Then he felt a cold shock as the pattern detected by his eye transferred itself to his brain. He turned and yelled. “Pete! Watch out for the tanker’s bow wave!”
Graham could now see the wake clearly, long, rippling shadows which had become lines of steep waves. These extended from the bow, sides and stern of the tanker in a rapidly spreading pattern. The waves from the tanker’s wake were battering across the pattern of the wind waves to form a tumble of whitecaps.
“Take it on the quarter Pete, not bow on!” Graham yelled hoarsely. His throat went dry with fear as the first of the waves swept towards them. It looked enormous. The sunlight glittered on it. He guessed it was at least two or three metres high. All they could do was hang on.
Suddenly the wave was upon them. The bow rose sharply, swept up at a crazy angle. Then the starboard hull was far out over thin air. The Old Cat seemed to tumble nose first over the back of the wave. Graham cried in fear and hung on.
There was a burst of spray and a huge rush of green water and the starboard bow went deep under, then rose. The Old Cat lurched up the next wave, solid water pouring over her. The mast and rigging jerked and whipped. The boom hissed viciously from one side to the other.
“Hang on Max! Don’t let go!” Peter yelled.
Too late! Max had released the mainsheet.
The boom flailed back as the Old Cat ploughed into a third wave. The stay Graham was gripping gave a savage jerk and went rigid. There was a loud crack, then ripping and splintering sounds.
Graham gaped upwards and saw the mast and sail falling. They went away from him and over the side. He went sprawling forward and fell between the hulls. As he went under he knew real fear. He continued to grip the rope but it tore through his hands, burning the skin. Then it went taut again.
He clung on, his body buffeted against the hulls. Somehow he got his head out and gasped air in a maelstrom of spume and spray. He swallowed salt water, gagged, coughed but clung on. The Old Cat whacked against his shoulders and head. Fearful of being knocked unconscious and drowning he grabbed frantically and gripped the side.
With a desperate heave Graham sloshed back on board. The Old Cat was awash, the tangle of rigging making things worse.
“Hang on!” he yelled. More waves burst over them, battering and jerking them. Graham saw the splintered end of the mast spear towards him and put up his left arm. The jagged butt struck him a numbing blow then sheered off to jerk up and down.
Graham wiped water from his eyes and rose to a crouch. Where was Roger? He saw him clinging to the focsle, pinned under the jib and forestay, water pouring over him. Max was alright. He was crouched in the port hull gripping the cross piece. A glance behind showed Peter rising to his feet at the stern.
“Pete! We’ve got to get all this over the side and secure it,” Graham shouted. “Then we can bail her out.”
Peter nodded. Graham pointed and yelled, then clung on as another wave burst over them. The cascading torrent lifted the boom and mainsail right up over Peter and Max. Graham tried again.
“Pete, Max! Untie the mainsheet and the windward backstay and shrouds. I’ll free Roger.”
Graham turned and floundered across to Roger, fending off the surging mast as he did. “You OK Roger?”
Roger nodded. He was just very scared. Graham lifted the forestay and hauled at Roger. “Let go! Crawl over to the port bow,” he yelled. Water cascaded over them. Roger slipped and went down between the hulls but Graham had a tight grip on his lifejacket and the next wave lifted him back. Graham dragged him onto the port foredeck. Then he glanced around.
Peter had cast off the mainsheet and unreeved it and was moving to untie the port backstay. Max was still crouching, gripping the cross beam. Graham pointed.
“Max, untie that bloody port shroud!”
Max didn’t move.
Graham swore, then shouted, “Roger, see if you can untie that forestay. Watch that bloody mast and don’t get washed overboard,”
Roger nodded. Graham turned and began undoing the jib sheet. He timed it between waves then cast it loose. Then he sprang to the sail hoists, having to dodge the mast as he did.
He could untie the jib hoist but the main hoist was a tangle. “Bugger Max,” he thought, “why can’t he use sailor-men’s knots?” He pulled out his sheath knife and began cutting. As he worked he noted that Peter had untied both the port shroud and the port backstay. Max was still crouched in waist deep water.
The nylon rope was tough but Graham’s knife was sharp. He slashed the last few strands and pushed. The whole mess of rigging, including the dangerous mast went over the side to leeward. Graham straightened up and returned his knife to its sheath. Then he scrambled across to the starboard hull to check that the shroud and backstay were still secure. He wanted the rigging over the side and out of the way but didn’t want to lose it.
The ropes held. Graham stood up. Another wave washed over, dragging at his knees. He looked around. The wave pattern had settled down. The tanker’s wake had subsided. He looked at the stern of the ship, receding rapidly down channel towards the open sea.
“Buggers probably didn’t even see us,” he said to no-one in particular.
“Shouldn’t they stop? Shouldn’t they help us?” Max cried.
“Shut up Max. We aren’t in any particular danger. We aren’t sinking,” Graham retorted. Then he said, “OK, let’s bail this lugger out, and fast, then we can try to put up some sort of a jury rig. Pete, Roger, over the side. Max, grab that bailer!”
Graham silently cursed Max. He would like to make him get over but he had no lifejacket and it was too risky. “This side,” Graham cried, pointing to starboard. “Grab hold of the rigging.”
Peter dutifully lowered himself over. Roger stood, face white with shock and fear, gripping the frame. “Roger! Get over the side!” Graham yelled.
Roger swallowed and shook his head.
“The shark,” he croaked. “The jellyfish!”
Graham’s temper flared. “Bugger the shark! Get over the side or I’ll beat you to a jelly!” He grabbed Roger by the lifejacket and the belt and heaved him into the sea. Roger was too surprised to resist. His scream of fear was cut off by the splash. He rose, spluttering and choking to grab at the tangle of rigging.
Graham turned to Max. “OK Max, start bailing! Bail like fury, or I will beat you to a pulp!” He undid the port focsle locker and tossed him a spare bailer. Max looked scared. He nodded and picked up a bailer and began.
Graham then turned and lowered himself into the sea, holding on to the starboard shroud. He drifted out along it to where Peter and Roger floated with the wrecked rigging. He wasn’t sure if Max could succeed but they had to try. ‘It might be too choppy,’ he thought as the steep waves tossed them up and down.
Fear now started to knot Graham’s belly. Not fear of the Old Cat sinking or of drowning as he was quite confident he could float or swim to safety, but fear of the shark; and fear of the sea snake. His rational mind tried to tell him both had been seen kilometres away but his imagination refused such cold logic. ‘Sharks follow boats,’ he thought.
For some sort of safety he hauled himself up to lie flat on the mainsail and gripped the broken mast. ‘At least my legs aren’t dangling out in the open,’ he comforted himself.
“Sorry Roger,” he said, as Roger joined him.
Roger shrugged. “That’s OK. I wasn’t thinking.”
It was obviously embarrassing so Graham let the topic drop. Peter joined them.
“I don’t think Max is winning.”
Graham looked as a wave top lifted them above the Old Cat.
“No. She’s filling up as fast as he bails it out.”
“What will we do now?” Roger asked. He was obviously scared.
“Get back aboard and see if all of us can bail her out,” Graham replied. “Come on.”
It was no effort to reboard the Old Cat. She was so low in the water they just swam aboard. Roger sighed with relief. Graham
agreed. It felt much safer. They had only three bailers. One had been washed out so Graham used his hands.
The four went to work in a frenzy of activity, scooping and splashing. But every wave just slopped more water in. After a couple of minutes they stopped and sat gasping.
“We aren’t winning,” Peter said.
“What will happen to us?” Roger asked in a scared voice.
“Perhaps we will just drift ashore?” Max suggested.
But Graham had been eyeing a channel marker a few hundred metres off, wondering if they could secure the Old Cat to it, or climb the iron ladder up its side. He shook his head.
“No such luck. The tide is on the ebb. We are being taken out to sea.”
CHAPTER 26
THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA
Roger looked around, his anxiety plain to see. “We could die!”
“Calm down Roger!” Graham snapped. “We will not.”
Peter bent down and felt in the submerged hull. “We can row the thing. We’ve still got our paddles.”
“Or a ship could pick us up,” Graham said.
Max sneered. “What ship?”
The only vessel in sight appeared to be the tanker, now hull down on the horizon. Graham stood up, shielded his eyes and looked around. He could see yachts off one of the beaches, a launch over near Ellie Point, some ship away up to the north; but nothing moving on the water near them. He felt a twinge of alarm. ‘Surely something must come past? We are on the main shipping channel.’
They were now drifting out past one of the huge pylons marking the channel. Graham could clearly see the swirl of the outgoing tide sucking and eddying around it. The lower part of the pylon was encrusted with barnacles and oysters. He eyed the steel ladder which led up to the light on top. If they could tie themselves to that they would be safe.
“Start paddling. We must try to reach one of those pylons,” he said.
They hastily untied the paddles and began paddling. As there were only three paddles Max missed out. Graham quickly realised it was hopeless and handed his paddle to Max.
“Too much drag from all this junk over the side,” he said. He moved across and began to sort it out. The others stopped paddling. “Stow the paddles and help,” Graham ordered. “Tie them on, and don’t lose anything.”
Now he was worried. He was getting cold and realised they had been in the water for nearly an hour. While the Old Cat might not sink they could well die of exposure before any search was mounted. ‘We didn’t tell anyone where we were going,’ he thought. ‘They won’t even know where to start looking.’ That notion made him feel sick with apprehension but he kept these thoughts to himself, as well as the depressing realisation they had no real safety equipment - no flares or radio or radio beacon; not even a mirror or a torch!
First Graham had them roll up the jib and he stowed that with the anchor. That locker was almost dry. The other wasn’t. It was flooded. He managed to bail it mostly clear then, with an effort, stuffed the torn and tattered mainsail in.
The bamboo mast was snapped nearly in the middle, and the bottom half was badly split. It was useless. He tied the two sections to the cross beams. The boom and spinnaker pole offered some hope. When all the ropes were coiled up the boys tried paddling again but it was hopeless. They were sitting in waist deep water and every wave broke on board and threatened to wash them overboard.
Graham studied the sea. ‘The waves are getting bigger,’ he decided. With a shock that left him cold with fear he realized they were drifting out past the next pair of channel markers. The markers were more than a kilometre apart. He tried to guess their rate of drift.
“What’s the time Pete?”
“Nearly midday.”
Another shock. They had been in trouble for an hour and a half. Graham decided they must be moving at about three knots. It was a terrifying thought. He looked out to sea. The horizon was a jumbled mass of sparkling blue waves. It looked very threatening, a vast nothingness to swallow them up.
Driven by growing anxiety Graham devised a jury rig. The boom was tied up as a mast using the existing stays and shrouds, suitably shortened. Then the jib was hoisted on the forestay. They couldn’t get it right up but the sail at once filled. The effect was immediate.
The Old Cat stopped rolling as much and began crabbing across the current. The boys grinned at each other. Peter took the tiller.
“Try to bail her out,” he said.
They did, but the waves were now so large the effort was plainly hopeless. Peter bit his lip and shook his head.
“She’s not making any real headway. We keep falling off to leeward.”
Graham had been judging the distance to the next channel markers. “You’re right. We aren’t even stemming the tide.” He saw they would drift well clear of the next channel marker and debated whether they should try to swim for it. He decided that was too risky. Again he looked around.
A large ferry was creaming in from Green Island but he saw it would pass over a mile inshore of them. He wondered if they could signal to it but decided it was too far. In an attempt to cheer Roger up he smiled. Roger was now visibly shivering and Graham noted that his own hands were all pulpy and wrinkled and he kept coming out in goose bumps.
He looked out to sea and his heart sank again. ‘When we pass out of the lee of False Cape we will encounter giant waves: three metres at least,’ he thought. That meant they could be washed overboard, or the Old Cat could even break up.
“When does the tide change?” Max asked.
“Low water is fifteen thirty - about three hours,” Peter replied.
“We will be miles out to sea by then!” Roger wailed. He was on the edge of tears.
Graham stood up and took the spinnaker pole. “Untie that jib sheet Max,” he ordered. “Roger, lower the sail.”
“What are you going to do?” Peter asked.
“See if we can rig a more efficient sail,” Graham replied. He lowered the jury mast and, using sheath knife and thin rope, quickly tied a pulley to the top of the boom. Through this he threaded a halyard which he then tied securely to the centre of the pole. Next he fastened the foot of the jib to the ends of the pole. Ropes were tied to one end of the pole, led around the mast loose and its other end tied to the other end of the pole.
“There we are,” he said with satisfaction. “OK, Max, you haul this and tie it off. Roger, you keep hold of this.” He handed Roger the jib hoist, then took hold of the rope looped around the mast. Max and Roger were mystified but Peter understood and took his position at the tiller.
When Max pulled Graham hoisted the pole up to the pulley on the jury mast. The upside down jib rose up with it and immediately caught the wind. The effect on the Old Cat was instantaneous.
“You beauty!” Max cried as the Old Cat stopped rolling so sharply.
“I told you square sails were better,” Graham said, while he adjusted the set of the ‘yardarm’ using the looped rope as a ‘tack’.
He looked over the side. ‘Yes!’ There was a bow wave. They were moving forward, or at least stemming the tide.
“Well done bosun!” Peter cried. “We’ve got steerage.”
“Good. Now, all of you move to the leeward hull and I will try to bail this one out. Max, hold this.”
Graham set to work bailing but with little success. He lowered the water to half, but then a single wave swamped it again. He kept on trying. As he worked he lined the mast up with a channel marker to try to gauge their speed. After a minute he grinned and looked at the others.
“We are actually moving forward. It’s not fast but it’s definite. You can pack away your grass skirt Roger. We aren’t going to Vanuatu anymore.”
The others laughed and cheered. Graham gave up bailing and took the ‘tacks’ again.
For some time he had been watching the ship coming down from the north. He bit his lip as he saw it turn into the end of the channel and head towards them. He wrestled with his conscience while his mind di
d sums. His watch said it was just after one pm. His mind told him they had about three miles to sail and he estimated they were only doing about one knot.
At that rate it would be about four o’clock before they got ashore. Only it wouldn’t be ashore. By then it would be the bottom of the tide and the mudflats would be a mile across. ‘We will either have to flounder across them or wait for the next tide. We would be lucky if we got to Peter’s by dark,’ he thought unhappily. And that made no allowance for further mishaps, or an increase in the wind, which could put them onto Ellie Point or into the mangroves.
And they were all cold, wet and shivering. Roger looked blue and miserable. Graham bit his lip and turned to Max. “Pass me that paddle Max, and give me your shirt.”
“Why?”
“To make a distress flag.”
“Why? We are sailing again,” Max went on.
Graham shook his head. “Too slow. It could be dark by the time we get ashore. And something else could go wrong. There’s a ship coming now. I’ll ask for a tow.”
Max handed Graham the items. He tied the shirt to the paddle while the others turned to look at the still distant ship.
Fifteen minutes elapsed before the ship was close enough. Graham stood up and began to wave the paddle.
“You don’t have to,” Peter said.
“Yes I do. It’s not fair. Oh, bugger it!” Graham cried.
Peter looked up at him. “You don’t sound very happy. It’s only asking for a lift, you know. Your pride can stand that!”
“It’s not that,” Graham replied shortly. “That’s my old man’s ship and he will tear a strip off me something fierce.” He shook his head, made a wry grin and waved the paddle again. “Talk about the devil and the deep blue sea! I didn’t think the crabby old bugger would be back till Friday.”
“We don’t have to, not if it will get you into trouble,” Peter persisted. Roger echoed this.
The coaster was level with them by then, about three-hundred metres to starboard. Graham continued to wave and began to wonder if the ship would just pass them by. He stopped worrying about what his father might say.
The Mudskipper Cup Page 24
