JUDY NUNN
FLOODTIDE
Judy Nunn’s latest novel is a brilliant observation of turbulent times in the mighty ‘Iron Ore State’ – Western Australia. Floodtide traces the fortunes of four men and four families over four memorable decades: The prosperous post-war 1950s when childhood is idyllic and carefree in the small, peaceful city of Perth … The turbulent 60s when youth is caught up in the conflict of the Vietnam War and free love reigns … The avaricious 70s when Western Australia’s mineral boom sees the rise of a new young breed of aggressive entrepreneurs … The corrupt 80s and the birth of ‘WA Inc’, when the alliance of greedy politicians and powerful businessmen brings the state to its knees, even threatening the downfall of the federal government.
An environmentalist. A wounded Vietnam War veteran. A hard-core businessman. An ambitious geologist. Each of the four who travel this journey has a story to tell. But, as the 90s ushers in a new age when innocence is lost, all four are caught up in the irreversible tides of change, and actions must be answered for.
‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune’
1965
‘Beats me why you wanna go swimmin’ with sharks.’ The bottles of Swan Lager clinked as Tubby Lard took the cardboard box the kid handed him. ‘Only a dickhead’d go swimmin’ with sharks.’
‘Yeah,’ his brother Fats agreed from where he stood up the bow, ready to cast off. ‘You wouldn’t get me down there for quids.’
‘Well, of course you wouldn’t, you stupid bastard,’ Tubby said, gunning the engine and yelling above the diesel’s throb. ‘You can’t bloody swim!’
Mike McAllister grinned as he stepped nimbly aboard the Maria Nina. It was good to see the Lard brothers again.
Tubby eyed the kid’s backpack. ‘Haven’t you got any scuba gear?’ he asked.
‘At twenty feet I won’t need it.’
Mike settled himself on the massive wooden, lead-lined icebox that doubled as a seat and trained his eyes on the distant low-lying rocky islands as the vessel pulled away from the jetty. It was a hot, steamy morning, barely a breath of breeze, the ocean like glass. A perfect day for it, he thought, excited by the prospect of what lay ahead.
Contrary to her name, the Maria Nina was no sea sprite. She was an old tub, thirty-eight feet long, stinking of bait and desperately in need of a coat of paint. But that was only her exterior. The brothers cared little for appearances; she was solid and reliable and her engine was meticulously maintained. The Maria Nina was a grand old dame of the sea.
Tubby and Fats Lard were cray fishermen who worked the Abrolhos Islands off Geraldton on the coast of Western Australia. During their respective early school years both brothers had been called Lardhead, but not for long, because both were good with their fists. Fred, the elder, had readily accepted Tubby as a substitute. Skinny as a rake, he was amused by the contradiction. Bob, also on the lean side and five years his brother’s junior, was an avid jazz fan. He considered his nickname a tribute to Fats Waller.
‘Hey Einstein,’ Tubby called from the wheelhouse, ‘get off your bum and put the grog on ice.’
‘Oh.’ Mike jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry.’ He loaded the beer into the ice chest. Beside him, Fats started baiting up the dozen or more hooks on each of the set-lines.
‘Want a hand?’ Mike asked when the beer was stowed. Fats nodded. Fats Lard was a man of few words; it was Tubby who did most of the talking.
Mike and the brothers had met at the pub in Geraldton just three days previously. It had been early evening, a squally wind blowing in from the sea and alleviating to some degree the oppressive heat of a typical dry and dusty December day.
‘You’re off the Pelsaert, aren’t you,’ Tubby said. He and Fats were lounging at the bar of the Victoria Hotel when the kid fronted up to buy a round for his mates.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Three schooners, thanks,’ Mike said to the barman.
Tubby eyed the kid up and down. Handsome young bastard – black-haired, startlingly blue-eyed – he should be in the pictures, Tubby thought. Fit too, but just a kid. ‘Bit young for a boffin, aren’t you?’ He glanced at the table where the kid’s mates were seating themselves. They were early twenties he guessed. What were they doing aboard the Pelsaert?
‘We’re students, up from Perth,’ Mike said. ‘UWA.’
‘Ah, right.’
The student part made sense, Tubby thought, but hardly the vessel. He’d seen the MV Pelsaert tooling about the Wallabi Islands and upon enquiring had been told it was the State Fisheries’ new research vessel on some sort of scientific expedition.
‘They give you young blokes a brand new boat just because you go to uni?’ He exchanged a look with Fats who was equally incredulous.
‘Hardly.’ Mike laughed. He didn’t find Tubby’s direct manner offensive, he sensed the man was genuinely interested. ‘We’re here to do the hard yakka,’ he joked, ‘the stuff the boffins aren’t fit enough for.’
‘There you go, mate.’ The barman placed the beers in front of him.
Tubby waited until the kid had paid for the drinks, then homed in again. ‘What hard yakka?’ Tubby had an enquiring mind and his questions were invariably relentless.
‘We catch tammars.’
It was true. For the past five nights, from eight o’clock until two in the morning, the three students had raced relentlessly around East and West Wallabi Islands, lights strapped to their foreheads, wielding giant butterfly-like nets, the object of the exercise being the capture of the small nocturnal marsupials which would undergo study the following day. Keen athletes, the boys had been selected for their physical fitness.
‘Whaddya wanna do that for?’ It was the first time Fats had spoken. He was no less interested than his brother, but he always relied on Tubby to lead the way.
Mike, torn between delivering the beers and not wishing to appear rude to the locals, cast a look in the direction of his mates. Muzza was lounging back with a smoke, but Ian, upon catching his eye, gave an irritated wave and a scowl that said ‘Hurry it up’.
‘The boys are getting impatient,’ he said, gathering up the beers. Then he added, ‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Rightio.’ Tubby didn’t need any further invitation. He rose from his stool, grabbed his glass, and Fats followed. The brothers liked meeting new people.
They gathered at the table, Mike plonking down the beers, Ian pointedly making a grab for his. As Tubby and Fats garnered extra chairs, the boys shuffled around to make room for them. When they’d settled, Mike made the introductions.
‘Murray Hatfield, Ian Pemberton and I’m Mike McAllister,’ he said.
‘Tubby and Fats Lard.’ Tubby leaned across the table, offering Mike a gnarled hand. Ian snorted into his beer.
They shook all round, then Tubby raised his glass. ‘Welcome to Gero, boys.’
The others joined in the salutation, taking a swig along with him. Ian Pemberton sipped reluctantly. He was a classically handsome young man, despite slightly protruding ears, but his aquiline features so often conveyed disdain that the effect was invariably ruined. Ian was a snob.
‘How long ya been here?’ Tubby led the conversation, seemingly oblivious to Ian’s contempt.
‘A week,’ Mike told him.
‘How long ya stayin’?’
‘Another week.’ It was Muzza who replied. Like Mike, he was aware that Ian considered the brothers an intrusion – Pembo could be a real pain at times, he thought. Muzza was keen to follow Mike’s lead. He always did. Just turned twenty, Muzza was two years younger than the others and Mike was a bit of hero. He gave one of his lop-sided, baby-faced grins. ‘We leave next Saturday.’
‘Good-lookin’ boat, the Pelsaert,’ Tubby said, Fats nodding agreement. ‘I’ve seen her holed up in Turtle Bay on East Wallabi – you boys livin’ on board, are ya?’
‘That’s right.’ Mike flashed a warning glance at Ian, who was scowling at his beer, before changing the subject and asking the brothers about themselves.
They were cray fishermen, Tubby told him, ‘Born and bred right here in Gero.’ Although Tubby did the talking, Fats joined in with nods to the table at large. Fats did a lot of nodding.
‘The Lards have been cray men for three generations,’ Tubby said proudly, ‘comin’ up for four soon.’ Tubby was thirty-nine and his son barely ten years old, but the boy’s future was carved in stone. ‘We scored the boat off Dad when he bought his new humdinger five years back, didn’t we, Fats?’ A nod. ‘The old man’s sixty-three, still in the business, still goin’ strong.’
Tubby drained his glass and stood. ‘I’ll get another round, hey.’ It wasn’t a question and he was already gathering up the empty glasses.
Ian put his hand over his glass, which still had an inch of beer in it.
Muzza jumped to his feet before Pembo could refuse Tubby’s offer. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said.
As the two of them left for the bar, conversation at the table ground to a halt. Ian drained his glass in sulky silence. Fats turned expectantly to Mike. His eyes, set deep in the crinkles of a face weathered well beyond its thirty-four years, appeared eager for another question or some sort of comment, but Mike was at a loss as to what to say. Tubby’s potted history of the Lard family had been so succinct that no further question or comment came readily to mind.
But Fats wasn’t seeking question or comment, he was seeking an answer. He’d been prepared to wait patiently for Tubby to bring up the subject, as Tubby no doubt would, although, in Fats’ opinion, Tubby sometimes took a long time to get to the point. But as Tubby wasn’t here now, and there was a hole in the conversation, Fats decided to ask for himself.
‘Whaddya wanna catch tammars for?’
Mike was relieved that Fats had started the ball rolling; he was unaccustomed to feeling socially awkward. ‘For study,’ he said. ‘It’s a research trip.’
Fats nodded, he’d gathered that.
‘We’re earning extra money during the summer vacation,’ Mike went on, ‘assisting in the research for a PhD student on a Fulbright Scholarship –’
‘What about the tammars?’ Fats asked. He didn’t really want to know about the scholarship part.
‘Well, they’re remarkable animals,’ Mike explained. ‘They thrive here on East and West Wallabi and we want to find out how. You see, there’s virtually no fresh-water source on the islands, particularly on West Wallabi. There’s no fresh water at all there, except for rain, of course …’
Fats kept nodding as the kid talked, taking it all in slowly, sifting the information. He hadn’t known that tammars were so interesting.
Ian Pemberton looked at the cray fisherman, nodding like a metronome, and his irritation grew to boiling point. How dare the yobbos crash their party. How dare Mike ask them to the table. And look at him now! Good old Mike McAllister, everybody’s favourite, giving his all to a retard who didn’t understand a word he was saying. Ian wanted to deck him. What about the nurses they’d met last night? There was a party on at their flat, starting about now. What the hell were the three of them doing sitting here entertaining a couple of local cretins?
‘From an environmental point of view it makes them a very valuable source of study,’ Mike said.
‘So what is it you do with the tammars?’ Fats was fascinated.
‘Protemnodon eugenii to be precise,’ Ian cut in, the disdain in his voice matching the sneer on his face.
Fats turned to look blankly at him, just as Tubby and Muzza arrived with the beers. Ian waited until the glasses had been placed on the table before once again addressing Fats, in exactly the same tone.
‘We study the water metabolism of genus Protemnoden, species eugenii, otherwise known as the tammar.’
There was a deathly silence. Tubby stared at the kid with the bat ears and the pointy face and the built-in bad smell under his nose. He’d sensed his antagonism the moment they’d come to the table, but what had Fats done to rile him? Fats might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was a good bloke, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, not unless the fly hurt him, and even then he had to be pushed. Tubby was about to challenge the snotty-nosed little prick, but someone else got in first.
‘Stop being a smartarse, Pembo,’ Mike said good-naturedly. ‘Sit down, Tubby, there was no offence intended. Was there, Ian?’ The question was pointed.
‘Course not.’ Checked by Mike’s warning tone and the threat of danger, Ian attempted a smile, which wasn’t successful.
Tubby sat. Very slowly, his eyes darting about the group, like a cat ready to pounce.
Fats, too, looked around the table, aware of the sudden tension. He’d gathered that some sort of insult had been intended, and while he wondered what he’d done to warrant it, he wasn’t particularly offended. But he could tell that Tubby was ready to do battle, and he was prepared to join in. Tubby only ever picked a fight when there was good cause for it.
‘I’m here on a dual study period myself,’ Mike said to the brothers, as if nothing had happened. ‘Doing some advance research for my PhD next year, and the topic’s right up your alley.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Tubby said, distrustful. One word in the wrong direction and these little uni pricks wouldn’t know what’d hit them. But he couldn’t help himself, he was impressed by Mike. It was obvious the other two took their lead from him. Muzza wasn’t a bad kid, but he seemed younger than the others and, Tubby suspected, a bit of a ‘yes’ boy. As for the bat-eared snotty-nosed bastard …
‘And how exactly would your advance research be right up our alley?’ he asked, his tone a dangerously supercilious imitation of Ian’s.
Mike turned to Fats. ‘What do you reckon I’m studying, Fats?’
‘Eh?’ Fats was caught out; people usually addressed their questions to Tubby.
‘The topic I’m studying – what do you reckon it is? What’s right up your alley?’
‘Crayfish?’ Fats asked hopefully.
‘Spot on.’ Mike once again addressed the older brother. ‘As well as the study of tammars, the Pelsaert and her crew are doing a pre-season cray census. The object of the exercise will lead to a better estimate of the catchable cray population later in the season, and maybe even the following year as well. Does that interest you?’
‘My oath it does,’ Tubby said. Any insult was forgotten, the kid had won him.
Twenty minutes later, as they were polishing off the next round of beers – Muzza’s shout – Mike was still talking, Tubby was still asking questions, and Fats was still hanging on every word. The brothers knew only too well that the whole of the Abrolhos was a hatchery and nursery area this time of year. All down the west coast the cray season ran from mid-November until the end of June, with the exception of the Abrolhos where it didn’t start until mid-March. They’d been wondering what the Pelsaert was doing laying pots, and now Mike was explaining the mark-and-recapture techniques employed in the research.
‘Tail-punching,’ he said. ‘It leaves an identifiable mark when they’re recaught.’
‘Well, bein’ a Fisheries vessel, we didn’t exactly think you were doin’ something illegal,’ Tubby said. Fats nodded, although they’d both had their doubts. ‘Whatever experiments they’re up to, I bet they’re keepin’ a good few crays on the side,’ Tubby had said as he’d watched them blatantly setting their pots, and Fats had agreed.
Mike didn’t go into detail about the recent breakthrough. The discovery of puerulus in numbers – the elusive settling phase before the juvenile hard-shelled crayfish emerged – had caused much excitement in academic circles. But it wasn’t necessary to explain the finer points; both brothers understood the impact of the research. An advance and accurate prediction in the numbers of mature crayfish would revolutionise their industry.
‘Time to go.’ Ian replaced his empty glass on the table with a little more force than was necessary. Aware that he’d overstepped the mark earlier, it was the only way he could signal his boredom and irritation. He stood. ‘The girls are waiting.’ He forced another smile, his second of the evening, and again it didn’t work. ‘Nice to meet you, Tubby, Fats.’
Muzza looked to Mike for his cue. He was a bit bored himself. The cray fishermen had lost their appeal now that the girls were beckoning.
‘Sorry, Muz.’ Mike smiled apologetically. ‘I got a bit carried away. You go and have a good time.’
Muzza shook hands with the brothers as he rose from his chair, but Ian kept his distance, his eyes on Mike.
‘You’re not coming?’ he asked.
‘I never said I was.’
‘Jeez, mate,’ Tubby said to Mike, nudging Fats as a signal they should make a move. ‘If you’ve got women lined up don’t let us stand in your way.’
‘You’re not.’ Mike’s tone was definite, but his reply was directed to Ian. ‘I told you from the start I didn’t want to be in it.’
Fats rose from the table, a decision seemed to have been made. ‘Goodo then,’ he said. ‘My round.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Mike continued to look at Ian. He was wondering how on earth he’d remained friends with Pembo for the past several years. But he knew the answer. He was sorry for the bloke. ‘It’s Ian’s round. Isn’t it, Ian?’
Tubby watched, intrigued by the second or so of power play between the two young men, but it was no competition.
‘Sure,’ Ian said, ‘my shout’, and he went off to the bar where he ordered three beers. He and Muzza certainly weren’t hanging around with the Lard brothers when there were women to be had. Mike had turned into such a square, he thought. God, Mike McAllister had been the biggest womaniser of them all – the bloke could score in a convent, women always gravitated to him. But he’d changed since he’d met Johanna. What a bastard, Ian thought as he paid for the beers. Without Mike he probably wouldn’t score tonight. Mike had always been his lucky draw card, and now he was left with young Muzza who was a loser.
He returned to place the three beers on the table. ‘You ready, Muzza?’ he asked, and Muzza once again stood.
Mike leaned back in his chair, raising his glass to them both. ‘Thanks, Pembo,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You guys have a great night.’
Ian made his farewells tightly but politely.
‘See you, Muzza,’ Mike called as they left. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Leaves me plenty of licence,’ Muzza called back over his shoulder.
‘You sure you don’t want to go with your mates?’ Tubby’s question was incredulous. Why didn’t Mike want to chase after women? Crikey, they’d be queuing up for a young stud like him.
‘Yep, quite sure. I’m not interested.’
As he said it, Mike realised that he genuinely wasn’t. He certainly would have been six months ago – six months ago he would have been leading the troops – but since he’d met Jo, he’d lost the urge to bed other women. Not because he felt the need to remain faithful – he’d made no commitment and neither had she – but for some reason the thrill of the chase no longer seemed important. Funny about that, he thought.
‘I’ve got a girlfriend in Perth,’ he said to avoid any further questioning.
‘Ah,’ Tubby replied, sharing a nod with Fats. The kid was in love – that explained it. He took a long draugh of his beer and settled back in his chair. ‘So, where were we up to, Einstein?’ He could listen to the kid all night.
‘The Batavia.’ Mike decided it was his turn to ask the questions.
‘Eh?’ The non sequitur took both brothers by surprise.
‘Do you know about the wreck of the Batavia?’
‘Do I what!’ Tubby’s grin was triumphant. ‘She was a Dutch East India trading vessel that founded on the Abrolhos in 1629.’ He looked like a schoolboy who’d topped his class; he was glad of the opportunity to show off his knowledge to the kid. ‘There was a bunch of mutineers on board and they were going to pirate her, but she hit the reef instead. And after the shipwreck they murdered just about all the survivors.’
‘Women and children as well,’ Fats interjected, the gleam of morbid fascination in his eyes. ‘Them islands is covered in bones.’
It was more historical fact than Mike had anticipated from the brothers. ‘Do you know where the wreck is?’ he asked.
‘Too right.’ It was Fats again, suddenly and uncharacteristically articulate. ‘Tubby and me was on hand when it was discovered a couple of years back. We know the exact spot, don’t we, Tub?’
‘Yep, we helped the expedition team when they were diving on it. They needed our local knowledge of the area,’ Tubby said with a touch of pride.
‘I’ve heard it’s in shallow water, is that right?’
‘Around twenty feet or so.’
‘Could you take me to it?’
The look Tubby exchanged with Fats was dubious. ‘Well, we could,’ he said tentatively.
Mike presumed the brothers were concerned about money. ‘I’ll pay …’ he added hastily.
‘Nah, nah, it’s not that.’ Tubby waved a hand airily. ‘It’s just that you need the right day. If the weather’s crook, you can’t make an approach, it’s bloody impossible.’
‘So if the weather’s right, will you take me out there?’
Fats was nodding vigorously. Fats had taken to Mike. But then so had his brother.
‘Yeah, if the weather’s right,’ Tubby agreed.
Mike tried to negotiate a price, but the brothers would have none of it. ‘Well, at least let me pay for the fuel,’ he insisted.
Tubby shrugged. ‘If you like, but we’ll be takin’ the boat out anyway. We gotta make a living.’
Prior to the commencement of the cray season, the brothers fished with set-lines for dhufish and baldchin grouper, both prize table fish for the West Australian market.
‘Okay, it’s a deal. And I’ll bring along a case of beer.’
‘You’re on, Einstein.’
Three days later, the squally winds had died down and the weather was perfect.
Tubby followed the deep channel that led from the safe anchorage behind the reefs out into the open ocean. He and Fats would lay their set-lines before taking Mike to the wreck site. The Maria Nina churned smoothly through the gentle swell, the sea and the sky so peacefully clear they seemed to merge as one. Mike sat on the icebox helping Fats bait up the lines. An hour or so later, when they’d set them, floats bobbing on the ocean’s surface, Tubby turned the vessel about.
‘You can only approach the wreck from the open sea,’ he said as Mike joined him in the wheelhouse. ‘Treacherous bastard of a place – no way you can come into it from the land. That’s Beacon Island,’ he pointed at the low, rocky island up ahead. ‘Batavia’s Graveyard, it’s known as. The wreck’s just a mile south of it.’
Mike gazed at the island, barren and desolate like the rest of the Abrolhos. Batavia’s Graveyard, he thought, and couldn’t help feeling a thrill of anticipation. This was the highlight of his trip. It was strange, he hadn’t expected it to be – there’d been far too much else to preoccupy him. He’d been intrigued by the lunatic notion of nightly tammar chasing, and excited by the prospect of next year’s PhD study when he’d be working as a field assistant with Dr Bruce Phillips of the CSIRO, the man who’d made the breakthrough puerulus discovery. Not once had the Batavia entered his mind, and why should it? He’d known little about its actual history when he’d left Perth – only that the site of an old Dutch wreck had created headlines when it had been discovered on the Abrolhos in 1963. But he’d been enthralled by the tales he’d heard aboard the Pelsaert on the night of his arrival, the crew members infecting him with their own fascination with the Batavia’s brutal past. The very vessel that was accommodating them, he’d been told by the crew, was named after the commander of the Batavia himself, Francisco Pelsaert. And then they’d embarked upon the grisly story of mutiny, murder and mayhem.
Ever since that night, young Mike McAllister had viewed the islands of the Abrolhos through different eyes. Ecologically, their make-up was simple – in studying the ecology of the crayfish, he had also studied their habitat – the islands were formed of coral shale and sand built up by the conflicting currents on the shallow plateaus. Plants sprouted from seeds in bird droppings to form sparse vegetation, binding the sand with roots and resulting in a series of low-lying islands that somehow defied the elements. It was that very defiance which he found remarkable. For hundreds of years, these desolate and insignificant-looking outcrops, little more than a combination of reef and sandbank, had withstood the full force of nature. They, and the treacherous submerged reefs surrounding them, had become indestructible demons feared by seamen over the centuries. Infamous graveyards to many a ship and its sailors. In fact, as the crew of the Pelsaert had told him, the very name Abrolhos meant in old Dutch, ‘keep your eyes open’.
No longer did the islands appear insignificant to Mike. He was seeing them with a sense of history, perhaps through the eyes of a seaman. The islands of the Abrolhos were to be respected. They were a timeless and impressively powerful force in the landscape: pristine, primitive and untameable.
‘We’re coming in nor’-east on the original course of the Batavia. That’s the reef up ahead, a bit to port.’
As Tubby’s voice broke into his thoughts, Mike looked to where the man was pointing. The only giveaway sign of the reef was a ripple of white frills playing teasingly across the ocean’s surface.
‘We picked a good day for it,’ Tubby said, cutting back the speed until they were idling. ‘You can get ripped to pieces out here – in crook weather the place is like a bloody cauldron. Let her go,’ he called to Fats who was standing by ready to drop anchor. They were barely a hundred yards from the reef.
When the Maria Nina was securely at anchor, Tubby cut the engine. ‘We’ll hang back fine in this breeze,’ he said. ‘Grab us a beer, will ya, Einstein?’
Mike lifted out an icy cold bottle. Fats was already handing around three grimy plastic beakers. ‘Not for me thanks, Fats,’ he said, stripping down to his Speedos.
The brothers swigged on their beers whilst they baited up – two hooks on each handline. They had no intention of sitting idly by whilst the kid explored the wreck.
‘She should be about dead ahead of us,’ Tubby said as Mike donned his flippers. ‘Take your time, we’ll be jake, there’s good fishin’ here.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘And where there’s good fishin’, there’s sharks.’
‘You wouldn’t get me down there,’ Fats said, slinging his line over the side and watching it spiral from its reel down into the depths. The fact that their baits might well be an added attraction to sharks was of little concern to either Tubby or Fats. If the kid was mad enough to go swimming in shark-infested waters then that was his problem.
‘No worries.’ Mike grinned at the brothers’ dire warnings. They didn’t alarm him, he’d dived many a time with sharks.
He slid over the side and trod water whilst he rinsed his facemask and snorkel. When he was ready to take off, he gave the brothers the thumbs up.
‘Good luck, Einstein,’ Tubby called, chucking his own line into the water and holding his beaker out to Fats for a refill. He watched the kid’s easy style as he swam towards the reef, sliding through the water as if he was born to it. Just like Murray Rose, he thought. The kid was pretty to watch.
As Mike swam, a slow energy-conserving freestyle, his powerful flippers barely moving, he relished the sensation of the water and his sense of oneness with it. He always did. It wasn’t something he analysed, but neither was it something he took for granted. He was always aware that in the water he felt as if he were in his element, as if he and the sea shared something special.
Through the surface swirl he could see the reef below, and he made a shallow dive, just about seven or eight feet, to get a clearer view.
Then that exhilarating moment when sound ceased to exist and everything stopped, even time itself. It was what he loved most about free diving. There was no echo of laboured breathing through scuba equipment, there was just him and the world under the sea. A world where colour and action abounded and drama unfolded all in breathtaking silence.
Beneath the dappled silver canopy of sun and sea, the visibility was perfect and the colours vivid. The blues and greens of the corals, the fiery reds of the sponges, the delicately wavering mauves of the anemones, all were as riotously colourful as a spring garden in full blossom. He pressurised and swam a little deeper, following the reef’s terrain, through castle-like turrets where gaudily painted fish disappeared like magic, past ledges from which crayfish watched, their protruding feelers the only giveaway of their presence, down canyons where silver schools of skipjack and kingfish maintained their restless patrol.
He’d be around twenty feet now, he guessed, but no sign of the wreck. Time to go up. He stopped swimming and allowed himself to slowly drift upwards, just a gentle flick of the flippers now and then, depressurising as he went, watching the dappled silver above grow closer and closer.
When he broke surface, he heaved in a lungful of air and looked back at the Maria Nina. She was a good two hundred yards or so away. He must have drifted with the current. He circled back with slow, easy strokes, regaining his breath, studying the reef beneath him, conserving his energy. Perhaps, even from the surface, he’d be able to see the wreck. Given the calm conditions and the fact that she was lying at only twenty feet, surely it was possible. But try as he might, he could see no sign. Perhaps the brothers had got it wrong, he thought. He dived again, allowing himself more distance this time, he’d go with the flow of the current.
He was down about fifteen feet, once again lost in a world of silence and colour, and his attention was so focused on a vivid blue cluster of staghorn coral that he failed to notice the sinister grey shape that had appeared out of nowhere. It was the disturbed reaction of a school of silver bream that caught his attention, and he turned to see the shark gliding towards him effortlessly with no apparent movement of its body, like a robot on automatic pilot, majestic and omnipotent.
He anchored himself against the reef and watched, prepared to lunge forward in attack should the creature show any interest in him – attack was always the best form of defence. The shark was around ten feet in length. Barrel-shaped, yellow-eyed, with long gill slits and a high tail fin, it was a whaler, a dangerous species. But it paid him no attention as it passed by barely four feet away; he could have reached out and touched it.
He watched as the shark cruised a little deeper, gliding through a shallow valley in the rocks below. Perhaps it was unaware of his presence, or perhaps it was merely uninterested. He continued to admire its shadowy form as it cleared the valley and disappeared into the misty beyond.
Then the glint of something caught his eye, drawing his attention to a shape resting amongst the valley’s coral growth. It was a long, cylindrical shape at odds with its surrounds, far too regular to be fashioned by nature. And, as the sun’s light played teasingly through the ocean’s surface above, it glinted again.
His lungs told him he needed to resurface. He had no time to examine the shape, but he knew what it was. A cannon. He’d found the site. The wreck itself must be nearby.
When he broke surface, heaving in air, he looked towards the Maria Nina. In his excitement he wanted to shout to the brothers, ‘It’s here! I’ve found it!’, but they were paying him no attention. Tubby was heaving a dhufish over the side and Fats, having also struck lucky, was hauling in his line.
He trod water for a minute or so, keeping himself stationary against the current, careful not to drift over the spot while he prepared himself. And when he was fully recovered, he dived again.
The moment he was beneath the surface, he spotted the telltale glint and saw the cannon nestled in its rocky valley below. But as he swam downwards, he realised that the valley wasn’t a valley at all. It was the encrusted wreck of the Batavia.
There she was, a flattened-out skeleton moulded into her grave. The rocks had hollowed out a tomb over the years, protecting her in part from the destructive forces of tide and surf, and the stern and ribs of the vessel were in an extraordinary state of preservation. He was lost in awe, it was beyond his wildest expectations. He wasn’t sure what his expectations had been, but certainly not this.
Briefly, he examined the cannon. It was covered in sea growth, and he assumed it to be bronze but couldn’t be certain. It was the refraction of sunlight through relatively shallow water that had lent it the deceptively metallic glint. The giant anchor nestled nearby also seemed to glint from behind its thick encrustation of barnacles. It appeared to signal a life that belonged to its past glory.
But it was the skeletal remains of the Batavia that he found truly overwhelming. For centuries, the Abrolhos had kept her hidden, storing her here, preserving her like a trophy, as if in her amazingly recognisable condition she was proof of their own indestructibility.
He swam over what had been the belly of the ship, aware that he must resurface, that he must maintain enough breath in order to breathe out continuously on the way up and release the air pressure in his lungs. But he wanted to remain a part of it all for just one moment longer, to savour the image. It would never be the same on a second dive.
He locked himself between two of the mighty beams that formed the skeleton of the hull and stayed motionless, feeling himself a part of the vessel. Part of a vessel that was four hundred and thirty-six years old! The thought was staggering. And even more so as he recalled the tales the crew aboard the Pelsaert had told him. Names flashed through his brain. Pelsaert, the commander; Jacobsz, the skipper; Cornelisz, the wealthy merchant, the leader of the mutineers who’d tortured and murdered at random. And hundreds of nameless others, soldiers, sailors, passengers – over three hundred had been on board when she’d foundered. He pictured them as he looked about the wrecked hulk that was the Batavia. He felt their panic and heard their screams.
He must go up, he told himself, this was foolish. His lungs were now bursting, and he was asking for problems shooting to the surface from twenty feet without depressurising. But what the hell, it wouldn’t kill him, he’d wait just a moment longer.
He could see them now, their faces tormented, their screams ringing in his ears. Which voice, which face, he wondered, belonged to Jeronimus Cornelisz? Which one amongst them was the torturer, murderer, killer of children?
He stared at the faces that now came at him from every gloomy corner of the wreck. Men, women, children, terrified and tortured every one of them. He searched amongst them for the face of evil.
It was strange, his lungs were no longer at bursting point. In fact, he felt peculiarly at ease, as if he could stay for as long as he wished. As if he could breathe underwater.
It was then that the last vestige of common sense told him he was hallucinating. He was on the verge of drowning. He kicked away from the wreck and made for the surface, the voices behind him screaming for him to come back, screaming for him to save them. But the silvery glint of the sun was now screaming at him to save himself.
Closer and closer he came to the light. The sun was his life, but it was teasing him. It was so close and yet he was unable to reach it, his lungs once again bursting, panic setting in, a fist of iron clamping around his heart telling him he wasn’t going to make it.
Tubby was keeping a watch out for the kid. He hadn’t seen him for a while and he was wondering whether he should start to worry. Then he saw him break surface and breathed a sigh of relief. Silly of him to worry, the kid could swim like a fish. But his relief was short-lived. Something was wrong. The kid was clutching at his chest, gasping, his face contorted.
‘Einstein!’ Tubby yelled. And, sharks or no sharks, he hurled himself into the sea.