the boat. Felix struggles to swing his left leg over. One leg is stiff and locked straight out and his arm is bent and curled. Moana sways underneath him and his dad catches him as he tumbles forward.
‘You might find it easier to sit up at the front,’ says Dad. ‘There’s more space and there’s a handhold.’
Felix pulls himself up on the seat and grips the brass handle with his good hand. His knuckles turn white and I feel a twinge of guilt run through me. I hadn’t actually thought how hard this could be for him.
I untie the mooring rope and push Moana away from the pontoon. Dad sets her sails and we slide out between the harbour walls.
The first wave hits us side on and I see Felix lurch sideways. He stares down at the floor and presses himself against the side, bracing himself for the next wave. He doesn’t look up until we are far out in the bay. It’s less choppy, but an ocean swell rolls in from the Atlantic in grey green hills of waves. Mr Andersen is leaning back, smiling, the sun shining on his face. He holds the jib sheet in his hand, keen to help Dad sail Moana . But Felix is looking at his feet again.
And he’s a sickly shade of green.
I slide over beside him. ‘It helps if you look out of the boat,’ I say.
Felix looks up briefly and scowls at me. ‘I’m not interested in the view.’
I lean back and stare out to sea. ‘What I mean is, if you fix your eyes on the horizon, you won’t feel so sick.’
Felix nods and looks out beyond the boat.
‘We’ll check our lobster pots, if that’s OK by you, Mr Andersen,’ shouts Dad, ‘then we’ll go on to Gull Rock where we can stop for lunch.’
‘That’s fine by us,’ Mr Andersen shouts back. He lets the jib out a little as Dad turns away from the wind. ‘How many pots do you and your dad have, Kara?’
‘About twenty.’
‘Do you catch much?’
‘Enough,’ I say. I turn my back on him, fold my arms on Moana ’s side and look out to sea. I want to see the dolphins again. I want to see them leaping through our bow waves. Moana ’s wake runs in lace ribbons out behind us. The sunlight sparkles in the sea like stars. Soon we won’t have this. We won’t have any of this, any more.
We round the headland and pass along the rugged coastline of rocky inlets and deep shelving coves. Bright orange buoys of crab and lobster pots bob on the water marking the lobster pots beneath. A man in his boat waves to us. I see the initials TL on his buoys. It’s Ted from the Merry Mermaid checking his pots. I remember painting Dad’s initials on our buoys. I painted flowers on them too, big white ones. Dad said he never heard the last of it down the pub. They called him the flower pot man for months. They teased him too, because Mum made him use traditional withy pots made from willow, not the modern metal and mesh nylon ones.
Dad spills some wind from the sails and we slow down towards the mouth of the rocky inlet where we keep our lobster pots. Two ravens croak from the clifftop. Waves slap against the rocks and gulls wheel and scream in a tight circle above the cove. I crane my neck to look, because there must be something there to pull the gulls and ravens in. A buoy with painted flowers bobs loose on the water like a small child’s lost balloon. It trails a blue rope in a long line out behind it.
Suddenly I feel sick deep inside, because something here feels so wrong.
A roar of engines cuts through the air, and a puff of black smoke drifts up into the sky. An orange ribbed inflatable bursts from our cove. It rears over a wave and smacks down into the water sending up spumes of flying spray.
It passes close and slews in a tight arc around us. Moana rocks in its wake, and I have to put my arm out not to fall. I see Dougie Evans at the wheel, a grim smile on his face. Jake holds up his hand, his finger and thumb out in a loser sign.
But my heart is thumping in my chest because Jake’s words repeat over and over again in my head.
‘
‘You might find it easier to sit up at the front,’ says Dad. ‘There’s more space and there’s a handhold.’
Felix pulls himself up on the seat and grips the brass handle with his good hand. His knuckles turn white and I feel a twinge of guilt run through me. I hadn’t actually thought how hard this could be for him.
I untie the mooring rope and push Moana away from the pontoon. Dad sets her sails and we slide out between the harbour walls.
The first wave hits us side on and I see Felix lurch sideways. He stares down at the floor and presses himself against the side, bracing himself for the next wave. He doesn’t look up until we are far out in the bay. It’s less choppy, but an ocean swell rolls in from the Atlantic in grey green hills of waves. Mr Andersen is leaning back, smiling, the sun shining on his face. He holds the jib sheet in his hand, keen to help Dad sail Moana . But Felix is looking at his feet again.
And he’s a sickly shade of green.
I slide over beside him. ‘It helps if you look out of the boat,’ I say.
Felix looks up briefly and scowls at me. ‘I’m not interested in the view.’
I lean back and stare out to sea. ‘What I mean is, if you fix your eyes on the horizon, you won’t feel so sick.’
Felix nods and looks out beyond the boat.
‘We’ll check our lobster pots, if that’s OK by you, Mr Andersen,’ shouts Dad, ‘then we’ll go on to Gull Rock where we can stop for lunch.’
‘That’s fine by us,’ Mr Andersen shouts back. He lets the jib out a little as Dad turns away from the wind. ‘How many pots do you and your dad have, Kara?’
‘About twenty.’
‘Do you catch much?’
‘Enough,’ I say. I turn my back on him, fold my arms on Moana ’s side and look out to sea. I want to see the dolphins again. I want to see them leaping through our bow waves. Moana ’s wake runs in lace ribbons out behind us. The sunlight sparkles in the sea like stars. Soon we won’t have this. We won’t have any of this, any more.
We round the headland and pass along the rugged coastline of rocky inlets and deep shelving coves. Bright orange buoys of crab and lobster pots bob on the water marking the lobster pots beneath. A man in his boat waves to us. I see the initials TL on his buoys. It’s Ted from the Merry Mermaid checking his pots. I remember painting Dad’s initials on our buoys. I painted flowers on them too, big white ones. Dad said he never heard the last of it down the pub. They called him the flower pot man for months. They teased him too, because Mum made him use traditional withy pots made from willow, not the modern metal and mesh nylon ones.
Dad spills some wind from the sails and we slow down towards the mouth of the rocky inlet where we keep our lobster pots. Two ravens croak from the clifftop. Waves slap against the rocks and gulls wheel and scream in a tight circle above the cove. I crane my neck to look, because there must be something there to pull the gulls and ravens in. A buoy with painted flowers bobs loose on the water like a small child’s lost balloon. It trails a blue rope in a long line out behind it.
Suddenly I feel sick deep inside, because something here feels so wrong.
A roar of engines cuts through the air, and a puff of black smoke drifts up into the sky. An orange ribbed inflatable bursts from our cove. It rears over a wave and smacks down into the water sending up spumes of flying spray.
It passes close and slews in a tight arc around us. Moana rocks in its wake, and I have to put my arm out not to fall. I see Dougie Evans at the wheel, a grim smile on his face. Jake holds up his hand, his finger and thumb out in a loser sign.
But my heart is thumping in my chest because Jake’s words repeat over and over again in my head.
‘
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