by Jeff Gulvin
‘What were you doing?’
He looked sideways at her. ‘Have you got any dry cigarettes?’
Libby shrugged. ‘In the wheelhouse?’
‘Why not? The wheelhouse is wrecked anyway. It’ll ease the smell of old seaweed in the nostrils.’
Libby checked her gear and found a pack of dry cigarettes; they had been wet but were dry now and the paper was yellowed. She lit one for him and he puffed smoke from the side of his mouth.
‘What were you doing just now?’ The Korimako pitched in the swell and Libby shifted her feet, gripping the back of the bench for support.
‘Taking a bearing from the sun.’ John-Cody worked the wheel through his hands as the boat bucked and punched into waves that washed across the bows. ‘The wind’s changing,’ he muttered.
Tom came in through the starboard door. ‘The wind’s moving round to the west.’
John-Cody nodded. ‘As soon as I turn us north I want you to hoist the jib.’
‘You sure just the jib?’
‘I reckon. We’re limping, Tom. Let’s not take any chances.’ He looked at Libby again. ‘When we head north we’ll be away from the squall. Your job is to man the radio.’
‘How do you know we’re heading north?’
‘You can find north with a watch,’ he explained. ‘All you do is point the twelve at the sun or where you think the sun is if there’s cloud cover, then look where the hour hand is and midway between the hour hand and twelve is north.’
Libby’s eyes were suddenly shining. ‘So we can find north in the daylight and south at night. That’s brilliant,’ she said.
‘That’s if the stars are out: they’re harder to locate than the sun.’
John-Cody took them about four nautical miles east of Port Ross and then turned the boat north, slightly favouring the northwest as far as he could gauge it. Jonah and Tom raised the jib and set the tack. Libby went below and started again at the radio. Immediately she heard voices through the crackle of static and twisted the knob till the crackle subsided and she distinctly heard somebody calling the Moeraki. She yelled above for John-Cody, who slid down the steps. Together they listened and then John-Cody frowned. ‘They’ve got a plane up searching.’ He snatched the transmitter from her hand and called the aircraft. ‘Foxtrot Tango Alpha 1-7, this is the Korimako. Do you copy, over?’
They heard a hiss and a whistle over the speakers and then a voice drifting in and out of the static.
‘Reading you just, Korimako. What is your position, over?’
John-Cody pressed the transmitter again. ‘Exact position not known: we’ve lost all navigation. I reckon we’re a few miles due east of Port Ross. I’m trying to skirt the squall. Is there any sign of the Moeraki, over?’
‘Negative, Korimako: we’re sweeping the area, but so far that is negative.’
John-Cody looked at Libby and for a moment he thought about all the ships that had ever been wrecked on the savage shores of the islands: he knew them by heart, had listed them years ago and had never ever forgotten them.
‘Copy that, Foxtrot Tango Alpha.’
‘Are you OK? Do you require assistance, over?’ The voice was weaker now.
‘We’re seaworthy, but the instruments are out. Over.’
They heard no more, the static took over and John-Cody twisted the thumb wheel down then transferred the switch back to the speakers on the bridge. They went up top where Tom stood at the wheel and Jonah was busy with the stove.
Libby again debated whether or not to swap her wetsuit for the regular clothes she had laid out in the engine room. Jonah still wore his, however, and the wheelhouse was cold and draughty. She checked to see how dry her other clothes were but they were still damp so she left them where they were and went back to the bridge.
The sea was rougher now, their horizon the height of the swell immediately around the boat. The water was grey blue, flecked in spittle with flint-like breakers slapping against the hull. The wind was blowing nor’west to west and the sail was full and billowed hard at the seams. The engine was static at seven and a half knots and even Libby could tell that if the wind shifted the wrong way they would be going nowhere fast. John-Cody must have read her mind because he came and stood next to her, his back to the cold store, arms folded across his chest.
‘The swell is only about four metres, Lib. It looks worse when we’re in the troughs, but we are making progress. The wind is good from this direction and it should shift behind us. If it keeps up we’ll see the Snares tomorrow morning.’
‘And after that?’ she asked him.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s make the Snares first.’
But her words stuck in his head. If they made the Snares unscathed then they only had four hours of ocean and they would come to Stewart Island or somewhere along the South Island itself. If they made that he had only a handful of days before he left Aotearoa for ever. As they lay at anchor last night he had told Tom and Jonah what was going on and afterwards they were silent. That silence was with him now and once again he questioned whether or not he could get through it. He had vowed that he would get this boat and her crew home safely, but that’s all he had vowed. What came after, leaving the country, America and the FBI, prison again after twenty-five years — would they do that to him? He had no idea, but the thought chilled him more than the wind that broke the wooden boards and he concentrated on looking forward, the bow pitching and punching into waves that washed the deck.
His thoughts were broken by the radio, a voice loud and clear beside him.
‘Korimako, Korimako, Korimako: this is Kori-base. Do you copy, boss?’
John-Cody leaped down the aft steps, Libby close behind him. ‘Alex, this is Gib. Reading you loud and clear.’
‘Thank God. What the hell’s going on?’
‘We took a standing wave answering the Moeraki’s Mayday. Is there any sign of her?’
‘None.’
John-Cody bit his lip.
‘What’s a standing wave?’ Alex said over the speakers.
‘You don’t want to know. Suffice to say we’ve no radar or GPS or compass.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No, I’m not, but it’s OK. We’ve skirted the storm and are heading nor’nor’west for the Snares. What’s the weather forecast?’
‘It’s good for the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Sweet as.’ John-Cody gripped Libby’s hand. They heard Bree’s voice and he handed the transmitter to Libby.
‘Bree, it’s me, Mum. Are you OK?’
‘Oh, Mum. We’ve been so worried about you.’
‘It’s OK. I’m fine. I’m in very good hands.’
‘Is everything all right, though? They said you answered a Mayday. Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s just fine, Bree. Don’t worry. We’ll be back at Bluff Cove just as soon as you know it.’
‘Thank goodness. Mum, I don’t want you to do this again. Just come home, please. We thought you were dead. I thought the boat had sunk. I thought I’d never see you again.’ She broke off then. ‘Let me speak to John-Cody.’
‘OK, darling, I love you.’
‘I love you too, Mum. Be careful.’
Libby passed the handset back to John-Cody.
‘Hey, Bree. How are you?’
‘Will you look after my mum for me, please?’
‘Of course.’ He leaned closer to the radio. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I’ll bring her home, I promise. You just be waiting, that’s all.’
‘OK. Thank you. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Breezy.’ John-Cody handed the radio back to Libby and went up the steps. Libby felt his pain acutely, like it was pain of her own. ‘Take care of Alex, Bree, and call whenever you want. If you can’t get through it’ll only be because of the weather. We’ll be just fine here. Don’t worry. John-Cody knows exactly what he’s doing.’
&nb
sp; ‘You love him, don’t you, Mum?’
‘Yes, Bree, I love him very much.’
‘Then marry him. I want us to stay in New Zealand.’
Libby closed her eyes, knowing that John-Cody could hear through the speakers up on the bridge.
‘I’ve got to go now, Bree. I have to stand my watch.’
‘Have you told him, Mum? You know you need to tell him.’
‘Bree,’ she said, ‘don’t worry. Everything is fine.’
Libby climbed the steps to the saloon and the silence hit her: the engine chattered and the boat had its familiar metallic hum, but everyone was silent. John-Cody stood with his back to her, shoulders square at the wheel. Libby could hear the hiss of static once more through the speakers; she stood for a moment and wondered how she could break the news to Bree. She moved alongside John-Cody and he stared, gaze fixed, through the hole directly in front of his face. The wind chipped at his skin, drying it, making him screw up his eyes. He held the wooden wheel in both hands, easing gently to port or starboard whenever the current shifted. Libby stood at his shoulder, looking where he looked, then reaching out she entwined her fingers with his. John-Cody eased the wheel to starboard and Libby steered with him.
TWENTY-FIVE
DARKNESS FELL EARLY IN the southern ocean winter. Land had been lost to them a long time before and John-Cody checked the course as best he could every hour or so with Tom echoing him at odd intervals. Every minute, every wave they punched through, each sheet of spray littering the deck in pearls of white took them closer to the Snares. Libby, at the wheel, kept ducking her head to look up at a sky still smothered in cloud. She felt anxious; the worry had been growing with every moment as the world dulled outside. How could they hold their course if they couldn’t see the Southern Cross?
Both John-Cody and Tom were quiet, John-Cody resting on the bench and Tom squatting on the skipper’s stool with his hands gripping his knees. Jonah had slept for a few hours, somehow finding some comfort among the dank and rancid bedding, and now he came up from below, hair loose, muttering darkly as if his sleep had been stalked by dreams.
They were running low on food and he rummaged in the cold store for something to cook for dinner. Libby stood at the wheel, weariness in her limbs as the light faded and the waves ahead grew dimmer. Jonah rustled up some tinned food and Tom took his turn at the helm. Libby ate at the table, the smell of salt and rubber in her nose, looking over her shoulder now and again for any sign of the stars. There was none and she looked at John-Cody, half seeking a hint of concern in his eyes. He ate slowly, methodically lifting his fork to his mouth then chewing mechanically. His face was closed, his thoughts his own, and now and again he would sip from a glass of water. The boat reeled in a sudden eddy and the crockery slid so they had to grab it to stop it crashing onto the floor. Libby watched Tom work the wheel through his palms, endeavouring to hold their course. John-Cody had told her that the current continually kicked them off their crude rhumb-line and they had to keep the right speed and make corrections with the wheel. He had no way of knowing whether they were succeeding or not as they had no compass bearing to check.
Libby was aware of a dull clunking sound coming from somewhere in the stern and John-Cody’s face told her he had heard it too.
‘What’s that?’ she asked him.
‘A loose shackle on the transom winch.’ He looked at Tom. ‘I’m thinking we’re going to lose the dinghy, Tom. That wave pretty much ruined the transom.’
Tom looked over his shoulder. ‘You reckon maybe we should just drop and tow her?’
John-Cody made a face. ‘I’ll go and check the shackle.’
The wheelhouse grew colder as he hauled open the leeward door. Libby shivered, wriggling her shoulders as she watched him disappear into the night, yanking the door to in his wake. The darkness was almost complete now: she could no longer see anything of the horizon and the waves were walls of black.
John-Cody worked his way astern, holding tightly to the rail as the Korimako jerked and rolled with the swell. He gauged the waves to be close to four metres and the wind was up in the west. It was moving as he had anticipated, however, which was a good thing. They had been travelling for almost ten hours now and he hoped the bearing they were on was a good one. The wind coming across the bows from the port side indicated they had not strayed very far if it had indeed turned westerly; there had been too much interference on the radio to check the weather forecast, but his instincts told him it had.
One look at the transom and he knew Tom was right, they should drop the dinghy onto its line and tow it. He stood for a moment watching the waves pitch and roll, rising on all sides, the boat bucking like a horse, and he held on to the rail with both hands. He couldn’t do anything about the dinghy on his own, not with the shackle in the state it was, so carefully he made his way back along the starboard side and ducked into the wheelhouse. Libby was at the helm and Tom sat on the moist bench, eating. John-Cody touched Libby on the shoulder and took over. She sat down next to Tom and worked the heels of her palms into her eyes. John-Cody peered at the sky through the holes in the bunk boards. Wind and spray combined to lick his face and he saw no break in the clouds. That disturbed him: it was a long time since daylight and now he needed the stars.
Behind him Tom pushed away his plate and stood up. ‘Gib, I’ll go and drop the dinghy.’
John-Cody looked over his shoulder. ‘You can’t do it by yourself.’
‘I’ll give you a hand, Tom,’ Libby said.
Tom glanced at her and then at John-Cody. John-Cody looked at Libby. ‘OK. But be careful, that little boat is heavy.’
Tom stepped into his wet-weather gear, tying the pants with the waist string. Libby was still wearing her wetsuit and she zipped it to the neck and pulled on sodden gumboots. John-Cody felt the current shift underfoot and he turned the wheel a few degrees to port; again he looked at the sky and still there were no stars to guide him.
Libby closed the door behind her and followed Tom, one hand on the rail, working her way to the stern. The deck lights were switched on so they could see what they were doing, but the sea was dark, the swell rolling in massive black flakes and the wind howling in her ears. She held on to the rail and waited while Tom looked at the shackle, holding it in one hand while supporting himself with the other.
‘We’ll just lower her as she is, Lib,’ he yelled across the wind. ‘There’s nothing I can do about this.’ He indicated the rope twisted round the cleat on the transom. ‘Take the leeward side.’
The wind tore at him and Libby watched his baggy wet-weather gear shiver and luff like a sail. Tom dragged the hood down so he could see but it lifted and buffeted the back of his head. Libby wound her hand round the rope, readying herself to unhook the twist from the cleat. Tom stood a moment, cupped his hand to call to her and then a wave crashed over the stern.
Libby braced herself, tightening her grip on the rope as the water washed over her. It filled her mouth and nose, blinding and choking her in the same moment. Balance gone, she lost her footing and slipped on the greasy deck. She screamed as she felt the wave suck her through the rail, but her legs caught either side of a strut and her grip on the rope kept her from being dragged overboard. She scrabbled for a foothold, panting for breath, eyes blurred, then lost her footing again. Finally she regained her feet, one hand on the rail, the other still clutching the rope. She looked over at Tom, but Tom was no longer there.
For a moment nothing registered. Then it hit her, and she suddenly found her voice.
‘Man overboard!’ She screamed the words, but they were lost to the wind. Her heart thumped in her chest and she gripped the rail, desperately searching for Tom. But she couldn’t see anything and she raced up the starboard side and yanked open the door.
John-Cody stared at her, seeing her face framed white against her soaking hair.
‘Tom’s overboard.’
He reacted instantly, dropping the revs and slamming the gears into r
everse.
‘Jonah, your boat. Libby, get back astern. You shouldn’t have taken your eyes off him.’
‘I couldn’t see him at all.’
‘Damnit. Get astern.’
Libby ducked back into the wind as the boat pitched into a new trough: water crashed over the stern and raced the length of the deck to boil around her ankles.
Jonah was at the wheel now. ‘Hard astern,’ John-Cody told him. ‘Keep her hard astern.’ He dived for the door but Jonah’s voice checked him.
‘The jib.’ He pointed through the boards and John-Cody hesitated for a second.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave it up. It’ll keep her steady. Hard astern, Jonah: keep her as she goes.’
Libby gripped the quarter rail for all she was worth, eyes on the blackened surf, desperately searching for any sign of Tom. Terrible thoughts went through her head: he hadn’t worn a wetsuit and he hadn’t worn a life jacket to go on deck. Her mouth dried and the sweat stood out on her brow and all at once she was burning. John-Cody was beside her: he tossed a red and white lifebelt into the water and a light started flashing amid the waves.
They were going full astern now and the boat dipped so they had to hold on as the waves battered the quarters. John-Cody peered into the gloom and as he did fear gripped his heart like a fist. Memories, Bluff Cove twenty-five years ago and the first time he set his eyes on Tom. The crayfish boat, deer traps, the grin on Tom’s face when he saw Mahina and John-Cody together at Deep Cove.
‘Tom!’ he yelled into the night, but the night took his voice and swallowed it. ‘Libby. Help me with the dinghy. We need to get it down. He might be able to grab it.’
Again Libby wound the rope about her hand and between them they dropped the dinghy into the surf.
Still they went astern and John-Cody looked to port and starboard, then he gripped Libby’s arm. ‘Tell Jonah half revs now. I don’t want Tom chewed up in the prop.’ Libby worked her way along the deck to the wheelhouse and John-Cody moved port and starboard, eyes wide, skinned right back, seeking some sign in the shifting wedges of sea. The spray lifted to soak him and salt stung his eyes, dried his mouth till his lips felt cracked and old. He stared at the waves, the rising swell, the blocks of black and the troughs: there was no sign of Tom. The lifebelt moved with the waves and he could see the light blinking on and off. The dinghy was tugging on her rope, pushed up against the starboard side as the Korimako went astern. He felt the revs drop and then Libby was next to him again.
