A day or two after the Tall Ships race, Bay of Islands, New Zealand
A bow wave that wouldn’t disgrace an oil tanker; oars beating the otherwise quiet waters of Matauwhi Bay into foam; a whirlwind of human activity accompanied by the clanking of small plastic vessels. This could only mean one thing: Marcus must be rowing across to Fantail for a visit. With all the excited urgency of a puppy with a full bladder, and chaperoned by the sort of hissing sounds that often follow the twisting of plastic tops and usually signal pressure being released from a small vessel, Marcus leaped – Superman style - over Fantail’s gunwale, guzzled twice, and explained that he was a man on a mission.
“It’s about Martin Simmons – that scamperous son of a biscuit eater! You know the bottle of rum he was offered the very special privilege of guarding with his life until all of us junk-rigged yachties could relieve him of the enormous responsibility of preserving it intact? Well, the scallywag’s up-anchored and hauled off to Assassination Cove, and he’s taken the booty with him! Totally unacceptable! But don’t you worry - I’ve got a plan. I’m rounding up a posse, calling the fleet to arms, flying the black flag and we’re going after that hornswaggler with a cat o’ nine tails! Noon tomorrow! Arr, grrrh… Are you guys in?”
Us guys looked at each other. We looked at Marcus’ brown bottle. After a swallow of what tasted like napalm that had recently re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, the opportunity of following every boy’s childhood dream of growing up and becoming a real pirate was bringing tears to my eyes… or perhaps the tears were from the third degree burns that Marcus’ homebrew was inflicting on my tastebuds… but either way, I had the feeling of having landed the dream job I always would have had if I hadn’t been distracted by a tedious life ashore. And Linda, who had never tried rum and therefore had no idea of the disappointment in store for her, couldn’t resist the temptation of being part of a group of fully grown adults acting like total patsies.
“We’re in! I’ve got this image of a vaguely Chino-Spanish Armada storming down Manawaora Bay with cutlasses drawn and ready and cannons nuzzled in their ports, not to mention the bountiful pleasures of keelhauling the nefarious Mr. Simmons! Aye, noon tomorrow!”
“Right!” Marcus thumped a no-longer-hissing small vessel on Fantail’s table. “I’m off to La Chica to raid Paul Thompson’s booze cupboard. I need to get some practice on a soft target before going after that grumpy freebooter Simmons. I’ll be leaving tomorrow at noon, sharp. Aye, see you then!”
That night I dreamed lustily of clashing sabres, soaring cannonballs, black patches, parrots, peglegs, and a whimpering Martin Simmons pleading for clemency as he stood on the end of a short wooden plank.
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At noon the next day, Linda and I watched, uncomprehending, as Sweet Thursday’s shapely transom jobbled through the anchorage as Marcus left for Assassination Cove at the appointed hour. Puzzled and needing an explanation, I turned on the shortwave radio and checked Fantail’s clock against the time signals from WWV. No, it was true – Marcus was leaving on time. Perhaps the significance of this event – an historic occasion – deserves a repeat: Marcus left on time. MARCUS WAS ON TIME!!! Being faster, we gave him a half hour head start before following his wake around Tapeka Point.
The fleet amassed in Manawaora Bay. Marcus had clearly done a terrific job of rounding up the troops. Junk wannabe Sweet Thursday was reaching back in forth like a fly in a bottle, and I thought I detected the faint sounds of the kind of pressure-release hissing that usually follows the twisting of plastic tops on small vessels; Oryx streaked in at Mach 3, her verdant fireball colours gave her the mien of Joseph’s coat in an acid flashback; La Chica and Arcadian ran in together and looked absolutely magnificent, wing and wong and wing and wong, giant butterflies from Alpha Centaurus; and Fantail, the smallest, neatest, cutest and most -est contributor to the milieu, darting between them while Linda sat on the bow aiming her Canon, shooting away happily. We snuck across to the eastern side of the bay to where a couple of large pointy-rigs were anchored… their cameras came out - ‘you guys look fantastic!’ - and we did too, big grins… then, while Sweet Thursday guarded the escape from the Bay, the junks took up battle stations and bore down on Tystie.
Curses!! We’d been spotted, and the crafty Mr. Simmons was underway as we overbore. From beneath a black pirate hat bearing the skull-and-crossbones, Martin hollered “Ye’ll never catch the Black Pearl!!! Ye’ll not take me alive, ye scurvy knaves!!!”, and other genuine pirate talk. Cannons fired, and from Fantail we observed La Chica’s steel timbers shiver under a direct hit from a watercannonballoon. Fantail, more underarmed than an Aussie cricketer, hovered at the edge of Tystie’s range as Linda fired off shot after shot. The fracas grew with the arrival of Renate’s dinghy, freshly downloaded from her pointy-rigged Renahara, performing double duties as observer and referee, and soon the melee engulfed Sweet Thursday. Much close quarters battling in fluky winds followed. And this really was paint-scrapingly close, with much crafty manoeuvring as the wind came and went, veered and backed. At one point I went to gybe Fantail; the wind followed the tiller until I was close hauled on the same tack. As most of us were low on munitions, Marcus put Sweet Thursday into the role of supply ship, passing out small vessels of, er, ‘armament’ either hand-to-hand over the rails or into the trailing dinghies of the Good Guys. In the heat of the battle we all sometimes forgot who the enemy was, with armament proffered to all and sundry, and pseudo-clubhauling and stand-on tactics were occasionally employed in raucous micro-duels between whoever was convenient.
All good things come to end, however, and there was the serious business of relieving Martin of the responsibility of preserving the rum to attend to. Accompanied by the soft hissing that often follows the release of pressure from small vessels, we ran up our flags and sailed into the peaceful waters of Assassination Cove. The clear green waters, soft verdant hillsides and warm late-afternoon breezes provided a pleasant, calming environment, entirely conducive for junkie chitchat, the consumption of snacks and beverages, and the strangling of rum thieves.
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After an hour so at anchor, the crew of Fantail were aroused from their torpor by the sound of the tapping of spoon against glass. Aboard Tystie, Martin was clearly surrendering and a new and different call to arms was made. Still wearing the skull and crossbones hat, the now-chastened and meek Mr. Simmons was clearly trying to make amends. In a mellow mood, the crews of Arcadian, Sweet Thursday, La Chica, Oryx, Renahara and Fantail made themselves available on Tystie for the solemn task of the Draining of the Rum. Martin’s usually inscrutable features were conspicuously tortured beneath his skull-and-crossbones hat as he cracked the lid from the rum bottle and carefully tipped equal measures into the glasses lined up on Tystie’s bridge deck. The pained expression remained as, with great solemnity, the glasses of Kraken’s finest was distributed, loaves and fishes style, amongst those present. Cheers, all.
Gak!!! I know nothing about rum – I’m not a rum virgin, quite, although it’s never been my poison of choice – but this stuff is… well… there’s something not right here. I swallow the first, minimal, sip, and look for confirmation on the faces of those around me. It’s Linda who first joins the dots, followed by Pete Hill, but I hear Linda’s voice and have my explanation:
“This”, says the rum virgin, “is cold tea.”
The scamperous son of a biscuit eater!!! Martin Simmons, the scallywag, the low down, dirty, freebooting, hornswaggler, has had the last laugh!!! We’re casting our eyes over Martin, who is by now almost doubled up in his companionway, rocking with laughter. Great gales of guffawing and giggling, in fact; Martin is choking on his chortles and chuckling, tears rolling down his cheeks as he loses control and explodes into convulsions.
“Renate had an empty Kraken rum bottle”, he barely manages. “I spent hours getting the tea just the right colour… and bottling it… hahahahaha…. and you all…. fell for it…. Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Well, we sure did! He had us, hook, line and sinker. What could we say? Well done, Martin. How could anyone follow that? Once he had recovered some degree of composure, about an hour later, Martin pulled out the real bottle of Kraken rum, and we toasted everything we could think of in turn until the bottle was drained. I still don’t like rum, but that day it was just right.
We drifted back to our boats to cook up a storm for a pot luck dinner to be held aboard Tystie. I thought I could detect the soft strains of the hissing of escaping gasses from a small vessel floating across the water from Sweet Thursday. An hour later we were crammed back into Tystie’s cabin, waiting for Marcus who has reverted back to his usual time zone (about three hours behind NZ Standard Time). Marcus? Maaarcuusss???
Finally, Martin, demonstrating the endless patience and Zen-like calm acquired through years of classroom teaching and dealing with recalcitrant teenagers, stands in Tystie’s cockpit, faces Sweet Thursday and cups his hands to his lips. “MARCUS AURELIUS, WHAT THE %&()$ ARE YOU DOING??? GET YOUR %^(*)^% AR$3 OVER HERE NOW!!!”
Scarcely twenty minutes later, Marcus crawls out of Sweet Thursday’s cabin the way an octogenarian grizzly bear with rheumatoid arthritis leaves his cave after six months of hibernation. “Ahhhhh……. might have dozed off for a minute…”
And so the party rocked on. ‘Spud’ Murphy never tired of explaining how his Irish bloodlines evolved into Amish, and how Arcadian won the Tall Ships race and Tystie was an also-ran… ‘Sparrow’ Simmons got all melancholic, reminiscing about the glory days of hand-torturing his students and repeatedly told of how women found him irresistible… Marcus and I gave in and with great reluctance performed a sterling rendition of Tome Waits’ Blue Valentines after ‘Spud’ insisted that we do ‘just a wee number’ for the Tall Ships winner… Kaelyn expressed a great deal of interest in the fermented products of hops and grains, although her interest and complexion both seemed to pale as the evening progressed… Linda tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to hide Marcus’ penny whistle before irreparable damage could be inflicted on surrounding fauna… a vile bottle of whiskey was both proffered and dealt with, and the hissing sound often made as plastic tops are removed from small vessels was heard… Pete dropped in dry one-liners and had us in stitches… Paul did his best to keep up… until finally the night was spent, and all and sundry drifted off to their respective berths for the night. The Great Rum Raid was over, confined to the rear view mirrors of our memories, and all was right in the world.
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Dawn lay like a wet towel on the following morning. The crews, the boats, the waters of the bay, the soft verdant hills that framed Assassination Cove, and time itself seemed affected, stuck to the rising sun with a damp lethargy. When we raised sail to leave, Fantail moved through the waters of the bay with sluggishness of a celebrity divorce. There were new horizons to cross, but a little piece of something special was anchored there, fast in the waters of Manawaora Bay and Assassination Cove. As we slipped out of the bay, I imagined I heard the faint hiss that normally follows the twisting of a plastic top…
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