The Windy Season (5 page)

After a few minutes the ute slowed and then stopped. The
engine idled. There was an accented voice and then the closing of a car door. The trailer lurched and they were off again. He felt jittery, lying there. A sort of edginess he couldn't put his finger on. Exhaustion, he figured, or the putrid cold on his skin. Whatever it was, he felt weak and empty, and as though each bump in the road was shaking him loose.

It wasn't long until the drone of bitumen ended and they were on sand. The trailer squeaked and rocked. The boat swayed. Paul raised his head as they slowed again. The ute groaned, revving hard as the load was manoeuvred. The skiff was reversed down towards the water. When the vehicle stopped he climbed out.

The inlet seethed with chop and spray. Jake and the deckhand stood at the water's edge, staring at the clouds dark and knotted above them. Out past the sandy spit of the rivermouth, Paul could see the glow of surf. He could hear it too, a seismic rumbling that he expected to feel in the ground under his feet.

The deckhand, thin-armed and blond, not much older than Paul, signalled as the skiff was backed further down the bank. He shielded a cigarette under the crook of his arm and winced at the sea spray in his eyes. But he was grinning, a proper joyful smile, despite the wind and the mouldering stink of the rivermouth and the thunder of the surf, and Paul assumed he must be drug-fucked. The trailer submerged and as the back wheels of the ute touched the water the deckhand gave a shout and held his palm up. The ute halted. Jake jumped out and threw the keys to the younger man before hauling himself into the boat with a grunt.

Okay, the deckhand yelled to Paul. You with Jake.

Paul stood, unsure what he meant.

Fucking now! Jake shouted. Get in so the German can give it a shove!

Paul scrambled once again over the rim of the skiff, back into the foul wet. The German leant against the nose of the boat and pushed it free of the trailer. Paul watched him scamper up the dark beach as they drifted out. The small boat reared and jerked in the water. Spray whipped over them. Paul hid his head under his jacket arm. The older man swore. On the shore, the ute's headlights streamed over seaweed, pot floats and dune scrub before turning off the beach. Jake tilted the outboard from the water and pulled hard at the cord. The motor gave a startled growl and went silent. In the purple light Paul studied the look on the man's face. The eyes were wide, staring at the outboard with a kind of desperation. Teeth gritted and lips flattened. It was a look somewhere between contempt and repulsion. Anger and fear.

Hi, Paul said.

Right, Jake said, and pulled at the cord again. Fuck this!

The boat dipped and the river cast more water over them.

Paul yelled into the breeze. This is my first time out.

I know. Jake ripped at the cord once more and the motor cried out. You've picked some day . . . The words trailed off under the grunt and sputter of the outboard and the moan of the wind.

They bumped across to the jetty where the German was waiting, holding a packet of tobacco and a red thermos. The deckhand climbed down into the skiff and sat at the bow. He yawned and then smiled out into the dark. The three of them made their way into the inlet where the boats were huddled together in deeper water, hulking silhouettes that wrenched and nodded on their moorings. It was a short stretch from the riverbank but it was miserable going. Jake cringed and swore at each pitch of the bow, at every shower of brackish water.

As they neared the moorings, Paul could see the flicker
of lights on a few of the cray boats and the shadows moving about on their long decks. There were names tattooed on each bow.
Lady Stark
.
Hell Cat. Nun's Nasty
and
Blue Murder
. Jake cut the outboard when they pulled up against the vast side of
Arcadia
. The German hurried the rope around the brass bollards of the cray boat then gestured for Paul to climb up. The skiff reared and kicked, battering the walls of
Arcadia
like a riled bull. Paul hesitated. Jake grumbled. When the skiff bucked again Paul jumped, scrambling up and over, landing on the carpeted deck on his belly, breathing hard. Jake climbed up behind him. The German stood wide-legged in the skiff and passed up the sagging boxes of bait. At one moment he thumped a hand down on the rim of the small boat, just keeping himself from going in, and grinned wildly.

When the bait was loaded, the German tied the skiff to the moor and clambered onto the deck. Inside the cabin Jake put the kettle on. Paul crouched beside the bait. He pulled back the clear tape from one of the greasy cardboard boxes and again almost vomited at the flash of scales and purple eyes and reeking stench. The German squatted with him under the lights of the deck to quarter the silver bream, slipping the long knife through the fish with such nonchalant ease that he might be slicing oranges. Paul turned away and gulped in the sour air of the inlet. He looked beyond the twisting mouth of the river, past the white boil of the inshore reefs and out to the shadowy scowl of the horizon.

Alright, Jake sighed, stepping out from the cabin. He closed his eyes for a moment before settling a glare on Paul. You listen to the German here. We're not going to have time to fiddle around and show you what's what. You keep your eyes on the job and you work hard. While you're on this boat you're busting your arse. Not here to fluff about.

Yep, Paul said.

Yep, Jake mimicked, unsmiling. Hope your head's screwed on. There's a million and one ways it can all go to shit out there.

Paul nodded.

Jake pointed to the circular steel head of the winch at Paul's back. If the German rips a pot in too hard and it leaps into the boat, and you're pissing about in front of that winch, you're gone.

Paul looked at the taut face of the skipper, at the slight spasm of his jaw, the swollen vein on his temple. He spoke like he was trying to hold his whole body together, so tense he just might fizz over, spitting into oblivion like an aspirin.

It's going to be ugly water, he said. Keep the rope off your legs or you'll go over. Don't fuck about with the winch or I swear to God it will take your arm clean off. You listen to the German. You listen to me. He gave Paul a long stare. Just fucking pay attention.

Yes, Paul replied.

And don't use the shitter, Jake said, flicking a hand towards the white booth on the outside wall of the cabin. It's buggered. If you have to, you piss or dump over the side.

He stepped back inside the cabin and left Paul and the smiling German to the pong of the bait and the hostile company of the breeze. For a moment Paul thought about the broken toilet, trying to imagine how one would keep their balance squatting on the low wall of the cray boat, bum dangling over the sea. He pictured Jake, grim-faced on the gunwale, arse poised above deep water.

On the shore there was still no sign of the sun but it had lightened just enough that Paul could see the caravan parks and bed-and-breakfasts that crowded the banks of the rivermouth. Behind those, spied in glimpses down darkened streets, there was something like suburbia.

Jake climbed up onto the bridge with his coffee flask. The diesels announced themselves with a thought-clearing rumble and the huge deck began to vibrate. Paul felt the tremor of the engines in his body, rattling through the hollowness of his stomach. They taxied out to where the river gave way to the sea through a narrow gap between the sandbank and the churn of a reef. Paul looked back along the broad creamy wake to the paradoxical vision of the town. A mess of new and old. Smooth and rough. Shiny and dull. There were the bright rendered walls of the resort on the headland and then the yellowed brick of the TAB further down the inlet. Ruler-straight tropical palms and twisted dwarf trees. He saw the buttery light from a hotel-room window and wished like hell he was in there. Or even in that musty bed in the hostel.

The cray boat roared as they reached the rivermouth, running the gauntlet of backwash and coral. There was the gnash of water over shallow reef. They hurtled through the gap in a hail of spray and in an instant they were on the sea, the swells long and bloated beneath them. The boat tore impatiently for deeper water, like a jet seeking altitude. The horizon danced about. Paul's mouth was dry. The bow lifted over a swell and then dropped and all the gear on the deck slammed. His stomach tightened.

Pretty rough, eh? Paul yelled to the German, breathless.

The German gave him a sick grin. Out there, he said, tilting his head towards the horizon. Out there it really kicks inside your arse.

The town was now just a grubby white streak. Further south, Paul could see the pale red of the bluff and the sheer face of rock that disappeared down the coast like a great wall. He looked at the cleaved outline of those cliffs and imagined a giant and an axe.

Michael, the deckhand said, introducing himself.

Paul could only nod. His mind was fixed on his stomach. He felt his intestines tighten, withdrawing. He tasted the sourness on the back of his tongue.

I am sorry about your brother, the German said, above the noise.

Before Paul could attempt a word there was the toot of a horn up on the bridge and the German readied himself at the gunwale. Paul stood next to him and could see the pink flash of the floats between grey swells.

I will winch this in, Michael said. You empty it.

What?

The pot. I get it in and you take the crays out and drop them in the box there. Then stack the pot up the back. Easy.

Paul felt lightheaded. The wind was cold on his cheeks. He looked for land but it was hidden behind the roll of water. Michael started the winch. The spindle hummed.

How do I grab them? Paul asked. Where?

By the back or the legs. The dick. Whatever. It is just a lobster. Any other shit in that pot you chuck back over. Seaweed. Octopus. Port Jackson. Just fuck it off.

What's a Port Jackson?

It has got rough skin and sharp teeth. Like my father. The German chuckled to himself. You might want those, he said, pointing to a pair of orange gloves on the deck.

The engines quietened and the boat slowed as the pots brushed the hull. Michael swung the grappling hook down into the water.

I lied, Michael said, grimacing as the rope tightened in his hands. Crayfish do not have dicks. Not that I have seen. Tell me if you see one, yeah?

In one practised movement he hauled the heavy line through the tipper and wrapped it onto the winch head. The rope sang and water spun off it as the line whipped around the capstan and coiled into a bucket. The wooden pot emerged from the sea in a coat of white water. It clattered against the steel of the tipper. Michael pulled the pot up onto the railing. Paul gazed through the ribs of wood, the trap bristling with red feelers and spines and shiny black eyes. He was staring dumbly at the animals when a swell thundered against the hull and over the gunwale and he collected a horrifying mouthful. He gagged. His throat burnt. Michael waited next to him. The skipper sounded the horn again. Paul cringed and threw a gloved hand through the gate and grabbed something prickly and hard as stone. The lobster flapped in his hand, a wet crunching sound. He pulled the crayfish out, met its steely glare and could have sworn it winked at him. Another wave slapped over the hull, tumbling into him, soaking through his t-shirt and jeans and tennis shoes. Paul dropped the lobsters into the tub one by one and then slumped against the gunwale. His body shook with cold. Michael stacked the pot for him, carrying the heavy trap across the tilting deck with an almost comic stagger, legs and arms akimbo, feet splayed like a clown.

They pulled the second and third line. Michael lugged the emptied pots to the stern.

Paul waited for Jake to call it all off, to decide it was too rough, to step down from the bridge and say, Sorry, boys, we should never have come out. But once more the engines quaked beneath them. The deck shuddered. The boat heaved around, turned seawards, and they were gunning out to even deeper water. The bow butted against the swell, bobbing like the head of a racehorse. The swell lines broadened. The ocean grew big and dark and seemed to
move in slow motion. Paul looked up at the grey ridges of water, felt his breath go at the sight of each one. His mouth was sour, his jaw tight.

When the horn sounded Michael prepared the hook. Paul struggled to lift his eyes to the water. The sun had broken through the clouds but it brought little relief. Under the hard light the waves looked even bigger, their threat clearer. He could see the arms of kelp strewn across the surface of the sea, torn from the ocean floor. Swells glinted like knives turned to the sun. The danger around him seemed more defined, his fear sharpened.

The tipper banged again and Michael slid the pot over. Paul had a hand on a cray when the boat lurched down so hard that he had the sensation of being parallel to the surface of the sea, levitating inches above. He gripped the gunwale with his free hand, holding himself in the boat, while the pot wrenched at his right forearm. It threatened to take him over. The deck seesawed. The hull levelled out. And then the cray boat rolled again, leaning down so that all Paul could see was ocean, green and clear and bottomless. He yelped at the deadly weight of the pot on his arm, at the thought of it rushing him down to the seabed. Then the boat steadied. The German hooted, laughed. Paul moaned.

He emptied the pot and waited for Michael to stack it for him but the deckhand was already pulling another line. Paul leant back and took the weight of the trap on his thighs. He stepped once towards the stern when the deck reared violently and he was thrown onto his back. The pot clattered on the floor. His limbs stiffened with panic. The deck was alive beneath him, a frightening energy, as if he was lying on quaking earth. He rolled onto his stomach and for a moment he was looking down on the cabin, the boat seemingly vertical, pitched forward on its nose.
He heard terrible music falling out of him, a mad wailing that he didn't recognise as his own voice. He crawled towards the cabin door. The German was shouting something but Paul couldn't hear him. All he could see was the deckhand's mouth moving and the apocalyptic scene of the ocean beyond the walls of the boat, flickering and dancing like fire. Surrounding them. Endless.