Invincible (Invisible 2)

by Cecily Anne Paterson

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” she says. “Just laid out there, in front of us.”

  I nod again. “Amazing.”

  “See the water?” Grandma asks. “Out there, in the ocean?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “That’s where we’re going tomorrow.”

  Chapter 16

  A ship in a harbour is safe, says Grandma’s poster. But that is not what ships are built for.

  Our ‘ship’ is more of a boat and quite a small one, really, as boats go. At least, compared to all the other boats tied up at buoys in the little, stone-walled harbour at one end of the beach.

  “Can’t we go on that one?” I say to Grandma, pointing to a wooden fishing boat with a two storey cabin. “Or what about that one?” I show her a modern cruiser with black tarpaulins pulled tight across the deck. “They look safer.”

  Grandma laughs. “I’m afraid Adrian doesn’t have a hundred thousand dollars to spend on a boat. But his is perfectly safe.”

  Grandma’s friend Adrian waves to us from the deck of his boat. It’s actually pretty cute. The bit that sits in the water is painted blue, the deck part is white and then there’s a plain timber shelter and a couple of windows to protect the steering wheel. The wind changes direction and the boat turns around slowly. I can see a little trapdoor in the shelter, and the name of the boat painted in gold on the back.

  Invincible.

  Really?

  “I’ll come and get you,” yells Adrian and Grandma gives him the thumbs up. She’s wearing jeans, a red and white striped top and a pair of red canvas sneakers. I’m way more boring, with plain khaki shorts, an oversized white t-shirt and a terrible pair of Crocs that Mum hates but they just keep going and going, no matter what I do to them.

  Adrian hops into a tiny row boat and slowly cuts his way through the water towards us. I’m doubtful we’ll all fit, and the water isn’t far from the edges of the boat when both Grandma and I get in, squashed up together on the little back bench. We make it, though, and get ourselves and the picnic lunch Grandma has packed into the Invincible, with only a few salty splashes on our shoes.

  “It’s wobbly,” I say, feeling the movement of the water under the deck of the boat. “Should I sit down?”

  “It’s fine,” says Adrian. He has a big clear voice, like he’s been shouting over the noise of the waves for years. “Just don’t run around or make extreme movements.”

  I sit, awkwardly, on the edge of a bench at the back, adjusting my arms over the lifejacket Adrian hands me and carefully putting on my sunscreen. I got burned with Liam at the beach a few weeks ago and the blisters and the peeling were terrible. Liam. With cream-smeared hands I feel around for my phone in Grandma’s bag. When I check my messages I leave white prints on the screen. I’ve been looking for something, anything, from Gabby every time we’ve come into town, but there’s still nothing. Liam has texted me a couple of times and I’ve sent back short replies with smiley faces all through them.

  Sorry, can’t txt. Grandma’s out of range, and I only get about 5 mins per day. Miss you. (:

  Beach is great. Eating out today. Having good holidays? (:

  Going on a boat tomozz. Gotta go. Can’t chat. (:

  There’s nothing from him today. Maybe he’s gone away with his family for the weekend. His dad was coming back from the US in the middle of the holidays so they might have decided to do something.

  The dull roar of the engine interrupts my phone gazing. I put it away and settle back. There’s a faint thud, thud, thud in my chest. First time on a boat. I tell myself a few nerves are normal, try to take some deep breaths and act relaxed. Grandma seems perfectly happy. She’s standing up under the little shelter, chatting away to Adrian, who’s laughing and pointing at different things like he’s showing her something.

  They seem close. My eyes flash wide for a millisecond with the thought. I’ll have to watch them. Carefully.

  But that will be later. Right now I’m watching Adrian motor the little boat out of the harbour, past the high stone walls and the concrete blocks, past the beach and the park with the swings and slides and little kids with their mums, through the green and red channel markers which stick out of the water like wet, painted telegraph poles with hats on. There’s a white trail of foam behind us, small at first, but as Adrian revs up the engine and goes faster, it gets bigger and wider and more and more hungry.

  Grandma looks back at me. She’s hanging on to the windscreen in front of her, her hair blowing back from her head. She lifts her eyebrows and smiles as if to say, “You okay?”

  I’m clinging to the wooden seat with both hands, my feet pressing so firmly into the deck that it feels like I’m about to put down roots and become a tree. I nod back and smile bravely. “Okay.”

  There’s no point talking. I wouldn’t be able to hear anything over the engine roar and the slap of waves and the rush of wind anyway. I shut my eyes to see if I can close out some of the panic in my chest but salt gets in my nose, my hair whips around my face and water splashes my arm. I loosen my grip with one hand to wipe it away and then I realise something.

  I haven’t died. Or fallen overboard.

  I loosen the other hand, just slightly. Still not dead.

  I prise my feet up from the boards of the deck and nothing happens. I don’t tip backwards and the boat doesn’t sink. It just keeps going, rushing, bouncing on the water, whisking through the swell.

  Actually, this is pretty awesome.

  I shift position and look around me. The sky is as blue as I’ve ever seen it. So is the ocean. It’s like the two of them are reflecting off each other in one of those mirrors against a mirror, that shows you yourself to infinity. I’m getting wet, but I don’t mind it. It’s… I search around my head for the right word. It pops right into my brain. Exhilarating. Mr Southwell in English would be proud of me.

  A random thought pops up. I could drag my hand in the water. It’s quickly beaten down by a more sensible thought. Um, no, because… sharks. But it comes back again, fighting. Do you really think a shark would even notice two fingers going at the speed of light on the top of the water? I’m convinced, and recklessly shift over to the side of the bench, lay over the edge of the boat and drop my hand into the water.

  Immediately, I’m on a rollercoaster. My hand is tossed around, battered and pulled by the water. I have to focus to keep it firm in the wash and then I feel the entire strength of the ocean pushing past it, fighting it. My breath is coming harder and faster but it’s because everything is amazing and crazy and strong.

  The sun beats on my face and shoulders and the blue and the spray and the breeze overtake me and I realise that I’m having more fun than I ever imagined. Nothing matters, not even silent friends or sulky boyfriends, not elephants in back rooms, not even fear or panic, when you’re out on the water in a boat with some serious speed.

  When we’re stopped for lunch, bobbing and swaying close to a cove and cliff face, I ask Adrian a question.

  “Did you name this boat?” My voice makes its way through stuffed baby red peppers and sushi rolls. (Grandma’s choice, not mine.)

  “Sure did,” he says. “I bought her probably ten years ago, repainted her and gave her a new name.”

  “Why did you pick it?” I say.

  “The boat?”

  “No. The name.”

  “Invincible?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I mean, it’s cute and it goes fast, but it seems a bit of an exaggeration. Maybe for one of those bigger ones…” My voice lags a little. I’ve just realised I sound rude. “Sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he says, frowning slightly. “Fair question. I actually knew the old owner of the boat, you see. Before I bought her, I used to take her out fishing.”

  I must look confused, because he quickly explains. “I didn’t buy the owner. I bought the boat. We call boats ‘she’.”

  I nod, like, of course I knew that and he keeps going.

 
“Once I took her out and the weather looked fine but it turned bad pretty fast and before I knew it I was in the middle of a storm.”

  “Really?” says Grandma. “When was that?”

  “About 12 years ago. Do you remember that mini-cyclone thing that did all that damage to the fire station?”

  “Truly?” squawks Grandma. “Not that one!”

  Adrian nods and shrugs. “Yep. It was quick and it was serious and we were out in the middle of it. Just me and this girl.” He slaps the wooden side affectionately with his hand.

  “What happened?” I ask, looking around at the flat water and fluffy clouds and imagining it all turning to grey chaos.

  “I hadn’t gone that far. It had only been half an hour since I left the harbour,” he said. “But it took us over two and a half hours to get back. In the end, I had to turn off the engine to save fuel and I went into the hold, down there in that trapdoor, and sat braced up against it, just waiting.”

  “You must have been terrified,” I said. I look at the tiny space under the front part of the boat and imagine myself in there, curled up, scared and crying.

  “I was actually more sick,” he said. “The waves were huge and the boat was tipping around like anything.”

  “Were you worried?” asks Grandma.

  “Yes,” he says, but thoughtfully. “A bit. I mean, of course boats sink. Waves can smash you up. People drown.” He looks down at the wood under his feet. “But I actually wasn’t that scared. I knew that this boat was really well made. She’s strong and she’s sturdy. She’d been through storms before, she was well looked after, and I figured she could do it again.”

  “What happened?” I say. I’m on the edge of my seat.

  “Storm passed,” says Adrian, tipping his head to the side. His smile relaxes me. It’s calm and quiet. “The weather will always change eventually. I started up the engine again and headed home. She had a bit of damage, of course, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t fix and after a new paint and a bit of bodywork, she was ready to go out again.”

  “So you named her…”

  “… Invincible, yes,” says Adrian, finishing my sentence. “I thought she deserved a strong name after what she’d been through. But I call her ‘Vincey’ for short.”

  I screw up my nose. “That’s a terrible name.”

  Adrian laughs and so does Grandma. “I’d like to see you come up with something better,” he says and looks at the sushi Grandma’s put out in front of him. “Did you bring any real food? Bread? Ham? Jam, maybe?” He grins at her, she makes an amused face back, hands him a punnet of blueberries and I laugh out loud. Even the boat, Vincey, seems to be smiling in the sunshine. I take a bite of my own sushi and look out to the horizon. Somehow, I just can’t imagine a storm coming up so quickly on such an amazing day.

  Chapter 17

  I can’t shake this feeling that something’s going on back at home. I’ve been at Grandma’s for 11 days now but I’ve heard from Liam maybe three times at most. And that was last week. There’s been nothing since the middle weekend of the holidays. At home he texts me every day or even more. When you add it to the fact that Gabby’s apparently just disappeared off the planet, I’m feeling a bit weird. Dislodged, dislocated. Other ‘dis’ words too, I’m sure, if I could think of them. Having actual friends is still such a new thing for me that I’m not sure what’s going on. Or what I can do about it. Is this kind of stuff even normal?

  It doesn’t seem to bother me in the day when I’m out with Grandma, doing things and going places, but at night when my hearing aids are out and I’m muffled in my own brain, going to sleep, I run through all kinds of scenarios. Liam hates me, or he thinks I hate him. Gabby’s never going to speak to me again because she thinks I made her get in a fight. What did I do wrong? How can I make it right?

  The evil ghouls in my dreams have taken a little break but I know they haven’t gone forever because instead I’m taking part in nightly parades of shame. I turn up at school or the shops or even the movies, look down at my legs and realise I haven’t put my shorts on. As soon as I gasp with embarrassment and try to cover up, people turn to stare at my undies, pointing and laughing. All I can do is stand there and take the humiliation, which seems just as bad in dreams as it is in real life.

  Everything’s better in the morning though. Grandma and I have breakfast in the sun and then plan our adventure for the day. Sometimes we discuss it and sometimes she just says, “Okay, we’re going to the growers’ markets today,” or, “You’ve got to come and see the botanical gardens this morning,” and that’s it. Our plans are made.

  Today is one of those days. All week she’s been saying that we’ll have to do a hike and this morning, my fourth last day (yes, I’m counting, but only because I don’t want to go home) she announces: “So today we’ll head up to Trembler’s Rocks.”

  “Okay,” I say. I can’t pretend I’m keen. Dad used to take me on bushwalks when I was little but he could carry me on his shoulders when I got tired, and I seem to remember getting tired a lot. Mum hardly owns a pair of running shoes, let alone something she could walk up a mountain in. She doesn’t really ‘do’ strenuous. I don’t much either.

  “Is it far?” I ask.

  Grandma laughs at my scared looking face. “Stop worrying Jazmine. I’m not going to kill you. It’s the perfect distance for this perfect day.” She throws her arms out towards the sky and breathes in deeply. It’s true. It’s one of those bright blue and green spring days that’s not too hot and not too cold. Just exactly right.

  The beginning of the walk is slightly out of town. We have to drive and Grandma parks the car at a small, scrubby fenced-off area on the side of the road. She puts on a day pack and throws me a second one. “Here you go.”

  “Shall I take my phone?” I ask.

  “There’s no reception once we start up the hill. But you could use it to take photos.”

  I slip it into my bag and look around me. A faded wooden sign marks the start of a well-worn track. It’s painted with the words ‘Trembler’s Rocks’, an arrow pointing off to the left and some numbers.

  “What’s 5.5 mean?” I ask and Grandma laughs again. “It’s kilometres. Five and a half kilometres. Five and a half up, five and a half back. A perfect day’s walk.”

  My legs are wobbling already at the thought, but I’m not backing out and pretty soon we can’t see the road any more on the straight, level, sandy track.

  “I haven’t been in the bush for years,” I say. “It’s really beautiful.” It’s true. The dappled sunshine coming through the canopy of leaves above makes the scratchy bush plants seem softer. I’m entranced by the crazy shapes of tree trunks and vines, twisting and soaring above me.

  “I love it,” says Grandma. “I’ve always loved it.” She does a proper dancing twirl next to me and I laugh.

  “Watch out,” I say. “You’ll fall over. Isn’t that what old people do?”

  “Pfft,” she replies. “I’m only 63. Hardly old at all.”

  At first I’m surprised at how easy the walking is once we find a rhythm. But when the flat turns into a hill I stop and take a breath.

  “We’re going up there?” I ask, pointing to a large mountain. It seems to have popped up out of nowhere.

  “Oh yes,” says Grandma. “Up there’s the best bit.”

  Ten minutes up the slope my muscles start screaming. They keep yelling for another hour.

  “Why do people do this?” I ask. “Who thought, ‘I know, I’ll go for a bushwalk up a mountain because I love pain?’” There’s no answer. Grandma is 20 metres ahead of me and hardly looking back. She’s concentrating on stepping through tree roots and rocks, finding hand holds to pull herself up with. Pensioners, keeping up the pace. I put my head down, trudge on and ignore my legs telling me to Stop! Shut up! Sit down! Anything except keep going!

  Approximately the sixth time my body says to me, ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ and I say back to it, ’No, you have to,’ I se
e Grandma, ahead of me, stop and put her arms into the air. I squint to see her face and as I come closer I can hear her yell.

  “Here.”

  From somewhere, perhaps out of an extra, hidden away store of energy in my toes, I gather enough strength to half-gallop up to her. She turns and points behind her and in one flash of brilliance a stream of blue and gold invades my eyes and all I’m aware of is the most incredible view I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh,” I say. Because there are no other words for what my eyes are fixed on. We are at a copper-brown rocky outcrop on the top of a mountain, a sheer red cliff dropping down one side and the blue-as-blue ocean out in the distance. Below are farms, paddocks, roads, all so tiny they might belong to ants, living miniscule, insignificant little lives, hardly guessing at what massive beauty they inhabit.

  I have to sit. I choose a rounded rock and thud my bottom down. My arms dangle loosely and I shrug the backpack off in one perfect movement. It bounces on the dirt but I don’t care. All I can do is feast, gobble, devour with my eyes this perfect place, this amazing scene.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” says Grandma, sitting next to me. I nod, still with no words. She looks down at my feet. “Legs okay?”

  My focus shifts to my body. No screaming. No crying. Where did the sore legs go? “As soon as I saw this view, the pain disappeared,” I say. “That’s so weird!”

  We look out together from our rock. “You know how they say something is, like, breathtaking?” I say. “I don’t think I ever understood that till now. Seriously, I think I didn’t actually breathe when I first saw this.”

  Grandma nods. “I brought your dad here when he was your age. He had exactly the same reaction and he loved it so much that he got your mum up when they were first going out.” She sits quietly for a minute. So do I.