The Bay (13 page)

The woman wiped her face with a corner of the sari. ‘I just felt drawn to the water. It seemed an easy way to . . . fix things.'

Amber sat back on her heels and looked at the distressed woman as she slowly and awkwardly tried to unwind the tangle of material wrapped around her body. That's one helluva way to fix things, she thought. ‘Here, let me help. That's a nice bit of material,' she added, trying to introduce something normal into the abnormal situation. ‘My name's Amber, by the way.'

The woman responded vaguely. ‘From India. Silk, you know. I wore it because these girls . . .' Then her voice faded away and the explanation was left up in the air. As an afterthought she added, ‘Bonnie. I'm Bonnie.'

Amber had heard the name. She didn't comment but decided that they should move to the shelter of some large rocks against a sand dune. ‘Come on, Bonnie. Let's get up the beach a bit.'

There was no resistance to the idea and they walked slowly, hand in hand, to find a sandy alcove between two large boulders. Amber then made a quick dash over the beach to get her clothes and towel. She handed the towel to Bonnie who ran it wearily over her hair and face.

‘Thanks.'

‘You haven't been here that long, have you? Any family with you?' Amber asked, trying to sound casual.

There was a long pause, then a deep breath, almost a decision-making signal, before she replied, ‘About a year. I have a daughter. Teenager.'

It was as if the word teenager was a trigger to her emotions. Bonnie burst into tears, but struggled to remain in control. ‘For God's sake, don't tell her about this. Promise. Please. Not a word to anyone. You know what this place is like for gossip. She couldn't handle it.'

‘Okay. I promise. Everything strictly confidential, just between us,' said Amber with sincerity. ‘Do you want to keep talking, or just rest?'

Bonnie leaned back against a rock and closed her eyes. ‘Fixing things,' she eventually whispered. ‘I've been trying to do that for years. Ever since I split with my husband, family and friends in Melbourne, and ran. And this is where I ended up.' She took a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers.

Confessional time, thought Amber. Her mind raced back to her teenage years when she and her girlfriends often sheltered in places along the beach and told each other of their inner agonies.

Bonnie talked as if to herself. ‘Never had time for me. But it hasn't worked out, has it? I'm getting old and I don't want to be old. Haven't lived enough.'

Sounds a bit off the planet, Amber decided. ‘You been on stuff?'

‘You name it, I've tried it.'

‘Maybe it's time to get back to reality.'

Another silence, another handful of sand dribbled through her fingers into a small peak. ‘Reality. I'm not sure what that is any more.'

‘Listen, Bonnie,' said Amber firmly, ‘you've got to make at least one more effort, right? There're people who can help you. You're not the first person around here who has run hard from the past and fallen flat on their face. You need to spend some time at the Dolphin Centre for starters.'

‘What about my girl, she's only fourteen?' And that brought another bout of tears.

It was time for action, Amber decided, and she reached for her T-shirt. ‘Here, put this on until you get home. Come on, up you get.' She pulled Bonnie to her feet and the sobs disappeared as they struggled to get the wet sari off and the T-shirt on. ‘I'll run you home and get in touch with some friends I've got at the Dolphin Centre. They'll work things out for you. Some therapy, something you haven't tried. How about that?'

She walked Bonnie to the car. When they were buckled in, Bonnie surprised her by throwing the bundled-up sari over her shoulder onto the back seat. ‘I never want to see that again.'

The remark didn't make much sense, but Amber let it pass. The last of the early morning mist had gone and the brightening day gave sparkle to the white hem of breaking waves that crashed against the rocks of the Cape.

‘Look, Bonnie, it's going to be a lovely day out there,' said Amber with forced cheerfulness.

Bonnie scanned the beach and looked at the rip where she had almost thrown away her life. A pair of dolphins appeared, and with impeccable timing they leapt out of the peaking wave together and made a graceful curving dive. It was as if they'd been given a cue to endorse the joy of being alive. ‘I suppose I should say thanks, Amber,' she said hesitantly. ‘And thanks for listening to me.'

‘No worries, Bonnie. We all have times when we need someone to listen.'

We have not long departed from the Kermadec Islands. We stopped at Sunday Island for provisions – goat's meat, milk and Tahitian limes and oranges. Several whalers were passing through who had been at sea for a year or more on the Southern Ocean without replenishing supplies. Several crew were suffering from the scurvy so the fruit planted many years ago by American settlers – the Bell family, I believe – was most welcome. I was intrigued to learn that this island has its own postal service. Each ship sends a boat to the tip of the island, and when the tide is low there is a cave which one can enter. Here the crews leave letters in a large wine carafe to protect them from the moisture, and collect the ones left previously.

The islands of the South Pacific are tranquil and beautiful to behold, yet such treacherous waters surround the reefs leading into the lagoon.

The crew was eager to go ashore and barter with the natives, though my husband fears more reason for their haste was to fraternise with the maidens. Such happy creatures, unashamed at their nakedness, immodest by our standards. My husband did quite stumble over his explanation to me that to these native women, the coupling of men and women out of wedlock with little preamble is not considered lewd or against God's will, but a sign of welcome and hospitality. Quite a departure from our standards of decorum. But as my dear husband also noted, these wild lusty islands are very far – in all ways – from what we know. Different as my homeland of Australia is from his childhood in Norseland, though at least we share a Christian heritage.

My husband has talked much lately of Norway, the land of his birth, describing vividly the deep still waters of the fjords where, between the icy cliffs, the sounds of a faraway farm echo for miles up the valley. He talked of the village and the fishing fleet, but yet cannot bring himself to share completely with me that terrible break between himself and his parents. What could have happened to cause a boy of nineteen to run away to sea, n'er to return?

I do believe his home is on the sea. My dearest has lived such a short time ashore. How I thank the day I ventured with my father to visit his agent friend at the Mosman ship yards, where we first became acquainted.

I have no regrets choosing a whaling master as my beloved and travelling with him. Lars is a good and true man, all the crew from the officers to the cabin boy respect his firm hand and knowledge of the sea. Like other captains' wives who choose to be with their husbands at sea, the choice of being far from him for two years or more a trip is too hard to bear. So despite the privations, I appreciate the wonders and excitement, the fears and travails, of life on a whaling barque. I miss the company of other women – ships carrying other wives meet so infrequently and if the weather be poor it is not always possible to transport us to the other ship. The frustration of being so close to female companionship and not have the occasion to exchange womanly talk – a gam – is hard to bear. Sometimes we have waved our kerchiefs from the deck at each other and that has been the only contact for many months. Oh how I do long for one day living ashore in a home of our own!

Hannah Nilsen blotted the entry in her leather-covered journal, closed the book and stowed it on the shelf above the small triangular table fitted into a corner of the captain's stateroom. It was a cramped but rare private space in an overcrowded whaling vessel.

Their living quarters consisted of two tiny rooms. The stateroom had an ingenious swinging bed, which was suspended from stone-weighted gimbals and moved with the motion of the ship. This meant Hannah never suffered the sensation of swaying independently of the
Lady Richmond
's pitch. She also blessed the privacy of the small ‘head' or water closet which had a basin and washstand. The second cabin, where she had hung a drapery to divide them, was the aft-cabin with a fold-down table that was the captain's desk, a trunk used both as a table and as storage for clothes, and a large horsehair sofa and two small chairs.

Hannah had longed to fill the cabins with personal ‘fripperies' to make them more homelike, but the weather and motion of the boat made it impossible. Near a porthole, secured to the bulkhead, was the polished wood and chrome barometer presented to Captain Nilsen by the ship's owners – an American company, Richmond Whaling. On the captain's desk sat the ship's log and several beautiful scrimshaw ornaments – a delicately engraved whalebone formed into a yarn basket and her sewing bodkin made from baleen, the firm but pliable substance taken from the mouth of a humpback whale. From the beam above the shelf swung a cage that held a parrot whose cheerful squawk kept her company while she sewed and knitted or wrote in her journal. Each day, unless foul weather prevented it, Hannah took the birdcage to a sheltered spot on the deck and hung it securely from the rigging.

It was here one morning that she glanced out to sea and saw, far distant, the spout of a whale and raised the call before the lookout.

I received good wishes for my whale spotting from the crew, for they secured two whales, one delivering forty barrels of oil.

Such a frenzy of activity erupts at the sighting of a whale. After so many days and weeks of tranquillity – indeed, boredom for most of the crew – it seems chaos and disorder take over. Men race about hauling gear as the boats are lowered and the chase is on. I see on the faces of the men such excitement and determination, while for me I can only wait and pray that they all return safely from this gruesome task. I fear especially for my beloved who refuses to stay on board but leads his men after the monsters in such a teacup of a boat. These creatures of the deep are often the size of three or four of the boats lashed together bow to stern.

Once our fine harpoonist, the American black man Tully, has the whale fast, the most fearsome part of this great game begins as the beast tries to escape by sounding or charging across the sea. And while the men talk of this ‘Nantucket sleigh ride' as they are pulled across the ocean, I can only wait. And it seems an eternal wait. I recall the terrible tales of the monsters crunching and smashing the boats to splinters, men's limbs being ripped from their body caught in rope coils, or being pulled under the sea.

I did not see the kill as it was too far even with the glasses. But I was mightily relieved when those great carcasses were lashed alongside and all hands and dear Lars back on board. Then came the dreadfully odorous and frantic cutting in and trying out of the blubber where the valuable fat was peeled off and boiled to oil. A dead whale in this heat becomes very sour and the stench almost unbearable.

The first time I was witness to this event my husband had me take a seat in one of the boats slung on the starboard side. But such a grandstand seat I passed up after that. They cut the head of the sperm whale which is divided into sections. One holds the spermaceti, a fibrous fat used for candles and creams. In the other, a fine clear oil was bailed out, for it is highly valuable.

Once the best of the blubber is cut from the carcass, it is scarfed with a sharp blade in a spiral fashion around the body and a man is lowered onto it where he buries a hook into the spiral cut at the head. All this while horrible sharks circle, attacking, and I am fearful should a man fall he would be devoured in an instant. Once the hook is pulled the blanket strip of blubber peels away like the skin from a fruit. This cutting process is arduous and very messy. The decks are awash in oil, fat, slime and blood. Birds hover over the greasy sea and sharks patrol to snatch and bite at any chance.

As the blubber lands on the deck it is hacked into chunks, minced and sliced down to the skin in order that it more readily release its oil. This is then dispatched to the dryout tubs on deck, fires burning beneath, to boil down the oil. The fires are started with wood, then fuelled with the scraps of body tissue that float to the top of the cauldrons. These burn and give off a black smoke and blacken all on deck. On many occasions passing ships offered rescue, fearing we were on fire.

The clean up following this procedure is hard work. Washing the decks thoroughly is but one part. The men, their clothes and equipment require much ingenuity from boiling garments in lye and dunking them in tubs in the sea, to drying them on the rigging and repairing them as needed before it all begins again. But this is why we are here, and with no oil there is no pay for the men. Nor, indeed, recompense for the captain.

It is a tough and lonely life and once again I long for some quiet harbour where I can gam with other ladies. And even more, how I long for a home ashore close to peaceful waters.

So ends this day.

Stolle helped Holly drag an old pine table out of the shed and set it up with assorted chairs in the front garden, then looked down at Tiny Bay Beach through the trees. ‘Bloody beautiful spot. You got a buy and a half, Holly. No wonder developers were salivating . . . even a low-rise apartment complex here would be a stunner if every room had a view like this.'

‘Don't even think about it,' said Lynn, who was setting out teacups. ‘Holly should be congratulated for saving this bit of Bay heritage.'

‘Your kids can sell it off to developers for squillions,' Stolle said with a grin, quickly ducking before the women had time to throw anything at him.

‘That's a terrible thing to stay, Stolle,' Lynn admonished. ‘And what are you going to do with all your worldly goods and chattels? They wouldn't raise fifty bucks at the market.' She went on, ‘Just because you don't own anything doesn't mean that everyone who gets something together goes after the big bucks.'

‘It's okay, Lynn,' said Holly quickly. ‘That's how all our friends back in Sydney think. Enjoy every cent and live the lifestyle you want – even if you can't afford it – and let the kids make their own stash. Property is something you keep trading up, a commodity for a more glamorous life, a status symbol of what you've achieved. Andrew has always regarded houses as investments. I never felt we gave the children a sense of roots, of belonging to a place. We moved from the Northern Beaches to the Eastern Suburbs and then to Mosman. Andrew never kept up with old neighbours, just the property prices. That's why this place means so much to me. It's got a family history, I feel I belong here. Silly, I know, when I just moved in but I want to make something of it.'

‘You want to show your old man you can be as astute as him,' said Stolle. ‘You just picked a difficult way to do it. But this could be a real showplace if you can stick it out.'

‘Oh, I'm going to do that,' said Holly with a sharp edge to her voice. ‘If only to show you blokes that I can rescue this place and make a financial go of it.'

‘Bugger them, Holly. You do it for yourself,' said Lynn. ‘You only have to prove things to yourself, no one else. Anyway, Mitchell said he'd probably get up here tomorrow to see you about taking over the building renovations, if you want.'

‘Well, I hope he's reliable. Time doesn't seem to mean much up here. “Probably tomorrow” could be a week or more.'

‘Don't stress. Things all happen when they're meant to,' said Stolle.

‘See you soon,' Lynn called as they left.

Holly was grateful for their help. Thinking back to their first meeting, she wondered what Andrew would make of them now being her best friends. He would regard them as hired help, not social equals, that was for sure.

Holly changed then hesitated as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Tailored grey pants and a pale aqua silk-knit sleeveless top, tasteful heavy gold bracelet and chain with a small antique medallion. Understated, elegant, expensive looking. Suddenly she felt all wrong. There was a certain ‘look' here that she couldn't put her finger on. Perhaps it was just the fact that anything went. She pulled down the smooth French roll and let her hair flick onto her shoulders, framing her face, hoping she looked less dressy.

Then she hurried outside as she heard a car – someone arriving far earlier than expected. But that would be right, she figured. Lynn had told her that guests in The Bay turned up early, or very late, often with a bunch of friends in tow you weren't expecting. Or not at all, as in – ‘Things came up. You know how it is.' She opened the French doors onto the verandah and was surprised to see Eddie get out of the car.

‘Hello, Holly. Remember we met at the Goddess Night ding? I was wondering if I could gatecrash your tea party?' He strode across the lawn with a disarming smile.

‘It's my first tea party and you have the honour of being my first gatecrasher. Welcome aboard.' They exchanged exaggerated handshakes, which conveniently masked Holly's slight shock. She had tried to accept that values, attitudes and behaviour here were very different from those she had lived by in the city. The Goddess Night had confirmed that beyond any doubt. But it was still very difficult to adjust, especially when these differences came marching through the front gate . . . like Eddie. She noticed that he gave her outfit a quick once-over, a look that confirmed her earlier concern about her choice from the wardrobe. Too bad, on with the show. ‘So what is the big attraction here for you? I'm quite mystified.'