60 Days

The lead jet-ski was now only a hundred metres behind them, the second a further fifty. Despite the speed of Tane Nui they were narrowing the distance between them. Catching them much more quickly than they all would have liked.

They could now make out the first rider was dressed in black dirt bike leathers as Ernest had described. But this rider had a distinctive blue stripe down each arm.

As the swell increased, sometimes he disappeared down a trough to reappear high in the air as he leapt over the next crest.

Looking back Esmé judged they were now at least five miles off Barrenjoey Head, the coast had opened up beyond Box Head to the north, and they could see dark green Long Reef Headland to the south reaching out east.

The lead ski was now just twenty metres behind them.

“Stand by your sheets,” called Isaac, “all we can do is try to keep him away.”

Roaring by the ski came abeam about ten metres up wind, slowed a little then turned and aimed at Tane Nui amidships.

“The idiot’s going to ram us,” cried Isaac. “Hang on!”

But a breaking wave caught the back of the ski. It broached sideways. The same wave caught the stern of Tane Nui and pushed her clear. The starboard hull lifted clear off the water as the ski sped past the driver ducking under the stern. Esmé let go the mainsheet and Tane Nui’s windward hull dropped back into the water. She slowed a lot.

The jet ski rider circled around to try again and paused to take aim at Tane Nui’s much more fragile plywood side. In doing so he missed seeing an even bigger rising wave behind him.

“Ease sheets,” called Isaac as he pulled away to present Tane Nui’s sterns to both the jet ski and the wave. Ernest and Esmé focused for just a second on flipping the sheets out of the jamb cleats and easing them around the snubbing winches. Isaac focused ahead. He was trying to keep Tane Nui’s bows square to the trough, ready for the wave to lift from behind.

Looking behind Esmé saw the wave break. It caught the jet ski rider completely by surprise. He broached sideways down the face of the wave. This time with no momentum, and no control, the jet ski capsized.

Esmé and Ernest saw the rider still hanging onto the handlebars throttle up, the engine roared for a moment, and a jet of water fired out from under the black hull. It circled on itself, came upright, went quiet, and stopped.

There was a drumming, “wererer...” once, then twice, and again, and again as he attempted to restart the motor. Now stopped and floundering in this high sea, the next wave caught him broad side and he capsized again. The ski rolled right over, upside down, and they saw the rider clambering for a hand hold on the smooth jet ski bottom.

The second ski had caught them now and as he passed the rider in the water, over the roar of wind and sea, they heard the rider yell, “Stop, stop… stop!”

Looking back with horror they saw the second jet ski drive right past.

“We managed to lose one but there’s still another after us, now harden up the sheets,” called Isaac as he brought Tane Nui back on a reach leaving the stricken rider lost behind the next set of larger waves. The second jet ski was now just behind, but down wind. He throttled back a little to maintain the same speed as Tane Nui.

“Outmanoeuvred,” thought Isaac, calmly thinking yacht racing tactics. “If I go higher into the wind we will go slower, if I run down wind he will be upon us.”

“Watch him, I’ll focus on keeping us going as fast as we can. What’s he up to now?” asked Isaac.

“What are they trying to do?” called Esmé above the noise of the wind and sea. “This guy has left his friend to drown; we must be nearly six miles off Palm Beach; he cannot possibly swim that far in that leather bike gear and no life jacket.”

“He’s got an axe,” yelled Ernest. They all turned and saw the rider slide a long-handled axe out from under his leg.

Although Tane Nui had quite some speed on, the rider throttled up on the handlebars with his right hand, and with his left begun swinging the axe in circles above his head. He closed on Tane Nui’s port stern.

“He wants to put a hole in us,” cried Ernest, “he wants to sink us.”

As they backed Tane Nui out through the trees, they could hear in the distance the wir, wir wir, of the starter motor on the inflatable and distant men’s voices shouting.

“If there is only a half mechanic amongst them it won’t take them long to figure out what is wrong, we don’t have much time,” said Ernest.

Once in the fast-flowing stream, Ernest’s electric motor had only to give them enough way for Isaac to steer.

“With this strong outgoing current, against an incoming sea there is going to be quite a big surf across the bar,” said Isaac. “Certainly not the right time to attempt it, but we must. We will need every stitch up to power through it.”

Once they were under the bridge, they were sheltered a little by the lee of the headland. They raised the mast, tightened the backstays and hoisted the main. The early morning sky was now turning from black to grey. There was a yellow glow turning red on the horizon to the east.

“Hoist yankee and staysail and harden them in,” commanded Isaac as he turned Tane Nui around to face the surf.

“Beyond the headland, there is quite a blow, so be ready for it,” he called.

Scamp barked a determined warning. They all turned around to see the black inflatable, filled with men in black wetsuits, coming out from under the bridge. The motor sounded irregular, backfired with a bang, and then stopped. A man stood in the stern and lifted the engine cover.

“It won’t run well until they get the spark plug leads in the right order,” said Ernest, “and with four cylinders there are a few combinations.”

A black catspaw came across the water at them from the base of the cliff, Tane Nui heeled for a second then accelerated.

“Where are those rocks Esmé? This time we must be well clear,” asked Isaac.

“Off to starboard,” called back Esmé, “hold your course.”

“Hang on, here it comes,” called Isaac.

A huge standing wave grew in front of them and the foaming water around was sucking them under its foot. Another catspaw this time from around the front of the headland caught hold of Tane Nui and she accelerated. Isaac luffed a little. Tane Nui’s bows rose higher and higher, and the wave crashed through her front decking. Then her bows dropped and rose above a second high but unbroken wave. Isaac pulled away. Tane Nui, now in her element bounded away in the fresh breeze.

“Now ease sheets,” and Esmé and Ernest followed Isaac’s command and Tane Nui raced eastward toward the rising sun.

Scamp again barked a warning and they turned around. The inflatable was now at full power and racing down the river. There were three dark figures sitting each side. One stood up and was standing in the bow.

“He’s got a gun!” yelled Ernest.

The man was standing with the gun butt on his hip. They saw a flash out of the barrel as he fired it into the air, followed immediately by the loud rattling burst that could be heard just over the roar of the surf.

Isaac, Esmé and Ernest stood frozen in horror as the man then lowered the barrel and this time it spat a flash straight at them. Instinctively they ducked as the bullets whistled over their heads and ‘pop, pop, pop’ went through the mainsail, just above the boom.

The helmsman of the inflatable saw the jagged rocks against the cliff at the last second and only just managed to avoid them, but in doing so the inflatable slew sideways at speed into the breaking surf.

That same standing wave, that Isaac had so skilfully negotiated, caught them and lifted the speeding black boat high, spiralling it into the air.

Isaac, Esmé, and Ernest watched with almost disbelief, as the men tumbled out of the boat. The six sitting figures were thrown clear into the surf. The inflatable landed upside down. The engine splattered and then went silent, leaving only the roar of the breaking waves.

As predicted the breeze picked up at about midnight and turned more west. Although fast reaching, Sam felt Svarlin was overpowered and got Pop to change down to the number two genoer.

A fast but very wet ride. Marge joined Sam in the cockpit just before dawn with a mug each of strong black coffee with lots of sugar.

“She likes this,” said Marge, “must be doing well over 8 knots.”

“8.5 knots on the log,” replied Sam, “but could you just go down and take a tweak in on the genny, the winds backed more to the west?”

Svarlin had large double speed winches and with a knee on the lee side cockpit seat Marge took in a couple of turns.

“How’s that?” she asked as she looked forward at luff of the genoer in the growing dawn light.

Then:

“Sam! Sam! There’s something in the water just below us, stay up, stay up,” she called.

Sam bent forward in front of the tiller to look where she was pointing, just in time to see a huge pyramid appear out of the dark and slip past along Svarlin’s lee gunwale.

They both looked back.

“A half sunken container,” said Sam.

“There’s another dead ahead!” yelled Marge.

Pop had spent his off watch in his storm coat in anticipation that if the breeze picked up anymore, he would have to change headsails down again.

He had unclipped his lee cloth that prevented him rolling out of his bunk and just swung his legs down onto the cabin sole when he heard the shouting in the cockpit.

The impact threw him forward against the main bulkhead and he saw with horror the corner of the barnacle encrusted container come through Svarlin’s hull. Her momentum rolled the corner out, but as she stopped the corner reappeared, blocking the hole it had created.

Water poured through the gap between Svarlin’s hull and this ugly corner. ‘De’ja’ vu’ thought Pop, as his first reaction was to find a cushion big enough to fill the hole. Instantly he realised it was out of the question.

He leapt up the companionway steps.

“Flares Pop, get the flares,” called Marge down at him above the roar of the flapping sails. “Sam inflate the life raft,” she called taking charge, while she squeezed past Pop frozen in the hatch.

Marge thrust a bright yellow plastic tube into Pop’s hand and went back down below.

“Marge!” yelled Sam.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, all ship all ships, this is the yacht Svarlin, our position is 157.45 degrees east, 30.30 degrees south, we have struck an object and are sinking fast.”

She repeated into the microphone.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, all ship all ships, this is the yacht Svarlin, our position is 157.45 degrees east, 30.30 degrees south, we have struck an object and are sinking fast.