CHAPTER 9
Down on the beach after breakfast, Samuel questioned Alex with intensity, his eyes begging for an answer. ‘What did Hāmuera do with our boat?’
‘Dunno,’ Alex replied. Hāmuera had given her no genuine information. She gazed out over the water, deep in thought, not actually seeing anything.
‘Well, he nearly wrecked it—that’s what he did,’ her brother continued.
Alex didn’t answer. She briefly considered giving her brother an account of her conversation with Hāmuera before deciding there wasn’t a lot to be gained by doing so. The boy had revealed nothing. Then remembering the most chilling part, she told him, ‘He said he would have to kill me if he told me.’ She enjoyed the look on her brother’s face as he recoiled.
‘Hāmuera said that?’ His voice rose in a mixture of disbelief and anxiety. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Would he?’
‘Nah. He was kidding.’ Her voice trailed off. Her eyes spotted and followed a jet ski rounding the point, a white rooster tail of water spouting behind it. Above its mosquito whine, she said, ‘I think he would like to tell us but he’s a bit scared.’
‘Would either of you like to come fishing?’ Greg’s voice interrupted. In an instant, Samuel was on his feet.
‘Yes, please!’
Greg was already untying the cord that secured the dinghy to the kowhai tree and had begun hauling the bow around, ready to drag it to the water’s edge. Alex joined her brother in an instant. ‘We’ll do it, Dad,’ she offered.
‘That was close,’ she muttered as the two pulled the dinghy in noisy scrapings over the pebbly sand. They didn’t want any chance of their father noticing the damage and asking awkward questions about last night.
Fionna came down to check they had their life jackets on and to see them off with a pack of food and drink.
‘I’ve taken some sausages out of the freezer for tonight, but if you catch anything, we can have them tomorrow night. I’m putting in my order for another pan-sized snapper. OK?’
Her encouragement worked on Samuel, who confidently promised to bring her more than one back.
Before long, rods and bait had been stowed, the fifteen-horsepower outboard motor was attached to the transom, and Dad was tugging at the starter cord. It was a reluctant starter.
‘We could take Scoot.’ Samuel looked hopefully in the direction of the boat shed tucked into the bush and almost invisible behind the low boughs of the ancient pōhutukawa tree.
‘No. We’ll keep fish smells for our dinghy. Anyway, there’s not enough petrol left. I’m going into Russell tomorrow to get the tanks filled. We can take Scoot once we have full tanks.’
The red plastic fuel tanks often sat in the back of the station wagon on their trips into town. Fifty litres didn’t last too many days running Scoot’s sixty-five-horsepower outboard motor.
After a little tinkering with the choke, the small motor screamed into life before settling down to Greg’s hasty throttle adjustment. Both children were glad for their father’s close attention to the motor. It took away the likelihood of him noticing any signs of recent damage.
‘We won’t go too far,’ Greg said. ‘They say that after a bit of a blow and some rain, the fish come in close. Mind you,’ he added, ‘they say the opposite too. Who knows?’
He turned the tiller handle until the bow pointed towards Tāpeka Point in the distance before twisting the throttle wide open. The boat struggled to get up to planing speed, so Alex moved carefully aft, where Samuel sat with the motor between him and their father. As soon as the dinghy picked up speed, Alex returned to the centre seat and sat facing the bow, turning her head until the wind arranged her hair off her face. Vibrations juddered the hull, tickling the soles of her bare feet. Misted spray glittered on her bare arms.
Man, this is the life . . . just love this sun and sea and sand and stuff. Who needs school? Wonder what Nicole’s doing, not going away anywhere . . . mother has to keep working, father away on business or something . . . Laura’s up here somewhere . . . might run into her, probably in Russell, maybe Paihia. We might get a launch . . . Dad thinks the runabout is a bit small to go out to where the big ones are . . . sunbathe on the foredeck, dive off the flying bridge . . . man, I love this place.
Alex became aware of the jet ski some distance from their port beam. It was performing tight circles at high speed, throwing up walls of spray and bringing the craft to a swirling halt that threatened to unseat the rider.
She watched with detached interest until it came closer and she was able to see both rider and machine more clearly. The white jet ski was adorned with fluorescent red stripes edged by orange and yellow flame streaks. The rider gunned the throttle, and it rose from the sea like a hooked marlin. It leapt forward, turned, and passed at high speed, its motor shrieking, across their bow.
It was then that Alex recognised the rider. His large torso was bare. Thick tattooed arms extended from broad shoulders to grip the steering bar. An enormous backside and thigh were squeezed into voluminous Hawaiian board shorts, and a sturdy leg anchored him to the ski. His bearded face turned briefly to gauge the distance from the dinghy. It was Hāmuera’s cousin.
And then he was gone, a curved line of spray tracing his path towards Ponga Cove until he disappeared around Dick’s Point. Before Dad could throttle back, the dinghy hit its wake. Spray showered from the tossing bow as everyone held on tight.
Greg was annoyed. He throttled right back. ‘What is it with these Māori? Think they own the place. Don’t give a thought for others. I bet he doesn’t know the first thing about rules on the water. They’re as bad on the water as they are on the road.’
Alex thought that was a bit unfair. Surprisingly, Greg hadn’t made the connection between that driver and this rider. Nor had Samuel when they talked about it later. But it was Samuel who, still unconvinced, asked the question.
‘If that was him, how come he’s got a flash jet ski when his car is an old bomb?’
They had gone into the sheltered waters of Pāroa Bay because Greg felt sure the loose formation of terns flying beyond the headland meant sprats were schooling and where there are sprats, there are larger fish herding them into meal-sized groups. Kahawai first, then snapper below them and with luck, kingfish happy to flash through all layers for anything their mouths can snatch, even baited hooks or spinner lures.
Samuel was impatient, and each time their lines had been let down and no bites were felt within a few minutes, he pleaded with his father to move to another spot. He was very patient fishing familiar places, but today there was no time to waste on unrewarding waters.
Finally, Greg gave up trying to follow the excitedly wheeling and diving birds. They flapped quickly away, skimming waves to join yet another squawking flock, circling, aborting dives, or hovering skilfully above the surface.
A spot close to a small reef barely covered by high tide showed promise, as almost immediately there were strong tugs on their lines. Greg’s rod shuddered strongly, and he began to reel in. Shortly a silvery dart sliced from side to side beneath the surface. Before Greg could bring it to the surface, Samuel shouted, ‘Got one!’ and he began reeling in with a determined grin on his face.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Alex watched as the two reeled fish after fish into the boat. Most were not keepers, but the fish bag contained five pan-sized snapper by the time she felt her rod yank.
‘Got one too!’ she called excitedly. Greg was cutting up some mackerel for bait.
‘About time,’ he teased. ‘I thought you’d just come along for the ride.’
The line went slack, and for a disappointing moment, Alex thought her fish had slipped the hook. Then the rod almost pulled from her hand as the nylon line twanged. Greg looked up with renewed interest. Samuel was instantly alert.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s a big one. Don’t let it get off.’
Over the next minutes, Alex steadily wound in her line, ignoring the advice her brother offered. She knew she was winning even when she released the line tension several times to play her fish. When finally it came close enough to the surface, Greg announced, ‘Looks like a kingie. Get the landing net, Samuel.’
Samuel pulled it from the anchor shelf and handed it to his father before taking a position to peer over the side.
‘There it is,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s a kingie all right!’
It wasn’t as big as she had thought, even underwater, which tended to magnify size and give rise to fishermen’s tales, but it definitely was a kingfish, all sleek and silver and strong.
As she lifted it from the water for her father to slip the landing net under, she glimpsed a small kahawai in the kingfish’s mouth. This sometimes happened when the desperate threshing of a hooked fish attracts a predator, which also gets snagged by the same hook.
The kingfish fought vigorously without the water’s support. Greg leaned over the side, stretching to get its tail inside the hoop, but at the crucial moment, it wriggled furiously, flopped off the hook, teetered momentarily on the rim and plopped back into the sea despite his desperate efforts. It briefly gathered its bearings and then with a flick of its tail dived and was gone.
For a moment, everyone was silent. Then Alex said, ‘Nearly.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Greg said. ‘Too bad.’
Samuel said nothing, but when they had nearly got back to Pā Point, he said, ‘You can have one of mine, Alex. I don’t need them all.’
She grinned at him. ‘Thanks. Better luck next time, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘better luck next time.’
Freshly caught fish grilled over driftwood embers is heavenly. On a late December evening with the sun setting over a tranquil New Zealand beach, it is paradise. A smudge of woodsmoke climbed the rock face and disappeared into the vivid green foliage above. Wisps of cloud flushed pink as the sun nestled into the coastal hills. Now that the breeze had died and the water calmed, cicadas serenaded the entire beach.
In the late afternoon, before the fishing expedition had landed, Fionna had brought the beach furniture to their favourite spot. She listened with interest as the children recounted the events of the afternoon and applauded their catch. She sympathised with Alex over the big one that got away.
‘But I said she can have one of mine,’ said Samuel, withdrawing his hand from the plastic bag and holding up one of the smaller fish as proof. Fionna commended Samuel for his generosity.
Alex smiled ruefully. It’s the thought that counts.
Her parents sat on familiar white plastic chairs, their faces bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, sipping cool drinks. They held them loosely in day’s-end hands and talked quietly together. At other times, they turned to stare contentedly across the water, through eyes half closed against the red glare.
Samuel had gravitated to the rocks and was busy inspecting the few remaining crab crevices before the incoming tide swamped them. Alex watched him idly. Beyond his bobbing form, the broad stretch of Manawaora Farm rose above the pipi beds that stretched from the mangroves to the large shed at the other end of Farm Beach.
The last time they had gone to gather pipis from the muddy sand, she had gone quite silly after Samuel had tossed a small crab at her. Up to that moment, the thought of crabs had not entered her head. After that, every squelching step had made her shoulders hunch in dread of nasty, nipping creatures somewhere under her feet.
Samuel had suffered a badly upset stomach that same night, and Dad said it might be run-off from the farm contaminating the shellfish. It was strange then that Samuel was the only one who became ill, because they had all eaten some. Alex was nevertheless grateful they hadn’t returned since. Pipis were nice to eat—if someone else gathered them.
Samuel stood up, and as her eyes flicked towards him, Alex caught another movement behind. A car was driving slowly from the distant boat shed. Even at that distance, she recognised it as the battered brown car belonging to Hāmuera’s cousin. Instantly, her curiosity roused, Alex stood and walked towards the rocks, her eyes marking the vehicle’s progress.
‘Samuel, look . . . over there.’
Her brother was at first uncomprehending and then recognition dawned.
‘It’s that car,’ he said. ‘What’s it doing there?’
A conspicuous sign on the farm gateway promised prosecution for trespassers. The farm and that car went together like ice cream and spinach.
‘You know that car that was driving badly,’ Alex said to her father as they drew close to the gently browning fish. ‘Well, we just saw it driving over Manawaora Farm. Should it be there?’
‘It’s trespassing, Dad,’ Samuel affirmed.
Greg took the tongs and turned the fish on the grill. Juice spattered on the glowing embers, sending up a small plume of steam.
‘Could be,’ he replied absently, reaching for his glass.
Alex looked at her brother and lifted an eyebrow. Dad was ‘out of the office’ when barbecuing.
Before long, he rose from his squatting position and stretched his back. Long-armed tongs dangled from his hand.
‘It’s ready,’ he called. ‘Come and get it.’
The fish was excellent—cooked to perfection. Greg served it from the grill straight on to their plates, and everyone helped themselves to the food that sprawled over a plastic beach table: a crunchy green salad garnished with sliced tomatoes, cucumber, and grated cheese; a jar of lustrous mayonnaise for the children and bottle of light Italian dressing for the adults; potato salad and baby beetroot; fresh bread and butter stacked on the bread wrapper and a bowl of salt-and-vinegar potato crisps. A bottle of white wine and a Tupperware jug of apple juice completed the spread.
They ate with the hunger that sea air inspires, Samuel pausing every now and again to throw stones in the direction of some seagulls hopeful of evening alms.
It was a sublime evening. Samuel raced to get the camera, at Fionna’s request. Rich red clouds sucked the fire’s glowing embers into a fading sky. As a computer screen saver, it would be a sweet reminder of summer on a bleak winter’s day.
Conversation was heresy under the awesome canopy of changing light and colour. The sea eagerly offered its hues to the sky. The far shore pasted its silhouette upon a violet canvas.
The conductor swept his baton, and the cicada orchestra stopped abruptly.