The Persimmon Tree by Bryce Courtenay Page B

to wash from my heart and mind some of the ugliness of the day.
    I was dead weary, having been up half the night, but knew that I had to make for the Sunda Strait and be clear of it by morning. I would be forced to remain at the tiller throughout the night, hoping that under cover of dark I could avoid the Jap warships. I felt fairly certain they would have entered the strait prior to mounting the land invasion of Java.
    It was comparatively cool after the storm and so I went down below and climbed into a bunk and fell asleep, to wake an hour or so later in the gathering dusk. Kevin was still completely out to it and I thought to wake him and give him more water but decided against it. I had a fair bit to do and the last thing I needed was a newly personified and recalcitrant K. Judge ‘sonny-boying’ me while I got us under way. I examined the chart and using the dividers and parallel rulers I worked out my position and wrote down the various compass bearings I’d need in pencil, stuffing the note into the back pocket of my shorts. I made myself a thermos of strong black coffee, reheated the rice and a tin of fish, and ate, knowing it would be my last meal for a while. Even though it was not yet dark I lit the kero lamp in the binnacle to illuminate the compass, fearful that even this dim pinprick of light might be seen. As a final touch, knowing I’d have to stay put all night, I brought a waterproof cushion up from the cabin and placed it on the grating at the bottom of the cockpit; seated on it and leaning against the back of the cockpit with my arm resting on the tiller, I would be comfortable enough for the long watch that lay ahead.
    The tide was beginning to recede so I went forward, ran out the jib on the bowsprit and hoisted the staysail, leaving the sheets loose as I was still sheltered by the mangrove trees on both sides of the creek. I’d hoist the mainsail once I was clear of the mangroves and the reef and when I was able to use the breeze that was just beginning to come off the shore.
    The clouds hadn’t cleared after the five o’clock downpour and still hung low and dark on the horizon, threatening further rain. This was a good omen. It would make it much harder to see the Vleermuis with its dark hull and brown sails in the rain-dimmed evening light. Later the clouds would mask the moon, making it even more difficult to spot a tiny boat out at sea.
    I lashed the tiller and using the sweep poled my way downstream, the outgoing tide making it comparatively light work. Once clear of the mangroves I sheeted in the foresails, whereupon Vleermuis started to move gently across the small lagoon and into the passage dividing the reef. Soon enough I started to feel the slight lifting to the sea that told me I was away. I hoisted the mainsail to catch the offshore breeze and unlashed the tiller. Glancing at the threatening clouds I pulled my oilskin coat on. Being wet ashore is one thing, but with a breeze hitting you out at sea it can become bloody cold and miserable.
    Half an hour later it started to rain again, not a thunderstorm but a steady downpour. The sea was starting to rise, the boat coming off the tops of the waves, steeper now, the fall into the troughs deeper, the bow one moment poking into thin air and the next seemingly buried in a trough. I set my course to sail the ten nautical miles to the point where I calculated I would enter the strait.
    Conditions such as these take a fair bit of sailing, as the boat has a tendency to move in three directions: up and down, forward and back, left and right, then twists around its own centre of gravity. In such conditions, except for adjusting the sails, I was stuck to the tiller for the duration. The good thing was that I’d have to practically ram a Jap ship to be discovered and so we were reasonably safe. If the little bloke was to wake up with all the movement ( Jesus, he’s almost certain to be seasick! ), there was precious little I could do to help him.