‘Thirty years on this fuckin’ coast is how I tell, laddy! It’ll be blowin’ its arse off by seventeen hundred. I need to be five miles off the coast by then or I’ll have to run up the river till it fuckin’ blows over. Now where’s that fuckin’ keel?’
‘I’m not sure, but Mic knows.’
‘Bloody great—hide and fuckin’ seek while a storm’s brewing!’
Matt arrived, and we raced off to get the dive gear while Mic disappeared into the bush to fetch hers. I coupled her large bottle to the compressor and filled it.
‘That’s a big one. I haven’t seen any like that before.’
‘My boss bought it for me when I was working in the Caribbean. It’s great, gives me a lot more bottom time.’
Back at the barge Looney had the engine running, and as we scrambled on board I looked out to sea. It was still flat calm, and only Looney’s urgency gave any hint of the trouble that was brewing.
Mum, Dad and Hepi joined us. Looney hoisted the ramp, engaged the winch on the stern anchor, and hauled the barge into midstream.
‘Where are we fuckin’ going?’ Looney called above the roar of the engines.
‘I’ll show you,’ replied Mic, as she walked towards the cabin door.
Looney threw the throttles open, and the twin Gray Marines roared. Mic half-stumbled, half-ran down the deck as the barge leaped forward.
‘What’s biting the Looney One?’ asked Hepi.
‘I don’t want to be caught on a lee shore with this pile of firewood acting like a fuckin’ mainsail. My safest bet is to be about ten miles out when it hits! If I’ve got to run up the river, I’ll be stuck there for a fuckin’ week while it passes through.’
Mic directed Looney out of the river mouth and into the bay. Within a few minutes, she called to Looney to slow down and moved away from the cabin door to sight her line-up points. ‘Stop!’ she called. ‘Stop.’
Looney closed the throttles and the barge rapidly slowed.
‘This is the spot—we’re right over it.’
Looney hit a switch, and the bow anchor rattled over the side. Mic walked to the rail and peered down, ‘There it is!’
Matt and I raced to her side. ‘Where?’ I asked. All I could see were rocks and seaweed.
‘There!’ she yelled, pointing to an area just beside the cloud of sand the anchor had stirred up as it hit the bottom. I could see only a large flat rock covered in seaweed. I suddenly realised I was looking at the huge keel.
‘How do you think you’re gonna get that fuckin’ thing off the bottom?’ quizzed Looney, as he peered over the rail and realised the size of the quarry.
‘Didn’t say it was going to be easy,’ said Dad. ‘What’s your winch capacity, Looney?’
He sucked through his teeth. ‘She’s got a thirty-ton rating, and I reckon she’ll do another five.’
‘Thirty-five max. We need at least forty. What do you reckon, Hepi?’
Hepi was still leaning on the rail looking down into the water, when a smile came over his face. ‘Don’t know, Bollocks, but even if you get that bastard off the bottom, there’s no way you’re gonna get it over the bow and onto the deck. I think we need another plan.’
The barge went silent.
‘Pieces of fuckin’ eight! Pieces of fuckin’ eight!’ squawked Matilda from the cabin top. ‘Shud-up, bird-brain!’ Looney bellowed, and the bird fell silent.
Hepi suddenly stood bolt upright and drew in a noisy breath. ‘If we can’t get the bastard onto the barge, why don’t we float it to shore, load it onto Bertha, and take it home by road? Bertha can handle forty ton at a pinch, and we could put the planks and gear she would have carried on the barge.’
‘Great!’ announced Looney. ‘Just two holes in your plan—that lump of scrap down there don’t fuckin’ float, and that blow is getting fuckin’ closer!’
‘You’ve been out in the sun too long, you dopey honky, we just need to think this one through a bit more,’ snapped Hepi. ‘Your winch will pull thirty-five ton?’
‘At a fuckin’ push.’
‘I reckon we could get the other five by flooding those fuel drums and lashing them to the keel. Once they’re in place, we blow them full of air and, hey presto, combined with the winch, we’ll get the bastard to the surface. Once we’ve done that, we’ll float her into the river, beach her on the high tide, and wait for the tide to go out.’
‘But what about me fuel drums? They’ll be fucked with the salt water.’
‘Stop bleating. We’ve got fifty clean drums back at the yard—you can have all of them if you like!’
‘What about the fuckin’ weather?’
At this point Dad chimed in. ‘If the weather turns as bad as you say it’s going to, just run her up the river as far as you think is necessary, and I’ll pay for the days you sit there!’
Looney relaxed a little. ‘It’ll cost!’
‘I have no doubt,’ retorted Dad. ‘Now that we’ve got that sorted, let’s give Fatman’s idea a blast.’
Matt, Mic and I were quickly ready to go over the side. Looney lowered the bow-ramp until it was just under the surface and, fully rigged, we slid off.
The descent was easy, and we landed on top of the keel. It had been some time since we’d dived, and it took a little while to get comfortable. In the meantime, Mic darted around, obviously a very accomplished diver.
The first thing that struck me was the size of the keel. From the surface it had looked big, but up close it was huge. I circled its perimeter, peering through the attached kelp for places to secure the lifting strops. Sand had built up around it, which was going to make our task harder. I swam to where the top of the keel should have been and tried to sweep the sand away. Matt joined me, and we created a sandstorm as we dug with gloved hands. Finally, through the murk, my hand struck what I had been looking for. I reached out and tapped Matt on the shoulder, then guided his hand to the remains of one of the keel bolts and signalled OK. We sat still to let the sand settle, and as visibility was restored Mic swam into view.
Knowing our limitations, I thought it would be best if Mic returned to the surface and organised the lowering of the winch cable. With a series of hand gestures, we sent her the message, and she took off for the barge.
I signalled to Matt, and we moved along the keel to see if we could find another bolt. Because this end of the keel was buried even deeper, we were engulfed in a still denser cloud. Our efforts were in vain, and we withdrew to let the sand settle.
I lay back and looked up at the barge. Suddenly, a chain followed by two beautiful legs broke the surface and slowly descended as Mic rode it to the bottom, guiding it straight to the bolt stub. Matt and I grabbed the chain as Mic unwrapped herself.
With the chain in place, we slowly ascended. I looked around as we broke through and couldn’t help but notice darkening clouds out to sea. Overhead, the sky was still clear as we swam to the ramp. Looney lowered it and, when the three of us were sitting on the lip, hoisted us clear of the water.
Hepi and Dad had been watching from the rail, eager to hear our report. Looney came over too. Even though he’d probably be running up-river to get away from the storm, he was still keen to know how long we thought it was going to take to secure the load. He didn’t want to be caught with forty tons of lead swinging under the bow and fifty tons of inverted keeler on the deck.
‘Sand is a problem,’ I said. ‘I think we’ll have to winch the top clear of the seabed so we can pass a strop around the lower bulb. There’s too much sand to burrow through.’
I grabbed my dive table and worked out that we needed a half-hour break before we went back down. In the meantime, we decided to flood Looney’s drums and send them to the bottom. He had six, and we hoped they would be enough. Looney had a compressor on one engine and enough hose to go from one end of the barge to the other. We needed to secure the drums to the keel bulb, and were pondering the problem when Looney disappeared, returning with a cargo net, which he tossed down on th
e deck.
‘Roll me fuckin’ drums into that and tie a noose round the neck of yer fuckin’ scrap iron with one of these fuckers, and yer problem’s solved,’ he said, stooping to pick up a spare strop.
‘Let’s get on with it.’ Dad laid one of the drums on its side and rolled it to the bow-ramp. As each drum was lowered off the bow-ramp and flooded, it produced a small brightly coloured oil slick. As the drums descended, the incoming tide pushed them away from the keel, but not too far.
Once we were geared up with fresh tanks, Matt and I sat on the ramp, put our fins on, and rehearsed what we had to do. When I was happy, I yelled to Looney, ‘Let’s do it!’ He handed me the end of the air-hose with a short length of rope. ‘Tie this fucker to ya or it’ll want to float away.’
I nodded. The air gun on the end of the hose wasn’t completely airtight, and as we disappeared under the water it hissed and bubbled. Hepi and Dad carried the net up to the bow and tossed it over.
Matt signalled that he was ready. Once we were on the bottom, we spread the net out close to the keel, in a cloud of sand. The drums stuck fast when we tried to move them, but a quick squirt of air floated them free, and Matt and I guided them into position.
We gathered the ends of the net together when all the drums were in place, and I tied it off.
Step one complete, I checked my watch and air gauge. Looney was readying the winch and on Hepi’s signal took up the strain. I heard the thump of the engine and went back to fill the drums with air.
The drums clanged together as the more buoyant ones fought to escape the net. I signalled the lift, and the strain went on as we heard the pulse of the engine. Pressure waves shot out from the cable. Matt and I backed away to a safe distance.
‘The fucker’s sucking like a stingray!’ Looney yelled. The winch wire screamed as the barge rose in the stern and pivoted on the cable. Slowly the top of the keel began to stir and gradually rise. The cable begged for mercy, but as the sand cloud cleared, we could see under the keel. I signalled a halt, and Matt and I swam forward with the end of the strop to pass under the keel. We knew we had to be quick, as Looney would be able to hold it only briefly. Matt swam across the keel to the opposite side, and I pushed the loop of the strop through to him as Looney struggled to keep the keel from rising and falling. Sand swished up and clouded our vision and, despite Matt reaching arm’s length under the keel, he couldn’t retrieve the other end of the strop.
Hepi and Dad realised we were having trouble. They looked around the deck until Hepi eyed a boat hook. He tied a weight to it and dropped it over the side. His aim was spot-on, and the hook landed within a metre of Matt’s outstretched arm. In a sweeping movement, he quickly retrieved the end of the strop. He swam the end over to me, and we joined it to complete the loop.
We still had about ten minutes’ bottom time left, but I was more worried about the amount of air remaining. I tried to slow my breathing rate down as Matt showed me his gauges; he had about the same amount. Time was critical as we hooked the strop to the net and started to blow out the ballast water. There was a small hole at the top of each drum and a larger one at the bottom; I squeezed as hard as I could on the air gun to force air in and oily water out. As each drum filled, it took off for the surface, and we re-inserted the bungs. Matt was now watching his gauge closely as he worked, and I could tell he was getting worried. I still had time left when he signalled that he was heading for the surface. I pulled harder on the trigger in an effort to speed up the filling of the last drum, but the compressor was working overtime, and the bulb end of the keel was still firmly attached to the seabed.
I was breathing harder as I tried to extract another few seconds to fill the drum. I looked at my gauge—it was registering zero. I was trying to extract another lungful of air from the tank, knowing I was a long way from my next breath, when I got a tap on my shoulder.
Mic was beside me. I grabbed her spare mouthpiece and sucked hard, as she signalled for me to surface.
I pointed to the drums and the bubbling airline. She nodded, and I took another gulp of air from her bottle and headed for the surface. I broke into the air and sucked in as hard as I could. I slipped my snorkel into my mouth and lay face-down in the water. Mic was still on the seabed, filling the last drum.
Suddenly the bulb moved. I raised my head and bellowed to start the winch. Looney leaped for the controls, cranked up the throttle, and let go the brake. Renewed shock waves shook from the cable as the keel started to climb.
‘Fuck, it’s a heavy son of a bitch!’ he yelled.
Hepi and Dad backed away from the cable and continued to watch over the rail. ‘She’s coming, she’s coming!’ Hepi yelled.
Mic had moved away as a cloud of sand billowed forth and was heading in my direction. As she burst through the surface, she lifted her mask. ‘We did it!’
I scanned the horizon and saw that the dark clouds were even closer. The wind was strengthening from the north, and the barge was beginning to rise and fall. The winch motor groaned as the grey, seaweed-encrusted slab came closer to the surface. The first drum emerged as the winch-wire end of the keel came to the surface and felt air for the first time in over thirty-five years.
Looney slammed on the brake and closed the throttle, and an eerie calm engulfed us for a few seconds. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here!’ he yelled, as he locked the cable brake. ‘We’re about to get hammered!’ He swung into the wheelhouse and kicked the second engine back into life.
‘Reckon we’ve got about five fuckin’ minutes to get through that surf-line and into the river before it’s too late!’ he yelled, pointing the barge for shore.
The drums and keel slammed into the bow as the barge surged forward. Looney fought with the steering as the keel tried to steer the ship. ‘Just what I need, forty ton of scrap hanging between me fuckin’ legs when I’m trying to make a run for it!’
The barge weaved and ducked as Looney applied the pressure. The surf from the swell had built rapidly. Hepi looked at Dad and smiled. ‘You’re about to see why this bastard does all our barge work!’
The stern was now being lifted by the sea, adding to Looney’s steering problems when the rudder and props broke clear. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead as he swung the wheel back and forth. ‘Fuuuuck!’ he exclaimed, as the stern rose high out of the water and the engines screamed. With the keel and drums acting like a sea anchor, the barge and its cargo slewed side-on to the sea. Looney was tossed against the wheelhouse door and the wheel ripped from his hands. The barge, with Erewhon acting like a giant sail, rolled to about forty-five degrees, and the hull groaned as the load went on the tie-down straps. We hung there for some seconds, but slowly things settled back down and Looney retook control. He spun the wheel to port and threw the port engine astern. The starboard engine was still going ahead, and bit. As its prop disappeared under the water, the barge was now facing out to sea as the stern swung around. Looney then hauled back on the starboard gear lever, and we were heading full astern up the river as the next swell bounced off the bow-ramp and, apart from the spray, passed by without fuss.
We all started breathing again, but still Looney was saying nothing. Slowly the barge backed into calmer waters and, as we neared the shore, Looney turned the bow towards the riverbank. The wind was now piping as he drove the keel onto the soft sand.
‘Get that fuckin’ cable unchained!’ he barked. ‘Thought we were goners then,’ he added.
Matt and I, still in our wetsuits, dived over the side and managed to release the cable in the neck-deep water. Looney immediately backed the barge off, moved along the shore, then re-beached, lowering the ramp.
‘All ashore who’s fuckin’ going ashore,’ he barked, shifting the gear levers to astern. As Mic and Mum stepped off, the barge was moving. ‘Going about a mile up-river,’ Looney bellowed over the roar of the engines, and he was gone.
8
Reckon we’d better go and secure the camp,’ said Dad, concerned at
the increasing wind.
Hepi nodded. ‘Might just put Aggie alongside the awning. It’s going to hoot for two or three days.’
We bundled everything we could inside the awning and lashed it down. Living was going to be cramped, but as long as the awning held together we’d stay dry. As we finished, the rain started and we dived for the caravan.
The heavens opened up, and our campsite became a lake as the river flooded its banks. We dived back under the awning and lifted everything that mattered.
Mum sat looking out the window, cup of coffee in hand, obviously concerned about the rapidly rising water. Dad tried to reassure her that, at worst, the caravan would float. She was unconvinced. Hepi told her that he’d seen the area flooded before and it never got very deep, and the area would drain once the tide turned. He produced a pack of cards, and the guys played five hundred while Mic joined Mum on the bed for a snooze. We wondered how Looney was getting on as the rain continued to lash down and the wind roared, testing our nerves.
Matt and I decided to put on our wetsuits and check around the camp. The surf on the beach was pounding as we stumbled around what used to be the open area in front of the van. The river had dumped logs and branches there, and wading through the silt-laden water was treacherous. We staggered towards the beach and the sound of the waves. It was impossible to tell where the foreshore stopped and the ocean started.
Darkness was descending. The rain hadn’t stopped but, as Hepi had predicted, the water level dropped when the tide went out. However, the next high tide might threaten us. It was going to be a long night.
At dawn, the caravan was still rocking as the wind continued to howl, and there was a pool of muddy water in the doorway. I looked out the window, and the water level had dropped, leaving a high-water mark clearly visible on the outside walls. The rain had stopped, but the wind still pounded the coast, and we were thankful for the protection of the headland.
After a makeshift breakfast, Matt and I re-donned our wetsuits to run up the river and check on Looney. The tinny was half-full of rainwater, and the outboard spluttered and hesitated before settling into its rhythm.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 10
