The Windy Season Read Online Free PDF

as they slowed again. The ute groaned, revving hard as the load was manoeuvred. The skiff was reversed down towards the water. When the vehicle stopped he climbed out.
    The inlet seethed with chop and spray. Jake and the deckhand stood at the water’s edge, staring at the clouds dark and knotted above them. Out past the sandy spit of the rivermouth, Paul could see the glow of surf. He could hear it too, a seismic rumbling that he expected to feel in the ground under his feet.
    The deckhand, thin-armed and blond, not much older than Paul, signalled as the skiff was backed further down the bank. He shielded a cigarette under the crook of his arm and winced at the sea spray in his eyes. But he was grinning, a proper joyful smile, despite the wind and the mouldering stink of the rivermouth and the thunder of the surf, and Paul assumed he must be drug-fucked. The trailer submerged and as the back wheels of the ute touched the water the deckhand gave a shout and held his palm up. The ute halted. Jake jumped out and threw the keys to the younger man before hauling himself into the boat with a grunt.
    Okay, the deckhand yelled to Paul. You with Jake.
    Paul stood, unsure what he meant.
    Fucking now! Jake shouted. Get in so the German can give it a shove!
    Paul scrambled once again over the rim of the skiff, back into the foul wet. The German leant against the nose of the boat and pushed it free of the trailer. Paul watched him scamper up the dark beach as they drifted out. The small boat reared and jerked in the water. Spray whipped over them. Paul hid his head under his jacket arm. The older man swore. On the shore, the ute’s headlights streamed over seaweed, pot floats and dune scrub before turning off the beach. Jake tilted the outboard from the water and pulled hard at the cord. The motor gave a startled growl and went silent. In the purple light Paul studied the look on the man’s face. The eyes were wide, staring at the outboard with a kind of desperation. Teeth gritted and lips flattened. It was a look somewhere between contempt and repulsion. Anger and fear.
    Hi, Paul said.
    Right, Jake said, and pulled at the cord again. Fuck this!
    The boat dipped and the river cast more water over them.
    Paul yelled into the breeze. This is my first time out.
    I know. Jake ripped at the cord once more and the motor cried out. You’ve picked some day . . . The words trailed off under the grunt and sputter of the outboard and the moan of the wind.
    They bumped across to the jetty where the German was waiting, holding a packet of tobacco and a red thermos. The deckhand climbed down into the skiff and sat at the bow. He yawned and then smiled out into the dark. The three of them made their way into the inlet where the boats were huddled together in deeper water, hulking silhouettes that wrenched and nodded on their moorings. It was a short stretch from the riverbank but it was miserable going. Jake cringed and swore at each pitch of the bow, at every shower of brackish water.
    As they neared the moorings, Paul could see the flickerof lights on a few of the cray boats and the shadows moving about on their long decks. There were names tattooed on each bow. Lady Stark . Hell Cat. Nun’s Nasty and Blue Murder . Jake cut the outboard when they pulled up against the vast side of Arcadia . The German hurried the rope around the brass bollards of the cray boat then gestured for Paul to climb up. The skiff reared and kicked, battering the walls of Arcadia like a riled bull. Paul hesitated. Jake grumbled. When the skiff bucked again Paul jumped, scrambling up and over, landing on the carpeted deck on his belly, breathing hard. Jake climbed up behind him. The German stood wide-legged in the skiff and passed up the sagging boxes of bait. At one moment he thumped a hand down on the rim of the small boat, just keeping himself from going in, and grinned wildly.
    When the bait was loaded, the German tied the skiff to the moor and clambered onto the deck.