Tide Read online

  Trying to keep them calm, he remembered a bitter incident. He was a non-drinker. What his bowls mates emphasised as a tee-totall-er. They called him a wowser and a prude, half joking, but it was remorseless. Every week for ten years. He went to the bar with them and drank lemonade; he never begrudged them their drinks. Maybe he should have told them why, but he didn’t see it as any of their business. And really, it’d have come back on him anyway.

  Syd had been a small child but still old enough when his father fell from a boat just like the one they were in. He had been drinking and fishing under the sun in the Sound, not far from Carnac. Syd had lost sight of him, and after calling and calling and drifting, he’d been found by a family from a neighbouring beach shack and taken to shore in shock. Sunburnt and traumatised. The police had dragged his father’s body from the ocean and called it death by misadventure. My dad drowned, said Syd when he went back to school. He drowned in the ocean.

  Why the motor chose that time to cut out, he didn’t know. But it did. The other men were furious and scared and ranting. They roughed Syd up: old men fighting in a sixteen-foot runabout. Let me at the thing, said Syd, as calm as he could be, and I’ll sort it out. He did. After a few tugs, it started and went back to its put-put-put. We’ll turn for shore soon. The compass never lies.

  Why was he fishing with these blokes? He recalled ‘the incident’. One of them, or both, had spiked his orange juice not three months ago, and made Syd crash his car without even leaving the bowling green’s car park. He’d had no idea what was going on. He’d never felt that way before. Totally disorientated, the car not doing what he asked it to do. Someone spiked your drink, Syd.

  Now one of the blokes stood up and lunged for the side, as if he were about to dive in and swim for it, but he slipped on the wet hessian sack containing the shuddering corpses of the few fish they’d caught. Saying you won’t stand much more of this, said Syd, won’t help you or any of us. Just keep your eyes peeled and your ears tuned. I am turning towards the beach now. We should reach it in fifteen minutes. Yes, it’s getting a little rougher, but I always find the bump of small waves on the hull a comforting thing. No, I am not having a go, I am serious. I am enjoying this no more than either of you! Disorientating? True, but look at the compass. It never lies. It takes away the confusion.

  Syd silently assured himself that he wasn’t enjoying his mates’ discomfort. He was certain he wasn’t the vengeful sort. It wouldn’t have even crossed his mind if they hadn’t intimated.

  Time dragged on. The men had grown hoarse with shouting, and gasped at the sharp salt air. Fog was seeping through their pores, eyes, noses, mouths. When they gasped, fog poured back out from deep inside their lungs. They vomited it out of their stomachs. They were generating fog.

  How much longer? Not much longer. The fog isn’t lifting, though. I’ll admit, it’s almost solid. Can’t hear a thing. Other boats have probably made shore by now. I doubt any are lost. Some might be sitting it out. Fishing through the event. The skippies and gardies and whiting and flounder on the sandy bottom are still doing what they do. We could drop a line. No, no, just being lighthearted. Passing the time, taking our minds off the … situation. And punching me in the head won’t fix anything. You need me, really you do!

  Yes, you’re right! It’s a light. A brilliant light broken down by the fog. It must be spectacular up close. I’d say a bonfire has been lit on the beach to help guide lost boats back to safety. We haven’t been forgotten. Our loved ones are concerned. They forgive us our sins and value the best parts of us. Sorry for blabbering on, I’m as excited as you are. Sanctuary is at hand. We’ll follow the light and when we reach the shallows, I’ll step out and drag us in. You guys just sit tight and we’ll be warming our bones around the bonfire in minutes. We’ll know precisely where we are and what’s what. The fog won’t matter a damn – we can lead each other up the beach by the hand.

  LOADING

  The bulk carrier was high alongside the jetty. The youth watched the loading gantry move into place by Hold 8, and noted the fact in his logbook. Crew who weren’t on duty were hanging around outside the crib house, waiting for their cabs to arrive at the front gate. Security would ring through, the youth would let them know, and they’d be off to the bars and brothels of Perth and Fremantle until the early hours of the morning. Loading of mineral sand had started, and machinery was grinding overhead, wheels turning and conveyor belt taking the land to the sea. There was a breeze, but not enough to stop loading. He checked the anemometer. Within limits. If it got too high, he’d have to send a message to the operators to stop loading. One of the sailors stuck his head through the door and said in Filipino English, How long? Dunno, said the boy. I’ll let you know. The sailor saluted him and went back to talking with his mates, all clutching packets of cigarettes and tobacco, hanging out, but forbidden to light up during loading (no matter what was being loaded).

  The call came: the taxis had arrived, and the youth signalled. Suddenly he was alone on the jetty. He could see crew on the ship, and in the distance, if he stood outside, an operator above the gantry. The ship’s light glowed, and the communications gear over the bridge rotated and bristled. This was a big Swedish ship. All the officers were Swedes who spoke English with more clarity than the youth. But they rarely spoke to him. He was a functionary. He’d noticed how dismissive they were of the Filipino crew, whom he liked. He always liked the crew.

  It was a clear night. The lights of Cockburn Sound bent and warped with the shimmering water and the caustic air. Not long ago he’d supervised the loading of a caustic soda ship, and the wind had lifted, and they’d kept loading despite his protestations, and the pipe had broken free of its mounting and spewed alkaline hell into the waters – the same waters his little brother and sister swam in every day when they got home from school, summer or winter. His father was a person of influence along the industrial strip, and the youth had got this occasional night job, one of great responsibility, befitting one who was studying law at university. His quick thinking in having the operator shut down the pumping rig had prevented a disaster. Everyone knew how hard it was to control things down on the jetties, with pressures of time and tide, of business and officers. He was a level-headed young man.

  He phoned through that the wind speed was still within limits, though his crib room rocked with the jetty, and everything shook like the interior of a jet in turbulence with baggage compartments threatening to open and drop their holdings on passengers’ heads. He sent another signal for the gantry to move to Hold 1. The loading had to be balanced, or the ship could split in two: great responsibility.

  When loading of Hold 1 was underway, he noted the breeze had dropped. He relaxed a little, and went back to his torts reading. An officer was suddenly beside him, immaculate in his braid. Can you please ring for an escort to come on board the ship?

  The youth didn’t bat an eyelid. It was always the way. He knew whom to ring. The best escort service in the town. They specialised in such things. What are you looking for? asked the youth.

  Not Asian, the officer laughed sarcastically. Seen enough of them.

  The boy recoiled. Officers, bigoted or not, were usually more circumspect than this one. Seeing the boy’s distaste, the officer added sharply, Something to remind me of home.

  You mean Swedish?

  At least Scandinavian.

  Okay. A blonde who might look Scandinavian and spoke German was the best the youth could order from the agency’s menu. Be here in an hour. Let her through security and I’ll come and collect her from here – call through to the ship and ask for Deck Officer H.

  The youth himself was a virgin. He always fancied the escorts, whatever the occasion, whoever they were. He wouldn’t have been bold enough to get one for himself, and at university he was too anxious around girls to ask them out. It was a quandary. Some of the crew from various ships had tried to set him up after he knocked off work, but he couldn’t do it. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. H
e’d even relieved himself over Swedish magazines given to him by crew, swiped from officers, in the crib room toilet on calm-water loading nights, on more than one occasion. He never neglected his duty. In fact, it wouldn’t work if he had. He was reliable, precise and mostly honest.

  When the girl arrived, he let her through. While the officer was coming down to collect her, the youth spoke to her about how beautiful the Sound was. She said, I hear it’s going to get blowy later! She laughed as he started to look worried, and checked the wind speed, and muttered to himself about safety. Not what I meant, sweetie. Though when he clicked, he wasn’t really sure what she was referring to, because the girls didn’t usually know much about the safety issues of loading ships. He got more tangled and confused, but he didn’t say anything further.

  Hours later, the wind grew stronger and the loading had to be stopped. He sent the message through. They were on Hold 3. It stayed like that for an hour. The wind dropped a little, but they were still above the safe zone. He got a call from the bridge. It was the officer in charge of loading. We need to restart, said the officer. It’s a tight schedule and it’s perfectly safe. The ship is sitting low now, it’s not at risk. Nor is the jetty. Please give the order to recommence.

  Sorry, sir, I can’t do that.

  You will, young man.

  No, sir.

  I will speak to your superiors.

  Okay, sir.

  Start loading.

  No, sir.

  The youth knew that no such superior would ring. He’d been through this before. Loading wouldn’t start if the wind was above the safety. The phone cut abruptly.

  The officer in charge of loading was suddenly down from the bridge and in the crib room, in his braid. The youth thought him impressive, and was glad to be told off by such an assertive man.

  No, sir, I can’t.

  Then I will instruct the operator to start again.

  But he will only answer to me, sir.

  The officer went red, and looked as if he was going to strike out. The youth lost his respect. The officer stormed off.

  Ten minutes later, the breeze had dropped further but still not enough. This time the Deck Officer arrived with the escort on his arm. Ring a taxi for the lady, please. The boy did so immediately.

  It will be half an hour before one gets here, said the boy.

  Then I leave her in your safekeeping, said the officer, and went out back to the ship.

  You’re causing a lot of stress up there, sweetie, said the girl.

  Not meaning to. No choice. It’s the law. And a good law.

  I’ve always been suspicious of the law. It’s never a certain thing, sweetie.

  It is, actually.

  The girl began to massage the youth’s shoulders. She was real, not just an appendage on an officer’s arm, or a picture in a magazine, or even a ‘do whatever you want’ object in the dial-a-fucks of Freo. She was real, and they were real, and their business was all around him, and their lives interconnected. Nothing was separate. One flesh. The amniotic ocean comforting and unknown. He struggled with a desire to log these discoveries, these new facts. But this was his real life, and her real life. Their living lives echoed out into the Sound, went everywhere. The ship hung low in the water, tracking the weather. He could feel her and even smell her scent over the salt, the smell of ships and mineral sands. Her hands were magic. Mystical. Uncertain.

  Now, the gentlemen up there have been very generous to me, sweetie, you wouldn’t want me to disappoint them, would you?

  No. But they’re not loading. He looked across at the windspeed and noticed it had fallen within safety limits. As he did this the girl started kissing him, focused on nothing else. For the first time in his life he operated outside his own safety boundaries. In the mild breezes with the phone ringing, the boy held off, held it all in, before taking the plunge and giving the order to recommence loading.

  WHALEWORLD

  The three children strained so hard to be ‘mature’ that the adults worried they would forget to have fun rowing the dinghy out to fish in the channel. Not too deep, they said, just out past the sand and green water.

  But Mum, said Andy, the eldest child, who had just turned twelve, the big fish are in the deep blue.

  Drop anchor at the edge of the green – you can float out a little bit out into the blue from there. I know it’s still and the tide’s out, but there’re strong currents in the channel and I don’t want you getting caught and taken out into King George Sound. Listen to me, Andy, I said a short way out into the blue. We are trusting you with the children.

  Andy appreciated the respect and glowed, but only inside.

  As long as these kids don’t tangle their fishing lines and lose my tackle.

  Mum ruffled his hair as his father had once done. She said to her friend Selina, whose ten-year-old daughter Beth was also going out in the boat, He takes after his father: responsible. Andy wasn’t sure if this was a code for something or had a double meaning, but he studied his mother’s face.

  Beth never said much and Andy didn’t take much notice of her, but Sarah, who was eight, thought Beth a goddess, and fussed about her hair and her clothes and the few words that came out of her mouth with exaggerated excitement.

  Andy’s strong, said Sarah. He could tow a ship behind our ding-ee! Then she pulled herself up – she wasn’t going to be excited, she was going to be mature!

  Andy rowed the small boat a little way out into the blue and dropped the sheet anchor. His heart was in his mouth as the anchor dragged along the bottom, the current taking them further and further out. But then the dinghy stopped dead, and he waved back at his mother and Selina on the shore, sitting down on the sand, returned the gesture. Andy could see from the angle of their heads that they were chatting. Having a ‘goss’, as his mother would say. But every now and again they looked up, shading their eyes.

  Okay, girls, said Andy, when he was comfortable that they weren’t being overly watched, Now we’ll catch something. He started sorting lines for them. Beth was staring out past him, and he asked, What’s wrong?

  She pointed over Andy’s shoulder, her mouth slack, her eyes horror-struck.

  He turned, and as he saw the whale surfacing, and heard Sarah screaming, his first thought was to look to his mother, who with Selina was pointing and waving and maybe screaming as well. He turned back to face the whale and realised they had drifted into the centre of the channel, in the deep blue, and that the whale was as big as a building and opening its mouth. It was grey and scarred, and he could see its eye locked onto him, the boat. He had never heard of Jonah, and he had never read Moby Dick. This was no allegory. The current was driving the boat to the mouth of the whale. And then they crashed inside, and the mouth closed.

  Andy had always been fascinated by the ocean. Always. He’d told his mum he could hear the ocean when he was waiting to be born. She’d laughed about it, but Andy hadn’t. The problem was they lived inland, deep inland. They only got to the seaside once a year around Christmas time, the long, hot school holidays, and then it would only be for three weeks. That dropped down to a week after Dad died. Mum had befriended Selina, or maybe it was the other way around, but either way, the two families started taking their holidays together. As Andy was rowing the boat out into the Sound he was half thinking that his mother and Selina were talking about moving in together. They were both schoolteachers, and had both lost husbands. Pooling resources, he’d heard Selina say on the way down, in that kind of disconnected way adults say things, thinking the kids won’t get it. But they nearly always do, from the time they can speak sentences and hear sentences as sentences.

  Andy had set up one of the farm dams as an ocean. He made waves with a wooden picket, sailed out into the brown murk on a boat made from corrugated iron. He built a jetty, spread shells from his seaside visits around the gravelly clay banks. A few years before, when he was really too young to know better, or to be playing near a dam without an adult around, he’d ev
en let loose some hermit crabs he’d managed to smuggle back. They vanished. He let gambusia and carp and koonacs go in the water. All freshwater creatures, but he imagined them as sea fish and crayfish.

  When Beth visited the dam with him once, just before his father died, he pushed her in the sludgy water and told her to be a mermaid. She couldn’t swim properly and though the water was shallow at that time of year, her feet stuck in the muddy bottom and he had to wade in and pull her out. He said he was Jesus and could walk on water, which made her more furious. She slapped him and ran, bedraggled, off through the stubble to the house where her mother was drinking shandies on the verandah with his parents.

  Humpbacks and southern right whales steamed through the waters. But whale-watching time is between June and October, and much to his regret, Andy and his family were never there at that time. But they’d been to Whaleworld. Though horrified by the whaling station’s history, Andy became addicted, and they had to visit there every time. He pictured battles between whales and great white sharks. He loved sharks.

  The whale that took Andy and Beth and Sarah into its mouth was not one of the recognised species known to the area, or indeed anywhere else. But it was the eternal whale, the archetype of the imagination. Inside its mouth, its belly, Andy and Beth would grow old and be forced to share their lives. Sarah would remain ever the same age. They would be Sarah’s surrogate parents. Bits of flotsam and jetsam, even other wrecked dinghies, would provide building materials. Whale oil lamps would burn eternally. They would spend years plotting their escape, but in the end accept their fate, their place. Others would be swallowed and join them but wouldn’t survive long – the will to live inside the whale would be limited, and they would grow mad and perish. That would be the hardest thing to witness.

  When they got back from their holiday, Selina and Andy’s mother did move in together. They announced to the children that next year they’d holiday somewhere else. It was time for a change. They understood Andy’s disappointment, but it was good to broaden one’s horizons. There’s so much more to see out in the world. Andy’s reply: But oceans cover almost seventy percent of the world. You can’t deny them. You can’t pretend they’re not there. They will rise up and cover us all in the end.