He surfaced wildly, frantically searching the area around him, and saw both his crafts moving at a steady pace away from him. He began to swim in desperation, then paced himself so that his strength wouldn't give out before he was in reach of the craft. And yet he never seemed to close the distance; when the craft picked up speed, he decided the chase
could possibly kill him if he continued. He hung suspended in the water and looked about. The crafts were still travelling away from him at a fair rate, but the sea breeze was slowly blowing them towards the shore. Inevitably, they would beach themselves.
His direction was now firmly set. He put his mind to following the craft, and it was late in the day when fighting against an outgoing tide, he sighted his two runaways hooked in amongst some mangrove trees. His strength had been drained, as he pulled himself aboard the wunnaguri where it rode, and reached weakly for the hanging waterbag.
That night he slept the sleep of the dead. He felt neither incoming tide, nor the sedate outgoing one, but woke to the idyllic lapping of small waves on the hull as the craft rode the gentle swells in the early morning light. He untangled the rope that had become entwined in the low branches of a mangrove tree, pushed the wunnaguri out into clear water and clambered aboard, the raft following in its wake. As yet there was no real breeze, just a gentle wisp dancing across the top of the water. He let the craft drift while he thought. How was he to steer the ungainly big craft that would run him down every time the breeze came up behind him? He had to find some way for directional control.
He sat in perplexion on the stern of the wunnaguri, his legs dangling in the water. If he didn't move the craft back into deep water, he would soon be hooked in the mangroves again. He swam to the raft and lay on the boards. He kicked his way to the front of the wunnaguri, then began to kick with a steady rhythm, twisting his body as he did so to force the small craft to turn seaward dragging the larger one out into deep water. At some distance from the coastal mangrove a cool breeze picked up. It was blowing northerly, and the craft swept along still hugging the coast, but as time passed
Ningaloo could see that he was being driven slowly away from land. All day the wunnaguri travelled northwards at a steady rate. The land to his right had disappeared into a smoky haze around the middle of the day, and as nightfall came, he was still lying off the landmass, still drifting north.
He had dropped the rock over the side of the raft, but it made no difference, a long way from the bottom. There was nothing for it but to let the crafts drift and hope that no storms or severe squalls would come through the night. Morning came with a calmed sea. He wasn't sure where he was, how far he had drifted, but by the way the craft were sitting in the water, they either turned around in the night, or the sun had come up on the wrong side. He scanned the horizon, and saw behind him, far off in the distance, seemingly balanced on the very edge of the horizon, a range of hills. All else was water. He decided to head for the land. He turned the craft around with the aid of the new paddle he had made the day before and sat and ate the last of his cooked provisions, waiting for the breeze he knew would come.
The cool winter wind came with a rush. The craft surged and began to move and he felt a lift in spirit, as if his life had started off on the next part of his journey. He felt the shift of the craft, and the shuddering as it ploughed sideways through the water. Then just as suddenly it stopped and smoothed out in its flowâmoments later it shuddered onward, then it smoothed off again. This change of action mystified and intrigued him. He crawled out of the shelter and on hands and knees looked about at the water now swirling out from beneath the stern of the craft. At that moment the craft went into its shuddering mode, and he realised it was now skidding sideways in its drift. The distant hills seemed only the tiniest bit larger than before.
As the craft swung back onto the right bearing, Ningaloo
lowered himself over the stern into the water and hung suspended for a while, waiting to see if the craft would swing again now that his weight was acting as a sea anchor. He was heartened to see that only the raft was now doing its slow dance in the water. He had his answer, he clambered back aboard the wunnaguri and pulled out two skins. The largest he tied to the stern of the big craft so that it floated as a sheet, then he swam to the raft and did the same with it. Back on the wunnaguri he sat and watched for the reaction. The drift had been corrected, the action of the raft would stop the bigger craft from making a complete turn. For the next two days the craft travelled in a more or less straight line directly for the hills.
Being inactive for so long was totally alien to the boy. He decided that perhaps the new direction wasn't all the wunnaguri needed; he would just have to take the chance of being run over again by his floating home. In all the time the two craft had been floating around the ocean, the raft had still been tied to the front of the larger craft, so by simply pulling in the dragging skin that had settled a little beneath the water, both craft began to move freely once more, and with a few strokes of his new paddle, Ningaloo shot to the front of the large craft and had taken up the strain.
He paddled through the morning, revelling in the exercise, his mind clearing, his nagging need for food forgotten with the job on hand. The wind had picked up and the paddling became easier. Sometimes sudden gusts of wind would drive the larger craft sideways, then with his paddle on the opposite side to the drift, he could correct the movement and realign both craft. By late afternoon the hills had become large. He'd only just returned to the wunnaguri when a sudden gust threw the craft sidewards. Ningaloo dug the paddle over the side near the stern to counteract the yaw, and was surprised
and impressed at how effective the result had been. He drank his fill from the waterbag and returned the paddle to hang suspended below the surface, using it when necessary to correct the direction. Both craft were now skimming across the slight chop in the water, straight towards the hills.
He watched the sun disappear over the horizon, and waited for full night to fall. Steering at night would be a new experience for him, and with the going down of the sun, he wondered just how he would keep his direction. The problem was solved by the brilliance of the evening star as it emerged out of the light of the dying sun. Though his father had taught him the rudiments of finding his way around on land by the simple use of stars for guidance, in conjunction with landmarks, the thought of using the stars in the great open spaces of darkness on the water hadn't occurred to him. Now, with the evening star closing the gap to the horizon, he sought out those few stars that he remembered and found their places in the heavens. He sailed long into the night, watching the shifting heavens above him, noting how the broad band of lighted sky high above him moved through the heavens, slowly following the path of the sun, each star in turn seeking its bed to rest up until the coming day had spent its allotted time. He pulled the raft over to the wunnaguri and dropped the sodden skin back over the side, then dragged his weary body to his bedding and closed his eyes to sleep.
The heat of a warm winter sun woke him next morning. He lay still and let himself come fully awake, then stirred to reach up for the near-empty waterbag. As he did so he heard the call of a gull as it wheeled in flight.
“Strange,” he thought. “I haven't heard another sound of life for many days. How good it is. I wonder, am I getting close to land?”
He pulled himself out of the shelter and looked out upon
calm water between two massive islands. Off in the distance he could see what looked to be an even bigger land mass. The crafts were drifting slowly towards the biggest of the two islands. On impulse he peered over the side of the wunnaguri. Far below he could make out the rocky bottom; at last he was back in water that was within reach of his lungs. He dropped the wet skin over the end of the wunnaguri to let it drift in, and dropped the anchor over the front end. He took his fire-making sticks, a container the quartz adze and waterbag, mounted the raft and made for the rocky shore of the island. His first thoughts were for a decent feed of whatever was his for the taking.
As the days and months of the first part of his journey unfolded, Ningaloo often anchored the wunnaguri in protected coves and bays and spent days exploring the reefs and bays, sometimes even going ashore to explore the islands. When storm clouds gathered on the horizon and lashing squalls developed, he headed his craft back to a favoured bay that he had kept in mind for this purpose, waited for the highest tide, then beached the wunnaguri. He chose the southerly end of the sweeping bay to make his camp where he had moved his belongings up beneath a cliff overhang. He carried rocks as large as he could manage and erected a wall that curved around and across the face of his shelter. He gathered as much dry wood as he could find, stacking it against the stone wall. The overhang, though not as big as the cave he had left, gave him sufficient protection from the elements.
When the storms came and wild winds and driving rain lashed the island that sheltered him, he sat far back in the overhang of rock. Each storm seemed to have a life of differing
capacity. There were days when he was tempted to leave the island and make a run for the secure bay that was his homeland, but he remained in the haven he had chosen.
The storm that shook him the most and would remain in his memory for the rest of his days, crept up on him quite unexpectedly, easing over the island, surreptitiously and then unleashed itself in unimaginable fury, clouds covered the whole sky, scudding across the island. Then the rain came, light and soft at first, but as the days of clouds extended, so the rain came heavier and heavier. The steady wind picked up the tempo as well, driving the rain wildly. It lashed and thrashed his island home, tore out trees, ripped off limbs and caused the earth to slip and slide into the sea. Suddenly it stopped, the wind died, the rain ceased, the sun tried to make its presence felt, and Ningaloo crept out from the shelter of the overhang and walked out into the yellow glow of a strange daylight.
For the remainder of the rain season, Ningaloo stayed close to the island, venturing only far enough to find food. When another cyclone passed by the island, out to sea, he sat well-stocked and comfortable beneath the overhang with a new barrier of rock. His supply of dry wood was placed in a sheltered part of his camp, and he kept the fire going during the wildest part of the storms. Food was plentiful, and he had devised a method of rack-drying fish and fruit for the time of his leaving. He remembered too well his previous trip across the ocean, and the sensation of gnawing hunger. He would leave the island as soon as he was able to and make for the mainland.
With the first touch of cold air from the south, the wunnaguri was hauled back into the water. Repairs had been seen to; he awaited the first sign that the new season was on its way. Within a day of the launch, Ningaloo had his
provisions stored and lashed. In the interim, he had devised and made blades like short paddles to hang on either side of the craft as a new steering means; he longed to know whether they would work. Then one day with a cool steady breeze building, he towed the wunnaguri out into clear water, and as the breeze caught the craft and it began to overhaul the raft, he climbed into the wunnaguri and steered towards the land mass.
Days passed into weeks, weeks into months. The winter winds had long left. Flowers bloomed, birds sang and Ningaloo began his seventeenth year. He had improved the steerage, found a means to erect a small mast, and designed two loose flapping skins to aid the speed of the craft. In his wanderings he found many harbours that would offer the safety he sought. He saw cascading waterfalls and fast-flowing rivers. He saw whirlpools that dazzled him, but nothing in all he had seen could entice him to stay.
And in all this time he had never seen so much as the smoke of a fire or any semblance of human habitation. In the shallows of the bays, in tidal creeks and river mouths, Ningaloo had often tried to play with the porpoises, but they seemed intent on hunting and feeding. Their idea of play was mainly hide-and-seek in the dark, murky waters of fast-flowing tidal creeks, or butting the school sharks and chasing them to test their turn of speed.
Out in the blue water he encountered the dolphins. He watched for days on end as they ducked and dived and played within easy reach of the wunnaguri. At times he would slip over the side to hang suspended in the water as they cavorted nearby. He began to recognise different creatures by their markings or other peculiarities. He could easily identify the mature ones, and began to distinguish those that were the elders. The young were the easiest to make friends with, but
they could not understand that although Ningaloo moved as they did, his speed was limited, as was his air supply. And though in their actions they urged him to join with them, hunting and playing in the ocean deeps, he could not.
One beautiful spring day the wunnaguri drifted with sea anchor in tow through a passage between islands and the mainland. While Ningaloo was idling along in the still waters, a sound invaded his consciousness. There was something disconcerting, yet oddly familiar in these sounds that surrounded him when he was submerged beneath the surface. He tried to locate their source, but failed, and decided that the Spirits were playing with him.
He floated in the neck-depth water and lay back, breathing slowly, watching the rise and fall of his body. The sound of lowing now seemed as if it was within touching range, but he'd had enough of Spirits for the day, so he stayed floating along. Other lowing sounds seemed to congregate near and around him. If he ignored their presence long enough, he thought, they would eventually come right up to him.
As the sounds started to drift away; he rolled over but his action triggered an alarm, and all he saw was the fleeting glimpse of some grey shapes fast disappearing through the paddock of sea grass that waved beneath him.