Chapter Sixteen
Zoe
I can see the fear on Joel’s face as he plays with the radio, trying to get it to leap back into life, but the water has obviously shorted it.
I take my phone out of my pocket, trying to shield it from the rain. Predictably, there’s no signal.
We’re stranded. The realization hit me with as much force as the wave.
Lightning forks across the sky, and almost immediately thunder booms, making me jump. The storm is directly over us, and it’s fucking pissed.
I look around, my heart banging. I’m completely soaked; the wave knocked off my hood, and my hair is stuck to my head; rain runs down my face in rivulets; my waterproof is useless. At least my bare legs can’t get any wetter.
Together, shivering and trying to shelter our eyes from the rain, we stand in the cockpit, looking around us.
Despite the thunderclouds and the lashing rain, it’s not yet dark. To our left, Moturoa Island looms above us, temptingly within reach, but the current is carrying us away from it, toward the Black Rocks.
“I’m so sorry we’re in this predicament,” he says, raising his voice against the lashing rain. “If I hadn’t fallen asleep…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have set my alarm, and made sure we returned long before the storm hit…”
“It’s not your fault,” I say again. I can see that he’s upset and scared because he thinks he’s responsible for putting us both in danger. “I know how fast weather patterns move and change. The report this morning said the storm would hit in the evening, didn’t it? We should have had several more hours.”
He looks doubtful; I’m not going to be able to convince him he’s not to blame.
I decide the best course of action is to be brisk and practical. “Come on, look forward, not back—we need to decide what we’re going to do. Should we stay on board and wait for the storm to pass? Or try to swim?”
He glances at the island. We’ve drifted close to it, and it would only be a five-minute swim, but we have no way of knowing if there are rocks or reefs beneath the surface that could be dangerous if we’re thrown about by the waves.
Clearly he’s thinking the same, because he says, “I think we should stay on the boat.”
He’s more experienced on the ocean than I am, and even if I disagree, I’m not going to argue with him. “All right. So how do we stop ourselves drifting onto the Black Rocks? Do we drop the anchor?”
“Yeah. There are risks, though.”
“Like what?”
“If the anchor doesn’t grip well, we might still drift and then run aground. Once we’re anchored, the wind might yank the boat around, and there wouldn’t be much we could do about that. The force of the storm might break the anchor or the chain or the windlass, and then we’ll be adrift without any way of controlling it.”
I can see my rising panic reflected in his eyes, but we’re both keeping it under control, for now. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” I reply. “We’ve got to drop the anchor, or we’ll definitely end up on the rocks. So how do we do that?”
He gestures at a nearby control panel. “The boat’s electrical system is powered by the engine’s battery. There’s no power going to the windlass.”
“The windlass?”
“The mechanism that raises and lowers the anchor. We’ll have to do it manually.” He heads to the bow of the boat, and I follow him. I can see the windlass now—a robust, metal mechanism mounted on the deck about the size of a small suitcase, with a large, toothed wheel at its center, the anchor chain coiled beside it. Beneath it is a locker that Joel undoes and opens, revealing the anchor. He drags it out, stumbling as the boat pitches and rolls. I bend and help him lift it up onto the side, then hold it while he makes sure the chain fits onto the bow roller at the front. He nods, and together we push the anchor over the edge, watching it tumble down into the depths.
“We’ve got to fix the crank onto the gypsy,” he bellows as thunder rolls again, and he points at the toothed wheel.
I help him retrieve the crank, and together, trying to stay upright, we connect it to the mechanism. It’s incredibly hard to keep our footing in the driving rain and wind, and at one point the boat suddenly rears up, knocking me off balance and throwing me against the locker at the front. I bang my knee and squeal, and Joel clutches my arm to stop me falling overboard. I don’t say anything, but I know I must have turned white as the seafoam.
Once the crank is connected, Joel starts turning it to lower the anchor. “Watch the chain,” he shouts, yanking the handle up, then pushing it around. “Make sure it doesn’t get tangled—but don’t get thrown overboard.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I mutter, crouching a little so I won’t fall off as I lean over to check the chain. The anchor has already vanished into the green-gray depths, and I imagine it sinking down into that quiet darkness, past the fish moving silently, toward the rocks and the sandy seabed. Maybe it’ll meet the chest somewhere on the bottom.
Eventually, Joel stops turning the handle, removes it, throws it back in the locker, and shuts and bolts the door. He wipes his face, then looks around. “We’ve stopped moving.”
It’s true—we’re no longer speeding toward the Black Rocks. The anchor must have caught on something. I feel a swell of relief. If we can stop moving, then maybe we can ride out the storm.
“Let’s get back to the cockpit,” he shouts.
He holds out a hand, and I slip mine into it. We make our way back as carefully as we can, and we only just make it there when a large wave slams against the port side. The boat lifts high on the wave as it’s carried away from the island, and then the anchor obviously reaches the end of its chain, and the boat is yanked to a stop. We both fall over, Joel landing heavily on top of me on the deck. Before we can move, a second wave washes over the boat, crashing over us, and for a moment I can’t breathe or move.
Joel coughs and shakes his head, then pushes up and lifts me to a sitting position. “Are you okay?” he shouts.
I nod, unable to speak because the breath has been knocked out of me. “Jesus.”
“This is crazy.” He struggles to his feet, then knocks against the side as the boat pitches violently. The boat spins as the wind and the water play with it as if it’s a toy, and with alarm I can see we’re once again on the move, heading toward the rocks. The anchor’s come loose from whatever it had hooked on. The storm is too powerful. We’re going to crash and join the Relentless on the reefs, just another shipwreck that lost its battle with the sea god.
“We’re going to have to swim,” I yell.
He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“We can’t stay here. We’ll end up on the rocks.”
He looks to our left, across to the island. It’s not far. It would easily be swimmable on a pleasant day, but of course now there are alarming waves to negotiate.
“I’m a strong swimmer,” I tell him. “I won trophies as a teenager. I’m not scared.” It’s a lie, of course; I’m terrified, but if it’s a choice between staying here and being swept overboard onto the rocks or risking a short swim to the island, I choose the swim.
The boat pitches again, lurching nearer to the rocks, and it obviously makes up Joel’s mind.
He goes over to one of the lockers, unbolts it, and lifts out a waterproof bag. He opens it, and I peer in and realize it’s the emergency bag. There’s a first-aid kit, a thermal blanket, a whistle, a flashlight, matches, water purification tablets, a multi-tool, and a couple of other items I don’t get a chance to see because Joel starts putting other things in—towels that were in the other waterproof bag, bottles of water, a rope, another flashlight and spare batteries, and half a dozen other items, including our phones.
“Do you have any dry clothes?” he asks.
I open my backpack; I only have his hoodie which was rolled into a ball in the middle of the bag and has therefore stayed mostly dry, but the rest of my clothes are soaked through. I stuff the hoodie in, and he adds a dry tee and a pair of swim shorts.
“Help me pack some food up,” he says. Luckily, he’d stowed the chilly bin in one of the lockers, otherwise we’d have lost that overboard with the table. Moving fast, we pack as much of the food into the containers as we can, then stuff them into the waterproof bag.
We straighten and see with some alarm that the Black Rocks are drawing frighteningly close. “Get your flippers on,” he yells.
I nod, retrieve them from the locker, and kick off my deck shoes. Joel does the same, wrapping both pairs of shoes up in a towel and putting them in the bag first. Why’s he doing that? It’s just going to be more weight for him to tow. But I don’t argue, concentrating on tugging the flippers on.
Lightning cracks, and my heart skips a beat as I think about it striking the water while we’re in it. Water’s a conductor of electricity, right? What are the chances we could end up like fried chicken? Holy shit. My hands are shaking now as I tug at the flippers, but I attempt to hide it from Joel as I know he’s worried enough.
Once we’re both ready, he leads the way to the dive platform. “Stay close to me,” he shouts. “The life jacket should give us a bit of buoyancy. It’s not easy to swim in them, though. Do breaststroke if you can, or backstroke if you get tired.”
“Okay.”
He grabs me by the back of my neck. “I love you.” He kisses me, just once, hard, crushing his lips to mine.
He releases me, and I go to say something, but at that moment another wave hits the boat. It pitches to the right, and I lose my balance and fall off the dive platform into the sea.
Water goes over my head, and for a moment I have no idea whether I’m the right way up or which way I’m facing. I cough and splutter, splashing my arms in panic, but the life jacket tips me upright, and I gasp a lungful of air.
“Zoe!” Beside me in the water, Joel grabs my upper arm and turns me around. “Are you okay?”
I nod, still coughing. “I’m all right.”
“Christ, I thought I’d lost you.” He points to the island. “Come on, let’s start.”
Swimming in a life jacket is much harder than I thought. I can’t move my arms properly, but doing the crawl—which would be the fastest way to swim—means turning face down, and the life jacket wants to keep me face up. I do my best to do the breaststroke instead. I wasn’t lying when I told Joel I won awards for it at school. But that was in a pool, with the only motion from other kids splashing about in the lanes next to me. It’s so much harder in a heaving sea, where the waves lift you up and then plunge you down, or occasionally break over your head. Time and again I’m half-drowned, and Joel grips my arm more than once, heaving me back to the surface. The flippers help, a little, but the waves toss us about so much I start to wonder whether we’re moving at all.
It’s more exhausting than I anticipated considering it’s such a short distance. My muscles start aching only minutes into the water. Also, gone are the gorgeous, warm waters we snorkeled in on the beach; here the ocean feels icy cold, and soon I’m chilled to the bone. The waterproof jacket I’m wearing beneath the life saver is pointless, and I half wish I’d ditched it before getting in.
It’s scary, too, when lightning forks across the sky. I try not to look up. I can’t stop it hitting the water. All I can do is swim as hard as I can, even if it doesn’t feel as if we’re making any progress.
Slowly, though, the island gets closer, and when I realize that, energy surges through me. “Come on!” I yell, and Joel increases his pace to match me.
The two of us head for a tiny bay, taking care to avoid the rocks that we can see to the right. Even so, suddenly I hear Joel exclaim and stop swimming for a moment.
“What?” I shout, but he shakes his head and starts again.
We’re nearly there. We’re not going to turn into Kentucky Fried Chicken, and we’re not going to drown. Tears prick my eyes as the beach looms out of the gloom, and then seconds later I put my feet down and feel sand beneath them.
“Joel!”
“I know. Come on.” He reaches out and takes my hand, and together we wade ashore, then both collapse onto our hands and knees on the dark sand.
It’s not safe here, though; waves are lashing the shore, and I struggle to fight one as it washes over me, as if the taniwha has grasped my ankle and is attempting to draw me back to the ocean. Joel heaves me up by the hand, and the two of us stumble higher up the beach to above the water line, then turn and collapse onto our butts on the sand.
“We made it,” I say, my chest heaving. “I didn’t think we were going to.”
“Me neither.”
“I thought we were about to discover Colonel Sanders’ secret recipe.”
“Yeah, one lightning strike close by and we’d definitely have frizzy hair.”
I shiver as rain continues to pour down on us. It’s showing no sign of letting up. Clearly, we can’t stay out here in the open. “What now, do you think? Should we go into the trees?”
“Yeah, we’ll head up the slope.”
He unties the waterproof bag; of course, I forgot he was towing all that extra weight. He managed to keep the bag, swim, and make sure I didn’t drown several times. The man is a marvel.
“Take your life jacket and flippers off,” he says. We both take off the jackets, then sit and tug the flippers off. He opens the bag, takes out our deck shoes, and hands mine to me. They were soaked when he put them in, of course, and hard to get on, but I realize why he brought them now as I look behind me at the slope leading up from the beach into the trees. I couldn’t have walked on all the dead branches and undergrowth in my bare feet—it would have crippled me.
“Are there any houses on the island?” I ask, tossing the flippers and life jacket aside. There’s no point in taking them with us, I guess.
“On the west side, but that’s several kilometers away. There is a DOC hut on this end, though.”
My eyebrows rise. The Department of Conservation has a network of around a thousand huts across the country. They’re very basic and don’t tend to have hot water, cooking equipment, bed linen, or food. But they do provide shelter, a place to light a wood fire, a water source, and composting toilets. It would get us out of the rain and give us a place to rest while we decide what to do.
“How far is it to the hut, do you think?” I ask.
“Not sure.” He stands, picks the bag up, and puts the strap over his head so the bag rests on his back. “The sooner we get going, though, the sooner we’ll get there.”
He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, and we start making our way up the slope behind the beach.
It’s hard going. The forest here is dense, the trees close together, and the undergrowth is thick with ferns and bushes. The only good thing is that the canopy bears the brunt of the rain, so it’s not hammering in our faces all the time.
Joel is in front of me, pushing through the branches and holding back the strongest of them so I can pass. We work together, doing our best to ignore the slap of branches and scratch of twigs on our arms, legs, and faces, although I’m unable to stifle the occasional squeal. Soon I’m covered in red marks, but I grit my teeth and try to keep up with him.
We’re only minutes in when I spot the blood coating his calf muscle.
“Joel!” I catch his arm and gesture to his leg. “Oh my God, was that a branch?”
He looks down and shakes his head. “I caught it on the reef.”
“It’s bleeding pretty badly. There’s a first aid kit in the bag.”
“No, I don’t want to stop. We’ll fix it when we get to the cabin.”
I want to protest, but he’s already off, wrestling with the trees, so I follow silently. How bad is the wound? There’s a lot of blood. Until now, our main problem was drowning, and I thought once we made it to the beach that we were out of the woods. But we’re far from safe. We still have no way to contact anyone—our phones are probably going to be soaked, even if there was a signal. Maybe the emergency bag has a flare or something? Joel did mention a house at the other end of the island, but he said it was several kilometers away. What if his cut gets infected? I’d have to go and find help on my own.
My heart bangs on my ribs, and my mouth has gone dry. Being on the boat in the storm was scary, but it’s only now that I realize how much faith I had that Joel would get us to safety. I trust him completely. But if he falls ill and I’m on my own… I don’t have half as much faith in my own abilities.
He glances over his shoulder at me and stops walking. Without saying anything, he lowers the bag, extracts a bottle of water, undoes the lid, and passes it to me. I have a few mouthfuls, then say, “Do we need to ration it?”
He shakes his head, takes the bottle, and has a drink. “We’ve got water purification tablets, and the hut will likely have a water source.”
“If we find it. This forest is huge. How do you know where you’re going? What if we’re walking in the opposite direction to the hut?”
He puts his hand in his shorts pocket and extracts something—oh, it’s the compass. “We landed on the eastern edge of the island,” he says. “Not far from Battleship Rock, in a tiny bay. I’m going from memory, but about half a kilometer from here is a strip of higher, cleared land leading northwest to the World War Two Moturoa Battery. It’s about another half a kilometer walk along that cleared land to the cabin.”
“So a kilometer in total?”
“About that, yeah.”
Normally it would take around ten to fifteen minutes to walk a kilometer, but of course we’re in thick forest, going uphill, in the rain, and we’re exhausted. Even so, my heart lifts at the thought that it’s not that far.
I slot the bottle back into the bag, and he lifts it onto his shoulder. I glance at his leg—the calf is covered in blood. The sooner we get to the cabin, the better.
As we start pushing through the undergrowth again, I say, “How likely is it that the cabin is in good condition?”
“The Department of Conservation maintains its cabins regularly, so it should be good.”
“How do they get to it? Shouldn’t there be a proper path up to it?”
“Yeah, it’s probably further up the coast. We could have tried to reach it, but we would’ve had to climb over the rocks, and I was worried about the waves washing us off.”
I realize he’s thought about all this already. I thought he was making it up as he went along, but he’d thought to pocket the compass, and he’s obviously got a plan in his head. Talk about the strong, silent type.
We’re silent for a bit, then, as we struggle through the rest of the undergrowth. I do my best not to think about the insects that are no doubt nestled deep in the bushes. Luckily we don’t have any venomous insects here—unlike Australia, we don’t have any spiders or snakes or scorpions that can kill you, and we don’t have any bears or crocodiles or big cats, not even any dangerous plants, really. There are allegedly a couple of spiders that can cause harm, but they’re very rare. Still, I’m not that keen on insects even if they’re not venomous. But I guess even insects don’t like bad weather, because I don’t see a single one as we battle our way up the slope.
I don’t know how long we’ve been walking—it must only be ten or fifteen minutes, although it feels more like an hour—but eventually we emerge from the trees and find ourselves on a grassy slope dotted with rocks. With no trees to bear the brunt of the rain, it hammers down on us again, and lightning continues to flash above us, while thunder rolls almost continually. We’re used to it now, though, and we stride out, climbing the slope, which gradually flattens.
It’s semi-dark because of the storm, but there’s enough light to see by, and so when we crest the hill we immediately see the cabin, only a few minutes’ walk away.
“It’s there,” I yell above the thunder, and Joel grins, grabs my hand, and leads me along the grassy plateau toward it.
Oh… I’ve never felt such relief. The cabin is small and single story, but it’s off the ground and approached by a set of wooden steps. It has a slanted, corrugated-iron roof, and I can see windows with shutters, and a sturdy wooden door. A rainwater tank standing next to the cabin is full to the brim. A solar camping light hangs out the front, shining in the gloom. To one side, near the trees, is what I assume is the composting toilet that Joel mentioned.
We approach the hut, and Joel goes up the steps, lifts down the solar light, and tries the door handle. It opens, and he goes inside. I follow him in, closing the door behind me. He hangs the light from a hook on the wall, and it just gives off enough light to illuminate the cabin.
It’s small, with two sets of bunk beds that appear to have plastic-covered mattresses, a wood-burning stove, a table with four basic chairs, a few shelves, and a scatter of basic items like a bucket, candle holders, a pile of dry wood, and a broom.
It’s not Buckingham Palace. But it’s clean, dry, and safe.
Joel lowers the bag onto the floor and turns to me, I walk up to him and slide my arms around his waist, and we stand there like that for a long, long time.