The flat, languid sea, deserted, other than for the 'Hawk' hanging at the end of the long, thin jetty, her unfurled sails, listless in the still air. In the distance, the few scattered houses of Tumby Bay
We had spent the night cruising off the bay believing someone would hear the throb of our diesel and switch on the beacon, enabling us to negotiate the rock strewn channel... if anyone did hear us, they never bothered.
Max could not find a shoal to drop the hook, all night peering at the shore, brilliant in the moonlight, swearing at everyone sleeping there. I had stayed at the wheel, mainly because I felt safer. Patches of black rock, everywhere. Occasionally, the shags would fly up off the rocks, protesting at being disturbed, Max would shout for a course change and to hurry up. A rather haphazard way of navigation. The 'Althorpes' reputedly the most dangerous waters in the world, yet had never seen Max, or any other ketch skipper get a chart out.
The other men were asleep when I swung aboard, not anything else too do. Sleep, work, sleep, work, . Thought the romanticism wearing rather thin. White sails taut, white bows, cutting through the clear ocean, became mundane, with the throb of a two hundred horse power diesel, shattering the illusion.
Max would, on occasion, with the wind dead ahead, leave all the canvas up, the main swinging about with a tremendous crash, but no one bothered. One night, during the middle watch, I became tired of this incessant crashing… sea in a foul mood, breaking over the bows, rigging shuddering at each successive wave. Lashed the wheel, went out on deck to find the boom davits jammed, not thinking, jumped up and grabbed hold as it passed overhead, immediately finding myself hanging out over the drink. Little good shouting, only hoping that I could hold on long enough for it to swing back…. it had been very lonely out there.
Not until late evening did the roll of the wagons break the stillness. About ten men pushing the trucks. Ten of them, three of us. Should have been a 'cocky'. We opened the hatches up. The wooden shute came first, the first four bags used to make a platform on which to drop the other couple of thousand. The height of the platform had to be such, that as the wheat bag dropped, it could be hooked over the shoulder without hesitation and run along the keel to the bows, packing the bags tightly, in symmetrical rows. Only us three did the graft, the cockey's standing about smoking, taking it in leisurely turns to drop the bags down.
Hard, dusty and dark, the only light being from a torch and the moon looking down the hatches. The thud of the bags went on and on, my neck and back started to get sore, regardless of cloth tied round my head hanging over my shoulder and down to my waist, soles of my bare feet burnt on the hessian. About one a.m. the last bag dropped into its position, wiped the sweat and dirt from my eyes, the 'cockeys' looking at us as some kind of idiots, they were probably right. I was not happy to see that there were still a couple of hundred bags on the wagons. We battoned down the hatch covers and started to put the remaining wheat on them.
By now the 'Hawk' sat firmly on the water line, all that was needed was a good 'blow' and we would be in trouble. We never possessed a barometer, nor did we have any kind of radio. The weather being assessed by experience.
The sky was clear and star studded as we shoved off into a windless night. Max having stood and watched us load, decided to ease his conscience and take the wheel. I brewed up, opened some tins, the three of us went forward and crashed in out bunks leaving Max to contemplate the gently heaving bows and the heavens.
Woke quite suddenly to the realisation we were not running right, wallowing to the port side with a slow corkscrew motion, at the same time it sounded as if someone was hammering on the timbers with giant, slow, sledge hammer blows. The other two, completely unconscious to all this, their bodies rolling uneasily in the bunks. I dropped on the deck ...into about six inches of Vincent Gulf
"Get those two lazy bastards and straighten that wheat out."
Then I had always been a defeatist. Realised he had not even faintly considered we were sinking or the elements would get better of him, however great the odds.
"There's a foot of water forward."
Shouted back, trying in the dim compass light to see the expression on his face. The wheel kicked in his hands, thought he would have broken his wrist at least; it spun madly backwards and forwards as he let go.
Max, tall, strong, about thirty three, only mentioned women in an embarrassed, furtive way if he was being serious. Mostly he covered by shouting that "Sheila's were only good for one thing," otherwise they were a fucking nuisance! Given the slightest chance, or no chance at all he would launch into his favourite story of 'capturing' two girls in Port Adelaide. Getting them aboard, running their knickers up to the masthead on the halyards. There were other aspects to this yarn, but they would have to be told first person.
Max lived in a world in which women played no part. The moment he stepped ashore, he made straight for the first place he could get a schooner of lager… stand there, all day, elbows on the bar, trilby hat pushed to the back of his head ... 'Jack the lad'. To my knowledge, he never thought about anything. I had only seen him read comics, at which he laughed uproariously, but in the situation I found myself, no other man I would rather have been with. Finally managed to wake the others, told them the good news. Whichever way we tried, the wheat would not budge. A few swollen bags were pulled up, back where they belonged hopeless. We ran, gunnels awash, the pounding went all through the long following day. No navigation instruments, other than the compass and lead line. Low clouds completely blotted out the position of the Sun. About five or six in the evening, a distinct change in the heavy rolling. Max, by some miracle, had found 'Pinky Flats' and had broken his long silent watching of the port list. He started shouting, although we all huddled against each other in the wheelhouse. We were to get forward and break out both hooks while he maneuvered up into the wind.
The maneuver was to let up, drop one hook, then let the 'Hawk' fall back, paying out most of the chain as she went, then, put her ahead again at an angle of some thirty degrees, coming up level roughly where the other anchor was, then drop the second anchor, again running backwards.
Theoretically, we should be secured at the end of a 'V'. Under the circumstances it never worked out that easy. For a start, the anchor chain jammed in its locker, one of us having to go down there to free it, at the risk of loosing an arm or a leg. Max screamed at us from the wheelhouse although thankfully, only snatches of the abuse come through the wind. It must have taken us a couple of hours to complete, at least that was what it seemed like.
Max cut the motor and we were plunged into a sudden, silent isolation, broken by the warm wind rattling and moaning in the rigging and the incessant splash of the waves against the bows. I looked over the side to see if we were going to hold against the short sharp chop.
The chains remained taut, the 'Hawk' settled into the fast approaching night. I climbed up the rigging with the riding light, lashing it to the highest point I was able to reach, not the slightest chance of being run down, perhaps, more in hope, that by some fluke we may just be seen.
Darkness stretched tight across the sky, a faint, final trace of red on the horizon. Looking below, instead of having the deck beneath me, listing so badly I hung over the sea. Max and the other two started cutting away the deck load, knew then that we were in big trouble. Max did not like saying good-bye to money. Wondered how far the sea had penetrated into the hold. A lot of water in the bilge, to my knowledge had never seen any kind of pump other than the one in the engine room integral with the diesel. By the time I dropped down on to the deck, most of the bags were drifting astern, yet, we had not come to the upright position, or anywhere near it. Went, poked my head down the focsel, could hear the water sloshing about. Without a life jacket or a dingy, going to be a long swim back to Port Adelaide. Never considered the primitive way these ketches travelled about, been on many boats, never one that had actually sunk. The lack of a radio or safety equipment did not invoke any comment.
After a couple of days, nothing whatever had changed, everyone found their own place against the motion. Max was OK having his own cabin, spending time lying in it fully clothed looking at the deckhead, cigarette dangling from his lips, a thick black stubble on his face.
Once he moved himself; climbed out of his cot, found the rifle, amused himself shooting shags. ..there were a lot about, appearing quite at home in the heavy swell and strong wind. But he tired quickly of this, after swearing at everything and everyone, he disappeared. We must have been lying in about ten fathoms and holding together.
Everyone began to get up tight about the situation; the lack of activity, coupled with little evidence of the wind and waves ever subsiding,taking turns to sit in the cross trees, overcoming the dizziness created by the motion, with our desire to perhaps see a passing vessel. Days dragged on. Max, on a rare visit to the focsel perched himself on the spare bunk. I was curious as to what had prompted him to come down into this creaking, clanking hole, with its blanket of damp heavy air. I was writing a letter, more in hope than with any conviction of it ever reaching its destination. Had never seen anyone else on board write, nor had I ever seen a piece of note paper or a pen. Max looked at me as if I were doing something most unusual. Everyone had run out of the thin conversation a long time ago. Anything at all was to be seized upon. Rather surprised when he came out with "Show us ya ditshonary, Blue". Had carted the book all over the globe dubious about letting him get his huge grimy hands on it. But, lying there, in the suitcase by my side, it hardly appeared I had any option. Taking the book, he flicked through the pages trying to make something out of this, gently taking the piss. He closed it up and started to leave. Half way up the ladder, he turned as if having a remark to make, changed his mind and went through the hatch, into the day light.
Ten days before anything happened. About noon, white gulls swirling, screaming overhead - by now we were their regular parking place - screeching and haggling, feathers ruffled. Most of my time spent in the rigging, the focsel and wheelhouse having become oppressive, divided my time enabling me to avoid the rest of the crew. At night I crashed on the on the wheelhouse floor, plenty of draughts but relatively dry, did have it to myself. From my lookout in the cross trees, thought I had seen a couple of sails, decided had imagined them, simply a trick of light against the clouds.
Sufficiently interested to climb the remaining fifteen feet to the top of the masthead, just to make sure. The mast, greasy dirty, the only way up being to wrap your body about it and work upwards. Precarious, with the stakes so high, more than a touch of desperation in my effort. Quite definitely two ships. All I had on was a pair of jeans. By contorting myself, able to get them off and start waving, just in case they thought we were simply anchored up. Recognized the 'Nelcebee' immediately. Such a queer shaped thing, the other ketch I had seen about but did not know. Shouted below, but may well saved my breath. Both boats were hard on the windward side by the time I hit the deck, no way could they get alongside. They threw loaves of bread and a whole cannery of tins. All very pleased with themselves. Evidently we had been given up for lost. It had been given out on the radio. Wondered what Virginia
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