Reading Time : 3 minutes
There was no terrible storm or cyclone. There were no huge swells or massive waves. And I did not get the call I had always hoped for: “We dive at dawn!” No, we were having our midmorning coffee at the Angourie Cafe when we heard that someone had run aground in their yacht in between Angourie Point and Spookies. We were told that the owners of the boat were nowhere to be seen and I visualised them still trapped underwater. I imagined myself receiving a bravery award, and so it was, dear readers, that my brothers, John and Will, and son Flynn, decided to dive the wreck and save who we could, and retrieve what we might, from the windless, waveless, cruel and unforgiving ocean.
One of the first things I saw on the seabed was a big aluminium toolbox. As I dived down and opened it, I imagined it might be full of gold bullion, or at least watertight packages of weed or cocaine. But it was not to be. It was empty. As we neared the wreck, I saw there was no-one tangled in the mainsail, or wrapped like Captain Ahab around the steel hull in harpoon ropes.
As I peered in the submerged porthole, I half expected to see the severed head of the boat’s captain, just like Matt Hooper did, in Jaws. We salvaged what we could from the crystal-clear water, and as I dramatically hauled myself onto the rocks, I pretended to be Robert Shaw, pretending to be Captain Quint. “Six of us went into the water…only four came out…sharks took the rest…July the ninth, 2023…” I asked Flynn to help me lift the treasure chest into shot so I could be photographed, heroically, in front of it. A woman asked me what happened to the boat’s owner. I answered her cryptically. “This sea, it is said, rarely gives up her dead…”
We returned daily to see the stranded yacht and over the coming week I witnessed a most unusual occurrence. The yacht didn’t move or change, but the people of our small community did. They underwent a fascinating transformation. A mass-psychosis, if you will. Even though almost no-one had any experience in the field, simultaneously, everybody became authorities on yacht removal. Me included.
I got the attention of the café full of ratepayers by scratching the menu-blackboard with my fingernails. “What you want to do is chopper her out, like we did with tanks off aircraft carriers in Vietnam.” I said, like I was there.
“If I still had my oxy/acetylene, I’d drag it down there, cut two holes in the bow, chain and drag it behind a trawler and sink it off Spooks, so we had a new take-off spot.” One of my brothers contributed.
“Na, they need to bag it with inflatables and float it back into the Clarence at high tide.” A friend added.
“I say we all get our tinnies and drag it out to sea, so it becomes a tourist destination and scuba diving site.” A kid said.
“I reckon we dynamite it and then collect all the pieces and take them to the tip.” A crazy looking tourist suggested.
The last thing I heard said was a local woman berating the Port Authority guys when they arrived. “I’ve gotta tell you guys, I’m not impressed.”
Their answer was a classic. “That’s okay, we’re not here to impress you.”
Then on Saturday, it was gone. They’d towed it out 50 meters, and after it sunk, they bagged it and dragged it away. We all nodded in agreement at our admiration of them. “Ah yes, the Port Authority. As always, quiet achievers.”
