Bright Air - Barry Maitland [79]
I aimed south down the lagoon, following the shoreline, on low revs to keep the noise to a minimum. Towards the western horizon a big moon, almost full, shone through broken cloud, coating the black water with a glittery sheen. The dark bulk of the land on our left side grew higher as we approached the foothills of Mount Lidgbird. Somewhere along here Bob had turned to head out through the passage in the reef, and I was desperately wishing I’d paid more attention. He’d pointed out some feature on the shore with an ironic smile—Lovers Bay, that was it, with some Norfolk pines on the hill behind. I could just make them out now in the moonlight. Looking out to the west, I thought the sea seemed blacker, unmarked by the phosphorescent surf breaking on the reef on either side. I told Anna what I was doing, and got her to hang over the bow to watch for rocks as I turned the boat and headed straight for the moon, like a beacon. The swell gradually increased, and as we made headway out into the open sea I opened up the throttle, waiting till I felt sure we must be clear of the reef before turning the bow to the south. I felt cautious relief; we had passed the first big hurdle. Maybe this was going to be possible after all. Then the moon dipped below the horizon and the dark became absolute, and I heard Anna being sick.
We bounced and pitched across the South Pacific for what seemed an age, unable to make out any sign of the great rock in the darkness. I was beginning to think we’d gone way past it when the first grey light crept out of the east, enough to make out the form of the enormous stack, towering out of the water directly in front of us. I slowed to a stop, and as the sky lightened and the swell lifted us up I was able to make out the low rocks to our right, in particular the one they called the Wheatsheaf, on account of its profile. I turned away from them, towards the east, and began a slow circling of Balls Pyramid as the sun’s first rays clipped its peak and began a golden striptease down its flank.
‘Awesome,’ Anna muttered. She looked washed out, but gave me an encouraging smile. ‘What do you reckon?’
We had circled around to the dark west side, into the space between the Pyramid and the Wheatsheaf, and it seemed to me that the only possible landing areas were at the southern end of the rock, where the south ridge plunged down into the sea. This was the end where Gannet Green was located, and there was a rock shelf at the tip where, if we managed to get onto it, we might organise ourselves for a climb. I steered back to the place on the calmer leeward side, holding the boat twenty metres or so offshore, and explained to Anna what I thought we should do. She nodded, face tight, clearly not happy about the idea of jumping into that dark heaving swell. I set about uncoiling our rope and sealing the backpacks inside the plastic bin liners we’d brought. I stripped down to my swimmers, wishing I had a wetsuit, put my clothes in another plastic bag and tied the two ends of the rope securely around my waist. At the last minute I decided to make up a fourth bag, transferring into it half of our food and water, the first aid kit, some of our clothes and a blanket we’d brought. That way I reckoned we’d increase our chances of arriving on the other side with at least some of our gear. Risk management, you see.
‘Your helmet,’ she said. ‘Put your helmet on.’
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