I bet Melissa will tell Mum and Dad that I drove Grandpa’s car. I hope she does. I want her to describe how I drove up the beach, towing a trailer, entirely on my own, over the stones and the grass of the access, then turned into a siding on the road and parked under a big gum tree. Handbrake on. Car locked. Grandpa couldn’t have done it better. This will dispel the myth of the nerd who’s not practical. When I was using the washing machine one day and it chose to flood, Mum told me, “Never mind, Will, you’ll work with your brain and not your hands,” which is a ridiculous statement, I mean, how does a brain connect to a computer without hands? I believe in all sincerity that a smart brain can teach hands to do anything. In a few days I have become a chopper of wood, a fixer of water, a student of guitar and the driver of a gear-shift Vauxhall. Which is why I’m surprised when Grandpa lets Melissa steer the boat.

“This isn’t your job,” I tell her. “You helped Grandma set up the lines.”

“So?” She smiles. Her hair is blowing all over her face. I don’t know how she can see to drive a boat.

I explain it to her. “You help Grandma. I help Grandpa. You cook. I drive. Understand?”

So what does she do next? She turns and yells at Grandpa, “Will says I shouldn’t be driving the boat.”

“He’ll get his turn,” Grandpa says, chopping up bait on a board.

Oh, all right, fair enough, considering she didn’t want to come at all today and her sole training in boat skills has been making bread and scones. This is an echo of Mum’s shop, where Melissa gets to serve customers while I carry heavy boxes of old magazines to the recycling bins.

I sit at the stern of the boat near Grandma, and put a safety pin swivel on the line on my rod, a simple task complicated by the way Melissa bounces the boat over waves.

We are now in the outer Sounds and the edges of hills have the sun on them, although the shadows are still dark. Our wake is astonishingly smooth compared with the sea on either side – I mean, you could ski behind the boat and feel you were on glass. The fringes of the wake are turbulent immediately behind us, diminishing to bands of white froth as far as I can see. Occasionally, a bit of seaweed or driftwood slides by, and something hard, wood, I expect, rattles along the bottom of the boat which I’m sure is called a keel, even on runabouts, and I think it’s just as well for Melissa that it didn’t smash into the propeller.

Grandma’s voice is louder than the motor. She tells me the names of the various bays and things about them, like the people who built their house around their caravan, and the man who ate everything raw, vegetables, fish and meat, because he said cooking took life out of food.

“See that hut? Doesn’t look much, does it? An astronomer lived there. Came all the way from California with his telescope, to see Halley’s Comet.”

“Is he still there?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know and if I did know, I’ve forgotten. Over there is D’Urville Island. The bush was cleared by burning and when the smoke was over, the ground was littered with kiwi skeletons.”

Too much information! There are some things you don’t need to think about. But both my grandparents have an appetite for the sensational, a genetic trait that is lacking in my father and me, but occasionally apparent in my sister. Melissa has a flair for the dramatic.

At a suitable moment, I say to Grandma, “Did you know that Melissa stabbed an inflatable castle to death with her spiky shoes?”

Grandma laughs. “Yes, she told me. A pity no one filmed it.”

That’s exactly what I mean about being dramatic, my sister indulging in sensationalism even when she is responsible. The truth is she should have been too ashamed to mention it.

As we get close to D’Urville Island, Grandpa takes over the wheel and throttles back. He calls me up front to man the anchor. It turns out that anchoring a boat is not a simple matter. It requires knowledge of wind and tidal currents and the amount of chain and rope to be let out, approximately four times the length of the boat. This is a grapnel anchor like the skeleton of an umbrella, and suitable for these conditions, Grandpa says.

“How do you know it’s suitable?” I ask.

“I just know,” he says, which is not helpful to some-one wanting information. Then he yells, “Right you are! Drop your lines.”

Our bait is frozen pilchard, half-thawed and very effective. The second my sinker hits the bottom, there is a heavy tug and my rod jiggles.

“Wind it in!” yells Grandma. Her voice gets louder. “Oh boy, oh boy! I got one!”

We wind in two big cod, almost black, and swing them over onto the deck. They flap close to our feet.

“Get them off the hook,” Grandma says. “Both of them. I can’t see to do it.”

I’ve caught fish before, herrings off the end of the wharf, and Mum or Dad has always taken them off the hook. It’s not that I’m afraid of cod, simply that no one has explained the technique for doing this. I touch the fish’s head and it goes into a spasm, jumping over my feet and tangling my line.

Grandma says, “Grab a cloth and hold it by its stomach. Go on, grab it! That’s right. The spines can’t hurt you. Now hold it firmly and work the hook out.”

It is a very unpleasant task. I imagine how I’d feel with a hook through my upper lip and then I think of the holes in Melissa’s ears. She sticks earrings in and out and it doesn’t seem to hurt. Her friend Jacquie even has a couple of holes in her nose – and I’m not talking about her nostrils.

Still holding the fish with the cloth, I drop it into the plastic bin. It thuds against the sides, desperate to get back to the sea. It’s gross. I’m not super keen on fish and if I have to eat it, I’d prefer it came from a shop. But now I have to get the hook out of Grandma’s cod. This one has swallowed the bait and the hook is deep inside. It all turns out a bit messy, and the fish looks quite dead when I’ve finished. I think of a lion biting a gazelle. I read somewhere that lions bite the back of the neck to break the spine so that their prey feels no pain. It would be good to know that fish, being cold-blooded, don’t feel pain. That would be a logical assumption since they frequently take chunks out of each other.

Grandpa is taking Melissa’s fish off the hook and that’s okay because she hates wet and slimy things. We now have four cod, all in about five minutes of fishing.

Straight away Grandma gets another, but this time it’s a small cod, pale brown. “Too little,” she says. “Take it off the hook and throw it back.”

I wrap the cloth around its belly and gently ease out the hook. As I throw the cod into the sea, there is a splash, a flash of silver and the little fish disappears.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Grandma asks.

“A big fish, silver, maybe it’s a shark.”

“Barracuda!” she calls to Grandpa.

“Flaming barracudas!” he yells. “Lines up, everyone. No use fishing when the barracudas are around. We’ll try somewhere else.”

We all wind in our lines and put the rods in their holders.

“Hey, laddie!” Grandpa calls. “You pull up the anchor. Your sister can take the wheel.”

Melissa takes off her hat, scoops her hair back and puts the hat back. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I can do the anchor. Let Will drive the boat for a while.”

Cool! I go up to the skipper’s seat.

She gives me a cheeky grin. “Your turn, snot-face,” she says.