Pescador's Wake (9 page)

Part of Julia had hoped the encounter would settle her physical longing for Eduardo once and for all, perhaps even be an anticlimax. That would have been easier. But he was the relaxed and natural lover she had always suspected he would be. They moved together without haste or anxiety, savouring the chance to uncover the treasure they had been searching for all their lives.

Afterwards, Eduardo had convinced Julia to let him take her photograph. ‘You look so beautiful today,' he had said.

They left the boatshed separately, just as they had when they were teenagers, before returning home to their families, this time as the parents. Julia had told Carlos she was going to La Paloma for a day trip and that he would need to collect María from the neighbour. He hadn't questioned her for a second.

A week later, Eduardo's photograph had arrived in the mail. For six months she kept it hidden in a book under the bed she shared with Carlos until finally deciding she should send it to her parents. It was too dangerous having such evidence in the house. When Carlos found the photograph the day before he left for the Southern Ocean she had panicked, yet he regarded the picture with the same trust in his eyes that was always there for her. She thinks of that photograph now on the ocean with Carlos and wonders if Eduardo has seen it in her husband's hand.

It isn't that life with Carlos is without passion. They remain intimate after all their years together, their losses and their joys, but in a stop-and-start kind of way. Marriage has allowed her to fall in love with her husband many times over. Their best moments are the homecomings, when Carlos returns after weeks at sea.

She longs for such a reunion now, and remembers when his boat last docked, just two months before he left port aboard the
Pescador.
María had been at school and Julia had watched her husband walk up their street with his fishing jacket and overpants slung over his shoulder—his hair hard with the sea. He had smelt raw and real and she allowed him only the briefest of showers before welcoming him onto newly washed sheets. They lay together, fanned by the afternoon breeze through the apartment's billowing bedroom curtains, making love with a fresh sense of urgency. The physical reconnection came as a relief—a transfusion of intimacy that gave their marriage vital blood and reassured her that she had married the right man. She had let Carlos push Eduardo from her mind, and surrendered into their rolling, lilting unison. It felt, she thought at the time, as if the sea was still flowing in Carlos's blood and entering hers.

The weather has turned southerly again and, with the chase nearing the end of its first week, Dave Bates wonders what the hell he's still doing out here. The
Australis
rolls in the heavy seas, pitching from one side to the other, on the edge of iceberg territory. He makes a satellite call to the Australian Customs Service, and is surprised when Roger Wentworth answers. According to Wentworth's secretary, he had been on stress leave for the last two days. Dave had laughed bitterly when he heard this the previous day.

‘It's still pretty ordinary out here,' Dave says, struggling to steer the boat with one hand on the wheel. ‘Any news on the illegals? Because if they're still poking along in the pack ice, maybe we should let them go. I don't want to be responsible for driving them to their deaths.'

‘Affirmative, Dave. We intercepted another call between the
Pescador
and Uruguayan Fisheries. I was just about to let you know. Sounds like they've had a bit of engine trouble, but they're on their way to Montevideo. They were too far south for anyone's liking.' Wentworth pauses. ‘That why you pulled the pin on the hot pursuit?'

‘Too bloody right. That and the fact we hit a growler that
could've sunk us before we had a chance to ask the government's permission.' Dave tries to contain his anger. ‘Look, I realise you'd prefer us to have stayed within spitting distance of the illegals, but it's a death sentence down there. We're not out of the woods where we are.'

‘I know that, mate. But once they do reappear, it'll be in our interests to keep them in your sights if you can. The word is that the
Pescador
is just one of a fleet of boats run by a bloke in Spain, a Mr Migiliaro. The Minister's pretty keen to put the pressure on him.'

‘I'll do what I can, but I'm not going to endanger my crew.'

‘No. Of course not. We'd never ask that,' Wentworth splutters. ‘Be assured we're doing all we can to convince the illegals to call it quits and bring this all to an end. For everyone's sakes. Needless to say, they're not answering our satellite calls. We've advised the South African navy about the chase, and they're prepared to help apprehend the vessel once it gets closer.'

‘Okay. Just let me know if the plan changes. We've got some crusty old seadogs on board and none of them have seen seas like the ones we've been copping. It's beyond me how the illegal boat's still afloat, to be honest.'

Dave ends the phone call just as William appears at the wheelhouse door, pale again. Dave isn't sure if he has heard any of his conversation with Customs.

‘Feeling a bit rough, lad?'

‘Just a bit,' William says with a burp. Dave figures he's moments away from vomiting and looks for a bucket. ‘The weather's pretty bad again. D'you reckon we've seen the worst of it?' William asks, picking at a hole in the sleeve of his polar fleece.

‘It has picked up a bit again. Nothing the boat can't handle, though. She'll blow over.' Dave relaxes the muscles of his face in a deliberate attempt to appear reassuring. ‘The autopilot normally takes care of the steering for us, but in storm conditions I like to keep control of things myself. It's hard work though, after a while.' A large wave pushes the boat sideways and Dave struggles to keep his balance. Once the boat is back on course he checks on William, who is bracing himself against the door frame, staring open-mouthed at the sea. ‘See what I mean?' Dave says. ‘Here, come and feel her.'

William appears unsure, but Dave knows that taking the helm will distract the lad from his nausea.

‘Come on. You've got to have a few stories to tell your mates back on dry land.'

Dave lets go of the helm, and the boat falters slightly. William takes hold, just as a large wave strikes the bow. ‘Geez, there's some power in those waves,' the young man says, gripping the helm harder than he needs to. Dave watches his fingers turn white.

‘Just get the feel of it, lad. And don't hold the helm so tight. It's all controlled by hydraulics. You can't prevent the boat
being knocked; just gently correct her course each time. And see if you can keep the knocks from coming side-on. We don't want to broach.'

Cactus is at the wheelhouse door now, shaking his head. ‘Not really conditions for an L-plater.'

William turns to Cactus behind him and heads the boat the wrong way into a wave. The
Australis
is knocked sideways.

‘Bloody hell,' Cactus swears.

William takes his hands off the helm like a scolded child, and the boat lurches again. The men grab hold of anything they can to stay upright. Dave takes over and tries to correct the course. Eventually the boat comes around.

‘Now I've seen it all,' Cactus scoffs.

‘You were learning once, Cactus. Pull your bloody head in.'

Dave hears a guttural surge rise from William and the young man vomits onto the wheelhouse floor. It's clear he hasn't eaten much in the past few hours. Meals have been pretty basic since the weather turned foul: bread, cheese, canned ham, some soup to keep them warm, baked beans and powdered mashed potato. But it doesn't appear that William has tried much more than bread and soup today.

‘We'll have to get some kilojoules into you on the journey home, lad, or Trish'll kill me, if Margie doesn't first! There's enough sausages, steak, eggs and bacon in the freezer to feed a small army. Good sailing grease.' Dave says the last few
words just before William vomits again. ‘Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. Just thinking out loud. Go down to your bunk and lie on your side for a while. And if you can eat some dry biscuits or bread and cheese, it might settle you down, son.' As soon as Dave says the word ‘son', he wishes he could reel it back in.

William wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand and leaves the wheelhouse without a word.

‘
Son
now is it?' Cactus raises his eyebrows.

If it wasn't for the twelve-metre seas, Dave knows he'd give the stupid bastard a piece of his mind. It's not as if he doesn't have it coming. Less than a decade ago, Cactus and Dave had each owned orange-roughy trawlers, and spent weeks at a time fishing for the brilliant-coloured fish off seamounts south of Tasmania, often within coo-ee of each other. Cactus made a packet of money before he retired, just before roughy catches fell, quotas were set and boats sold. He timed his exit perfectly. Rumour was that he'd had inside knowledge. Dave, on the other hand, had been slow to get out—Margie had called it stubborn—and sold his boat for a song. Cactus rubbed Dave's nose in his success, but within a year had gambled away all of his fishing money. A week after he was declared bankrupt, he had a heart attack.

‘The stupid bugger brought it all on himself,' Dave had told Margie more recently. ‘He needs to look around sometime and see that other people have their stresses too. Losing a son
is hardly a bed of roses.' Dave knows now that much of his anger at Cactus stems from his silence after Sam died. He could've bloody stretched himself to sign the card they sent, he thinks. But no, good old Connie did it for him as if he were a big bloody kid.

Margie had excused him. ‘Deep down he's probably just frightened of having another heart attack.' And Dave suspects she was probably right. Cactus has certainly told him, on more than one occasion, that there are, in the surgeon's words ‘only six seconds between his next heart attack and death'.

Perhaps that's why Cactus is so hard on the big, strapping William it occurs to Dave for the first time. William has his whole life ahead of him, and a body that resembles a Greek god, while Cactus, with his white hair and withering muscles, probably feels he's on borrowed time. But whatever his hangups, Dave wants to shake Cactus until his self-centred head falls off. He wants to shout at him that no life is guaranteed, young or old, and that he should just get on and live his and quit the victim act. Instead, Dave settles for getting him to clean up William's vomit.

‘Go and get the mop and bucket, Cactus,' Dave says without looking at him.

Cactus swears out of the corner of his mouth, creamy with wasted spit.

Dave scans the radar as Cactus leaves the wheelhouse. A new neon-green blip appears on the screen. He dismisses it as
another iceberg, as it bobs in and out of range. But the next time he looks down, the light has inched forward.

‘I'll be buggered,' he says under his breath, studying the distances. The
Pescador
is only ten nautical miles from them. Dave feels a rush of adrenaline at seeing the boat again, and is relieved to see for himself that they're still afloat. If he was honest, he'd even admit to being pleased to have the company on this remote stretch of lonely sea. Perhaps this is how rival astronauts would feel if they met each other on Mars. The
Pescador
appears to be cutting north across his path, and he wonders at their sudden change of heart. According to Roger Wentworth, they're supposed to be heading back to Montevideo. Maybe they sustained damage and are making a run for a closer port. Perhaps somewhere in South Africa.

Cactus reappears with the mop and bucket.

‘Get a load of this!' Dave points at the radar.

‘Bloody oath. It's not a phantom friggin' chase after all!' Cactus shakes his head.

The
Pescador
makes its way across the radar screen, aided by the southerly behind it.

‘They're not afraid of much.' Dave imagines the
Pescador
with the seas—like nature's own patrol boats—behind it, pushing it out of Antarctic waters for trespassing.

‘They're tough buggers. I'll give 'em that,' Cactus concedes. ‘But I'm not sure if they're being brave or bloody stupid runnin' with the weather blowin' up their backside like that.
If the seas get any bigger, she'll be pitched arse over tit.' He sniggers. ‘Where d'you reckon they're headed?' He scrapes up the worst of William's vomit with a bread knife and a dustpan before getting the mop onto it.

Dave scratches his head at Cactus's choice of implement, but keeps his thoughts to himself. Cactus always makes harder work of things than he needs to.

‘I don't know, but it won't be long before we can ask them ourselves,' Dave jokes. ‘We'll be on her tail soon enough.'

‘Canberra'll be happy,' Cactus says.

‘We'll see. Wentworth's pretty pissed off at us for breaking the chase. Reckons we might've screwed up our chances of getting a prosecution.' Dave attempts a satellite call to Canberra, but there's no dial tone.

‘No go?' Cactus asks.

‘Satellite's out. I'll wait a while.'

‘Fan-bloody-tastic! Just us and a bunch of pissed-off South American cowboys,' Cactus says. ‘Reckon they're armed?'

‘There's a better than even chance. Most hard-core illegals carry guns, according to Wentworth anyway.' Dave's expression suggests that Wentworth might not be the most reliable source of information.

Harry enters the wheelhouse. ‘Must be your turn for a break, Davo.'

‘Cheers.' Dave hands over the helm. ‘Just don't slip on the floor there.' He points to the spot in front of Cactus. ‘Young
William has been marking his territory. And, by the way, we've got company.' He points to the radar.

‘Well, I'll be blowed.'

The deck of the
Australis
is awash with foam and water. Dave watches as the whole bow goes under and, for a long moment, he wonders if the boat will just keep going down. An arrow destined for the deep. The boat re-emerges like a drunken cork. He can almost hear her gasp for air.

‘I'll leave you with it, mate,' he tells Harry before taking his leave from the wheelhouse. He checks in on William, who he finds already asleep in his bunk, and wonders if he's being too soft on the boy. But he can't help fathering him. He's the closest thing he has to a son now.

Dave makes his way back up to his own cabin and surrenders himself to his bunk. He imagines spooning with Margie in bed, the sound and smell of the eucalypts swirling outside the bedroom window, Bonnie scratching at the door to be let in. In his mind, he opens the door for the dog and allows her wet tongue to greet his face. There have been times since Sam's death, when Dave has let Bonnie right up onto the bed. ‘Who's been sleeping in
my
bed?' Margie would say playfully, when she discovered the dog's blonde hairs on the doona cover. Dave can see her now, holding up a sample of offending hair.

‘At least it's
dog
hair!' he'd answer back. ‘Don't know what you're complaining about.'

Dave knows that their friends think it odd that Margie and he can joke about infidelity. No doubt they are jealous that, after twenty-seven years of marriage, he and his wife still hold hands and kiss in public. Their bed is as sacred as the day they first laid upon it together. It still even has its moments of true passion, although the grief they've shared with the loss of Sam has dulled that in recent times. Making love has become more of a comfort than an excitement.

He covers his face with the blanket, blocking out the smell of the ship, and brings to mind the early days of his courtship with Margie. It was their last year of high school and neither of them had known love before, but they found their way with each other. Nervously, they had their first kiss behind a dance hall. They took things slowly, cautiously. Back then, Dave thinks, life was a horizonless sea. There was no hurry, and no end in sight.

He relives the night they graduated. They had taken a drive in his new Volkswagen Beetle and parked at Hobart's Domain to watch the moonlight play on the river. He remembers seeing the silver light dance, too, in Margie's smiling eyes when he told her, for the first time, that he loved her. He had been surprised by the weight of her breasts in his hands as she allowed him under her woollen twin-set. It was a night he'll never forget.