Death of a Whaler Read Online Free PDF Page A

towards the ocean, and dive, hoping to be swept up above the sea, the way the gulls were scooped up, effortlessly. It never worked. He once broke his nose, and another time cut himself so deeply above the eye that it bled for days. So he compensated by looking out as far as he could over the ocean. He tried to see all the way south to Sydney and north to Cairns, but had to content himself with counting the ships and yachts that wound their way up around the point, sails bubbling and blistering in the wind.
    From his vantage point, Flinch learnt to read the ocean. He knew that when it bristled like fur on a cat’s back, there was a current that would bring tailer down the strait in July. When it curled like a scorpion’s tail, it made for good surfing at the Wreck and the dolphins would be out playing in the breaks at the headland. When it rolled fatly and looked as if it had the consistency of dough, then you could dive under the water at Wategos Beach and it would be so clear you could see tiny silver fish darting between your fingers.
    Between May and October, the whales came, spraying white water into the air like big old steam trains, rolling over the waves and then disappearing until the next year. The days Flinch spotted the whales were his favourite days. Sometimes, on those days, the ocean seemed to settle right down, as if the slap of the whales’ tails had made it see that rough water simply made no sense.
    Flinch never forgot the pleasure watching them had given him. But when he started whaling, there were days when seeing a whale brought to shore, its slow, thick death, made him feel like a god. Other days, it made him feel smaller than a grain of sand, and as worthless. Often it depended on the length of time on the water. The heat of the sun. The glare alone could make him delirious. Delusions of grandeur rose up from his stomach in much the same way as seasickness. From the same place.
    When he left school at fifteen, he headed down to the jetty to try his luck on the trawlers. He leant against a pylon to watch them come in. The sea teased into a frenzy by a wild wind, the stiff arms of the boom masts asplay, the boats rocking and tipping like drunkards on their way home. The fishermen threw coils of rope as thick as Flinch’s thigh onto the docks. The men swung themselves off the ship with the ease of gymnasts and Flinch, hobbling around them, that one skewed hip raised like a question, tried to catch someone’s eye. Little chance, with caps squashed so hard over brows. He could only just make out the odd glow of a cigarette or an unshaven grey jowl.
    â€˜Mate?’ he said finally to one of the men crouched over a net, having dismissed ‘sir’ as too formal and ‘excuse me’ as too tentative.
    â€˜No, son.’
    â€˜What?’ said Flinch.
    â€˜Not for you, son.’
    â€˜But—’
    â€˜No.’
    The fisherman stood up. He towered over Flinch, all sinew and gristle. The orange hair of his moustache streaked with grey. Smelling of mint and fish scales and fags. A faded tattoo of a mermaid with exposed breasts on his inner arm. ‘It’s not for you, son.’ Like a growl.
    â€˜How do you know?’ asked Flinch. ‘The leg’s not a problem.’
    The fisherman crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘How d’you reckon you’re going to stand up in rough seas and haul a catch on only one good leg?’
    â€˜I’ll manage. The other one doesn’t get in the way.’
    â€˜Sure.’With a smirk and a snort.
    â€˜Really.’
    The fisherman sighed. ‘Persistent little bugger. Alright, you got one day.’
    And that was it. Flinch found the element of his destiny. Although he spent that whole first day face over the side of the rollicking trawler, throwing up his breakfast and mumbling small prayers for land. He felt consumed by the sea, that day metallic grey and ripped to shreds by an unseasonably cold