Sailmaker (2 page)

3

Saturday roars around fast. Dev's got the helmets, straps his chinstrap and puts his glasses on; then he gives the throttle a sharp twist. Close up it's like revving a truck. Even when it's idling, Dev reckons his Harley is like a full-body massage. I climb on the back – this has got to be the best. He's got his old leather jacket on; he bought one for me too, at Christmas. Gran's standing out the back door, wearing a pair of jeans. It makes me take a second look. Never seen her in jeans before. She's saying something but I can't hear. Bet she's telling me to hang on, or something equally hopeless. Dev just waves as he settles back on the bike with his knees up, and we're off.

Burning down Park Terrace and onto the main road to Adelaide. Man, is this living! The rush is awesome – almost better than being out in Grandad's boat. Dev's Harley is old and there's no sound system in our helmets like Shawn reckons his uncle's got; what a wuss. But this is the real thing – if you could bottle a thousand horses and feel their power at the flick of a wrist – that's what riding behind Dev feels like. And hanging onto him I feel like I'm attached. The vibration of the engine rages through Dev and jumps across to me, like a circle of energy joins us together. If only he were my real dad instead of that mean Scott in jail. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure I don't end up like
him
. Running into Scott at Gala Day was the pits. It made me wonder if Ms Colby had been right – face to face with the cesspool I came from. It wasn't pretty.

Dev says I shouldn't try too hard at it though. He told me this story about a mate of his learning to ride his bike in a paddock. There was one tree in the middle and he was determined to miss it. Kept his eye on it all the time so he'd know where it was. Guess what he crashed into? I understood that story – better to keep my eyes on Dev, I reckon, and then maybe I'll turn out okay.

We stop at Port Wakefield and Dev buys me a pineapple juice (I would have liked a Coke but we both know what Gran would say if she found out – there are some things Dev supports Gran in, like she's a footy coach or something). Then we're off again. I like the hungry way kids in the back of boring station wagons watch us as we pass. Bet they'd like a dad like Dev.

We end up at this big warehouse with ‘Adelaide Auctions' painted everywhere. Dev parks and we go inside, walk around a bit. It's already started – people standing or sitting, listening to this guy up on a platform.

‘What'll ya bid? Fifty dollar, fifty dollar.' Never heard anyone talk so fast, and I thought Zoe could talk (that's my biological mum). No one's answering this guy either. How does he know who bid? Then I see a woman lift a number on a card; another man gives a nod, so small, like a fly was on his nose. All of a sudden I can see it all – cool. You can't when you first walk in – it's like a group of dummies giving out secret messages. Imagine being able to see all those movements at once. Reckon I'd like to be an auctioneer. Dev gets a number and leads me over to another part of the floor.

‘See here, mate.' And there's a windsurfer – board, sail, the lot. ‘What do you think of it?' I walk around it. It's nothing like Shawn Houser's, no foot straps on the board.

‘It's old, but it'd still work, I reckon.' I look up at him. He must have known.

He grins. ‘Saw it in the paper, mate.' Then I remember my seventy bucks.

‘This'd cost hundreds in a second-hand shop, wouldn't it?'

‘Don't worry, mate. We'll see what happens.'

Yep. I reckon I'd spend my seventy bucks on a windsurfer, and then Shawn Houser and I could sailboard in the same stretch of water. Wouldn't have to fight over his.

It seems to take forever for the action to get up to this end of the floor; they go through china bowls and boxes of books, music – all the stuff Gran puts in the church bin for ‘those less fortunate'. Finally the group of dummies have moved around the rig. And it's on.

‘Lot number 412 – sailboard and rig. What am I bid? As you can see, this is worth six hundred dollars, folks, but we'll kick it off at two hundred.' No one says anything and I start to wonder why we came. ‘All right, let's start at one hundred. Any bids for one hundred?' Still no one moves a muscle. The man doesn't seem fazed any. ‘Okay, we'll have a low bid. Fifty dollar. Far too cheap. Fifty dollar. Yes. Do I hear fifty-five, fifty-five dollars? Sixty, yes, sixty?' Dev's nodding. ‘Sixty to the gentleman in the leather jacket. Sixty-five, sixty-five, yes, can I hear seventy? Seventy?' Dev nods again and shows his number. Another guy by the auctioneer is writing stuff down. I start to sigh in relief but it hasn't finished. ‘Seventy-five, yes, seventy-five?'
Seventy-five!
I've only got seventy. Why doesn't Dev stop? He's standing there staring at the auctioneer, real serious, like he's never going to give up.

‘I see that, Madam, yes, eighty. Do I hear eighty?' Dev nods again; I can't work out now who's in front. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-five over there – ninety, do I see ninety? Ninety.' When's this going to end?

‘Yes, a hundred, folks, a hundred, is there a hundred and ten?' Dev shows his number again. Then it suddenly stops – no one wants it for more than a hundred and ten. ‘I'll sell this for a hundred and ten. Are you all done now? All done. Sold for a hundred and ten.' And the guy crashes a wooden hammer down on his desk.

‘Was it us, Dev? Did we get it?' With all that nodding and showing of numbers I still don't know who ended up with it, but Dev seems happy.

‘Yeah, mate, it's yours.' He's looking at me, proud. He knows he's got me something special; he's like a dingo when it brings home a young rabbit for tea.

‘You sure?' I say. ‘We'd better check.' And then I think of my seventy bucks. ‘You forgot, I've only got seventy.'

Dev grins wider then. ‘I'm going to chip in, mate. Isn't that what dads do?' I don't know. Do they? But it sounds cool, the way he says it. Surely this means he's like a real dad.

‘Thanks, Dev.' I give him the seventy and he pays at the window where he got the number. ‘How do we get it home?' I'm itching to try it out. That's when I hear about Dev's sister.

‘We'll go to Nancy's for lunch. She'll pick it up and bring it over in her station wagon. She's been at me to meet you.'

‘Me?' I'm heaps nervous. People don't always like me first up. And being Dev's sister makes it seem like there's more to lose if she doesn't. She must be the one that saw my ad in the first place and told Dev about it. Guess I owe her one.

‘Okay,' I say.

Nancy turns out to be a bit older than Dev – not much different to Gran really, except she's heaps bigger. It's the first time that I wonder if Gran's not as old as I think she is. I get squeezed into a huge soft hug before I see it coming and can duck. No one's ever done that before, not when they first meet me. Besides I'd never let them get away with it. Guess it's because of Dev I let it go and I tell myself not to mind. Dev's grinning at me, like he knows what I'm thinking. Nancy's made real spaghetti and sauce, full of olives, anchovies and little green things that look suss. It looks heaps hard to eat. She gives me a spoon and a fork and I watch how Dev does it before I start.

Dev's sister sure talks a lot. She's got black curly hair that jumps up and down and her eyes kind of pop when she gets up speed. She'd make a good auctioneer too. It's when Dev goes out to the shed to sort through some of his stuff for Nancy to bring over that she sets in motion a tide that shows me what a sandcastle kind of life I have.

‘Yes, it was very timely for Dev, that ad of yours.' And she's patting my hand. I'm not used to all this touching. From Gran, sure, but not someone I've just met. Though, as I squint at her over the orange juice she gave me, I wonder if she's my aunty now. Maybe I'll have to put up with it.

‘Of course, Dev's never been one to settle very long in one place – a year here, six months there . . .'

I freeze. Somehow the juice finds its way back to the table without spilling.

‘There was that time he went up to Queensland – some commune in the mountains. Didn't last long. Then he was in jail for age – oops!'

And she stops like I mightn't know about that, but I do. Dev told me months ago that he lost his wife and child in a bike smash – it wasn't his fault. Nancy can tell that I know; I haven't gasped in shock (as if I would anyway). Jumping Jehoshaphat – I can hardly think for all the other stuff she's rattling on about.

‘Terrible thing that – his wife was a singer, you know . . . the little boy was adorable – only three.' I wish I had flaps on my ears and could shut them. Has anyone ever called me adorable? Hope she doesn't say his name – I don't want to know.

‘Only three when it happened . . .' Nancy makes it sound like a traffic accident, but I know it was worse than that – it was a biker-club war. Nancy looks sad now. Sad that her little brother can get himself in so much trouble?

I can't forget what she first said – that Dev never stays long in one place. He told me once he'd changed in jail – become steadier. Not everyone did, he said. I have to hang onto that, but I can't sit here any more; I've been polite long enough for Dev's sake. I mumble something about finding Dev and get out of there. Fast.

4

On the way home I don't mention to Dev what Nancy said. He might say don't be a worrywart (holy moly, are Gran's habits rubbing off on me?), or he might say something else I won't like. After all, nothing's ever been set in stone about how long he will stay.

Nancy comes a few days later and brings the windsurfer and a cardboard box for Dev. She and Gran hit it off like two lit matches and I don't want to hang around hearing how Dev can't settle, so I find Mei. You must have someone with you when you windsurf at the beach and I'd rather have Mei than Shawn and his taunts while I get used to the rig. Mei's heaps happy for me, but that's Mei.

‘This is so cool, Joel. Your own board and everything.' I can tell she's thinking Dev did a nice thing. You don't have to tell me that. I strap the board to an old golf buggy of Grandad's I found in the boatshed. It works well as a little trailer; I'll even be able to tow it with my bike too. I put on the boom and the sail wrapped round the mast. I've checked it out – it's pretty old, seen quite a few waves. The sail's not too big, shouldn't pull me over. It's been restitched in one seam, none of that new Dakron stuff, but hey, it's okay for a hundred and ten bucks.

We decide to go down to the closest beach. There are rocks out on the headland but even if the sea's not quite like a mirror today, the wind's calm enough. It'll be okay. Mei watches as I set up. I tell her all about it while I do it. Don't know why but I get this thing at odd times where I have to explain everything. Mei never tells me to shut up so I guess she doesn't mind.

‘You push the mast up through the sail, then the boom goes on the mast.' I tie down the hole rope. ‘The battens go in the sail like this, to give it some shape.' There are Velcro bits to keep them in. Then I fit the rig onto the board. It clips in. Mei hands me the dagger board and I slip it through the board so it's sticking out a bit at the bottom. And I'm ready. Summer wetsuit on – it can get cold in the wind, especially if I fall in, which is likely with a new rig. The buoyancy jacket's on too. Just imagine Gran if she caught me not wearing that – goodbye, windsurfing.

I put the board in the water. I know I have to start with the wind at my back, the mast tilting in the direction I'm heading. It's different from Shawn's – a bit like starting fresh. I get on, wobble a bit, then pull the sail forward and climb the rope with my hands like Shawn taught me. He goes to one of those clubs at Black Point. It's hard to keep my balance without the foot straps that I got used to on Shawn's rig.

Mei settles down on the sand with a pile of pebbles and pieces of smooth coloured glass. Amazing what waves do to a broken bottle that's been thrown into the sea. She'll be happy sorting through it all. She's got a clear glass bowl of water in her bedroom half full of things she finds down here. Besides, she knows I'll want to try the rig first since it's mine. Wonder if she'll want a turn after? I'm just getting a feel for the wind, got my hips forward, leaning back, pulling on the boom. The board skims across a wave and I go further out. I pull back some more and it goes faster; I see the wash behind, like a miniature version of when I'm out in Grandad's boat with Dev. I grin. There's no one there to see but it doesn't matter.

That's when I decide to try tacking. Not enough wind for gybing – not that I'm good at that yet anyway. I'd most probably fall off changing sides. The first one goes okay, bit wobbly. Then I try again. I want to head back to the beach; the rocky headland's behind me. I'll have to zigzag, but as I lean the mast towards the back of the board, I'm not fast enough. A wave comes and I turn the board downwind. It's a mistake; I should have turned into the wind. I get blown where I don't want to go; the wind's picked up and now I'm too close to the rocks. I try again, and this time I can hear Mei shouting. Bet she's telling me what I already know. The waves are choppier here – bad move to let myself get so close in. I try to turn, shuffle round the front of the board, but it doesn't work.

Suddenly I lose my balance and I've somersaulted under the water. It's like diving into green froth before you're ready, and I surface, coughing. I manage to kick and keep myself off the rocks; give Mei a wave to say I'm okay. The board's bobbing not far away and I swim for it. Then Mei's there, helping me to pull it up as I scramble up the rock. Maybe there's time to have another go. It sailed well before I got everything wrong.

‘Careful with the sail,' I warn, but as I say it I see the tear. I try not to swear in front of Mei. Funny, six months ago I would have let all those bad words spill without a thought. A rip. How am I going to mend it? It's Mei who reminds me about the old guy on the island. ‘Dad says old Vern Solomon used to be a sailmaker.'

‘What? Before he took the lease out there?'

Mei nods, her black eyes shining. Vern Solomon does the maintenance on the island, keeps an eye on the old keepers' houses and the bird sanctuary. The lighthouse is automatic, solar-powered now; no more lighthouse keepers, just Vern Solomon. We hardly see the old guy in the town. Steve Pengelly, who runs the tourist boats, takes supplies over.

‘Maybe Mr Pengelly would take us,' I say. ‘Couldn't fit the sail in a tinnie.' Besides, taking our tinnie the two miles out there could be risky unless the sea was like glass.