off the deck.

‘Who is?' Cactus asks.

‘Some codger on the aft deck,' Dave replies. ‘Get up, you stupid fool!' he yells in vain in the direction of the
Pescador.
‘What the hell does he think he's playing at?'

Dave makes a radio call to the foreign vessel. ‘
Pescador, Pescador, Pescador,
this is the
Australis, Australis.
You have a crew member in danger on the back deck, portside.'

He waits for a response for several long seconds before repeating the call. Still there is silence.

Dave hangs up the radio and looks again through the binoculars. To his relief, he sees the endangered crewman raise a hand to hold onto the rail, just as he has willed him to do. The weight of the boat shifts and the man is given a moment to decide his fate. He chooses life and drags his
sodden body back up, gripping the metal bars separating him from the sea. No one has appeared on deck to offer assistance. Instead, the cold steel guides him along until he nears the aft door, where he lets go of the rail and takes a few slanted steps towards safety. It seems to take all his effort to prise open the door, and then he is gone.

Dave drops the binoculars against his chest. ‘He's inside,' he says, exhaling volubly. ‘Thank Christ for that.' His heart is pounding. It is clear they are chasing a broken and defeated crew, and part of him just wants to let them go back to their distant, desperate lives. Let them keep the bloody fish.

‘We should probably let Customs know we've caught up with them,' Harry says.

‘You make the call. I don't feel like suffering Wentworth's bullshit right now,' Dave replies, taking over the helm.

Harry punches the number for Customs into the satellite phone and almost immediately Roger Wentworth's voice comes down the line, which is flooded with static. Harry adjusts the settings to speaker-phone before arcing up the volume.

‘Roger, this is Harry Perdman, first mate of the
Australis.
We've caught up with our friends. Thought you'd want to know.'

‘Good-o. I'll inform the South African authorities. They've confirmed that their naval boat the
Bremner
can assist. It's probably only half a day away, if that.'

Dave feels the mood in the wheelhouse lighten. They've almost made it. With the news of the imminent arrival of the South African navy, Cactus is standing tall, his chest stuck out with achievement.

‘Music to our ears,' Harry says. ‘It'll be good to lay eyes on them.'

‘You just keep trailing those illegals.'

‘We'll do our best. But if they pick up their boat speed too much more, we'll be backing off again. It's not safe with the seas behind us like this. What's the plan once the South Africans are on the scene?'

‘We obviously need the boat and the catch brought back to Australia as evidence. The
Bremner
's offering to put armed personnel on the
Pescador
to confiscate any weapons the illegals might be carrying. By the time your men step aboard, it'll all be safe as houses. And a few of the South Africans will stay on the boat to keep things in line on the journey back here. The master and crew you send over won't have any trouble.'

As Harry finishes the satellite call, Dave switches to autopilot and re-examines the
Pescador
through his binoculars. He wonders about the fate of the crew on board. Who are they, these men whose lives are just fodder for some wealthy boat owner? Who is waiting for them back home? But it's an affinity that's tempered with anger as he thinks of young William downstairs, still scared to his core that he
mightn't live out the dreams he'd imagined for himself on dry land. Dave knows the Southern Ocean has left its mark on the young Tasmanian. But then William is different from the rest of the crew. He was in the car when Sam died and has seen the face of death first-hand. It has left him vulnerable.

‘You happy to take the helm again for a few more minutes, Harry?' Dave asks. ‘I'd like to go downstairs and let the boys know we're almost home and hosed. That the cavalry is on its way.'

‘Sure thing, boss.'

When Dave enters William's shared cabin, he is overwhelmed by the responsibility for the lives of these men, and the relief that he'll have them home soon. They are lying about on damp bunks, playing games of solitaire and reading magazines. One bloke is drawing pictures of seabirds. They're a good bunch mostly, Dave thinks. Rough diamonds who aren't afraid of hard work and who believe in taking responsibility for their own actions. In their thermal undergarments and fleeces, they look nothing like the seamen that Dave saw around the docks as a boy. Back then, sailors worked wet, weighed down by wool. Here, on the
Australis,
there are luxuries like clean clothes and showers, but still the smell of diesel, salt and sweat lingers. It's at once unpleasant and reassuringly human.

Dave eyes the tired, unshaven faces. Some of the younger crew are wearing beanies, the hats cocooning their salty hair.
In these seas there's nothing the men can do on deck, and they're enjoying these moments of enforced recreation. William still appears anxious and out of place—like a calf in the holding pen of a slaughterhouse, it occurs to Dave. He's noticeably paler and thinner than when he boarded.

‘You'll be pleased to hear we've caught up with our Uruguayan friends and that the South African navy is on its way to help apprehend the vessel.'

The men look up and cheer, whistling loudly through cracked lips.

‘We're almost there, lads.' Dave holds onto one of the bunks as the boat falls through the air and smashes into a trough. ‘Umph,' he grunts. ‘We're almost there.'

Dave watches William's demeanour change. The young Tasmanian swings his muscular legs over the bunk, and sits upright. He rubs his stubbled jaw back and forth with his thumb and index finger, processing the news. The fear that moments ago racked his face ebbs away.

‘Saved by the bloody Springboks!' William jokes. Dave sees his bluster for what it is: an attempt to regain some blokey respect after his failed attempt to find his sea legs. William's relief is palpable. Dave has heard some of the crew calling the young lad a ‘pussy', given his frequent retreats to his bunk. Good on him for trying to make light of things now, he thinks. On land, Sam had always been in awe of his best mate, his preparedness to take risks and throw himself head-first at
life. But the sea is another story, and the Southern Ocean a baptism by fire. Dave realises he should have started the lad off on something gentler. But then, how was he to know they'd end up having to chase the South American buggers? Time will tell if this is going to be young William's first and last trip.

Dave considers his own future and can't see himself quitting just yet. The sea is in his blood. Like Sam, he has always needed a challenge, and isn't happy if he's not pushing boundaries—testing his capabilities. He'll tell Margie it's his job, and that he doesn't have a choice, but deep down he knows that he's hopelessly addicted. Being at sea is one of the few things that makes him feel alive. And since Sam's death, it's one of the only ways he knows to truly escape. Out here, it's as if time stops. Nothing else matters, except what's happening on the boat.

‘Harry and a few of you blokes'll be going on board to help steam the
Pescador
home, but only after the South Africans have got the situation on board under control,' Dave tells his crew.

One of the few ratbags aboard performs a convincing act with an imaginary machine gun, while his mates fall about in a mock show of agony to underline the point.

‘Before you all get too carried away…' Dave holds off until his crew settles down. ‘I've been assured that every effort will be made to avoid injury. And, in any case, we'll have done our job by then and will be staying right out of that side of things.'

‘Typical. Just when it gets exciting.' The bloke with the pretend gun feigns disappointment. Dave knows his bravado is purely show and that the young sailor would be the first to falter in the face of a real gun.

‘Just keep your wits about you over the next little while, lads. Help is at hand, and we'll soon be heading home. But don't take your eyes off the ball just yet. And I'll need some volunteers to put their hands up to accompany Harry when the time comes. For now, though, rest up, and thank your lucky stars you're not on that Uruguayan boat.'

Dave watches as William again loses colour and lies back down on his bunk. He waits until the other crew are distracted with their yahooing before leaning towards him. ‘It won't be you going over,' Dave says, ruffling the young man's hair. ‘You'll be back home and having a beer at Knopwoods before you know what hit you.' Dave thinks that he could do with a drink himself at the old sandstone pub. ‘You won't be the first sailor to drown your sorrows there.'

He ponders how much the world has changed since the days when Knopwoods fronted directly onto the water, before the river was pushed back and reclaimed as parkland. Back then, it was the whalers who came to drink their pints while overlooking the steel-blue finger of water that had carried them safely from the Southern Ocean to Hobart, where they unloaded their oily spoils. He tries to imagine what the waterfront was like when the whaleboats docked directly in
front of the pub, attached like tethered giants to the sandstone by large metal loops that are still in place today. Now fishermen stand out like sore thumbs amidst the fashionable clientele. In neighbouring restaurants, well-heeled city slickers dine on the fish these men have caught, never asking, or even considering, where it has come from.