Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  I had an appointment to go down to the pub when it opened. I’d arranged to meet a bloke named McCorkindale, Paddy McCorkindale, who’d worked with Steve and Cory on a company boat and was supposed to have been on the cray boats in New England. ‘He’s a bit of a pseudo Yank,’ Steve had warned, ‘but he’s not a bad bloke and he knows his way around a fishing boat all right, so I reckon maybe he’s not bullshitting.’ Steve usually took a fair bit of convincing with people, so I had my hopes up.

  The point was, buying a boat is a tricky business. It’s a bit like a marriage – you’re stuck with it for a long time. Get it wrong and you’re miserable, right and you’re set for life. It isn’t just a matter of the right fittings and all the correct gear – a boat has a certain feel and way of handling, and no two boats are alike. It’s always a compromise – some boats are at their peak performance in heavy seas while others work best when the whitecaps are running to shore.

  Old-timers always compare a boat to a woman, and I reckon they’re probably right – you’ve got to know what makes them cranky and what keeps them sweet, how they’ll behave under stressful conditions and respond to plain-weather sailing. The idea of Jimmy buying a boat in America was worrying the shit out of me. We could give him specifications until the cows came home and he might find a boat that met every one of them and it could still be a dog. I didn’t expect Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan to understand this and Jimmy still hadn’t had sufficient experience to be the judge of a good boat – besides, you can only really judge a boat once you’ve been out on the water with her for a while.

  There are three ways to buy a boat. Off the factory floor, which almost never happens; custom-built by a boat builder, which is always dangerous; and second-hand. Curiously enough, second-hand is the best way. If the boat is in great nick and has seen a few seasons in all conditions and has come up trumps, then that’s the boat you want. But even then, it has to be a boat you like well enough to marry – which means you’ve got to have a dalliance or two before you choose her for your wife.

  I hadn’t mentioned any of this to Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan. I felt I needed to have the facts to convince her, even though I think if push came to shove she would let me have my own way. I admit I was going down to the pub to meet this bloke McCorkindale with a fair bit of an agenda – I wanted him to tell me that an American boat wasn’t going to suit our Tasmanian conditions. I wanted to back my own emotional feelings with fact, although I told myself I wouldn’t cheat.

  He turned out to be a careful, slow-talking kind of bloke who liked to use American expressions such as ‘say, buddy’, ‘you’re welcome’, ‘kick ass’, ‘goddamn’, ‘fall’ when he meant autumn – words like that.

  He chewed tobacco and reckoned he’d cultivated the habit from working in bad weather on a cray boat, when the wind would blow a fag straight out of your mouth. He spoke with an affected Yank drawl, but he’d forget sometimes and say the word he’d drawled a moment before in a fair-dinkum way, which is always a bit sus. I bought him a beer but stuck to the lemonade myself, joining him for just the one beer at the very end. He wasn’t a bludger and bought his shout so I couldn’t dismiss him as a lightweight, and he didn’t question me drinking lemonade. I explained I’d been on the piss and he didn’t push it like some blokes would, hair of the dog and all that – which, by the way, I reckon doesn’t work anyway, or doesn’t for me. Chasing the dog after a night out is only getting pissed all over again. About a hundred beers later you feel good, and that’s only because you’re back where you were the night before and it’s going to be the same again the next morning, only worse. If it wasn’t for the boats going out a week at a time and the pub being closed of a Sunday, I reckon most of the blokes on the island would be caught up in this spiral.

  Paddy McCorkindale told me about fishing out of Nantucket and off Nova Scotia in the winter. ‘You reckon we do it tough? Over there the brass monkey is singing soprano for five months a year!’ Anyway, without any prompting, he said some of the American and Canadian cray boats were pretty good but wouldn’t go too well over here with their reinforced hulls for ice conditions. There were a whole lot of other differences as well, some fairly good, others not. We promised to have another drink sometime and I bought him one for the road.

  I was away just before lunchtime and was suddenly ravenous. Greg Woon’s pies were unspeakable – only a hungry dog or a drunk would eat them – so I stopped off at Mrs Dunne’s to buy four ham sandwiches before calling in at the Gazette. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up from a desk cluttered with bits of cut-out newspaper. ‘Cuttings – from the mainland and the big island. I’m foraging for news,’ she said. ‘It looks like a quiet week. How are you feeling, Jack?’

  ‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ I said right off.

  ‘Why, we had a lovely time! You were excellent company, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, until I passed out. The champagne, I didn’t know it was going to hit me like that. One moment I was fine – for instance, I remember your very last words were: “Sobbing as I was, I instantly fell head over heels in love with him.” Then I was out like a light. Anyway, I’m very sorry, Countess.’

  She laughed, remembering. ‘Ah, Sir Victor Sassoon. It was he who introduced me to French champagne, although he’d only allow me one glass until I was eighteen, which was increased to two on my eighteenth birthday. I recall on one of his increasingly frequent visits he gave me a wonderful party and upped the number to three – one too many for a young lady.’ She gave a short laugh, her head to one side, remembering. ‘He used to recite a little rhyme he loved to use at a party when a young gal was present:

  “One glass of champers puts a glow upon her cheek,

  Two is rather helpful to cause Her Prettiness to speak.

  Three is very interesting and makes a damsel start to flirt,

  A fourth is most insidious, when a girl should be alert.

  While five is either promising, or goes directly to her feet,

  But six is always dull, as she almost always falls asleep!”’

  ‘Is that why you only had two glasses?’ I asked.

  ‘You really are very observant, Jack. I haven’t had champagne for years. I seem to recall two glasses, not three, were quite sufficient to enjoy myself while still keeping my wits about me. At first, of course, I was in show business, where a gal has to be very careful of her reputation.’

  ‘Like the general said?’

  ‘Yes, precisely. And then later, when I went into business, a loose tongue was not to be recommended. Especially in a lady, who had no business being in business as far as most Shanghai gentlemen were concerned.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. May I come back for more?’ I asked, rather clumsily. ‘I mean, more of the story of your life – not champagne,’ I added hastily.

  ‘Oh dear, Jack. I’m not at all sure I’m not raking over very old coals.’

  ‘Please – you can’t just leave it at the strawberry milkshake.’

  She considered for a few moments. ‘Sunday week, afternoon tea. I’ll bake scones and we’ll have them with jam and clotted cream – I’ll ask John Champion to send some in. Did you know he’s making a very respectable brie? He really is a livewire – it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he doesn’t end up doing something rather special for the island.’

  ‘What, “The choice of all the Champions”?’ I said, unimpressed, then remembered too late that she’d come up with that slogan.

  ‘A good ripe brie,’ she scolded, ‘is something to be celebrated, Jack. Perhaps, as with the champagne, you could be in for a nice surprise – I’ll ask him to send some in. All this talk of food is making me hungry.’ She pointed to the brown-paper packet I held. ‘I say, have you brought lunch?’

  ‘It’s only ham sandwiches. Mrs Dunne’s,’ I explained.

  ‘Lovely, I’ll make tea.’ She rose from her desk and walked to the door leading to the little kitchenette but then paused suddenly, turned to me and said, ‘Perhaps here in the offi
ce you should refer to me as Nicole ma’am and not as, well, you know what. Jack McGinty’s ears may be likened to a bull elephant’s, constantly flapping, and the walls seem to be made of cardboard. Already the whole island is talking about the partnership, and I’m terribly afraid the gossip may have started the last time the three of us were together in this office.’

  Jack McGinty was the printing foreman at the Gazette, and a bit of a blabbermouth. I shrugged. ‘Since when has anyone been able to keep a secret on the island for more than five minutes? Could have come from just about anywhere. Gloria, er . . . my mum got it from Father Crosby.’

  ‘Trust his nibs to know,’ she remarked, and disappeared into the kitchenette.

  I opened up the sandwiches and pushed some of the newspaper clippings aside to make room for them on the desk, also allowing for the teapot, milk jug, sugar and cups.

  She returned after a few minutes, poured the tea and handed me a cup. ‘Jack, I’ve been thinking,’ she began. ‘Upon reflection I’m not at all sure it’s a good idea to send Jimmy the specifications for a boat. What do you think?’ She must have seen my look of relief, because she immediately said, ‘Oh, I see you agree – splendid!’

  She’d pipped me at the post again. I’d been just a tad upset about what had happened on the way to the airport and I guess I’d got myself worked up a fair bit stewing over the situation. I had decided that Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan needed a run-down not only on boats, but also on what it was like to be a fisherman. Although it was probably fair to say most of the fishermen on the island were just about illiterate, that didn’t make them stupid. I had decided she ought to know how I felt on the subject. In my mind I’d ticked off the attributes of a bloke who can call himself a fisherman, using Alf as my template.

  For a start, he had to be a fierce individual with a real love of the sea, so much so that he must be prepared to earn less than if he kept his feet dry. He must have some idea of how to navigate, have a knowledge of first aid, be at the very least a competent bush mechanic – that is, someone who can change a filter, fit or adjust a belt, make up a hydraulic hose and get a stalled engine going, all with the deck pitching like a bronco at the Calvary rodeo. One thing is certain, these things never happen when you’re in port or having a smoko in some quiet bay. Oh yes, these days he also has to be an electrician, as transceivers and echo sounders have a propensity to break down – not to mention alternators, generators, starter motors, and so on. Then, of course, like all sailors, he needs to be able to splice a rope, repair a sail (if he has one), fit a shackle, and repair anchor winches, pot haulers and steering devices with whatever material is at hand, most of which is usually inadequate for the job. And all that’s just to keep him afloat! After all this is done, he still has to catch himself a load of fish, one of the more skilful, tricky and unpredictable pursuits devised by mankind to fill the universal stomach.

  Lying in bed the night after Jimmy left, I had decided I would give Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan this little lecture – then maybe, just maybe, she might show me and people like me a little more respect when it came to writing down the specifications when you were about to buy a bloody fishing boat.

  But, of course, I did no such thing. I relayed the conversation I had had with Paddy McCorkindale and then elaborated on my theory on boats and their owners – though, of course, not making quite the same analogies to a woman and marriage. I ended up making the suggestion that we buy a second-hand vessel, pointing out that we’d be able to sea-trial it and, furthermore, that we’d end up getting more for our money. ‘There’s got to be the right boat somewhere around the main island or even as far up as Eden. Provided they’re properly maintained, boats don’t necessarily get old. A boat built from Huon pine, for instance, will last practically forever. For the kind of money we’re talking we might just be able to get something a little bigger than a forty-five footer if we buy second-hand. There’s plenty of good cray fishermen who’ll gladly help us sort things out when the time comes to make a choice.’

  ‘That’s a splendid idea, Jack. Shall I run an advertisement in the Gazette? I’m constantly surprised where my silly little newspaper ends up. Perhaps also in the Launceston Examiner and the Hobart Mercury. What do you think?’

  Here she goes again, taking over. ‘Great, I’ll write the advertisement tonight and bring it in tomorrow.’

  That night I wrote the words. The ad needed to be sweet and to the point, so there wasn’t much to it:

  Fully equipped cray boat wanted in good condition. All weathers. Twin donks. Suit crew of 2 to 4. 45 feet plus. Inquiries to the Queen Island Weekly Gazette, Queen Island. Tel. Queen Is. 27

  That was the easy part, but what I needed was a catchy headline – and nothing would come. I went to bed with my head spinning, and awoke quite suddenly at about three in the morning. There it was, shining in the air above my head like neon on the Ginza strip! So elegant, simple, amusing, catchy – even a modest stroke of genius.

  Cray-zy a-boat you!

  I lay awake until I heard Cory’s black Orpington rooster start crowing. Sometimes an idea you get in the middle of the night seems ingenious until the cold light of dawn, when you’ve either forgotten it or it proves to be gibberish. I reckoned if I lay awake it wouldn’t go away, and daylight would tell me if it held up.

  I dressed while it was still dark, walked down to the harbour and climbed up to the lighthouse on the rise above, where I could see the fishing boats as they left Livingston. By this time it was coming on light and the fishermen were beginning to arrive on their pushbikes and motorcycles, the engine noises ripping the still, fragile morning air.

  The gulls swooped down to check me out, squawking at my feet and wheeling above my head, the usual stickybeak opportunists making a bloody nuisance of themselves. Fishing is almost all hard work but it has its moments, and one of them is on a morning like this one with the sea like glass, starting the outboard and putt-putting out of Livingston Harbour just as the sun begins to rise. I could picture Jimmy and me in our own boat, feeling the chill in the little zephyr that always blows across the bow just as the sun is peeping over the horizon. ‘Cray-zy a-boat you!’ The slogan that was sure to get us the boat we wanted was still holding up, and looked like lasting into the new day. A sliver of the rising sun blistered a few cotton clouds that sat above the horizon and I took this as absolute confirmation that I was onto a certain winner. Cray-zy a-boat you! A man’s a bloody genius.

  Hardly able to contain myself, I arrived at the Gazette office just after it opened at half-past seven. I said g’day to Jack McGinty and noted that he really did have very large ears – the light streaming through a window behind him gave them the appearance of two red ping-pong bats attached to the sides of his head. ‘Her Grace is in,’ he said, jerking his head towards the door to Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan’s tiny office. I knocked, and heard the call to enter.

  ‘Goodness, it’s you,’ she said, surprised. ‘What brings you here so early, Jack?’

  I was astounded that she should ask. I’d been so consumed by the composing of our ad that if I’d been told Jack McGinty had been put on red alert, that he was oiling the press for the sole purpose of getting the advertisement into Saturday’s paper, I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised. ‘I’ve brought the advertisement for the boat,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘It came to me in the middle of the night,’ I clicked my fingers, ‘just like that!’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up over her glasses the way she’d done when I was a kid. ‘Hmm . . . in my experience, those flashes of inspiration in the dark are usually better left there.’

  ‘No, you’ll really like this,’ I assured her. I handed her the separate piece of paper on which I’d written my truly amazing headline.

  She studied it for a moment, then ventured. ‘It’s a pun?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but it’s clever. See how I’ve picked out the word “Cray” and then “boat”?’

  ‘Yes, I do see,’ she said tentatively. ‘Quit
e clever, Jack.’

  ‘Quite clever?’ I could hardly believe my ears.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve hurt your feelings. I am so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t like it, do you, Countess? I mean, Nicole ma’am?’

  She looked suddenly very stern. ‘Jack, the average fisherman can barely write his name. Of course, there are some like yourself and Jimmy who are very bright, but they’re in the minority. I’m not suggesting that they lack intelligence – I’ve seen enough over the years to know that’s not the case. But they are, as a general rule, illiterate. That means someone else may have to bring their attention to the advertisement we run. “Cray-zy a-boat you!”, complete with attendant exclamation mark, isn’t going to thrill their aesthetic senses to the marrow. Or do you disagree?’

  ‘I reckon it will work a treat,’ I said defiantly, determined to defend my work.

  She considered for a moment, then said, ‘Very well, it won’t cost much to find out and I may be wrong – in which case I’d be delighted to apologise. We’ll run it as a six-double in the Gazette and as a two-inch single in the big-island papers.’

  ‘Six-double?’

  ‘Six inches deep by two columns wide, or two inches by one,’ she explained.

  In my head I had seen it taking up a full page, which I know would have been ridiculous but these things build up and take on a life of their own.

  That night I told Gloria the partnership was a goer and that we were looking for a second-hand boat to buy.

  Her first question, of course, was, ‘Won Tatts, ’ave ya?’

  ‘Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan is putting up the money,’ I replied.

  ‘And where’s she gunna get it? Sell that rag of hers, is she?’

  ‘Mum, it’s second-hand! A second-hand boat!’ I protested, unwilling to tell her we were looking for something pretty special and bigger than forty-five foot. When she saw my advertisement in the paper I’d come clean.

  ‘You know what happened to your father – could never make a go of it with that small boat. Took us a year after he gave it all up to pay the bank.’