Spearo

By Mary-anne Scott

Sean has emigrated to New Zealand with his mother from South Africa after the death of his father. He is finding it hard to fit in at school while coping with his grief and homesickness. Mason, a boy in his class who is a mad keen spearo, offers to teach him how to free dive and Sean gradually becomes involved with Mason's family including taking part in free diving and spear fishing training in order to take part in a competition. One accident and Sean is thrust into the front line of the competition – it is all up to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: OneTree House Publishers
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780995117129

Book preview

IN SUPPORT OF SPEARO

Spearo took me back to a time when I was first exploring the underwater world, as a young teenager. The descriptions of Sean’s first dive were so familiar! It is an extremely accurate depiction of the sport of spearfishing, and it combines the reality and technical aspects of spearfishing with the thrill and adventure of exploring the undersea realm. The way it weaves familiar threads of family, friends, conflict and friendship (love?) will enable it to resonate well with a range of ages and interests. I am sure this will whet the interest of many young adults, and I only wish this book had been written when I was this age. A captivating read from first page to last.

Pat Swanson - three time New Zealand spearfishing champion and record holder for snapper and kahawai. He is also an Ambassador for Experiencing Marine Reserves and a specialist science teacher.

To my parents who gave me Mahia

First published by OneTree House Ltd, New Zealand 

Text © Mary-anne Scott, 2020

978-0-9951171-2-9

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover: Tom Scott with kingfish. Photo by Blair Herbert.

CHAPTER ONE

Sean slid into a vacant workstation on the mezzanine floor above the library where Mrs Robertson let students hang out on computers during their breaks. No one took much notice of him; small, quiet kids didn’t stand out in the library and anyway, the students huddling up there were withdrawing from school, not embracing it.

He opened up Google Maps to hover above Zimbabwe before selecting satellite view to visit Bulawayo and walk the dusty streets. Then he moved up again to fly above his old farm, the grey roofs of the outbuildings, the brown, dusty earth surrounding their land and the tall trees that mostly hid his old house from aerial view.

He peered through the treetops trying to remember the way his white house became yellowed in the low, afternoon sun. The way the steel-mesh window screens glinted on hot afternoons and the way Yogi lay panting on the warm concrete steps, always waiting for Sean.

‘This is annoying. Why the hell won’t it work?’

The voice, from the boy one seat along, jolted Sean back to the library. He glanced over to see Mason Leadbetter hunched over his keyboard, long legs snaking around the chair legs, his head sunk into his hands in frustration. Sean braced for rejection, before saying, ‘Can I help?’

‘Do you know anything about editing?’ Mason didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I need to get this boat and a bit of coastline out of my clip but every time I cut the frame, I butcher the music.’ He gave a big sigh. ‘I’m useless at this stuff.’

Sean was in two of Mason Leadbetter’s classes. He already admired the way Mason was friends with everyone yet not friends with anyone special. At the beginning of the year Mason was voted class mediator, but to the teacher’s annoyance, he’d said, ‘Thanks for the votes, but maybe pick someone else. I’m not a class leader sort of guy.’ They eventually ran another ballot and the honour went to someone bossy.

Sean shuffled his seat closer. ‘I can probably sort it; I’ve done a bit of that stuff.’

‘Cheers.’ Mason stabbed at the section he wanted removed. ‘It needs an edit at 25 seconds and at two minutes, three.’

‘Why do you want them removed? Is the boat stolen?’

‘Ha ha. Nah, the boat’s my old man’s, but I’m uploading a spearfishing video and I want to disguise the location.’

‘Why?’ Sean leaned over to grab the mouse.

‘Otherwise, everyone wants to dive where the best fish are,’ Mason said as if that was obvious.

‘You have to take the soundtrack off to edit the clip.’ Sean knew it would be an easy job to tidy up the video: his mother had made safari documentaries on their ranch many times and she’d taught him to erase and add footage. ‘Do you want the water noise reduced, too? It’s drowning out the music.’

‘Yeah, ta.’ Mason tapped out the beat of the song as Sean made the changes. ‘Good music, huh?’

‘What is it?’

‘Touch. Hybrid Minds.’

Sean had never heard of them but mentally added the band to his list of things to check out. ‘What sort of camera were you using?’

‘Just a GoPro.’

‘It’s really clear.’ Sean finished the editing. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the whole thing.’

‘Sure,’ Mason said. He was peering into a grease-stained paper bag he’d found after digging around in his backpack and he frowned at the slice of cold pizza he withdrew. ‘The topping’s come off.’

‘Mine used to do that,’ Sean said, ‘but now I chuck the cheese on first so everything sticks.’

‘What are you? A chef?’

‘Desperate. If I don’t cook, I don’t eat.’

‘How’s that?’

‘My mother works really long hours, so I make the meals.’

‘There’s just the two of you?’

Sean wished he could say three. It was a year and a half since his father’s sudden death and saying ‘two’ still felt like a betrayal. He nodded, seeing the word wouldn’t form.

‘Want some pizza? You’re Sean, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ They both knew Mason didn’t have to introduce himself. Sean took a doughy triangle to fold into his mouth. It took a lot of chewing but gave him time to brush away the memory of his father which threatened to derail any conversation.

‘I survive on a diet of stodge and seafood because my mother’s gone off – just for a while, I hope.’ Sean admired the way Mason casually slipped in his private information; he knew he’d never be able to talk about his father like that. Mason wiped his greasy hands down his uniform and said, ‘Shall we run this clip?’

Sean brushed his own hands clean and nodded. Mason hit start. The screen filled with the sight and sound of an aluminium boat racing across the sea. Thanks to Sean’s editing, only the bow was visible. The camera moved to a wide view of the choppy sea before it focused on a close image of each wave. Then the picture sank seamlessly underwater. The bubbles cleared, the seabed came into view. ‘Sick,’ Sean said.

‘I know, right?’ The camera followed a black-gloved hand over rocks and through seaweed. The next frame showed a boulder covered in grey lumps. Then, the hand was back in the picture, this time holding a flat-topped knife, which the diver used to prise three of the lumps off the rock.

‘Is that you?’

‘Yeah.’ There was pride in Mason’s short reply.

‘What are you getting?’

‘Pāua.’ Mason looked at Sean. ‘Do you know about pāua?’

Sean squinted at the screen. ‘They look like perlemoen so maybe. Do they have beautiful shells?’

‘Yeah. Basically, they’re posh snails with black flesh and they’re under pressure, mostly from poachers, so we’re only allowed 10 per diver.’

‘Bloody poachers,’ Sean said more angrily than he meant to. ‘There’re greedy people everywhere in the world, huh?’ He changed the subject by tapping the screen. ‘Why’s your knife flat-topped?’

‘So I don’t damage the pāua. I might take an undersized one and have to put it back. They’re haemophiliacs.’

‘Those people who can’t stop bleeding? There was a guy at my old school who was one of those.’

‘It’s kind of rare and there’re better outcomes now.’

‘What are you? A doctor?’

Mason laughed. ‘No, but my old man is.’

They watched as Mason measured the pāua before stashing them out of sight. ‘One hundred and twenty-five millimetres to be legal,’ Mason murmured as if Sean had asked.

‘How come you only took three?’

‘I went up for air.’

‘You mean you’re holding your breath all that time?’

‘Well, I’ve cut and pasted a bit; cinematic licence,’ Mason grinned. ‘But I’ve done heaps of diving so I’ve increased my . . .’ he waved his hand around searching for the word.

‘Capacity?’

‘Yeah, but we say dive fitness. I’ve trained my body to get used to higher levels of carbon dioxide so I don’t feel the urge to breathe as often. It’s called free diving.’

‘Why, though?’ Sean shook his head. ‘Surely diving with tanks is easier?’

‘Scuba diving’s a different sport,’ Mason said dismissively. ‘You’re not allowed to harvest pāua using scuba gear; you can’t even have the gear on your boat.’ Mason pointed at the video. ‘This is better.’

‘How?’

‘One breath, one spear and hopefully one fish.’ He pushed his chair back and started packing up his stuff. ‘You’re under the sea, in the fish’s environment, and you select your meal.’

‘How did you get into it? Spearfishing, I mean.’

‘Some mad-keen spearo gets you fired up.’

‘Spearo,’ Sean said, trying out the word.

‘It’s heaps of fun. We’re the pig-hunters of the sea – one on one with our prey.’

Sean thought it sounded noble and he liked the way Mason cared so much. ‘I’ve never caught a fish in the sea before.’

‘Never? How can that be?’

‘Zimbabwe’s landlocked.’

‘What’s that mean?’

Sean stood up, too. ‘There’s no coast; we’re surrounded by other countries.’

Mason was tying his jacket around his waist to go, but paused, ‘No coast? No sea at all?’

‘Four neighbours, nearly five because we almost touch Namibia in one corner.’

‘Namibia,’ Mason said, trying out the word the way Sean had tried out spearo. ‘I’m going to look that stuff up tonight.’

Sean wished he could show Mason the map of Africa. He wanted to see Mason’s reaction to the expanse and majesty of his country. He’d love to point out his old school and the family ranch with big game wandering free. But he couldn’t bring himself to suggest any of that, so he said, ‘Maybe you could tell me more about spearfishing sometime.’

‘Yeah. For sure.’ Mason slung his bag on his back. ‘I’ll be the mad keen spearo who gets you hooked.’

Sean didn’t think he wanted to jump off a boat, or shoot fish with just a lungful of air, but he was desperate to make a friend, so he said, ‘Cheers. I’d like that.’

CHAPTER TWO

Sean wiped spattered fat from his computer screen. He was pulling apart a cooked chicken for the recipe he was honing in the new style of cooking he’d called Cuisine De. Tonight, he was preparing Cuisine de C. His mother wasn’t sold on the idea but, as Sean reminded her, he was the chef. He absentmindedly ate strips of chicken while he watched a diver use his speargun to jab a shark on the nose when it swam too close.

‘Something smells good,’ Mum said as soon as she opened the door. She draped her coat on the back of the chair, put her bag on the table and looked over Sean’s shoulder. ‘What are you watching?’

Her voice was upbeat and Sean knew she’d be relieved he wasn’t soaring over the grasslands of home on the magic carpet of Google Maps. ‘I’m looking at a person spearfishing; there’s a guy in my class who does it.’

‘That’s nice,’ Mum said, but he knew she wasn’t listening. She sifted through the mail on the table. ‘More bills. This country is expensive, hey?’

‘You said it would be cheaper.’

‘Ja, ja, well, we’d be fine if we’d been allowed to bring cash out.’

‘Would’ve been better if we’d stayed where we were.’

‘Please, Sean, not tonight. I’m tired.’ She put her bright face back on and peered into the dish. ‘This looks good. I’m guessing it’s a C night with all that carrot and chicken.’ She tried to eat a piece of cooked chicken, but Sean moved the bowl.

‘That’s not hygienic,’ he said.

Mum kept up her bright, phoney smile. ‘How was school?’

‘Great. Two people spoke to me. Someone asked me to edit a video and someone else tried to make me buy a raffle ticket.’

‘Sean.’

‘It’s true.’ He diced up a bundle of chives. ‘But what’s weird is that the raffle-ticket person was raising money to go on a volunteer programme to Africa. She’s going to save the Big Five from trophy hunters.’

Mum’s head shot up. ‘Good luck. As if that’s going to happen.’

‘She had a poster with a trumpeting elephant on it.’

‘I’m sorry, Sean.’ She