The Winter Sea (35 page)

The boat slowly circled the school, its deck alive with drumming tuna. The power of their constantly beating tails, their mouths gasping, forced their gills open so hard they produced a strange squeaking noise. Joe thought that if he strained his ears closer he would understand their cries as they died, their large black eyes watching him.

When they returned to port with their huge catch, everyone was celebrating.

‘That was just amazing,’ said Ricardo. ‘If we could catch fish like that all the time, we would never have any worries.’

But that spring was a hard one. The subsequent catches had been smaller and the weather was frequently so bad that no one could take their trawler out at all. Joe spent hours by the radio listening to weather reports and swapping news with those skippers who had taken their chances and had ventured out further down the coast. Joe also spoke to the spotters.

Most of the fishermen used spotters, pilots who flew their planes over the sea looking for schools of fish, especially tuna in the season. Joe had a particular mate who would notify him at once if he flew over any interesting activity that could indicate schools of fish. Chris was a young pilot, but a good one, who was always excellent company when he visited Whitby Point. So when Joe received a call from Chris early one morning, to tell him that he could see a big school of fish a few miles off a well-known reef, Joe decided to take the trawler out.

‘Ricardo, see where Carlo and Patrick are and get a crew together. Chris has radioed in about a big school. He thinks they could be yellowfin.’

‘What about this weather? It’s not good. What’s the forecast?’ Ricardo asked.

‘Dicey, but my instincts tell me it’s clearing.’

‘Okay, Papà, I guess you know best,’ said Ricardo in a voice which suggested that he was not as confident as his father.

In no time Ricardo had found Patrick and Carlo and rounded up three more crew members. The gear was checked and they quickly set off in the
Egret
, one of Joe’s smaller trawlers.

‘It would be better to go out in something bigger, but it would take too long to round up more crew and we need to get going quickly,’ Ricardo explained.

‘This will be fine,’ replied Joe. ‘The
Egret
is a good vessel. She’ll get the job done. Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. If we don’t clear the harbour right away the harbour master might advise us not to go at all and we’ll be stuck in port.’

They passed through the harbour and out to sea, but within twenty minutes conditions had deteriorated as the south-east swell worsened, whipped by a stiffening wind. Joe glanced at the sky and exchanged a look with Ricardo.

‘We’ve got a fair distance to the reef. Hope that the weather doesn’t get any worse. Chris gave me pretty specific co-ordinates and said that it was a heavy-sized school. Lots of birds marking the lead fish.’

Everyone was wrapped in their oilskins. Carlo and the other men sheltered in the cockpit as the
Egret
ploughed through the rising wind and waves. Then a rain squall reduced their visibility.

Patrick peered through his binoculars, trying to make out birds or any other clues that might lead them to the school. ‘It’s near impossible to see anything in this rain,’ he said.

Ricardo nodded. ‘Needle in a haystack. But we might get lucky.’

‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ said Joe cheerfully. Patrick and Ricardo exchanged a smile.

‘Nice to know that you’re still optimistic,’ said Patrick.

‘What’s that to starboard?’ called Joe.

‘Sea birds. They’re either being buffeted by the wind or they’re diving onto something!’ shouted Patrick.

‘It’s not far off the reef marker Chris gave us, they must be travelling fast. Big fish,’ said Joe and spun the wheel.

They were alert as the boat changed direction, bracing themselves as the waves hit the
Egret
broadside. Joe brought the wheel around, steering the trawler in a line to meet the travelling school of fish.

‘They’ve come off the reef. Been feeding there,’ Joe muttered.

‘That patch there, ahead,’ shouted Carlo from the bow, his excited voice rising above the sound of the waves.

‘Right, let’s get into them,’ called Joe as the crew jumped to their positions, ready to get the lines out.

The vessel was heaving in the growing swell, yet they managed to land several large tuna before conditions deteriorated even more. They turned back towards the reef to make another run, but the current had become treacherous and waves were now towering over them and breaking across the deck.

‘Let’s give it one last shot.’ Joe could hardly be heard over the wind and rain.

‘Papà, are you sure that you want to do this? Maybe we should just try to get back to port,’ Ricardo shouted back.

Patrick took out the life jackets and handed them to everyone. Joe hesitated, then he told Patrick to take the wheel briefly while he quickly put his jacket on before sending him back to the
Egret
’s
rail with the rest of the crew. They were all knee-deep in rushing water as they gamely threw out the pole lines, even though it was hard to see where the fish were.

Above the sound of the waves they could all hear Joe shouting, ‘The buggers are still out there!’

And, almost at once, they hooked a big one. But as the tuna came close to the boat it became clear that the rough seas would make it difficult to lift the large fish on board with the poles. Ricardo leapt to the railing with the gaff ready to strike a blow to kill it. Carlo was ready to lash the fish to the side.

‘Ricardo!’ shouted Joe as he saw a huge wave roll towards the vessel. ‘No! Leave it!’

But his call was too late. The wave hit with great force. From the wheelhouse came the sound of breaking glass and wood. Joe was left desperately clinging to the wheel as the wave swamped the
Egret
in its watery grip. She was a tough old tub and she righted herself even after taking the full force of the rogue wave. But this was too late for Ricardo, who had been swept overboard.

‘Get the lifebuoy over,’ screamed Patrick to Carlo. But Carlo was already pulling the bright red and white buoy from the wheelhouse wall, and he hurled it into the churning sea where Ricardo had last been seen.

While Joe furiously spun the wheel and then cut the engine back to neutral, the
Egret
almost stood on her stern. Patrick scrambled onto the shattered remains of the wheelhouse roof looking for any sign of Ricardo.

Joe’s anguished cry rose above the clamour of the wind and rain. ‘Can anyone see Ricardo? We have to find him. I can’t leave him here.’

Then, suddenly through the noise of the weather and the sea there was a loud crackle in the damaged cockpit and Joe could hear the voice of Chris the spotter over the radio.

‘
Egret,
I see you. Are you in trouble?’

Joe fell onto the microphone and shouted back. ‘Chris! Ricardo’s gone over the side. He’s got a life jacket on but we can’t see him. The waves are too bloody high. Can you can see him? Direct me. Over.’

‘Roger. On to it. Over.’

Chris’s aircraft appeared and descended low over the ocean. It began to circle methodically above them. Everyone on board was frozen in shock. Time had gone into slow motion. Even the roar of the wind and water seemed to fade into the background so that the only sound they could hear was Joe’s agonised mantra. ‘God, save my son. I don’t want him lost at sea. God, save my son.’

Then the radio again exploded into life.

‘
Egret
, I can see him. To port, to port . . .’

Joe, his face a picture of agony and concentration, brought the boat about and headed in the direction of the low-circling plane.

Patrick sent up a shout. ‘There he is. Throw the other buoy!’

Sliding into view one minute, swallowed by a wave the next, Ricardo could just be seen ahead of them. Joe positioned the boat as close as he could to his son and Carlo threw the second buoy.

It seemed an endless wait for them all and then the line attached to the buoy went taut.

‘He’s got it!’ Chris’s voice over the radio was elated. ‘Haul away, boys.’

Joe signalled to Patrick to take the wheel as he rushed to the side of the boat where Carlo and the rest of the crew were hauling in the buoy line as hard as they could. Finally he saw Ricardo, his arm through the buoy, literally hanging on for dear life.

Joe was the first to grasp the sodden figure of his son as he and the others pulled the exhausted man over the side of the boat. Ricardo collapsed onto the deck. Joe pulled off his life jacket and rolled him onto his side.

‘Son, son, Ricardo, you’ll be fine. Someone get him a blanket,’ Joe shouted to no one in particular, tears streaming down his face.

Then Ricardo coughed, throwing up the water he had swallowed. His eyes opened and he gave a weak smile. ‘Shit,’ he managed to say. ‘Did you land the fish?’

Patrick smiled. ‘No, we went after you instead, though it was a toss-up.’

‘This is no time for jokes. Your brother could have been killed and it would have been my fault,’ Joe shouted.

Ricardo looked at his father and managed a weak smile. ‘Well, I wasn’t. I’m not that easy to get rid of, but if we all sit around talking, we won’t get these tuna to market and the whole day will have been a waste.’

The tension was broken. Patrick quietly went back to the wheel, turned the
Egret
around and headed back into port. Joe continued to hug his son, crying unashamedly for the loss that might have been. He had spent his life on the sea and for the most part he had loved it, but now it had almost taken his precious eldest son from him. Joe remembered how his own father had warned him that the sea was a cruel and dangerous place and that to forget that fact was tempting fate. He had been foolhardy in risking the lives of his sons and his crew just to chase tuna. He swore to himself that he would never do such a thing again.

Joe only let Ricardo go when he heard a shout from the radio. ‘Well done. Have a drink on me. Catch you soon. Over.’

‘Thanks, Chris, for all your help,’ said Joe over the radio. ‘I owe my son’s life to you. Thank you, thank you,’ said Joe again.

The men on the deck of the
Egret
waved as the small plane dipped its wing and soared away into the stormy sky.

Wrapped in a blanket and holding a limp cigarette, Ricardo sat quietly beside his father in what remained of the cockpit as they motored slowly homewards.

*

The following year, 1957, Pietro flew home to Australia on a Pan American Strato Clipper for a holiday. He hadn’t been home for more than ten years. It wasn’t just Joe and the rest of the family who were excited by the visit. The whole town was thrilled and the local papers, even as far as Wollongong, had written extensively about Pietro’s achievements. With the stardust of Hollywood success on his shoulders he had become a local celebrity.

On the first Sunday he was home, it was decided that all the family should go for a picnic.

‘It might be July,’ said Joe, ‘but the day is so lovely we don’t want to waste it inside. If we wear warm clothes, we’ll be right. I want to remind Pietro just how lovely Whitby Point is.’

Emilia, who was not as physically active as she used to be, watched carefully as the picnic food and utensils were packed into clean fish crates, and ice was put in another to keep the seafood cool. There had been some discussion about where to go: the beach at Pelican Point, Blue Crane Lake or the lighthouse. They settled on the strip of grass next to the flat rocks under the lighthouse. When they arrived, Carlo and Ricardo went fishing from the beach, while the women went to look for pipis. The pipis they found were then cooked in a large kerosene tin, blackened from previous fires, while Emilia supervised the cooking of fish over the open fire. In case the morning’s fishing was unsuccessful, Joe had brought along some prawns and lobsters that had been caught the day before.

Pietro shook his head. ‘I don’t think you could get seafood as good as this anywhere else in the world. The fish – sublime!’

‘It’s nothing fancy, just straight from sea to pan,’ said Emilia.

After they had all finished their lunch, Rosina and Gail decided to take the children for a walk along the beach and Emilia sat in a comfortable deckchair to have a nap. The five men sat around the fire with a beer or a glass of wine in their hands and started chatting.

‘How long since you went fishing?’ Ricardo asked his brother.

‘Not since I was forced to help in school holidays,’ said Pietro, laughing and stretching out his legs that were encased in a pair of expensive-looking slacks. ‘I don’t have the Aquino touch.’

‘Fishing has served our family well for generations,’ said Joe. ‘Keeps you honest. You can’t cheat the sea. You know who is the boss out there.’

‘Pietro, what is it exactly that you do? Our job is pretty straightforward. We’re fishermen. But what is an art director?’ asked Patrick. ‘It doesn’t sound as though it has anything to do with acting.’

‘When we saw you with the Whitby Point Players, or whatever they were called, you looked pretty happy on stage,’ said Ricardo, putting his arm around his brother affectionately.

‘I did like acting when that was all I knew about the stage,’ said Pietro, ‘but when Bridie took me to the theatre all those years ago in Sydney, it was the whole atmosphere I fell in love with. After I joined the Independent Theatre Company in North Sydney, I found that what I loved doing was creating that setting, that atmosphere.’

‘How do you do that?’ asked Joe.

‘For the stage, theatre, you design the sets. You create the atmosphere for the play. I do much the same thing for the movies. It’s a bit more complicated, but it’s the same idea.’

Joe nodded, but in truth he really didn’t understand what Pietro was talking about. He had only seen one stage show and that was Pietro in the silly play Bridie had made him go along to all those years ago.