Out on the Water by Tessa Duder

Author:Tessa Duder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oratia Media

‘Thanks, Sonny Jim,’ the men say as I hand out the mugs of tea and biscuits. The day has turned colder.

Gradually, our passengers settle down, with only a few still tossing their heads and their moooo-oos echoing round the bay. You couldn’t have packed another single one onto that deck.

‘Thanks, Mac,’ says my dad to the farmer who’s come aboard to check ‘his boys’ and sign the papers. ‘We’ll re-float in two hours. Should have a good run back to town. Let’s hope this breeze holds.’

The farmer assures him it will, but I think my dad isn’t so sure. He’s banking on this fresh westerly holding so we can arrive off the beach in the Tamaki Strait around high water and offload our cargo in good condition.

The minute Waiata is afloat, we’ll be away. This happens at sunset. I’ve watched the sea come steadily up the beach and surround Waiata and then with a few bumps and scrapings, we’re floating again. The men leap into action. Sails go up, the anchor’s hauled up, the wheel’s spun hard over; we’re off.

On the beach, the one remaining farmer waves us goodbye. We’ve all put on extra jerseys and oilskins for a long night sail. My dad is wearing his favourite sou-wester with the deep brim. He looks a real old sea dog.

The cattle are still mooing and restless as the light fades and we clear the small offshore islands to leave Barrier behind. Our course is sou-west and the wind now true westerly, so we’ll be close-hauled and tacking most of the way.

There’s no moon and few stars, but soon we’ll be able to see the Tiri light off to starboard. My dad will be up much of the night. There’ll always be three on deck, and two sleeping. Unless of course there’s something wrong and everyone is needed.

I don’t protest too much when I’m told to turn in. We’re tramping along. In the dark you don’t see the oncoming swells and breaking waves; they just hit you, wham, and if you’re lucky you can duck in time. If not, you get a slosh of salt water on your face and shake yourself off like a dog.

The deckhouse, lit by one small hurricane lamp, is a snug but ghostly cave. Like Ropata and Fred, already snoring away on their bunks, I take only my top oilskin jacket off, keeping on my boots, canvas over-trousers, all three jerseys and my knitted hat. Everything feels damp.

Though I’m really tired, I can’t sleep. How could anyone sleep in this din?

I lie rigid, separating out the noises: that swishing and gurgling is the water rushing past the hull, those creakings are the timber hull and two masts working under the strain. Those thuds and bangs are the cattle’s hooves; those men stamping round on the cabin top and shouting are putting a reef in the main.

One horrible job has to be done through the night: check the cattle regularly to see none has fallen down. The men hate this.

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