Authors: Di Morrissey
Tyndall had a firm rule for Niah when other crews came on board the
Shamrock
for social evenings—she must keep to herself in the main
cabin. He instructed that she venture on deck only after the last of the visitors had left.
One evening she was sitting with her back against the main mast, her chin on hunched up knees, looking across the moonlit water. As she listened to the soft slap of water on the hull and the lazy rattle of the rigging, she could see that nearly all the boats had doused their lanterns, except the schooner
Ambrosia
run by ‘Wild’ Bill Leven. A waving lantern held over the side vaguely illuminated a tiny rowing boat into which a man was trying to clamber. There was a shout, a thump and a curse and then laughter from two men as the little craft rocked violently. After shouted slurred farewells, the boat zigzagged towards the
Shamrock
.
She sat still until the dinghy bumped alongside the rope ladder amidships and she saw Tyndall fumbling with the rope to secure the craft. Without a word she went to the side, leaned down and took the mooring line, holding it firm while Tyndall climbed clumsily aboard, missing his footing several times. He stumbled to the main cabin without a word, as if he hadn’t seen her.
After she had secured the dinghy astern she padded silently after him. In the dark cabin Tyndall was sprawled across his bunk, one leg and one arm hanging over the side.
Niah bent down and pulled off his plimsolls and socks, and as he opened a weary eye, she tugged at his shirt and, with some assistance from Tyndall, dragged it off. He watched her without saying a word as she leaned over him and unbuckled his belt, methodically undid the row of buttons and, taking
the bottom of each trouser leg, slid off his pants. Tyndall tossed his undergarments to the floor and lay there naked, without moving or speaking.
Standing by the bed Niah looked down at him for a moment and gave a small satisfied smile, then undid the knot of her sarong and let it fall to the floor. A faint change of expression swept fleetingly across Tyndall’s face at the sight of the nubile golden body softly lit by moonlight through the portholes. Niah then laid her body gently on his and his outstretched arms tightened around her.
The
Shamrock
strained at its mooring, the wooden planks groaned gently and rigging quivered as it lolled in the arms of the sea and Niah sighed sensually in the strong arms of Tyndall.
In the morning Ahmed quietly boarded, got a steaming mug of black tea from the galley and went to the main cabin to wake the tardy skipper. In the hatchway he paused, seeing Niah sleeping snugly curled into Tyndall’s side.
Before he could retreat Tyndall opened his eyes, yawned and gave a small smile. ‘Leave the tea thank you, Ahmed. I’ll be up and about shortly.’
Ahmed nodded, his face impassive, and went up on deck and busied himself with bags of shell.
It was some time before Tyndall appeared, looking pleased with himself and surprisingly refreshed. He made no reference to Niah and, after calling for
makan
from the cook, heartily announced, ‘Today is the day I go below.’
Ahmed looked up in surprise. ‘Is this wise, tuan,
when you have had such a … ’ Ahmed paused delicately, ‘such a night? Liquor in the blood is not good when diving.’
‘Slept that off,’ replied Tyndall cheerfully. ‘No, my mind is made up. Tell Yoshi, today he can rest on deck for awhile and I’ll go over the side. Only one way to find out what it’s all about. Can’t have these divers pulling the wool over our eyes and having us believe their fancy stories if I haven’t seen it for myself.’
Ahmed knew better than to protest. He nodded and rowed over to the
Bulan
to alert the crew that the skipper wanted to dive.
Tomoko Yoshikuri, the Japanese diver, was not happy at what he regarded as a mere little adventure by the captain, for they would lose at least half a day’s work, and he was being paid a bonus percentage of the shell take. On the pearling grounds when the skipper was not aboard, the diver had control of the boat and when the diver was below, his tender guided the boat’s movements, dictated by the diver below. Yoshi could disagree with Tyndall’s wish to attempt a first dive, but Tyndall was owner and pearling master and his sea skills were respected. Before signing on, Yoshi and Takahashi Ono, his tender, had made their own enquiries. Some Malay crews were considered lazy but Ahmed had a solid reputation and his fierce loyalty to Tyndall was considered a credit by the two Japanese, and the word was about that the master ran a tight, efficient ship.
Yoshi went and sat in the shade and waited. Tyndall would only try this once, he reasoned.
He was contemplative as the tender and Ahmed set out the gear for Tyndall’s dive. A placid man, Yoshi’s calmness came from an acceptance of knowing his path in life. The old samurai who had opened a small school in his village after the overthrow of the shoguns had taught Yoshi that success came from hard work and knowledge, and also from attending to one’s fellow man by being loyal, trustworthy and kind. As a schoolboy he had dreamed of the world beyond his village. Japan was changing, turning from feudalism to embrace ideas and ways of the western world, with merchants replacing warriors as the men of high esteem.
Yoshi’s village in Taiji on the coast of Wakayama Prefecture on Honshu was as different as the distance that separated it from the Kimberley coast. It was five years now since he had last wandered among the dark forests of elm and ash, fir and pines that grew in a solid green wall almost to the edge of the rugged steep cliffs over a sea-swept rocky shoreline. As the land was impossible to farm, the villagers made a precarious existence as fishermen and whalers. Yoshi still recalled the dreadful day when, as a young boy, he watched the abler men of the village row out to capture a whale calf, only to have their boats smashed by the enraged mother who, hearing the cries of her calf, charged and smashed the boats, killing all the men.
Many young men left the village to find work elsewhere and some found their way to north Australia on small boats working the waters for seafood delicacies and pearl shell. Their natural
ability as divers, their innate understanding of the sea, and their strength of will and body, earned them a big reputation and thus began a traditional link between an island of Japan and a remote part of the great Australian continent. Soon master pearlers right across the north were bidding for their services.
Throughout his teens, Yoshi heard tales from returning divers and yearned to join them in what seemed to be a great and rewarding adventure. So when agents of the Thursday Island pearlers came recruiting one summer, Yoshi signed up and was indentured. He learned his trade with the Torres Strait fleet, then contracted with a pearler moving west to the newer and richer grounds of Western Australia. He missed the coral and palm-fringed islands of the Torres Strait, but accepted the rough and barren Broome landscape with equanimity. The rewards were good. There was money to spare to send back to his brothers and sisters, to secure some property in the village. Whenever he was ashore he went to the small temple built by the tight-knit Japanese community in Broome and burned incense and offered prayers for his mother who had died during his first year abroad. Yoshi had yet to make a trip back home to his village, but such absences were not uncommon among Japanese divers. When he did go back it would be with the money to afford a wife whom he would bring to Broome.
Yoshi was now in his late twenties, a senior diver with many years good work left in him, provided he was careful. And there were few divers on the coast as wary of the hazards as Yoshi. He had one rule …
never take unnecessary risks. There were too many examples about Broome of divers who had—men crippled and wizened with bodies crushed and warped by the pressure of the sea, causing the dreaded paralysis, which, if it didn’t kill them, damaged them for life.
Yoshi thought Tyndall was taking an unnecessary risk. He had no need to go down. It was a decision that he had not expected from his new boss, and it worried him. He thinks it a bit of a game, reflected Yoshi as he sipped at a small blue china mug of warm tea. Taki his tender had brought it to him with a raised eyebrow and a nod toward Tyndall who was wrapping himself in layers of flannel while Ahmed fussed with the diving suit. Niah, in a sarong, sat on the aft gunwale, smiling at Tyndall’s comic antics as he pulled on layers of clothes to combat the cold below.
‘Yo, ho, ho, Yoshi,’ shouted Tyndall in good humour. ‘I’m ready to don the suit of the finest and bravest diver in the nor-west. How do I look?’
Everyone on deck, including the Malays, looked at Tyndall with inscrutable faces. Tyndall knew he looked ridiculous—a tall pole of a man wrapped in multicoloured layers of long Johns, strips of flannel sheets, several undershirts and pairs of long socks, none of them matching. But nobody smiled, except Niah, who broke into a giggle which she smothered with a hand, earning a wicked wink from Tyndall.
Ahmed and Taki helped Tyndall into the bulky canvas and rubber diving suit and then laced up the heavy lead-weighted boots, and pulled on the gloves.
Yoshi kept a professional eye on every detail, without moving from his squatting position on the roof of the cabin. Only when the team prepared to put on the helmet did Yoshi move and take his place beside Tyndall. Yoshi watched carefully as the corselet of brass and copper was guided over Tyndall’s head and screwed to the reinforced neck of the suit. A coir rope was tied around his waist within easy hand reach to signal Taki from below and for Taki to signal him.
Yoshi spoke at last. ‘Breathe slowly. Never panic. Concentrate on the job. No time to look around pretty place. Look where you put feet all time. Remember, one pull, more air, two pulls, slack off line, three pulls help quick smart. Three pulls from topside, you come up quick time.’ They rehearsed the routine several times, Tyndall feeling increasingly uncomfortable and sweaty in the suit.
Ahmed grinned. ‘No work today, boss. You just look around at pretty places.’ He knew it would annoy Yoshi, but the Japanese diver showed no reaction.
‘No, Ahmed, it’s not a holiday. I’ve got to come up with something, or I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole coast.’ He took a couple of steps toward the ladder, then paused. ‘Hey, shouldn’t we have a ceremony or something?’
All divers were superstitious and most carried lucky charms, prayed before diving or conducted some small personal ritual before sinking through the fathoms to the sea bed. They made countless dives, but knew each one could present some terrible accident that could claim their life. Yoshi
carried a miniature red torii, the simple two uprights crossed at the top by two horizontals which was a powerful symbol of Shintoism. The first tales he had heard of pearl diving were accounts highly coloured about devils that lurked beneath the sea. There were so many beliefs and customs. One must always bow before silver fish in a bowl. Two fish fighting meant sharks were around. It was not good of the master to joke about such things before a dive.
Niah leapt off the rail and ran to Tyndall, taking off her carved pearl shell pendant as she moved. Niah dropped it over his head, pushing it inside the suit. He glanced at the carving, and smiled into her eyes. It was a good omen, he told himself, though he was not sure why. The spontaneity of the gesture pleased him.
The copper helmet was lifted and placed over his head and locked into place on the metal collar. The glass panels in the helmet had been rinsed with sea water to prevent them steaming up with his breath, and these too were locked shut.
Lifting his hand in salute, Tyndall stepped backwards and flopped into the water. He put a hand to the valve on his helmet and there was a hiss of air deflating the suit and he sank beneath the surface into a watery world of changing light and colour. He hit the bottom gently, quickly readjusted the air valve to get the right pressure, enough to keep the water pressure off his body, and yet not high enough to send him shooting to the surface. He was more conscious of his body than the world around him. He could feel pins and needles of pain spiking through his head and joints as his body rebelled
against this unnatural state. He could hear the unexpectedly loud hissing of his breathing, the click-clack of the air pump on the deck transmitted down the hose, and the rush of bubbles each time he exhaled. Once he was comfortable, he sent a signal up the line and the tender began playing out line so he could start exploring his underwater world.
Slowly Tyndall began trudging along the sea bed, his lead boots kicking up clouds of sand. Initially the transparent walls of water around him were disorienting. He looked down at the sea floor. It was grubby-hued sand littered with rocks, weed and small outcrops of corallite—the decaying skeletons of coral formations. He was glad there wasn’t the ‘grass’ that divers talked of—the lush, bright green weed that sometimes obscured the bottom and hid treacherous holes, shell and dangerous marine life.
As he became accustomed to the floor he started to pick out the shell, generally bunched together, greyish-brown, some covered with weed and coralline. Looking more closely, Tyndall could see the giveaway small ridge line in the sand where concealed shells had ‘breathed’. He bent down and began picking up shells and placing them in the woven baskets strung on the extra line.
Above the surface Taki followed Tyndall’s groping movements as the line played through his fingers. Ahmed kept the
Bulan
head reaching, ensuring it was close up to the wind, moving stern-first with the tide, its direction guided by the rudder and a small jib to stop her drifting away with the current too quickly and dragging Tyndall with her.