Pescador's Wake (24 page)

From the decks of the
Pescador
I've now seen both species of Antarctic skua: the southern skua and the Antarctic skua. These birds mate for life, and migrate between hemispheres.

The sound of a helicopter flying low overhead wakes Carlos, who is on his back on his bunk in the crew's quarters. The other three men in the shared cabin—Roberto's son and two other young Spaniards—are still asleep. It's a different feeling, being down in the bowels of the ship, separated from the wheelhouse by three flights of stairs. One of the crew joked with him that he'd fallen from grace and descended into hell itself, and it seemed the truest thing that anyone had said for days. Carlos stands and walks out into the passageway, but is met by the young South African naval officer and his gun.

‘I just want to get some air,' Carlos says.

The South African follows him out on to the deck and stands over him as he walks to the rails and grips the cold metal that separates him from the sea. Carlos puts a foot on the first rung, and the South African grabs hold of the Uruguayan master's jacket.

‘Don't do anything stupid.' The naval officer uses his gun to push Carlos's foot off the rails.

‘I am not going to jump.' Carlos attempts a laugh, but it sounds more like a cry. He looks out across the pale green sea to the Australian coast. His last dream comes to him. It's
Eduardo again, pointing the finger of blame at him for suggesting this trip in the first place. Life would have turned out very differently for all of them if they'd stayed on shore.

He thinks of home—of Julia, María and the new baby. They need him, but he wonders if he is worthy of their love. What sort of father robs another man's fish so he can feed his family, only to fail? In the end he has taken the food from his own family's mouths. How will Julia support the children on her own? And God knows how much he will have to pay in fines and legal expenses before he returns. Migiliaro won't cough up. Carlos kicks his seaboot against the rails, the same rails that stole Eduardo from him only three weeks ago.

A dolphin appears beside the boat, shooting out of the water and into the air. It spins in mid-flight before piercing the ocean and swimming towards the bow. He can see it, between the waves, just under the surface. A second dolphin appears, then a third and fourth. A family, Carlos supposes, playing together. He tells himself to be patient.

With the sandy, flat coast of Western Australia now in their sights, Dave allows himself a moment to realise that the sea chase is almost over. He sees the
Pescador
ahead of him in the early-morning light and wonders what her crew will be feeling at this moment.

Television helicopters circle in large sweeps overhead, buzzing the sky like overgrown dragonflies. Cameramen hang out the sides taking footage of the two vessels advancing into port—the bad guys and the good guys.

A seagull is just ahead of the boat now, heading for shore. How easily it flies, Dave thinks, watching through binoculars as it pierces the dark water and surfaces with a small fish flapping for dear life. Only a few nautical miles ahead the water changes colour from its inky oceanic lacquer to a lighter, more inviting blue (Margie would know the exact name of the colour), and, finally, to a luminous green close to shore. Dave tries to focus on the job at hand, but Margie's news, delivered via satellite phone nearly two weeks ago, is still consuming him, buoying him with a fresh sense of optimism. The impossible seems possible. A grandson. Scotty.
It almost feels like Sam has come back to life, and, in a sense, Dave supposes, that is true.

The
Pescador
docks at Fremantle Harbour ahead of the
Australis,
which berths only metres astern of her. Dave can hardly believe the two boats are finally stationary, and in such close proximity. If they'd been this close on the high seas, they would have had only seconds before a collision.

Television crews mill about the concrete pier. Freshly coiffured journalists eagerly deliver their pieces to camera with the blood-red hulls as a backdrop. Dave wonders what they have found to report—what version of the truth their news services will broadcast. He observes a collection of swarthy suits mustering in readiness for interviews, and recognises the Fisheries Minister and various other bureaucrats keen for their moment in the sun. Roger Wentworth is no doubt among them.

The Australian crew aboard the
Pescador
expertly work the deck, securing the mooring lines. Dave watches as the three armed South Africans appear, herding the illegal vessel's crew in a straight line towards the rails. He wonders which of the Latin faces belongs to Carlos Sánchez.

On his own boat, the crew is also at work securing the vessel to the pier. Cactus, hands cupped around his mouth to
direct his voice, appears to be calling out to the South Americans at the rails of the
Pescador.
Knowing Cactus, the comments will be childish and inappropriate, but the
Pescador
's crew ignore him. Dave hopes the television cameras do the same, although attracting their attention will be precisely what Cactus is hoping for. Anything to get himself on the evening news.

Two refrigerated trucks pull up alongside the
Pescador,
disturbing a flock of seagulls. Reporters, too, squawk, disband and regroup. They smooth down their hairdos as though unruffling feathers. The truck drivers lumber onto the pier and unlock the back doors in readiness for receiving the now confiscated catch. Dougal McAllister leaves the
Pescador
via the gangway and the TV cameras meet him as he steps onto the dock to supervise. Dave is quietly amused by the way the young fisheries officer seems to savour the media attention, growing several centimetres in stature, and assuming an air of heroism. The South Africans also seem to have found an excuse to move closer to the cameras. They are on the dock, helping to fasten lines to the bollards, weapons still at their sides. Only the men charged with illegal fishing seem unaffected by the media circus.

An Australian Federal Police car is parked alongside a coroner's van, presumably to take the dead Spaniard and Russian away for examination. Dave suspects it will be weeks, months even, before the families of the deceased
finally receive the bodies. He thinks, too, of the dead first mate, lost at sea, and wonders which, if any, of the
Pescador
's crew will be charged with the deaths. He again scans the people gathered on shore. Somewhere amidst the hubbub will be a representative from the Uruguayan consulate because, in the eyes of the law, deaths on a vessel at sea are seen to have occurred in the country where that vessel is registered.

Two Australian Federal Police officers approach the
Pescador
and make their way up the gangway, no doubt to lay the official charges for illegal fishing. Their black suits look absurd on the decks of the working boat. Dave knows the police will have no understanding of what the men aboard the
Pescador
have just endured—the massive seas, the ice, the fear, the deaths—but his thoughts are interrupted by a radio call from Harry in the illegal vessel's wheelhouse.

‘The Minister's office has been trying to call you, Davo. You'd better check the satellite phone.'

Dave does as Harry suggests and sees that it is still off the hook after a dawn phone call from Margie. ‘Sorry, mate. My mistake.'

‘He wants us all to assemble here for a media conference.'

‘I'll leave that to you blokes, I think, thanks,' Dave answers. ‘No need for us all to put in our two bobs' worth. I'm sure the Minister will be pleased for the opportunity to give the Australian point of view.'

‘No doubt,' Harry says with a laugh. ‘But the media have asked specifically for
you.
And if they don't get you here, they'll be chasing you on shore,
and
in the hotel,
and
back home. You won't have a moment's peace. Might as well get it out of the way. Can you get here in ten minutes with Cactus and maybe one other?'

Dave runs his fingers through his rough beard, thinking he'll just have enough time to shave. ‘Righto, see you in ten.'

He puts a call out on the intercom for Cactus and William to make their way to the wheelhouse.

‘Looks like you'll have your chance to get on the telly, Cactus,' Dave tells him when he barrels through the door.

‘I would've killed you if you didn't ask me.'

‘I know,' Dave jokes. ‘Wasn't worth the angst. Anyway, I'm just going to have a shave and change my shirt. Can you man the radio for a few minutes? You're looking pretty spruced up already.'

‘Fancy meself a bit of Fremantle skirt tonight, that's why.' Cactus winks suggestively and takes up his position by the radio.

‘Spare me the image.' Dave grimaces good-naturedly. ‘We'll meet at the top of the gangway in ten. I'll get one of the other lads up here to take any calls while we're gone. Unless, of course, you'd like to stay on the radio yourself.'

‘No thanks.' Cactus winks again and clicks his tongue. ‘She'll be right.'

Dave hurries to his cabin and flattens out a clean shirt with his hands. Not ideal for a TV interview, he thinks. Margie will have a pink fit, but he's been at sea for six weeks, three of which have been taken up with this chase. What can she expect? If it were cooler, he'd probably try to hide the shirt under a jumper, but the west coast of Australia has turned on a spring day to rival the high summer temperatures of just about anywhere else. He'll simply have to be crumpled. Weathered.

He takes his electric razor and peers into his hand-held mirror. It's days since he's seen his own face and he's surprised by what greets him. His beard is fuller, and greyer, than he had realised. It's certainly too thick to do away with quickly now.

He thinks of Margie and imagines her frowning at the growth on his face. He wonders how she's dealing with the news of Sam's baby and whether she is also feeling torn – pleased about the offer of rescue, of a new future, but unable to decide whether to risk accepting, for a second time, the hand of fate. Dave feels as if he has been drifting in a life raft, having had his own boat sink from under him. As if, suddenly, from nowhere, a ship's searchlights are on him and the full weight of the vessel is bearing down towards the raft. He was almost getting used to the confined space, the closeness of his crew and the distance from everyone else. Now he has to choose whether to catch a lift back to shore.
Part of him wonders if it's Sam up there behind the searchlight, directing the beam.

He inspects his beard in the mirror. At least the grey gives him a distinguished quality befitting a sea captain, he thinks. He opts to simply neaten the edges, laughing out loud at his own vanity.

When he reaches the gangway, Cactus and William are already waiting. Cactus sets off down the ramp, ensuring that he is received fairly and squarely by the hungry line of television cameras. He takes his hand off the rail to wave at the media scrum, but is distracted by someone shouting his name.

Dave sees Connie, rosy-cheeked and cheerful, waving amidst the sea of television cameras. Cactus sees her too and catches his foot on a raised join in the ramp, falling face-first onto the concrete pier. Connie is there in an instant and the television cameras film the whole thing. Some of the cameramen are laughing.

‘Come on, up you hop,' Dave says with a smirk as he gives Cactus a hand up and delivers him into his wife's loving embrace. Dave leans over to give Connie a kiss on her hot, fleshy cheek. ‘It's good to see you, Connie. Do you mind if we steal him for a few more minutes? We're needed for interviews on the other boat.'

Connie gives Cactus's hand a visible squeeze. ‘Sounds like you're going to be famous, Jackie boy.'

A television journalist asks Cactus what it feels like to be on dry land.

‘Hard,' Cactus, says, rubbing a bruised forehead. The media contingent laughs again. Under the watchful eye of a government minder, they agree not to ask further questions until they are aboard the
Pescador
for the official, prearranged media conference.

Roger Wentworth thrusts a flaccid hand at Dave. ‘Well done, David, mate. Good effort. We've done it.'

‘Yes
we
have,' Dave confirms, bristling. He turns to walk up the gangway and on to the Uruguayan-flagged boat. It catches him off-guard to feel that he is now the intruder on foreign territory. Armed South Africans stand between him and the illegal vessel's crew. Dave's eyes scan the row of assembled men and fall on a defeated-looking South American who is being closely guarded by a young naval officer with a brutish air. The
Bremner
's officer appears to be taunting the fisherman, who isn't responding. The South American has dark hair drawn back into a ponytail, which is how Harry had described the
Pescador
's master. Dave recognises depression in his eyes and in his stooped posture, and notices the respectful way he is regarded by the crew. He steps forward, extending his hand.

‘Capitán
Sánchez?' Dave asks, but he already knows the answer.

The Uruguayan master meets Dave's hand reservedly.

‘My apologies, Captain Bates,' the South African naval officer intervenes. ‘This is the
Pescador
's fishing master, Car—'

‘Yes, I gathered.' Dave looks into Carlos's eyes and ventures a small respectful smile as he places his other hand on top of the handshake. ‘That was quite a chase,' he says.

Carlos nods, his full lips pursed in agreement.

‘Sounds like you've been having a pretty rough time of it, all round,' Dave acknowledges, speaking more slowly and clearly than normal. But, from what Harry has said, the Uruguayan master speaks reasonable English. ‘I'm sorry to hear about the loss of life on your boat. And I hope things turn out all right for you and your family. For your baby son…'

Carlos's face registers surprise at the Australian master's genuine concern.

‘
Gracias.
Please, if you can help me to get home—' he manages to say before the government's public-relations officer, having noticed the interaction, claps his hands together.

‘Might be time to get started.' He motions for Dave to move away from the Uruguayan master and to return to his side of the deck.

The media rallies like rounded-up sheep. Most of the cameramen missed this most newsworthy of encounters in their efforts to get cameras secured to tripods, batteries checked and light levels set. And the journalists—all hair, lipstick and power jackets—seem content to wait for the
official government story to be told. When it comes to getting access to federal ministers, they know how best to play the game.

‘We decided it's better to have the media conference out here in the light where there's more room,' the PR officer says to the waiting media contingent. ‘That way you can get some shots of the full crew of illegals. Is everyone ready?' He raises his eyebrows expectantly at the Minister.

The Minister clears his throat and begins spruiking in the language of politics and propaganda. He portrays the
Pescador
's crew as the greedy bad guys. Terms like ‘terrorists of the sea', ‘illegal aliens' and ‘pirates' are bandied about while the cameramen scan up and down the line of assembled South Americans and Spaniards.

The Minister then mentions the determination of the selfless Australian crew, pointing to Dave, Cactus, William and Harry, who has just appeared on deck. Harry waves a hello to Dave, and the television cameras film them obligingly.

‘These men have risked their lives to defend Australian waters and our valuable fisheries,' the Minister continues. ‘They have ensured that we send a strong message to other illegal boats who might consider poaching in our waters.'

Dave is uncomfortable with the attention and wishes he could be swallowed into the cracks of the deck. He suspects Harry feels the same. Cactus, on the other hand, has regained his composure after his fall, and is having one last shot at
glory. He is standing impressively tall and Dave notices that the small graze on his forehead is attracting the cameramen's attention. No doubt the reporters will use it to illustrate the case that the crew risked life and limb to bring the illegal boat home. No one need know that the graze was the result of a graceless disembarkation onto the Fremantle pier. That wouldn't fit the story.