Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘It leakin’ in the fo’c’sle, Brother Fish.’

  ‘Can you man the wheel, Jimmy?’ I cried.

  ‘Sure. Can yoh wipe mah eyes, man?’

  I grabbed a piece of cotton waste and wiped the blood from his eyes. ‘You gunna be all right?’

  ‘Go! It comin’ in real fast, man!’

  I wasn’t sure if he meant the leak in the boat or the blood running into his eyes. I left him to inspect the fo’c’sle. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan was moaning, but still tied securely to her bunk. ‘You okay, Countess?’ I called out.

  ‘I’ve shit my bloomers!’ she cried, terribly distressed. The vomit bucket had turned over and I could see she hadn’t had much of a time. She must have been really scared to use words like that and despite myself I was forced to laugh. ‘You’re in good company,’ I shouted. ‘If all you get is a good shit out of this we’ll be extremely lucky.’ Not in a million years had I thought I’d ever say anything like that to her. There wasn’t any time for further social discourse. The force generated by the continual pounding to the hull as the Janthe fell off the tops of the big seas had pushed the caulking cotton between the planks so far inwards that some of it had come out. Now spurts of water were being forced through the holes that had been created.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d blessed Mike Munday during the storm, but he was about to get another major benediction. Of course, naturally and axiomatically, he had a caulking iron aboard. Working furiously in order to get back to Jimmy, it took me less than ten minutes to plug all the leaks. The bilge pump would do the rest. I left a moaning Countess to contemplate her ruined britches and, grabbing the first-aid kit, made my way back to the wheelhouse.

  I had to attend to Jimmy’s head. I swabbed what blood remained, which was surprisingly little, and saw that Jimmy’s skull had a six-inch crack the width of my small finger. I could see the membrane covering his brain. The first-aid kit contained two crepe bandages that I wrapped around his head, although with the boat pitching and falling this was a task that took some time. There wasn’t much else I could do. He was still completely conscious and his big hand gripped me on the shoulder to thank me. The roar of the wind made it almost impossible to talk. ‘You okay?’ I shouted. He nodded.

  I was about to close the first-aid box when I saw the Bex powders. Fat lot of use they’ll be, I thought, then, what the hell, they just might help Jimmy’s headache. I opened a powder to see that it contained white crystals instead. I couldn’t believe my luck, or rather Mike Munday’s foresight. I suddenly remembered his words: ‘Oh, by the way, Jacko. If ever you find yourself in a tight spot, big storm or something, and you’ve got to stay alert, look in the first-aid box – the Bex packets.’ I’d seen these crystals before – a skipper named Bad Brown I’d once worked with would give us some when we had to work a twenty-hour shift after finding a big cray haul.

  The crystals were referred to as ‘White Lightning’, but in reality they were methedrine crystals – stuff that could keep you going well beyond the capacity of normal flesh and blood. I opened a second packet, same thing again. So I handed a packet to Jimmy and indicated he should swallow the contents, then did the same myself and took the wheel from him. He backed into the corner and sat down on the deck, pushing his back against the planking of the wheelhouse. The poor bastard was in a bad way. I resumed trying to fight an opponent that was getting stronger all the time with a vessel that was getting weaker with every hour that passed. It was midday and in the past five hours we’d gone five miles.

  Nothing good ever happens in a storm, and a hurricane is ten times worse. A huge wave caught me unawares and I wasn’t able to turn into it sufficiently to take it head on. The bulk of it hit the stern, tearing the dinghy from one of the davits where it hung like a watch on a fob chain. We were suddenly in the deepest possible shit. Without the dinghy we would lose all means of escape. If we had to abandon ship it was our only means of surviving the storm. ‘Jimmy, mate, you have to take the wheel!’

  I shouted. Somehow I was going to have to secure the dinghy by means of a rope, winch it down from the remaining davit and get it into the water. I’d use the Morris line and tie it to the dinghy and then somehow wind the rope around the stern post and then the wheelhouse and secure it with a bowline knot. Jimmy got to his feet slowly and took the wheel.

  I was high as a kite and what was clearly an impossible task seemed possible. We were in the middle of a hurricane with a boat pitching like a cork every which way, a seventy-knot hurricane blowing and an inexperienced helmsman at the wheel. I moved out of the wheelhouse, the wind and rain tearing at my oilskins and threatening to blow me overboard. I found the Morris line, secured it to the stern post and pulled it towards the hanging dinghy. Somehow I managed to winch the dinghy down so that I could tie the rope to it and then let it fall into the waves behind the boat.

  Sounds simple enough, but the task took me half an hour and I fell frequently so that I was bruised and bleeding from the side of my head where I smashed it against the stern post. I pulled the remaining rope towards the wheelhouse and had almost reached it when I was lifted high into the air and pitched over the side. A freak wave had hit and taken me overboard. By some miracle I still hung onto the rope but I was going nowhere. The Janthe was pointed into the waves and there was no possible way I could get back on board.

  It was all over for yours truly. I knew, even with the effects of the methedrine, there was no way I could hold on for long. I was going to die – drown, like so many fishermen before me. This didn’t seem to bother me – so many of the men on the island died this way it seemed almost predestined. It was the fact that I would kill Jimmy and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan as well that distressed me most, as they had almost no chance of surviving without me at the helm or on board to get the dinghy prepared if we had to abandon ship. We should have remained in the lagoon. I should have caught the one p.m. ‘sched’. I’ve fucked up big time! Gloria was right, we were nothing but a pinch of shit. I’d let everyone down again. Jack McKenzie hadn’t made the grade, as usual.

  Suddenly I felt my wrist being grasped. Perhaps I was imagining it. It was Jimmy, his grasp strong as an ox. We were both underwater. Instead of feeling grateful, my first thought was Now we’re both gone! He’d left the wheel and come after me. Bloody stupid bastard! Fuckwit! A boat sometimes survives even against the most incredible odds – the storm blows out and it’s still miraculously afloat, sometimes even after the crew has abandoned it. Now we were both in the water, good as dead and with Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan strapped to her bunk.

  The boat, given its own way, started to turn in order to run with the sea. As a boat turns from having the sea on the nose to having it behind her she must at some point of time be facing side on to incoming waves. If she’s hit with a big one she’ll roll over, and there were nothing but big ones coming towards us. But, as Gloria so often said, ‘Miracles will never cease’ – the vessel turned without being hit and started to run with the sea. With both of us clinging to the rope the next wave hit and lifted us upright to the level of the deck. Quite how Jimmy did it, I’ll never know – it would have taken the strength of ten men – but he grasped onto the aft rail with one hand, holding onto the rope with the other. The wave washed over and somehow he managed to get aboard and pull me up on deck. Jimmy was making a regular habit of saving my life.

  Somehow I managed to crawl over to where he lay face down on the deck, the wind and rain ripping at his inert form. He’d taken off his oilskins to dive overboard and his shirt clung like a shining skin to his huge body. I dragged him to the stern post, tied a section of the rope we’d clung to into a loop and attached it to the stern post, then wound it over his head and under his arms. I had to hope that the rope tied to the stern post would hold the dinghy and the loop would keep Jimmy on deck. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. He seemed to be unconscious and I hadn’t the strength to drag him into the wheelhouse or the fo’c’sle. I’d have another go when I regai
ned a bit of strength. The main thing was to get back into the wheelhouse to maintain some sort of control of the boat and get her punching back into the oncoming seas.

  By now the sea was such that every wave was over seventy feet and the wind was gusting at ninety knots, blowing the tops of the mountainous crests. We’d just about reached the end of our tether and I switched on the transmitter to send a mayday.

  ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday all stations . . . this is the Janthe. Janthe, over . . .’

  Within a few seconds a reassuring voice boomed back, ‘Janthe, this is Melbourne Radio. What is your position? Over.’

  ‘Melbourne Radio, this is Janthe. Our position is thirty-nine degrees, thirty-five minutes south by 144 degrees, five minutes east. Over.’

  ‘Janthe thirty-nine degrees, thirty-five minutes south by 144 degrees, five minutes east puts you eight miles due east of Cape Wickham light. Please confirm. Over.’

  ‘Melbourne Radio, Janthe, romeo. Over.’

  ‘Janthe, this is Melbourne. What is your situation? Over.’

  ‘Melbourne, this is Janthe. Badly injured crew member. Currently experiencing hurricane-force winds. Caulking in fo’c’sle planking leaking and repaired temporarily. Our dinghy is floating and attached. Over.’

  ‘Janthe, this is Melbourne. We have your position and situation. We will be listening out for you and will activate search-and-rescue procedures if you fail to make contact by 1400 hours. Over.’

  ‘Janthe, Melbourne Radio. Thank you. Over and out.’

  ‘Romeo, Janthe. We’ll be listening out for you . . . Good luck for now. Over and out.’

  At least they would be looking for us in daylight. But even if a spotter plane found us, always presuming they could get one into the air, it might take several more hours before they could get to us, unless they could get a passing ship to come to our aid. But it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. At five p.m. I turned on the radio to get the evening ‘sched’, which was far from encouraging. The low had moved in a nor’easterly direction and joined forces with another low-pressure system that had formed over the Tasman Sea and, in turn, this had merged with yet another just south of Lord Howe Island. It was the recipe for the perfect storm. The wave heights were now reaching over one hundred feet, with the wind sounding like all the tortured souls of purgatory and hell combined. Jimmy was out on the deck, possibly freezing to death. God knows whether or not the Countess was safe, even strapped in – the knocking-about of the waves could easily tear the bunk from its bolts, and she could be badly injured.

  The top of our mast was forty-six feet from the deck and the average wave was at least two and a half times as high when we lay in a trough. Normally in big seas you see seabirds, from gulls to mallemucks, with an occasional albatross. They sweep and dive or simply stay right beside your boat, the sheer wind speed passing over their stationary wings sufficient to give them the lift they need. When they’re there, particularly the albatross, you feel somehow in contact. But here there were no seabirds to be seen, which is never a good sign.

  The methedrine was beginning to wear off and I could feel myself nodding off. I swallowed another ‘Bex’ not knowing what the effect might be. What the hell, we were gone if I fell asleep at the helm and I had to take the chance. It didn’t take long for the white crystals to kick in. I knew I was injured – the little and third fingers on my left hand were standing at right angles to the others, but I couldn’t feel a thing.

  It was now almost six p.m. and I’d been in constant contact on the radio but there was no sign of an aircraft and they hadn’t been able to locate a big boat that could get to us. We were fucked, even though the voice on the other end stayed calm and said they were doing all they could.

  I continued as the light faded with no sign of a spotter plane. I’d come almost completely around Queen Island when at around eight that night the wind started to drop from about 120 knots to eighty knots. An hour later it was down to forty. The mountainous swells were still raging, but the birds were back – gulls, mallemucks and gannets, with two albatross, which I took to be a good sign. At last I was able to leave the helm and check Jimmy and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan. At first I thought Jimmy was dead. The bandage around his head had unwound and disappeared, and the crack in his skull had been washed clean by the waves breaking over the deck. He stirred when I touched him on the hip. ‘You okay, mate?’ I asked, which was ridiculous, of course – he was unconscious. But I told myself he was still alive.

  I then made my way down to the fo’c’sle. The bunk was still intact but, even with the strapping, Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had taken a beating. Her head was bleeding and she, too, was unconscious. There wasn’t anything I could do for her so I grabbed a blanket and went on deck and wrapped Jimmy up as best I could, undid the rope and retied it around his waist to take the pressure off his shoulders. There was simply no way I could get him into the fo’c’sle. The boat was pitching badly in the huge swell and I had to get back to the wheelhouse. Freak waves are not unknown in these conditions.

  I radioed through to Hobart to tell them we looked like making it, and after giving them our position they told me that I was three to four hours north of Tussock. We’d come right around the eastern side of Queen Island, approaching Tussock, and miraculously were nearly home. At a few minutes to one o’clock in the morning we came into Tussock Harbour where it seemed dozens of people had come the twenty miles across the neck of the island from Livingston to meet us, along with all the Tussock locals. Cheers from hundreds of people rose, car hooters blasted out and motorbike engines revved as I pulled in beside the dock, hitting it rather too hard. Hands from everywhere grabbed at the side of the Janthe to steady her. I switched off the engine, and it was only then that I started to weep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Scapegoat for Opium

  The three of us were in a fair mess. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan received several stitches to her forehead – a future scar she would wear rather proudly. The two fingers I thought I’d broken turned out to be merely dislocated, but to add to my injuries I had several cracked ribs, a cut to my head that required half-a-dozen stitches and a bung knee that, as I grew older, would sometimes trouble me in cold weather.

  The moment the Janthe had docked Dr Light had come aboard to find Jimmy still unconscious and tied to the stern post. ‘Miss Lenoir-Jourdan is below,’ I said in between sobs. He rushed below deck with Sue, and two fishermen carrying a stretcher, while I remained helplessly beside Jimmy blubbering like a baby. When he re-emerged he hurried over to Jimmy and untied him carefully, checking that he didn’t have a neck injury. I was now wrapped in a blanket trying to control my crying, with Gloria weeping beside me and Steve and Cory hanging onto either arm. ‘Is he gunna be okay?’ I sobbed, unwilling to move from beside Jimmy. Moments later Sue emerged from the fo’c’sle, followed by the two men carrying Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan on a stretcher.

  ‘Come on, mate, yer goin’ ter hospital,’ Steve said gently.

  ‘Yeah, you’re buggered, mate,’ Cory added, as usual stating the obvious.

  But I wouldn’t budge. ‘Is Jimmy okay?’ I wailed again, needing their support to stay on my feet.

  Sue came over, and in a businesslike voice said, ‘It’s all right, Jacko. Doc’s examining him – taking his blood pressure, checking his airway is clear and examining his pupil dilatation. If they’re all okay we’ll move him and do the rest when we get the three of you to hospital in Livingston.’

  Of course I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but the sound of her calm voice brought a measure of comfort. Doc Light got up from where he’d been kneeling beside Jimmy. ‘Righto, let’s move him.’ He supervised while the two fishermen returned to place the still-unconscious Jimmy on the stretcher and carry him off the boat.

  Later I learned that Hobart Radio had called Jack McGinty to say we’d survived the storm. They’d given him the estimated time of arrival at Tussock and informed him that we had an injured member of
the crew on board and to get a doctor to the small town. Sue, who was now assistant matron at the cottage hospital, together with Doc Light, had driven across the island in the Dodge war-surplus ambulance, and they were waiting with Gloria and the twins when we came in.

  All three of us were placed in the ambulance and driven the fifteen bumpy miles across the southern neck of the island to the cottage hospital. Not that I recall the trip – I passed out moments after they strapped me into the stretcher, and was still asleep when we arrived. I woke up just after eight o’clock that morning with Sue standing next to my bed. Everything hurt, but in particular the ribs on my left side, which were excruciatingly painful every time I breathed in. The effects of the methedrine had long since worn off and I was paying the price.

  ‘How are you feeling, hero of the hour?’ Sue asked me, smiling.

  ‘Bloody terrible. How’s Jimmy and the . . . Nicole ma’am?’ I corrected.

  ‘They’ve both regained consciousness and are out of theatre. They’re going to be fine, Jacko – it’s you we’re worried about.’

  She pointed to my hand. ‘We were going to wake you and set your fingers but Doc Light examined you and said your pupils were dilated. We were afraid that, like Jimmy, you may have taken a bad knock to the head. But we couldn’t see anything, so decided to wait until you woke up.’

  ‘Methedrine.’

  Sue had been among fishermen long enough to know that occasionally substances that are not strictly legal are used out on sea. Nevertheless, she looked a bit worried. ‘Jacko, you don’t use it regularly, do you?’ I explained the circumstances in between groans. ‘Thank God for Mr Munday,’ she said. ‘It probably got you home.’

  ‘My left side hurts like hell – worse than the fingers.’

  ‘We haven’t X-rayed you, but from the way you’re breathing it looks like you’ve probably broken several ribs.’

  ‘So, where’s Jimmy? Why am I in this little room?’