Something Fishy (5 page)

My innards were churning, rising and falling with the motion of the boat. Bunting, too, had gone a little green around the gills. Wilson was loving it. He stood at the stern, eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. Captain Pugwash rides again. When spray swept his face, he wore it like a complimentary spritz of Old Spice.

Once we were well under way, the deckie took the helm and Sutherland joined us for a proper round of introductions. He might not have been happy about running a passenger service, but he had enough professional sense not to waste an opportunity.

‘One of the last viable abalone habitats in the world,' he declared, sweeping his arm along the line of coves and cliffs, his voice raised above the thrum of the engine. ‘Shallow-water reefs, plenty of wave action. The abalone feed on specks of pulverised kelp.'

Wilson didn't want a natural history lesson. ‘Tell us about these poachers,' he said.

‘If that's what they are,' said Sutherland. ‘Shore-based, most poaching. Less conspicuous that way. All you need's a snorkel and a lever to prise the buggers off the rocks. But our tip-off says these guys are diving off a boat, using breathing apparatus. Could be recreational, looking for an old wreck or something, forgot to hoist their blue-and-white. Could be not so innocent. Weather like this, chance to work a reef you can't get to from the land. Harvest as many abs as possible, take off before they're noticed.'

The wind bit through my pants and the sleeves of my sweatshirt. My stomach churned. An endless swell rippled towards us from the horizon and sludgy clouds were advancing from the west. The sky was the colour of a dirty sheep. I took deep, regular breaths and considered moving down into the cabin. Pride got the better of me. I didn't want to look like a wimp in front of Dudley Wilson.

‘Lot of abalone poaching, is there?' I asked Sutherland.

‘Enough,' he said. ‘Used to be a cottage industry. Collect the public bag limit, ten a day, sell them to restaurants for cash. Huge demand in Asia these days. Big profits, professional crims.'

‘I've never understood the appeal,' said Wilson. ‘Underwater escargot, they call it. Tastes like shoe-leather to me. Give me a crayfish any day. Or a good feed of oysters.'

At the mention of food, my prawn salad lunch stood up and saluted. I clamped my jaws shut and breathed through my nose. Alan Bunting went a greener shade of pale.

‘Can't be farmed,' said Sutherland. ‘Unlike oysters. When it's gone, it's gone. California, Canada, Japan, nix. A high-value fish-stock…'

Fish-stock. The word conjured bouillabaisse. First the name, then the smell. My stomach lurched. ‘So what's the drill if this lot are poaching,' I said quickly, chasing the subject elsewhere. ‘You arrest them, or what?'

‘Try,' said Sutherland. ‘But if they resist, our options are limited. Like our means of self-defence. The minister's just taken away our sidearms.'

‘Quite right, too,' said Wilson. ‘Since when do fishing inspectors need to go armed? Let civil servants carry guns, who knows where it'll stop? Look at America.'

‘With respect,' said Sutherland. ‘For forty years officers of this department carried guns. Never once fired a shot.'

‘So you're not going to miss them,' said Wilson.

‘Good theory,' said Sutherland. ‘Try standing on a rock platform, facing off some desperado with several grand of illegal ab in one hand and a diving knife in the other, nobody around for miles. Mere fact he knows you're armed can be a big help.'

Bunting took a deep breath and lurched into the conversation, obliged to support the decision of the minister, a fellow Nat. ‘But you can call in the police, right?'

‘True,' said Sutherland. ‘Subject to operational availability.'

San Remo was far behind us, long vanished over the horizon. The next settlement on the coast, Inverloch, was fifty kilometres to the east. Five hundred metres away, the southern edge of the Australian continent was a line of abraded bluffs, sandstone cliffs rising to a wind-swept hinterland.

‘And where exactly are the nearest police?' I asked.

‘Wonthaggi,' said Sutherland.

Wonthaggi was somewhere inland. A three-cop town. Definitely no helicopter.

‘Main strategy, deterrence. Patrolling. Maintaining a presence. Surveillance. Avoid confrontation until we've got full control of the situation.'

Sutherland resumed control of the helm and steered the launch closer inshore. The tide washed across a platform of pitted rock that extended outwards from the base of the cliffs, rising and falling like the breathing of some vast living creature.

We rounded a stubby headland and Sutherland dropped the motor into neutral, letting us drift across the mouth of a sheltered cove with a half-moon beach of crushed shells.

A boat was moored in the cove, a chunky beige-coloured craft, a box sitting on two fibreglass hulls. A wiry type in shorts, tennis shoes and a woollen sweater was emptying a bucket over the side. Fiftyish, grizzled, a short ponytail sticking out the back of his peaked cap. As soon as he saw us, he grabbed a hose that was running into the water and gave it a solid jerk.

‘Shark-cat, twin 200-horsepower Yamaha outboards.' Sutherland raised binoculars. ‘Registration number concealed with duct tape.'

It was about a hundred metres away. Bunting craned for a view. Wilson firmed his jaw, a representative of law and order. I wondered what the hell I was doing there.

A figure in a hooded wetsuit surfaced beside the shark-cat. He hurried aboard, hauling the hose up behind him. Ponytail was firing up the Yamahas.

As the shark-cat began to move, Sutherland opened the throttle.

As it gathered momentum, the shark-cat rose on hydroplanes, skimming the water. It raced for the far side of the cove, a Formula One shoebox.

The hooded diver ducked under the canopy, his shoulders hunched, no more than a black shape. Ponytail glanced back over his shoulder, his lugubrious weather-seamed face clearly visible. When the young DNR crewman emerged from the cabin with a video camera, he pulled down the bill of his hat and flipped us the bird.

We gave chase, heading to intercept. The shark-cat hugged the shore, taking advantage of its shallow draft. Sutherland swung the launch into deeper water, steering a curved course. As we chopped at the swell, the launch tilted and rocked. So did my stomach.

Whoah, I thought. Pass. Not today, thanks. Enough already. A surge of nausea lapped at my Plimsoll line, tasting of curdled mayonnaise and masticated crustacean. I wished I was anywhere else, as long as it wasn't moving.

Lunch wanted out. And it got what it wanted. A fountain of hot lava, it hurtled upwards. I lunged for the side and barfed into the briny. I retched again. Sour milk and corn flakes, this time.

Then, without warning, a stream of berley erupted from Dudley Wilson's mouth and hit Alan Bunting in the face. This was not how the Nats usually spoke to each other, except at woolshed dances. Aghast, Bunting staggered backwards, gagging. At that moment, the deck tilted as the launch banked, turning to intercept the shark-cat. Bunting, struggling to find his footing, skidded on Wilson's mess and toppled overboard.

He hit the water with a splash, then vanished in the churn of our wake. Wilson leaned over the side and finished parking the tiger. Bunting bobbed to the surface and raised an arm, as if attempting to hail a cab.

Sutherland was already on the case. The launch slewed around, circling back. My head throbbed and a bilious taste filled my mouth. Wilson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, squared his jaw and resumed his Captain Queeg stance, as though nothing had happened. The deckie reached with a gaff and hooked Bunting as we came around. In short order, he was being manhandled up the stern ladder like a disconsolate dugong.

Wilson tried to help, but Bunting wasn't having it. ‘B-back off,' he hyperventilated, snatching back his arm. His teeth were chattering and torrents streamed from his ruined suit and pooled around his sodden brogues. Unbuckling his life-vest with trembling fingers, he let the crewman lead him down into the cabin. ‘Th-thanks, m-mate,' he said. ‘Wh-what's your name?'

‘Ian. Mind the step.'

The shark-cat was rounding the point, running for open water. ‘That's torn it,' said Sutherland, his binoculars trained on the mocking V of its wake. ‘Never get near them now.'

‘But can't you radio…' started Wilson.

Sutherland lowered the field glasses. ‘No point, pace they're travelling,' he said through clenched teeth. ‘Didn't even get a chance to hail them. So if your stomach is now settled, Mr Wilson, I suggest you wait below while we try to find out what our thieving friends were up to.' He turned to me. ‘You too.'

I followed Wilson down into the tiny cabin. Alan Bunting was already occupying most of the space. Stripped to his jocks, he towelled his pudgy, goose-pimpled flesh with ill-concealed irritation. The deckie, Ian, handed him a fluorescent orange wetsuit. ‘This'll keep you warm until we get back.'

Bunting squeezed into it, looking daggers at Wilson. ‘You might as well have pushed me,' he said.

‘You've had a nasty shock,' said Wilson. ‘But I hope you're not suggesting it was my fault.'

‘You spewed in my face.'

‘Not deliberately,' said Wilson. ‘You're just not used to boats, that's all. No reason to be embarrassed.'

‘
Embarrassed?
' He looked like a giant orange gum-drop.

I wedged myself into a seat and buried my face in my hands. I needed to wash out my mouth, but didn't dare move for fear of another up-chuck. The vibrations of the engine came up through the seat, compounding the movement of the boat. Bunting and Wilson bickered. Misery enveloped me.

We returned to the place where the shark-cat was parked when we first spotted it. Sutherland cut the engine and dropped anchor. Ian changed into a wetsuit and went over the side, snorkelled and flippered. He made a slow circuit, occasionally disappearing below the surface. When he climbed back aboard, he held up an abalone shell. The light caught its opalescent interior.

He and Sutherland conferred in an undertone at the stern, then Sutherland stuck his head into the cabin. ‘How you feeling?' he asked Alan Bunting.

Bunting made a brave face. ‘Sorry about this,' he said.

Sutherland nodded, then handed the crusted shell to Wilson. ‘Hundreds of these down there. They were shucking them on board, probably stashing the meat in hidden compartments. Couple of grand's worth, just here. At it since dawn, different spots. Day's take, before we interrupted them, maybe ten thousand dollars.'

Wilson examined the palm-sized shell gravely, as if appraising an antique.

‘Pity we had to abort before we IDed them,' said Sutherland. ‘Top it off, I'll be carpeted for letting you lot come along.'

Wilson tried to hand back the shell.

‘Keep it,' said Sutherland. ‘Souvenir. Best get you back to San Remo ASAP.'

After we'd been under way for ten minutes, sipping sugary instant coffee from the launch thermos, Wilson broke our self-imposed silence. ‘When this gets around, we'll be a laughing stock,' he said. ‘Throwing up. Falling overboard.'

I slowly raised my head. ‘Stuffing up a fisheries enforcement operation,' I croaked. ‘The press are going to love it. Given any thought to your resignation letter, Mr Coastal Policy Chairman?'

Wilson narrowed his eyes and looked me over closely. ‘This Sutherland.' He jerked his thumb upwards. ‘You want him to lose his job?'

‘The cuts you've got in mind,' I said. ‘He'll probably lose it anyway.'

Wilson leaned forward and stuck his face in mine. For an awful moment, I could see the stream of spew flying from his rubbery gob. Worse, I could smell it. I flinched and turned away. Wilson gave a satisfied grunt and, dipping out of the cabin door, stood at the console talking to Sutherland.

‘I don't think it's right,' whined Alan Bunting. ‘Trying to make political capital out of a situation like this. I'll have to resign from the panel, too. And it wasn't my fault. If anyone's the injured party, I am.'

I didn't know where to begin to answer that one, so I didn't try. They mustn't have offered Politics 101 at agricultural college.

Wilson returned. ‘He wants to talk to you,' he said.

I found Sutherland seated at the wheel, driving towards the low-slung sun, surveying the way ahead through oversized Sunaroids. ‘Beautiful, isn't it?' he said.

I took a deep, stomach-settling breath of air and absorbed the view. It swept across a burnished sea from weathered sandstone cliffs at our starboard to pink-edged billows of cloud on the southern horizon. ‘Magnificent,' I agreed.

‘Like your job, Mr Whelan?' said Sutherland. ‘Think it's worth doing?'

‘Sometimes,' I said.

Sutherland tilted his head back, master of all he surveyed. ‘Love mine,' he said. ‘Pretty good at it too I reckon, all things considered. Less than fifty of us fish dogs, you know. More than seventeen hundred kilometres of coastline.'