It's the late 2020s and the contestation for the western Pacific is growing more intense.
As the drumbeats of war become more threatening, a young family take to the sea in their tough old gaff cutter, Seakeeper. The tale follows the protagonists to the distant shores of the Chatham Islands, back to New Zealand and then to a home which is strangely reshaped, yet recognisable. The world they inhabit, however is scarcely recognisable... |
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Down harbour
Down harbour to us boys meant the magical place where parents were powerless and we were captains of our vessels. Down harbour was packed sandwiches for lunch, a bottle of pop for our thirst and the weather forecast on the radio at five past eight.
Down harbour was only possible when the tide was right, too low and the boats were stuck at the pontoon of the club, in the mud. That’s right stuck in the mud. You’ve heard that expression before, for us it was literal. We’d played with the expression on those days when the tide didn’t serve, but they would be three or four days in a fortnight of school holidays, there were other things that had to be done, other - landlubber friends and family to see, tennis to play, shopping for next term, boring things. Down harbour was the place where we wanted to be. The place where our imaginations fired. Here too lay the last of the hero ships of the world war, waiting on their rusting cables for the quietus of the wreckers’ torches.
Men we knew, our friends fathers, would go quiet for a moment when we talked glibly of torpedoing HMS… we meant using an oar to push off from the ship’s wind shadow. Torpedos to those men were too well remembered. The deaths of ships and friends.
If the wind was fresh and the tide right, we would try to round Pewit Island. Yes, the tide had to be full to cross the causeway, vestige though it was. Some said it had been a Roman oyster farm, who knows, but it was a voyage, to us.
The ships down harbour have changed now, but ships there are still, on rusting cables. The friends; well most are dispersed across the globe on voyages of their own, from which few will return.
I'm looking down harbour now. The eyes are not so good, but I see shapes and hear remembered voices calling. The tide is in and the wind will serve and a little lugsail dinghy is bobbing, waiting for me. The forecast is good, its time to go down harbour one more time. Charon will be a good companion, my coin is in my hand.
Down harbour to us boys meant the magical place where parents were powerless and we were captains of our vessels. Down harbour was packed sandwiches for lunch, a bottle of pop for our thirst and the weather forecast on the radio at five past eight.
Down harbour was only possible when the tide was right, too low and the boats were stuck at the pontoon of the club, in the mud. That’s right stuck in the mud. You’ve heard that expression before, for us it was literal. We’d played with the expression on those days when the tide didn’t serve, but they would be three or four days in a fortnight of school holidays, there were other things that had to be done, other - landlubber friends and family to see, tennis to play, shopping for next term, boring things. Down harbour was the place where we wanted to be. The place where our imaginations fired. Here too lay the last of the hero ships of the world war, waiting on their rusting cables for the quietus of the wreckers’ torches.
Men we knew, our friends fathers, would go quiet for a moment when we talked glibly of torpedoing HMS… we meant using an oar to push off from the ship’s wind shadow. Torpedos to those men were too well remembered. The deaths of ships and friends.
If the wind was fresh and the tide right, we would try to round Pewit Island. Yes, the tide had to be full to cross the causeway, vestige though it was. Some said it had been a Roman oyster farm, who knows, but it was a voyage, to us.
The ships down harbour have changed now, but ships there are still, on rusting cables. The friends; well most are dispersed across the globe on voyages of their own, from which few will return.
I'm looking down harbour now. The eyes are not so good, but I see shapes and hear remembered voices calling. The tide is in and the wind will serve and a little lugsail dinghy is bobbing, waiting for me. The forecast is good, its time to go down harbour one more time. Charon will be a good companion, my coin is in my hand.