The Mahogany Ship

By Larry Votava

En route to the family’s summer holiday camp at Frigate Bay, Robert Cabriata reads a newspaper report that a shipwreck has been found at the front beach: could the wreck possibly be the fabled Mahogany Ship?
Although the report turns out to be a red herring, the government puts up a reward of fifty thousand dollars to whoever finds the mysterious ship, and Frigate Bay, afloat with tourists, becomes gripped with treasure-hunting.
Robert, swept along by this mystery, gets a spellbinding clue from the elderly campground caretaker, and determines that he will find the Mahogany Ship and claim the reward. But Robert is only thirteen, and finds himself battling a pirate, the peculiar Crabapple boys, and a town full of treasure-seekers. What’s more, he has to grapple with his sudden interest in girls, a body raging with hormones, and a world he’s unsure of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Votava
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311320810

Larry Votava

Larry Votava is an Australian author who lives in Ocean Grove, a Victorian coastal town.His second novel, City on Fire, stems from living in Perth, Western Australia, for twenty-two years. Perth, the most isolated capital city in the world, and one of the wealthiest per capita. And with wealth comes corruption, something the author has seen firsthand. Although a work of fiction, the possibility of certain events in the book actually happening does exist.His first novel, the Mahogany Ship, although fiction, has some truth to it — the legend of the Mahogany Ship does exist, fishermen having sighted the boat high and dry on a beach near Port Fairy Victoria in 1836. There were numerous sightings in the years afterward, but eventually, the shipwreck disappeared into the sand or myth. The author, as a child, holidayed with his family for fourteen years at the caravan park at Port Fairy — hence the campground setting. Some of the kids' exploits in the novel are based on fact. As a whole though, the novel is a work of fiction.At the moment, the author is working on his third novel, The Nullarbor, a journey into the broken heart of Australia's outback wilderness; a journey the author has taken many times throughout his thirty-year career in mineral exploration.As always, the author's love of the ocean manages to sneak its way into each novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

When us kids saw Dad drill into the Holden’s dashboard and bolt the bellowing-bar to it we agreed that what he said must be true: love does come in many disguises.

The Holden was new — nearly brand-new. Dad was getting it ready for Christmas, because in our family Christmas meant the car. And the car meant Mum. And that was the worry. She’d always appear relaxed while organising the camping gear inside our house, chatting about the marvel she wanted us kids to see — Victoria’s Great Ocean Road winding its way to our holiday destination, Frigate Bay. That’s until she climbed into the Holden’s front passenger’s seat. That’s when her chatter would stop, her smile disappear; even her argument with Dad about which route to take would fade into silence. Our father wouldn’t boast either. Without raising an eyebrow or sly comment, he’d drive past the Great Ocean Road turnoff and gently accelerate into the straight run: through Colac, across the Western Plains and eventually into Frigate Bay.

And to us kids what did this matter, the scenic Ocean Road or the not-so-scenic straight run? Not much, for we had our own concerns. Two of them. One: we wanted to get there, quickly. Two: whatever route Dad took, at about thirty miles into the journey he’d be forced to pull over onto the gravel shoulder and sit patiently behind the wheel. Mum, still clutching the bellowing-bar, would stare through the windscreen, unable to turn around, unable to see us, her beloved children, doubled over in the long grass, throwing-up breakfast and the pink travel pills she’d made us swallow. We called this ritual the Vomit Stop. Once past it, the trip really started.

Just over halfway we’d pull into the Curbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Although only housing four kangaroos that lounged in the dust, two cockatoos that screeched nonstop and three emus that liked losing feathers, it was a magnet no car loaded with travel-bored kids had the power to drive past. The emus would wait, beaks poked through the wire mesh, tombola eyes locked onto our bread bags. The mouldy bread in our hands got snapped at, the overripe tomatoes gobbled whole. Fascinated by their bulging necks as the tomatoes slid down, we’d ask Mum about the cantaloupe experiment. She always said no.

After finishing his regulation coffee and quick flick through the Melbourne Sun newspaper, Dad would circle the car and trailer. Tyres got kicked, safety chains rattled, surfboards, fishing rods and tent pole strapped to the roof rack, tugged. Satisfied, he’d shout, All aboard.

We wouldn’t muck around — just jump in and belt up.

But on this trip Dad didn’t turn the key. Instead, he pointed to his folded up newspaper. They found an underwater shipwreck, seventy yards off the beach at Frigate Bay. The locals are excited; they say it might be the Mahogany Ship.

Even before the motor started, we yelled, Drive, Dad! Drive!

By the time the car settled into third, Mum’s dark glances at our father had him chin up, whistling casually above the screams of, Faster, Dad! Faster!

I couldn’t believe it. Treasure on our beach where we’d camped for the last six years. Our beach with its surf lifesaving club and Liloman. Our beach that curved north past the black rock lagoons into summer haze, south into the river-entrance bluestone wall. Our sandy beach. I could remember it as if I’d swum there yesterday. Not more than seventy yards from the shore of our sandy beach. And here we sat, in the car, one-and-a-half hours away. The horror.

*

Huge Norfolk pines ushered us into a village of bluestone cottages. Frigate Bay was a small town, very Irish, dark and mossy, low to the ground, ancient. We drove under the flowery, hand-painted Leannda Festival banner — some things never change. The campground wasn’t far: cross the Leannda River Bridge, parallel the perimeter hedge at the southern end of the park, then keep going straight for two hundred yards and turn left into the entrance. But our pleas to check the surf before pitching camp always forced Dad to turn right after the bridge and head up to the beach car park. Today was no different, except our pleas were closer to screams.

Up the fifty-yard rise we drove, and even before we rolled onto the flat crest, I could smell the salt, picture the sea. As we pulled in parallel, overlooking the beach, I threw myself against my brother and sister and scanned the ocean. The treasure hunters were already at it, snorkelling above a dark patch seventy yards from shore. The submerged reef out front of the clubhouse fanned its brown kelp like a giant sea anemone stranded on the sand bottom — perfect visibility. The swell nothing but a ripple. The sky cloudless. A faint offshore breeze. People in shorts. Umbrellas being carried down the ramp.

Well, said Dad, we better go raise the tent.

The tent? my younger sister Julie asked. What about the treasure ship?

Yes, the tent, countered Mum still clutching the bellowing-bar, and staring through the windscreen.

The bloody tent.

Dad drove to the northern end of the car park, swung a lefty down the pine-tree-lined slope (there’s a bazillion pine trees in Frigate Bay), braked at the corner milk bar, then crossed the intersection. But before we entered the caravan park I looked left to the empty front paddock where people would camp when all else was full. I could still remember our first campsite there. We didn’t have a tent back then, just a heavy canvas tarp hitched at an angle from the Holden’s roof rack down to the ground. Back then it was simply a matter of working out which way the tarp faced. Dad said it was a special tarp that worked best with the folded edge turned up. I thought it strange, like a shirt worn inside out, but you know what us kids are taught: Dad knows best. Sling a tarp, and that was it. So simple. So much fun. Back from a day on the beach, Mum would heat soup on the Primus stove, Dad would read beneath the gas lantern, and us kids, huddled into sleeping bags on the ground, would drift off to sleep staring up at the Dept of Main Roads stencilled across our canvas ceiling.

Now life was complicated; now we had a proper tent. Last summer I was twelve years old, and while erecting the tent that holiday I really learnt how to swear. Of course I’d sworn and cursed before this, but a year ago was when I learnt to swear like an adult, to use it as a way to express my feelings. It was forty degrees that summer day, the wind offshore, the surf three-foot — the fucking tent wouldn’t go up quick enough.

The car vibrated across the cattle-grid entrance, and instead of turning left down First Avenue we kept going past the footy ground to see how many campers had settled in. It was two days before Christmas and tents and vans had already packed in along the entrance road or clumped themselves around the central toilet block. One happy couple, reclining on foldouts, waved to us as we drove past.

Dad waved and from the corner of his mouth, croaked, They won’t be so happy when the storm comes through.

Mum agreed. Poor blighters.

Us kids nodded. We were experts. We’d holidayed here for six years. A storm hit the town every summer and their campsite was actually a slight depression.

Our site wasn’t. And with Lady Luck on our side it would be vacant. That’s why we’d arrived two days before Christmas. That’s why the car was jam-packed with silent suspense as we crawled along Second Avenue, past the southern toilets, off the bitumen and onto the gravel track. Silent until Julie screamed, It’s there!

Tucked away in the southwest corner, nicely protected from a southerly storm by an eight-foot hedge, sat our holiday site, an empty expanse of buffalo grass. When the car finally stopped on the lawn, my elder brother Jericho, Sis and I bolted to the trailer, unlaced the canopy’s canvas flap and tossed aside camping gear in search of masks, snorkels and flippers.

Hey! said Dad.

At home two weeks ago, I amazed a neighbour by using the word pedantic. I told him Mum had taught me the word, and explained what it meant — fathers putting up tents.

Ours was a twelve-foot by twelve-foot canvas. Cool, I must admit; you never saw another roof like ours. All sorts of tents would pack the campground out: twelve by twelves, twelve by eighteens, even a few crisp, clean continentals. But all had green or blue roofs. How boring. Ours had a peak of red, blue, yellow and green stripes, and at night the gas lantern lit it up like a circus big top. But at the moment it lay flat on the ground with each of us at a corner tugging against one another until Dad cried, She’s square.

Wooden poles assembled. Two ropes for each pole. Snorkelling gear strategically placed in parents’ view. Dad banging in pegs. Divers stealing treasure from the shipwreck. Everybody to a corner pole. Lift. Ropes from pole to peg. Us kids complaining about the heat. Dad re-checking square. Mum nodding to Dad. Dad untying the one-piece, storm-proof, four-inch diameter, Oregon centre pole from the roof rack. Dad disappearing under the canvas, moving about like a captured animal. The wooden point appearing through the centre eyelet. The tent roof rising. Double bunks to erect. The trailer where our parents slept to be positioned. Tables and chairs. I stared up at the Primus blue sky. A million bloody jobs. Then, a voice from heaven.

All right, you lot.

Us kids gawked at Mum.

Nick off, she said. We’ll be right now.

The caretaker’s weatherboard cottage, guarded by slatted fence, tall pines and shadows, fronted the main road not more than one hundred yards from our campsite. We darted down the vehicle track alongside the house to the locked gate, about to slip through the pedestrian gap when a familiar voice called out from behind, Now, would ya look at dat, the kids from Cat Country are back in town. And in a hurry for the beach, judging by the speed of things.

Mr Brittle, we all said, turning around to the elderly caretaker deadheading a rose bush. He hadn’t aged; he already was old. Anyone that tucked their shirt into their white undies had to be old.

Jericho quickly added, Gotta run, Mr Brittle.

No rush. No surf. And dat wind’s gunna blow offshore all day.

Julie held up her diving mask. Not the waves, the shipwreck. The Mahogany Ship.

Dat’s what I mean, girlie. No rush. Because dat dere ain’t the Mahogany Ship.

How do you know? I said. I didn’t mean to sound rude, but my tone was sort of gruff.

He winked at me. I just know, Robert.

Well, it’s worth a look, said Jericho.

I’d already placed one foot on the bitumen when Mr Brittle spoke my name again. I was able to turn my body to him but not my attention, because Jericho’s and Julie’s thongs slapped loud and fast as they bolted to the other side.

You’ve gained some height, laddie. Grown up a tad. Not like dat Geelong football team of yours. Not too good this year. He gummed his lips up into a smile. He was missing so many teeth his smile drooped, but his crinkled eyes made sure the smile was never sad.

I placed another foot on the bitumen and took off not bothering to answer. He was a nice man; his only mean streak, the footy. As I ran, I remembered what Mum said about him, That’s what happens when you barrack for Collingwood all your life.

I sprinted up the fifty-yard rise to the beach car park and was just about to run over to the surf club ramp when a hand gripped my shoulder. Pulled up short, I turned around and gazed up at a man’s cracked bottom lip, the crack so deep I could easily imagine sun glaring off a glassy sea. The man’s eyes were harsh like dark wet wood, his bleached hair was plaited into a ponytail, a gold earring hung from his left lobe, and he smelt like sardines on burnt toast. He was a creepy looking pirate, but not half as creepy as the small, bandy-legged, ferret-eyed man squinting beside him.

You’ll let us know what’s down there when you come out, kid, said Pirate firmly.

My desire for sunken treasure made me turn and run for the beach, but before I reached the ramp, I panicked; I’d never turned my back on an adult before. I slowed right down, listening for a response. None came so I bolted to the bottom of the slope and launched myself from the concrete onto the sand. Then, out of curiosity, I glanced back up to the car park. All I could see were marram tussocks running up the foredune. I turned for the water. The entire bay sparkled. I laughed; that was rude, but shit it felt okay.

At the shore, my sister stabbed feet into flippers and ran her finger around the heels. Being Saturday, the red and yellow flags were up and a lifesaver marched down from the clubhouse and politely told Julie not to go too deep. Which was fair enough because she was only eight, and a girl. Without a word my sister edged backward into the water, spat in her mask, rinsed it, pulled it over her face, turned and dived. She surfaced ten yards away, her long black hair shiny like a seal. Without breaking her stride, she gulped a breath and dove again towards the wreck site. The lifesaver about-faced, legged it up the boat ramp and disappeared through the roller-door into the clubhouse.

Liloman was still alive and still wearing his blue Speedos. He sat on his deckchair, his frail chocolate body surrounded by sand and his mustard coloured surf mats. He waved. I yelled hello. His sign hadn’t changed: ten cents for half an hour. His big wooden clock faced the sea. One pm, it said.

Wet sand squeezed between my toes like dry slime. A boy frisbeed his skiffle board across the shallows, ran after it, jumped on and skimmed past me. I waded in up to my knees, forced on my flippers, strapped on my mask and dove. The icy ocean stole my breath, shot across my back and clamped my skin. Bubbles echoed over my ears, desperate for the surface. Blue light. White sand. Depth. Suspension. Silence. I skimmed across the rippled bottom. I could never remember not being able to swim.

The wreck wasn’t much bigger than a surf lifesaving boat. Partially covered by sand, it lay like a headless skeleton ten feet below, its only occupant a lone parrotfish. I duck-dived and grabbed a wooden rib, expecting to feel slimy sponge, surprised by a solid smooth texture. My eyes scoured the sea floor, from bow to stern and back again, raking the sand for a glint of gold or silver. Above me six black bodies circled the surface, taking turns to filter the sun. From one body, a hand beckoned — my brother Jericho. I broke surface next to him and Sis. We trod water. Mouthpieces out, lips distorted like pig snouts, we slurred words at one another.

A copper spike, yelled Jericho.

Where? I asked.

We dove to the bottom. Sis pointed to the underside of a rib. I saw it, just above the sand, thicker than a finger, protruding four inches from the wood. I grabbed it and yanked. It didn’t move. We surfaced.

Sis spluttered, Nobody else has seen it.

It feels tight, I said. What we gunna do?

You go back to camp, said Jericho.

Huh? What about coins and stuff in the sand?

This is too small to be the Mahogany Ship. We’ll guard the spike. You get the tomahawk off Dad. We’ll have to bash it out.

I was in two minds a lot lately; I questioned everything. My brother’s words felt like an order. They sort of made sense. To be or not to be, I heard someone say once. It didn’t matter. I powered to shore, dropped the diving gear onto my towel, shuffled feet into thongs and sprinted through the sand to the cement ramp. But as I stepped up my trailing big toe clipped the concrete. Yow! I hopped on my left foot, nursing my right until my momentum slowed. A flap of skin hung off my big toe revealing a blood patch big as a ten-cent piece. Sucking air through my teeth, I hobbled and sucked, hobbled and sucked all the way up the ramp.

See anything, kid?

Pirate and First Mate were back again. No, that’s right, they hadn’t moved. They stared at me. They were more persistent than the Jehovahs.

No.

What, nutten? asked First Mate as if I was lying.

Which I was. Just some wood.

Timmbber, said First Mate, pointing a yellow finger at my chest. His eyes rolled up at Pirate, then rolled back to me. What sorta timmbber? He was missing a front tooth. It must’ve hurt when he talked because his head moved in an arc when he spoke.

How do I know? I was rude again, but this time it didn’t feel enjoyable; maybe the pain in my toe was starting to come out my mouth. I thought, best keep hobbling — all the way back to camp.

Our tent appeared square, tight and complete, so why were the fishing rods and corkboards still roped to the roof rack? I threw back the canvas flap and ran in. Mum stood in the far corner, her eyes desperate like a freshly landed fish. She quickly straightened her clothes and patted her thick brown hair, all the while ahhing as if she was walking across hot coals. Dad stood facing her, fidgeting with his front. He turned round. His black fringe was sweat-stuck to his forehead. He looked as hot and bothered as Mum. They needed to go for a swim.

Robert. What are you doing back already? Mum half-gasped.

I felt it again, that presence, that apprehension…that confusion from not understanding my feelings, that embarrassment in not knowing why, that…thing. Need the tomahawk. I was on the back foot, ready for the standard parent response.

What for? asked Dad.

The shipwreck. We found a spike.

Don’t lose it. It’s outside on the trailer hitch.

Something was wrong. I was in two minds again. Where was the, You'll get it rusty, you’ll blunt it. You know what happens to my tools when I give them to you kids. I turned and hobbled towards the door.

What’s wrong? asked Mum.

I pointed to my toe.

Nothing was wrong. She went off. Those bloody thongs. That’s it. I’m gunna throw em to the shithouse. Every bloody summer without fail. Goddamn Chinese. Come here.

The wreck.

Come here.

As she lifted back the sandy skin flap, I squirmed. It’s all right.

No, it’s not.

The salt water will clean it.

And I’ll bandage it. Sit.

I sat.

A few minutes later, spurred on by the comforting white bandage, I raised the tomahawk above my head, ran past the caretaker’s cottage and charged up the bitumen slope towards the surf beach car park. Judging by the smile on the elderly couple strolling down towards me, they must have thought I’d opened an early Christmas present. On noticing the axe was real, their expression turned to alarm and they scurried to the other side as I bolted up over the rise and down to the beach.

Standing knee deep in the shallows, I eased and squeezed my bandaged foot into its flipper and plunged in. Because the cotton grated against the wound, most of my propulsion came from my left leg. It seemed as if I’d swum for ages, but eventually I was back over the wreck and asked straight off, Is it still there?

Jericho grabbed the axe. Yep.

It’s unbelievable, said Sis. Nobody’s seen it. They’re pulling off bits of timber, but our rib is too big.

We dived. Jericho chopped at the rib. He hit the spike. We surfaced.

The wood’s too tough, he said. We’ll have to bash the spike and try to loosen it. We’ll take turns.

He gave me the axe. I dived. The first whack jarred my hand. As did the second, the third. I surfaced. Sis grabbed the tool and dived. Her girlie swings looked useless. She surfaced. Jericho dived. He surfaced. I dived. I wiggled the copper. It moved. I surfaced. My brother dived, chopped and wiggled. I dived, placed the tomahawk on the seabed and using both hands wrenched the spike back and forth, the arc increasing, the copper inching upwards, my hands hurting, the heat in my chest hardening, until finally, the spike slipped from the ship and I was able to push off, puncture the surface and gasp air.

We trod the cool Bass Strait water, laughing as we passed the copper pin around. But then I stopped smiling. A sensation, as if a shark had just swum beneath us, turned me towards the shore; I’d forgotten about Pirate and his mate. I scanned a car park of silhouettes, but they’d gone.

Chapter 2

Inside our tent, Mum half-screamed, Look at you lot. Red as beetroots.

Where’s the tomahawk? asked Dad.

Beside the trailer, answered Jericho, eyeing his shoulders, trying to gauge how much his sunburn would hurt tomorrow.

Dad pushed open the flap and disappeared outside. I heard water splash from the tap midway between Mr Brittle’s house and our camp.

Well, said Mum, hands on hips. Lucky your grandfather was a Ding and black as an ace or we’d spend the entire holiday rubbing buttermilk into you. And with the shooing action she usually reserved for Beaver, the lawn-pooing, neighbourhood fox terrier, said, Go have a shower and get the sting out of it.

I was last back from the shower. And if it wasn’t for some drongo banging on my shower door I would have returned even later. Dad, do you know what I’m gunna be when I grow up? I said, as I entered the tent.

He peered over the evening Herald — the paperboy had done his round.

A carpenter. And fix every shower door, every dunny door, in every caravan park in Australia — maybe even the world.

Still not aligned properly? he asked. Some things don’t change, do they, son. Best get Mr Brittle’s assistant onto it. And he went back to his paper.

Julie sat cross-legged on the rye grass matting, filing her hand-spear prongs. She had a lullaby glow; she’d been buttermilked by Mum. I checked myself as I passed the tiny, blue plastic mirror nailed to the centre pole. (The mirror made me think of canaries every time.) My face was red, eye sockets white. The pimples on my cheeks were a worry. If anymore grew I’d start to look like a cauliflower. I tilted my chin up and down, side-to-side. My pointy little nose still hadn’t widened. Blessed in summer, I guess, as it didn’t peel much. Not like Jericho’s. His wasn’t huge but big enough to make jokes about. With all the skin it shed over summer, Leper-head became his holiday