Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [2]
But it wasn’t just pride in his piloting skills that was making Zaki smile, it was the magical power of this place; that dark, towering rock that had dragged the boat towards it, the spray from the breaking waves, caught white in the sunlight, the granite cliffs streaked with red, and above and beyond them the intense green of the wooded hills. A wild, dangerous, thrilling place to be.
Beyond the bar, the creek opened out into a wide, smooth inlet, wooded on one side with a sandy beach curving around the other, the chaos of the outer bay giving way to a scene so quiet that it would be easy to believe time, in this place, stood still.
Zaki turned to his brother and father. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, you didn’t hit any rocks.’ Michael grinned.
‘No, stupid, I mean where do you think we should anchor?’
‘What about where we always do?’ suggested Michael.
Their father pointed to a spot where the water turned a deeper blue.
Michael and their father looked at each other but neither moved to the foredeck to stand ready by the anchor well.
‘You or me?’ Michael asked their father.
‘Oh, you do it.’
‘All right,’ said Michael and went forward.
Zaki glanced at their father, who was staring down into the water. Was something wrong?
‘Dragon Pool, Dad! I never thought we’d get here this year!’ said Zaki, trying with his own enthusiasm to push away the flat listlessness that had crept into his father’s voice.
‘No,’ said his father, rousing himself, ‘No, neither did I.’
‘Oy!!’ came the shout from the foredeck. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
With a start Zaki realised he hadn’t been paying attention to where they were going. They were heading into the shallows.
‘Keep an eye on the depth,’ cautioned his father. ‘The sandbars in here move around. They won’t be in the same place they were last year.’
‘I know – I know.’
Zaki glanced guiltily at the depth gage and saw that the bottom was rising steeply. Trying to be too clever, he thought, dropping the boat into neutral and turning upstream, into deeper water.
The current, now flowing against the boat, acted as a brake. Built from hardwood planking, Morveren was heavy, making her a good sea-boat, but it also meant she took her time stopping.
‘She’s an old lady’, Grandad would say, ‘Ask her politely and she’ll do anything you want. But she likes to take her time over things.’
Zaki hoped he’d judged it right. If he had, Morveren would come to a stop in the centre of the deepest part of the bay, then drift backwards as Michael dropped the anchor, the weight of the boat pulling on the chain and digging the anchor securely into the bottom.
Zaki whispered to the boat, ‘Stop . . . stop . . . stop now.’
Morveren decided to oblige, slowing gently and stopping right over the deep blue spot that their father had indicated.
‘Let her go!’ their father shouted.
‘I’m trying! Chain’s bunched up!’ shouted Michael.
‘Where’s your mum when we need her?’ their father joked, a little bitterly.
Zaki looked across to the shore and saw that the boat was beginning to drift backwards.
‘Should I go and help him?’
Just then, the rattle of the chain told them that Michael had freed the twisted links and the anchor was on its way to the bottom.
Dropping the anchor had always been their mum’s job. She took pride in being able to make the anchor hold in any sort of seabed, weed, silt or sand. Zaki imagined her standing on the foredeck now, instead of Michael.
Mum, Dad, his big brother and the boat. Together. Contained. That’s how it had always been; how it was meant to be. The boat was their language – ropes passed from hand to hand; four bodies moving together as the boat changed course; dancing around each other on the foredeck when they changed sails, laughter and teasing banter, then, tired at the end of the day, curling into one or other of his parents in the warmth of the cabin.
‘Do you think it’s holding?’ called Michael.
Zaki’s father put the engine into reverse. The anchor chain lifted, dripping, from the water.
‘Seems fine.’ Zaki’s father cut the