A sideways glance in Arnie’s direction made Jim smile. That morning, dressed in blue work singlet, denim shorts, work boots and no socks, Arnie, as usual, was thumbing his nose at the weather. The bitterly cold wind and the soaking sea spray didn’t matter.
In contrast, Jim had dressed in full, seagoing oilskins. ‘It’s comin’ in rough, Arnie,’ he said. ‘Sky’s gettin’ blacker by the minute. I reckon the weather’s about to take a turn for the worse. We’d better point the old girl home soon.’
As if in agreement, a wave bigger than the others, came over the side. It swirled around their feet and ankles; then, with a rushing, sucking sound, it disappeared back into the sea.
‘Let’s lift the last of the pots and head for home,’ Jim said. ‘It’s starting to look a bit dodgy out here.’
Chapter Nine
The growing anger of the waves and weather wasn’t the only thing that worried Jim and Arnie. The lack of crayfish – often called lobster – was a real problem. And not only on this trip. The season so far had been disastrous, making Jim think that his decision to buy The Shandora had been a big mistake.
He’d bought the cray boat from Mrs Quigley, whose husband was still in jail for his bird-poaching stint a year ago. Mr Quigley had previously owned the boat and had employed Jim as its skipper during that time. Now, because of Quigley’s forced absence, that arrangement had fallen through. As a result, the Quigley income had dried up and Mrs Quigley had been left with no choice but to sell the boat.
Jim, who had always wanted to own his own boat, managed to raise enough cash to buy The Shandora and the cray licence that went with it. He knew he was taking a risk; meeting the payments to the bank, where he’d borrowed the money, wouldn’t be easy. They’d have to catch their quota of cray to make that happen.
But deep down, somewhere in his soul, a voice had told him not to let the opportunity pass. Without a job and with no other prospects of employment on the horizon, buying The Shandora would solve the work problem.
For a while he thought it had, but after a promising start to the season, for some inexplicable reason the cray had grown scarce, and most of what they did catch were undersize.
Jim threw another craypot onto the growing pile of empties. ‘Another wasted trip, Arnie. It’s getting to be a habit.’
Arnie frowned as he hoisted the last of the pots on board. ‘Yeah, b-boss, all too s-small. I measured them all, um, just like you told me. Th-this one hasn’t got any in it either. S-sorry b-boss.’ He undid the hauling rope and tossed the pot towards the pile as if it were a twig.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Jim reassured him, ignoring Arnie’s stuttering, broken speech, an affliction thrust upon him by a brutal, belt-wielding father. ‘It’s these waters; looks like they might have been overfished.’
‘Y-yeah, overfished.’ Standing over six-and-a-half feet tall, Arnie, with his bulging muscles and rugby player’s neck, had more than fulfilled Jim’s hopes for him as a deckhand. Yet, Jim knew, he was more than that – partner and friend were more like it. Mentally, Arnie had the intellect of a child. He’d never really grown up but there was one thing he was good at; he knew how to follow orders, and once undertaken, the task, whatever it was, was always carried out to the best of his ability.
Jim had no hesitation in hiring Arnie. Bird smuggling or not, instinct had told him that he was basically a good man, that his handicaps didn’t matter. Jim’s gut feeling about the man had been proved right time and again. So, with the blessing of the law, who’d chosen not to prosecute him for his unwitting part in the crime, he’d taken him on, rescuing him from the corrupt ways of his brother and sister.
‘We, er, got to find some big cray s-somewhere, don’t we, boss?’
‘That’s right,’ Jim said, making for the wheelhouse and talking over his shoulder. ‘But one thing’s for sure, there ain’t none around here.’ A pity, he said to himself as he reached up to a shelf to grab a sea chart. The area looked good, plenty of reefs and broken bottom. Lots of seagrass as well. He spread the map out in front of him then yelled to Arnie, ‘We’re gonna have to find some new grounds. And do me a favour, will you?’
‘Wh-what’s that boss?’ Arnie said coming into the cabin.
‘Don’t call me boss. Jim’ll be just fine.’
‘Um, o-okay, J-Jim.’ Then, changing the subject asked, ‘Wh-where are they? The n-new grounds?’
‘South.’ He stabbed at the chart. ‘Tomorrow we’ll head towards Strahan. We can set some pots outside the Strahan harbour. From there we’ll head further south towards Port Davey. We’ll drop the rest of them there. With a bit of luck we’ll do okay. We’ll come back Monday morning and sell our catch at the processors in Strahan.’ He slapped Arnie on the back. ‘So, let’s haul anchor and get out of here.’ He looked to the sky and the sea again just as another large wave smashed into side of The Shandora. He turned the key to start the inboard motor.
Arnie frowned as he tapped Jim on the shoulder. ‘Wh-what about Snook and Jars? They’ll be l-left on their own if we go away d-down there.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve already thought about that,’ he said as he turned the boat for home. ‘We’ll take ’em with us.’
Arnie broke out into a broad grin. ‘That’s good J-Jim. They’ll like that.’
They knifed homeward through the waves. Jim fell silent. A sudden uneasiness had come over him. He couldn’t figure out why. There was nothing to worry about, was there? They were only going to try some new fishing grounds – to try and change their luck. He grimaced. ‘It had better change,’ he found himself saying aloud. ‘It’s our last chance.’
The two-way radio squawked. Who the devil could that be? he wondered. He’d covered all bases with the coast guard. So who could it be?
He handed the wheel to Arnie, snatched the speaker from its mount on the wall, and listened.
Chapter Ten
Jars and Snook both turned their heads at the sound of muffled voices coming from outside the front door.
‘That’ll be your dad and Arnie,’ Jars said to Snook. ‘Good timing too; dinner’s just on ready.’
Jim, followed by Arnie, walked into the kitchen. The smell of cooking hung in the air. He smiled. The kids had been busy.
Shadow, who was still lying under the table, wagged his tail and rose to say hello. Snook, who was hurriedly setting the table, looked up. ‘How was the fishin’, Dad?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘N-no, Snook, um, d-don’t ask,’ Arnie said, agreeing with his boss.
‘You’d better set an extra place,’ Snook’s dad said crossing over to the stove. He lifted the lid on a pot and sniffed. ‘Just checking that we’ve got enough for our guest.’ He replaced the lid and pointed towards the kitchen doorway.
Jars and Snook craned their necks to see around Arnie, who was blocking their view.
‘Hi, you two, long time no see.’ A smiling Reg Carter edged around Arnie and into the kitchen. Dressed in jeans, flannel shirt and duffle coat, he still looked the same as a year ago when they’d first met. He was a Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife ranger then, a job he’d since given up to pursue some higher calling. Something to do with research and law enforcement in New South Wales. And now, here he was, with his tousled, sandy hair and permanent grinning face. The kids liked Reg.
‘Reg!’ they both said at once hurrying over to him. Shadow liked him, too. He gave a short yip and scurried from beneath the table. When Reg was