Undertow

By Kim Bambrook

Kay wakes up on a floundering yacht. The Tasmanian coastline has receded, and her partner, Sam, has mysteriously disappeared.

An eerie fog hinders visibility.

With no means of communication with the outside world, Kay's worst fears are realised: she is alone and isolated, her vessel off-course and lurching into the unknown.

Fr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Forty South Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645567502

Book preview

© Kim Bambrook 2022

kimbambrook.com

ISBNs

Paperback: 978-0-6455101-0-2

eBook: 978-0-6455675-0-2

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 either electronic, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

Cover photograph by Doug Thost

dougthostphotography.zenfolio.com

Author photograph by Karen Wilson-Megahan

kwilsonphotography.com

Published by Forty South Publishing Pty Ltd

Hobart, Tasmania

fortysouth.com.au

Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

Melbourne, Victoria

mcphersonsprinting.com.au

For my mother, Irene,

who took my hand on slow walks

as we listened to the birds,

and who never stopped believing in me,

and to my father, Graeme, a big presence,

a bushman,

a raconteur,

and a family man.

Contents

Missing

Red

Pedra Branca

Baja: The testing ground

Mulwala

Surviving Pedra

Yosemite

Sunrise

Camino de Santiago

The cave

White feathers

The albatross

Alice

Rainbow

The fishing boat

Thin air

The bay

Turua Beach

Aaron

Finding purchase

The lagoon

Maz

Reunion Island

Aftermath

A mountain calls

The dream

Boot prints

A clue

Homeward bound

River

Hobart

Sam

Family

Into the wild

A muddy trail

Cavern Camp

Damper Cave

A resting place

The Ironbound Range

A new day

one

Missing

I roll onto my back and drag the pillow across my face. Sunlight bursts through the hatch and floods my bed. I’m not ready to wake up. Water slides under the hull, gently propelling Mulwala through the water. I wonder why we are not anchored up in Cloudy Bay yet? That had been the plan before I took to bed with a killer headache.

‘Sam,’ I call.

No answer.

Sighing, I hoist myself into a sitting position and rub sleep from my eyes. Rolls of navigation maps, hanging in netting above my head, sashay from side to side like lazy swimmers.

‘I’m awake,’ I call out loudly, hoping Sam will hear me above the steady throbbing of the engine.

I wriggle out of the cabin and grab a mug out of the sink. Downing a glass of water, I shake my drug-fuzzed head clear.

Damn migraine medication.

The main cabin takes on a grey hue. A glance out the window tells me that fog is encroaching upon Mulwala . I call out to Sam as I haul myself up the companionway steps.

‘Morning,’ I say, smile at the ready.

Sam is not at the helm. I stick my head back inside the cabin in case I’ve missed seeing him down there. Perhaps he’s in the forward cabin where we store our boating paraphernalia.

‘Sam,’ I yell.

No answer.

I look around the vessel in confusion, taking in the fluttering of the headsail, the steady rise and fall of the bow and the straight line of the mast. There is no sign of Sam on the boat.

Turning to the stern, I step onto the aft deck and peer into the water as it washes away from Mulwala’s sleek lines. The wake disappears into the fog. The dinghy is safely raised on davits above the stern, and below it, securely attached to the boat railing, is the lifebuoy.

I cup my hands around my mouth. ‘Where are you, Sam?’ I scream, my voice flat across the water.

Staring at the rotating wheel of the helm, I can’t believe Sam is not standing there with a cheery good morning, and an explanation as to why Mulwala is not at anchor.

My mind is spinning as I look beyond the vessel, seeking a reassuring glimpse of Sam’s red life jacket.

Frantic now, I scream until my lungs hurt, straining to see beyond the fog to where land ought to have been. There is only the sea, rolling and endless.

two

Red

The creak of the wheel as it makes slight adjustments is unnerving. I steady myself as my eyes search the yacht. In vain I hope that Sam will materialise. My heart is beating hard against the wall of my chest as I thrust the throttle back to idle. I scurry along the decking towards the bow of Mulwala, crouching low as I push aside the headsail – slack in the still air. I lean as far as I dare over the railing. Failing to see more than a few metres ahead of the bow, I curse the dense fog.

‘Sam, answer me!’ I shout.

Still no answer bar the screech of a lone gull as it dips towards me, seemingly affronted by all the noise I’m making.

Mulwala is on autopilot, and I feel as if I am too, so surreal is this situation. Cursing, I do another sweep of the boat looking for clues. Nothing is out of place. There is no sign of Sam, no sign of a life jacket, nothing but water and this crazy fog.

My greatest sailing fear, to be alone at sea, no land in sight, has been realised. Sam is not on the boat. And, as improbable as it is, this is my reality. Anger wells up within me.

Damn you, Sam, you can’t just disappear; not now you have made a sailor out of this landlubber.

Water shifts under the yacht. I lift my hand above the navigation console. My finger hovers for the briefest of moments before I press the Man Overboard button, marking a GPS waypoint at my current location. I never wanted to press this button.

It signals a search for a missing person.

It signals that I am now alone.

I’m finding it hard to breathe. I have no idea what has happened to Sam, nor where he is now.

How long can someone survive in the Southern Ocean at the tail end of summer?

Visibility is poor and I can’t even see land, let alone anything else.

The screen on the chart plotter is set at close range. I zoom out, seeking an identifiable landform on the map in front of me. We’re a long way off course, well south of our intended destination, Bruny Island. A tremor runs through me. The last thing I recall is leaving Partridge Island under motor, with clear skies and barely a breath of wind; a bit of breeze is needed to set sails. At some stage the wind must have picked up enough for Sam to put the headsail up. When it died out, fog had crept in.

The sail slaps and stirs me into action. I quickly furl it and resume my position at the wheel. My brow furrows as I realise that Sam most likely went overboard while there was still puff in the sail. No way would Sam leave it flapping about like that.

The sea swell looks to be around two metres and building, as it is usually does ahead of a southerly front. The map shows that I am around five nautical miles south of Pedra Branca, the island itself approximately twenty-six nautical miles south of the most southerly point of mainland Tasmania. That we are so far off course is as perplexing as Sam’s disappearance.

I fill my lungs then exhale loudly, trying to calm my nerves as I prepare to turn Mulwala back in the direction we’ve come from, navigating from the MOB point on the chart plotter. I switch from autopilot back to manual steering and plant my legs apart, toes gripped for purchase. Directing the bow of the boat to the north, I want to retrace our passage. I wait for the next wave, then push the throttle forward and turn the wheel.

Mulwala responds as she is built to do, rolling with the sea, throwing water aside and obeying my command to turn.

A glance at the compass – resting in its clear bulbous housing directly behind the navigation console – assures me of our direction and verifies the position reading marked on the instrumentation panel. Confounded, I turn the helm a few degrees eastwards, back towards Bruny.

I usually love this feeling, surfing down the face of a wave with the sea at our stern, swell pushing Mulwala forward. Swift passage gives me a momentary burst of courage.

‘Where are you?’ I call, my voice blaring in the eerie fog.

A menacing atmosphere pervades. The sea banks and falls, hiding whatever is in its keeping. I have no idea how much time has elapsed since I retreated to my bunk as we left pretty Partridge Island. Somehow, I have lost track of time, lost Sam, lost my holiday high, and I am lost at sea.

Reaching for the handset, I note the GPS coordinates as they were when I had pressed the MOB and get ready to make a mayday call. Planes deployed to search in a grid area would have more chance than I would of spotting a red lifejacket. The Southern Ocean is not kind to those who linger too long in her chilly embrace. Suddenly, Mulwala is jolted by a rogue wave smacking us on the beam. I activate the radio.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Mulwala, Mulwala, Mulwala, does anyone copy me?’

I repeat my entreaties for help and for my efforts get nothing but radio silence. Only then do I look down at the instrument panel. It’s blank.

The twelve-volt house battery switch might have taken a knock. The boat’s electronic navigational system needs battery power or it doesn’t work. If you ask me, it’s in a stupid position, that battery panel; it’s so easily jolted. The electronics had been on before I tried to make the mayday call. I silently pray the answer is as simple as turning a switch back to the on position.

Gazelda – our wind generator – starts to hum. A puff of wind blows against my cheek. I look up and see that a light breeze has started to shift the fog. To keep the helm straight while I am below deck, I lock the wheel in place with bungee cords.

With Mulwala ’s helm now fixed to ensure the swell is behind us, I fight the urge to rush. Survival depends on keeping calm . Easier said than done. I’m not even close to being calm.

What if I miss seeing Sam while I’m below deck?

I vault down the companionway steps, grasping the grab rails for purchase. Checking the battery panel, I see that its switch is in the correct position. Then the fault must be with the instrumentation. I glance up at the control panel above the navigation station and immediately see that, even though the switches are in the correct position, no lights are on. Diving across the cabin I reach for the Phillips head screwdriver, conveniently located at the front of the navigation table. With legs braced as Mulwala pitches, I flip the panel of the fuse board forward, checking for a blown fuse.

Instantly, I see a main power feed to the fuse board – a red wire – has corroded and is not attached to the terminal. Without that red wire, no thicker than my little finger, I have no instrumentation and no radio. It hits me hard. I have no power and no idea if I can restore it. As a scream rises from deep in my gut, Mulwala bucks and my legs are kicked from under me.

three

Pedra Branca

I’m flung unceremoniously across the cabin, floundering, as Mulwala surfs down a wave. Crashing onto the floor, I narrowly avoid hitting my head on the side of the galley bench as the boat dips and is pushed broadside to the sea. The air is punched out of me. Wrapping my arms around my chest, I roll into a ball and stay that way until I catch my breath.

Mulwala rocks and rolls as she rights herself. I hoist myself up and fumble my way to the companionway steps. When I’m back on deck, there is no mistaking what I see. Ahead and to port there’s a monstrous rock, the size of an eighteen-story building, which has materialised above the churning water – and Mulwala is being swept towards it. This is a rock I know well from many pictures and stories. Pedra Branca, punching skywards, has emerged from behind a foggy veil to tower threateningly above the sea.

Reflexively, I dive for the wheel and see that the bungee cords are no longer secure. I thrust them on deck, kick them aside and turn the wheel to starboard, away from Pedra. The vessel has taken a nasty knock and I can feel her shuddering as I pull the helm around.

While I was below deck, a southerly front had hit with sudden and dangerous force. The wind has picked up alarmingly and the ocean is hungry. As the yacht slides into a trough, the craggy island in front of us is hidden from view. I hold my position and keep the bow pointed away from Pedra. Everything I have learnt in my years of sailing comes to the fore as I work with the boat to get us out of danger. The strong easterly current is not helping my cause, meeting the opposing wind and creating steep fronted waves. The opposing forces of wind and sea are sucking Mulwala towards Pedra, dragging her close to perilous shores.

The conditions are more challenging than I have ever seen. Fishermen and sailors speak with respect of this notorious region and I am seeing firsthand why. I’m sweating like crazy and I know it’s due to terror.

Pedra Branca disappears from sight regularly as we ride the rolling sea. Checking the yacht’s position, I grasp at the unlikely scenario that we can creep away from reef and rocks. When we are in open water I can heave-to with our sea anchor and try to regain use of our instrumentation – surely, there must be a way – and radio for help.

The fog has been replaced by dark, low-lying clouds, and the waves chopping and frothing. I no longer have the aid of the depth sounder on our chart plotter. While I can make out Eddystone and Sidmouth rocks to the east – both prominent – there is a lot under the water that I cannot see. Without electronic navigation, my life is in my hands alone. And so, I think, is Sam’s.

Sam is my constant boating companion. And I am his. I have never skippered a vessel on my own before today, but I do have years of sailing experience. I have sailed with Sam, and years prior with a crazy but skilled skipper on a different sea, far away. I survived a storm then and will do so again. If I maintain a visual and keep control of the helm, I can navigate us to safety. Sailors of old had neither depth sounders nor radios but they found a way, as will I.

What choice do I have?

I hang on, guiding Mulwala in increments, striving to gain ground and get clear of rock. The current rushes and sucks at our hull, making headway more and more difficult. I feel the helm lurch and shudder under my hands.

The wind is intensifying and becoming increasingly loud. Waves are crashing like cymbals, the spray drenching me. Despite my efforts, Mulwala is being directed more by the sea than me. As if in a boxing ring, I know I am making the right moves but still my opponent batters me mercilessly.

Lightning punctures the sky to the west. The worst of the front is yet to hit.

As I struggle to hold Mulwala steady, I push the throttle further forward, trying desperately to gain ground. The boat groans. Come on, Mulwala ! Suddenly the wheel is violently wrenched from under my hands. It swings of its own accord, thrashing side to side, as if daring me to go near. Not able to hold it, the helm takes on a life of its own. If I reach for it, I could lose an arm.

Helplessness washes over me as heavy as the sea. Time slows as I cling onto the centre console. Collapsing onto the deck, I hold on. Looking up, I see grey walls of water that build and topple, like buildings in a giant Lego land.

Is this the final scene?

As if from above, I look down on this tiny figure clinging to a drowning vessel. There’s a voice in my head, urging me to hold on, telling me to get up. It’s Matt, it’s my son. His faith in me has never wavered, despite times of uncertainty. Resolve germinates. I will escape this torment, as I did that ocean rip when I was a young teenager, and my first fear-filled sailing adventure almost as long ago. I will find Sam. I will make it home to my family. I shake my head, clearing it, and wipe my arm across my eyes as I haul myself up.

four

Baja: The testing ground

Sailing experiences were non-existent in my childhood. I was nineteen when I signed up to crew on a yacht departing from San Diego. It was then that I experienced my first great adventure, away from the protected confines of my childhood home. I met the greater world, such as it is, both wonderful and terrible. I swore then that I would never return to the sea. But I did return, many years later, and when I did there were many days I would ask myself, why?

I love the land, the feel of the earth. Growing up on a dairy farm amidst rolling hills in picturesque East Gippsland ensured that. There, I experienced the warm gooey sensation of fresh cow manure between my toes, jumping in puddles, and climbing trees. We celebrated when the dams were full and I learnt, from a young age, to respect water. I discovered how powerful it could be on a family holiday to Tathra in New South Wales. Along with my older sister, I got caught in a rip and was sucked out well beyond the breakers.

‘Don’t fight the current,’ she called out. ‘Stay calm and swim across it.’

She knew the ocean better than me. The weight, the huge hungry entity that was the ocean enticed for the same reasons that it instilled in me an acute wariness that was to stay with me thereafter. I was lured by the unknown, despite unseen perils.

The farm was my playground. I could roam barefoot and carefree with my siblings, my companions. We explored the bush on the mountain behind our home, swam in dams, and built cubby houses under the tank stand and in the hayshed. Once I convinced two school friends to camp with me below the mountain for a weekend. Dad helped us haul our gear to my pre-chosen campsite, and then we were alone. I set up a tent for the first time. We hardly slept a wink that night as animals emerged from the bush and scared the bejesus out of us. I loved it just the same.

I left school and flew to the USA. My plan was to trek through national parks between Mexico and Alaska. I wanted to hike and was looking for mountains to climb. The excitement that I felt when I landed in Los Angeles was quickly dampened by the enormity of the challenge I had set myself. Coming from a small Australian country town, I had never seen such a busy place as the Los Angeles International Airport. I succumbed to self-doubt. How will I survive? I spent weeks acclimatising, hiking in forests where trees towered above me and looked and smelled nothing like the eucalypts of home.

I hitched a ride on the back of a motorbike to the start of a hiking trail in Southern California. When I got there, a message on a San Diego backpackers’ noticeboard caught my eye. Harry, a skipper with decades of sailing under his belt, was looking for a crew. I was enticed by his salty tales of adventure. Harry owned a fifty-foot sloop: a single-masted sailing boat bound for the West Indies via the Baja California and the Panama Canal. Ocean adventures were not on my radar and I had no boating skills to speak of, but that didn’t stop me. With youthful blind confidence and a zest for new experiences, I applied and was quickly hired as