Pescador's Wake (19 page)

‘Shouldn't we tell the South Africans we're surrendering?' El Animal asks, his large frame propped against the wheelhouse wall.

‘We're receiving both Inmarsat and VHF radio communications but can't transmit anything, courtesy of
Dmitri,' Carlos explains. ‘If any of you know anything about electronics, be my guest. It might help things go more smoothly.'

The
Bremner
keeps on, ‘
Pescador, Pescador,
I will repeat my earlier call. Given your proximity to South African waters, we have offered to lead the boarding of your vessel on behalf of the Australian Government. It is in your interests to cooperate. We are assuming your communications are down. Perhaps you cannot answer our radio call. We will be sending a boarding party at 0900 hours. It is not safe to attempt a boarding in the fading light now. We would ask you to begin to turn your vessel around and head due east. We will take that action as agreement with our request. Over.'

Carlos steers the boat as instructed in a neat and obedient arc afforded by the calm seas. He is surprised to feel the relief of surrender, the ease of simply following orders and handing himself over to fate.

The South African voice resumes. ‘
Pescador, Pescador, Pescador,
this is the
Bremner.
It appears you have received our request and have responded favourably. Please continue on this course. We will resume communications in the morning. Over and out.'

Carlos's face folds into an exhausted smile. He holds out a hand to Manuel who shakes it reluctantly. ‘It's over.'

‘I'll have a go at fixing the radio if you like,' El Animal offers. ‘If someone wants to receive messages but not transmit,
there are only a few ways to do it. It should be fairly easy to figure out.'

Carlos, visibly impressed, steps back to allow El Animal access to the communications systems. ‘Please, do what you need.'

Two of the crew lift Dmitri and carry him from the wheelhouse. Carlos imagines the Russian turning ice-cold in the freezers, and feels no regret. As the other crew members return to their cabins, El Animal disconnects the handset and takes it away. In less than an hour he is back in the wheelhouse.

‘It should work now,' he tells Carlos with a glimmer of pride. ‘Dmitri had cut the handset microphone wires.'

‘Well, it's good to have you on our side.'

El Animal reconnects the handsets and signals to Carlos with a nod when the job is complete. Carlos attempts a satellite call to Uruguay's Fisheries Department. He suspects, however, that with two nations now involved in the apprehension of the
Pescador,
the department has been kept abreast of developments.

Carlos's call is answered and he gives the Peruvian the thumbs-up. El Animal salutes light-heartedly and takes his leave.

‘What the hell happened to you?' Francisco sounds annoyed. ‘We've been trying to reach you.'

‘It's a long story, but it's over. We're being boarded in the morning. No doubt you know that.'

‘
Si.
But why were communications down? It looks like you were avoiding our calls for you to return here. How are we supposed to help you?'

‘There was a mutiny. Our Russian engineer cut contact. Francisco…we've lost the first mate and one of our Spanish crew, as well as the engineer, Dmitri Ivanov.'

‘
¡Mierda!
How? What happened?' Francisco stops himself. ‘Wait, Carlos, there's something else…It's Julia. She has gone into labour early.'

Carlos is silent. He can hear a coursing pulse of blood in his ears as panic takes hold. It's almost as though his heart stopped with the news and is now racing to make up the missed beats.

Manuel enters the wheelhouse, the wound above his eye freshly bandaged, and Carlos indicates for him to take the helm.

‘Is she all right?' Carlos finally asks.

‘
Si.
She was taken to hospital yesterday morning but they couldn't hold things off.'

‘And the baby?'

Francisco hesitates. ‘Obviously he's very small. He's in intensive care.'

‘A boy…But will he be okay?'

‘We're all praying for him, Carlos.'

‘
Jesús
,' Carlos cries, his free hand holding his forehead, covering his eyes. ‘I have to get home. We're being sent back
to Australia. No doubt you know more than we do. Please. I have to get home.'

‘We're doing all we can. We have to take this one step at a time.'

Carlos wipes tears from his face with the sleeve of his polar fleece and kicks at the loose carpet tile with his boot. ‘Please, just explain the situation to the Australian officials. I'll face whatever charges they like, but I need to see Julia first. Can I answer the charges from Uruguay?' Carlos is overcome with a sudden urge to head the boat back around, but contains himself. He has no choice.

‘I'll see what we can arrange. Just keep your mind on the job there as much as you can. You still have a boat of men under your command. I've contacted the owner for you and have let him know what has happened. I'll also need to inform the relatives of the deceased. I have a crew list here. Can you repeat the dead men's names?'

Carlos's nose is dripping from emotion, and he wipes it again with the back of his sleeve. ‘Eduardo Rodríguez Torres, first mate. But now that communications are restored, I'd like to tell his wife myself. He was my best friend. We go back a long way.'

‘Eduardo,
si,
I spoke with him over the satellite phone. How did he die?'

‘He was trying to chip ice off the deck. He was the only one out there. Our Russian engineer made sure of
that. Eduardo was washed overboard. I did everything I could.'

‘I have no doubt. But there will be some formalities, of course. All the deaths will need to be properly reported once you reach port. What are the other names?'

‘Dmitri Ivanov, the engineer who took the helm at gunpoint. He brought the weapon on board without my knowledge. And Roberto Cruz, a Spaniard. Dmitri ordered him shot.'

‘
¡Ay, mierda!
I'll arrange for a representative from the Uruguayan consulate to be present during questioning back in Australia. But that's enough for now. Have you got any questions, Carlos?'

‘Have you heard anything of Migiliaro's missing boat?'

‘He hasn't reported any vessels missing.'

‘You should be holding an inquiry into those deaths, too.' Carlos says, his anger building. ‘Or are you just going to let Migiliaro get away with it? He sent those men to their deaths. He's the one telling us where to fish—or don't you want to hear that?'

Francisco says nothing.

Carlos picks at a piece of dry skin on his lip, drawing blood. ‘How's María? Who's with her?'

‘She's fine. Cecilia is looking after her until Julia's parents arrive. We're taking good care of her.'

Carlos feels sick at the thought of not being able to comfort his daughter. At the thought of shallow, cold Cecilia,
of all people, taking his place. Cecilia and Francisco, who Carlos knows will do nothing to try to bring him home, are no substitute for family. ‘Can I phone you tonight so I can speak with her?'

‘
Si,
of course.'

‘And Julia. Can you find the hospital number for me and have it when I call?'

‘I have it here,' Francisco says, and gives it to Carlos. He also gives Carlos his home number. ‘By all means phone us tonight. I'm sure it'll help María to hear from you.'

‘
Si.
And Francisco, please don't tell Cecilia yet about Eduardo. Julia and I were both close to him and I want to tell my wife that news myself.' Carlos ends the satellite call and covers his face with his hands.

‘Your boy will be all right,' Manuel offers, placing his hand on Carlos's shoulder. In the confines of the wheelhouse, the Spaniard has heard the whole conversation. ‘If he's anything like his father, your baby boy will be all right.'

Carlos nods appreciatively. He dials the number for the maternity ward and asks to speak to Julia. She answers quietly.

‘Julia, my love,' Carlos says, fighting back tears.

‘Carlos.'

Carlos hears that she is crying too and fears the worst for his son, but is relieved to hear her continue.

‘He's so small. He's being kept alive with machines. Why didn't you answer my calls?'

‘Our communications were down. I'll explain later. Don't worry about that now. Everything will be all right. Francisco says our baby is getting really good care.'

‘He's in a humidicrib, behind Perspex! I can't even hold him. They keep taking blood from his tiny arms and legs, wherever they can find a vein large enough to take a needle. And chest X-rays. His lungs are so immature. There's no bleeding in his brain though. The doctors said that's one of the biggest risks. Still, he could be blind from all the oxygen he's getting. He hasn't even opened his eyes yet, Carlos. The lids are still fused. He should still be inside me!' Julia sobs. ‘When are you getting home?'

‘I've spoken to Francisco to see what he can do.'

‘What do you mean? I thought you were on your way back here.'

Carlos feels his chest tighten. ‘We're being escorted back to Australia.'

‘No. Carlos…We need you here. Your baby!'

Carlos doesn't even bother to wipe the tears away now. ‘I'm doing everything I can to get home, believe me.'

Julia is distraught on the other end of the line. ‘I can't talk now,' she says. ‘It hurts to cry…because of the caesarean. It's all so horrible.'

Carlos hears her crying fade and then a series of rustles and thumps, as if she is struggling to hang up the handset.

‘
Te quiero.
It will be all right,' he says loudly into the phone, but she has gone. He strikes the instrument table with the receiver, before Manuel gently takes the phone from him. ‘I didn't tell her about Eduardo,' Carlos says. ‘She knew him too.'

‘Probably a good thing.' Manuel says. ‘She doesn't need any more sadness. It won't help her now.'

Carlos's chest feels as though it might collapse under the weight of the news from home. He makes his way out on to the deck to force his lungs open with a shock of cold air. The Southern Ocean wind tears at his skin. He lifts his face to the heavens and sees a strange cloud high in the darkening sky. It's silvery blue, and he remembers Eduardo saying something about seeing a cloud just like this a few long days ago.

Margie opens the front page of the
Mercury
newspaper and sees a photograph taken of the
Pescador
on the high seas. Dave's boat is nowhere to be seen. Margie burns her lips on her coffee as she reads the accompanying article.

The longest sea chase in history is expected to finish today at 0900 hours (local time) with the boarding of a Uruguayan vessel accused of illegal fishing in Australian subantarctic waters.

The boarding by armed South African naval personnel will bring to a close a three-week, 4000-nautical-mile Southern Ocean pursuit of the Uruguayan-flagged
Pescador
by the Australian patrol vessel
Australis.

The
Pescador
is to be charged with poaching Patagonian toothfish worth an estimated $2.8 million off Australia's Heard Island, 2000 nautical miles southwest of mainland Australia.

According to the master of the
Australis,
Captain David Bates, the chase saw both vessels strike icebergs in subantarctic waters, where seas reached in excess of 15 metres, with winds gusting up to 90 knots.

‘The conditions were extreme, with temperatures on deck often reaching as low as minus 20 degrees Celsius with the wind chill,' Bates said.

‘We are pleased to have made it through with little damage to our vessel, and no injuries to those on board our boat.'

On behalf of the Australian Government, Fisheries Minister Mr Mark Somes has publicly thanked the South African navy for its assistance in apprehending the
Pescador.

‘I hope the chase will send a clear message to others involved in illegal fishing that they will be pursued and they will be caught,' he said.

‘The Australian Government is committed to curbing the loss of our valuable marine resources and will not tolerate illegal fishing, which is a threat to our fishermen's livelihood and the sustainability of these vulnerable deep-water stocks.'

Somes said it is likely that the senior members of the crew will be heavily fined, and the vessel will be forfeited to the Crown and destroyed.

‘Investigations will also be made following information that the ship's owner, a Mr Migiliaro, is in Spain,' Somes said. ‘It's possible that he is operating a fleet of illegal boats and that the
Pescador
is only the tip of the iceberg.'

On seeing Dave's name in print, and reading that he and his crew are safe, Margie reaches down and hugs Bonnie, who responds by resting her head on Margie's lap.

‘Your grand-daddy's coming home soon, sweetie,' Margie says, holding the dog's dreamy face in her hands.

She studies the newspaper photograph of the
Pescador,
imagining Dave on board the
Australis
just out of frame. The ocean and sky are gun-metal grey, imposing. According to the caption, the photograph was taken from the South African naval boat. Margie takes another sip of her coffee and imagines the dark-featured faces of the Uruguayan vessel's crew, sombre in their capture. She pictures Julia's husband in his wheelhouse. What has driven these men to risk their lives for fish? Are they that desperate? That poor? Perhaps they are. She feels a welling of sympathy for the bedraggled bunch and wonders what fate awaits them. She suspects, however, that if Dave's boat had run into major trouble during the pursuit, sympathy would be the last thing she'd be feeling for this lot.

The phone rings. It's Dave, and the line is clear.

‘Oh, love…' Margie hears her voice wavering with emotion. ‘You know I'm convinced we've got ESP. I'm holding a picture of the
Pescador
as we speak. Front page of the paper. It seems you're famous.'

‘I'm not sure about that. Tomorrow everyone'll be wrapping their fish scraps in that story. Anyway, the good news is we're just about done here,' Dave stalls. ‘Does the article say anything about us plucking an illegal crewman out of the water?'

‘Dave! My God. He's lucky you were there. Did he fall overboard?'

‘No. And he's not that lucky. He's in our freezer, dead as a doornail. Would you believe he was shot?'

‘For heaven's sake!' The waver is back in her voice. ‘What, by his own crew?'

‘Looks like it. Poor old codger. We'll know a bit more about it all after the boarding.'

‘
Please
tell me you're not going to be involved in that.' Margie scans the article again. ‘Says here it's at nine o'clock, your time, so that's…'

‘About four in the afternoon for you. We're about seven hours behind. And no, love. We'll leave the boarding to the armed professionals. Harry and our young fisheries officer will go over only after things have settled down.'

‘Well, if you hadn't taken it this far, they'd have got away,' Margie says. ‘And you've kept your crew safe. That's the main thing.'

‘You almost sound like you think chasing the buggers halfway around the world was a good thing now!' Dave chuckles. ‘Actually, between you, me and the gatepost, I feel a bit sorry for the Uruguayan master. Carlos Sánchez his name is. The South African boat intercepted a call he made to Uruguay and overheard that his wife has had a baby—very early. It's all a bit touch and go for the little one. Australia will be the last place he'll want to end up.'

‘Oh no.' Margie sighs. ‘Poor Julia. That explains why I haven't heard back from her.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I emailed her—Julia Sánchez. It was a crazy idea of Joan's to see if the women couldn't get you blokes to put an end to the whole stupid chase. Secret women's business.' Margie hears Dave laugh again in the background. ‘I didn't know she was pregnant, though. God I hope I didn't add to her stress. I was going to tell you I'd contacted her, but nothing came of it.'

‘You girls. Maybe we'd all be better off if you were in charge.'

Margie can hear the relief in his voice that the chase is over. He's lighter and chattier, like he has a head full of champagne. She feels the knot in her own stomach begin to loosen.

‘How did William get on?'

‘Surprisingly well when the chips were down. I'll tell you about it later, love. It's after midnight here, and tomorrow's
going to be a big one. I'd better try to catch some shut-eye. Love you. And give Bonnie a hug for me.'

‘Love you, too.' Margie ends the call and reaches down to hug Bonnie again. A tear runs off her cheek and splashes onto the dog's ear, glittering there like a tiny jewel. It pains her when Dave talks about giving Bonnie a hug for him. She suspects it's his way of sending his love to Sam. A way of making a connection with his son without saying his name. It's the second anniversary of Sam's death on Wednesday, and she knows it will be on Dave's mind too. It's not right that they should endure that day, of all days, apart.

Margie kisses Bonnie on a twitching eyebrow and stands up to face the rest of the day. Bonnie gets to her feet, too, and walks over to a sunny spot near the back veranda. She lies down heavily, resting her head on an old pair of Sam's walking boots that still sit by the cedar French doors. Margie has been planning to get rid of the shoes for some time, but Bonnie seems to have formed such an attachment to them that she can't bring herself to do the deed. Well, it's a convenient excuse.

The well-worn hiking boots, Margie notices, are bleached from the sun and emptied now of all their leather's natural oils. Sam wouldn't be happy with the state of them. He was meticulous with his camping gear, carefully washing the tent and cleaning the stove equipment at the end of every trip. He'd only ever had one pair of hiking boots, and joked that he liked
the rugged, well-travelled image they gave him. She can see him now, warming the old boots in front of the fire while he watched TV. He used to bury his bare toes into the warm fur on Bonnie's belly, and the dog loved every minute of his attention. Every so often he would check to see if the leather was warm enough for the next layer of beeswax sealer. She remembers his toes tracing the scar on Bonnie's stomach where she was de-sexed as a puppy. ‘You poor thing,' he'd said. ‘Never getting the chance to have puppies.'

Margie's eyes burn from staring into the space where Sam's boots lie. She blinks dryly and rubs her eyelids. She decides, on the spot, to pull out some of Sam's camping gear and give it all a proper airing. She'll use it herself for an overnight walk this week, on Wednesday. What better way to acknowledge her son's life, and the second anniversary of his death.

Sam had always teased her that she was a homebody, leaving it to he and Dave to do the adventuring. ‘You're missing out, Mum,' he'd said, kissing her on the cheek as he set out on yet another bushwalk. He'd invited her on the last hike – Dave had been at sea—but she'd declined, for reasons she is still unclear about. This week though, she decides, there will be no excuse. She'll make her son proud.