Young men and the sea.

SHANE and Chook had been smoking a lot before they got the idea of skipping Sydney and sailing north. They used to do everything together in those days, so why not this? They took four cases of Doctor Tooheys and half a pound of hydro from the stash they had not paid Billy Abdullah for. They had to leave urgently. They pinched a dinghy from the Rose Bay Yacht Club wharf and rowed clumsily about the dark waters of the marina. They choked on their laughter when they bumped into other empty boats. There was no security guard anywhere. Music drifted from one large yacht moored to the main pier, but they steered clear of that and no one came.

They selected a boat, tied to its buoy, without much discretion other than its air of abandonment. It was called Bella Rosa III and looked like it might go fast. They climbed on board and ferreted about in the cabins below. There was a wardrobe full of some woman's clothes. A few photographs in frames. Apart from hotwiring, Shane had completed a year of a mechanic's apprenticeship and so knew about engines. He got the motor started while Chook cut through the moorings at the hawsehole. Not a light came on as they chugged slowly onto the midnight harbour. No ferries ran. No pleasurecraft. No visiting naval vessels. They ignored the great are of lights that was the bridge hanging between its stone pylons, a red light winking at the top. They hung a right--No, Chook said to himself, get it right sailor, they veered to starboard. The lights of the north shore flats shining to? to port, (bugger it, shining on the left), and to the right New South Head Road winding its way through Vaucluse, Bellevue Hill, Watson's Bay, wankers all of 'em.

They had polished off two cans before they reached the heads, and Chook spewed them right back up once they passed the lights of Manly towards the open sea. They found seasick tablets in a cabinet below and took about eight each. It was still all good fun, and the adrenalin and adventure of a fancy yacht with cupboards full of food and a swishy sound system kept them amused for hours. A pity there was no decent music to listen to. They could see no stars, but being city boys, neither of them could much see the point of stars.

Shane only remembered how to hoist a mizzen, so they kept on chugging out to sea under the motor. After all, all they had to do was turn left (all right, port) and head north. But once the lights of the city disappeared behind them, there was no landmark to tell them where exactly to turn. They smoked. They drank. They slept a little. In the morning they were shaken awake by the rolling of the boat--a fire extinguisher had been loosed from its clasp--and saw they were heading towards the sun in the northern sky.

The weather clouded over and the ocean grew choppier. Shane knew enough not to let the boat turn side on into the swell and so steered the yacht nose first, (or was it prow?) up and down and over the waves. Chook had to go below decks to mull up, because the spray bursting over the side kept wetting the papers. He liked using nautical phrases like that: below decks; weigh anchor; shiver me timbers. When were the flying fish going to start landing on the deck? He remembered Coral Island and Treasure Island. All those islands. His can of beer kept sliding across the tilting table like something from Gilligan's Island. Green about the gills as he felt, he cooked up some beans he found in the yacht's fancy kitchen, what was it called? the galley, yeah.

"Do you want some fang?" he called up to Shane.

"What is it?"

"Beans, we got lots of beans."

"Fuck no," came the windswept reply, "get us another can."

For two days, three days, they dealt with the waves, which continued to grow. When were they going to hit some calm water? Chook was sick of feeling sick. The doldrums, that's what he wanted a bit of, where were they? They didn't even know what they were going to do when they got to New Guinea; they fantasised about sitting on beaches; picking coconuts. Anything they liked. People smuggling, there might be a quid in that. Plans going up in smoke.

At the end of the week they had emptied the larder, (fuck what its proper name was), and finished most of the beer. Finished the cognac too, found in the bar down stairs. Still the seas were growing taller. Chook had grown used to the rush of the yacht riding up the side of one wall of water, broaching the foamy peak, and sliding down the valley between the next two waves.

Shane said, "Man, we're gunna run out of petrol at this rate."

"Where do you reckon we are?" Chook asked.

"Must be past Brisbane by now. Maybe Fraser Island. Or even Mackay."

"You don't know where the fuck we are."

"Yes I do. We're heading north."

"Can't we put up some sails?"

"Sails will tip us right over Chook. Listen to that wind. Anyway I can't remember the knots."

"Then can't we just turn around and go back? I'm sick of this shit."

"You want me to radio Billy Abdullah and tell him we're coming?"

Spray stung their faces. Or was it rain? They couldn't tell. The gale, for that is what the weather had become, flicked them from the crest of one wave to the next. Chook wished the boat would hide for a bit down in the gullies between the raging waters. The mizzen at the rear tore loose and flapped crazily like a flag for a moment before disappearing altogether into the darkness. Hours passed and only the greyness of the sky full of rain told them it was not night.

When Chook was at the wheel Shane came on deck with a plastic box he had found.

"What's that?"

"Flares."

"What for?"

"Just in case. You better put this on too."

Shane handed Chook a yellow life jacket. Why the fuck hadn't they been wearing these all along? A wave crashed over the side and flooded the decks to the knee. The noise of it receding sucked all their words out too.

Finally Shane said: "I think I've sussed how the radio works."

"What for? Some easy-listening music."

"In case we have to call for help, fool."

"This ain't like stealing a car you know. This is a million dollar yacht. If we tell them where we are we'll get ten years for this."

"You might, with your record."

The mast above them rocked like a metronome. Shane staggered below. The blackness of the sky was inseparable from the blackness of the water. Up-ness and down-ness also, inseparable. Air and water, also. Chook thought about all the romantic crap he had heard about the sea. About those books his old cellmate had made him read. Or read to him. Lord fucking Jim. Moby fucking Dick. The old man and the fucking sea. It was all right for him, at least the old man had had good weather.

On the tenth day the petrol ran out. They did not hear the motor sputter and die, but they felt the vibrations they had grown used to beneath their feet suddenly cease. It was like their hearts stopping. Almost immediately a wave knocked the boat side on and the only thing preventing Chook from being swept overboard was the wheel he was clinging to, which wrenched the rudder about. The boat righted itself. Slid down the next wave's shattering face. Wave? It was more like a cliff. At the base they felt their guts might fall out. They rode up the other side, fearing the peak like the Big Dipper at Luna Park, front on once more.

Chook went down the ladder. All the dope was drenched, but he was hoping Shane might have had the foresight to stash a little bit of dry stuff away for himself. Everything was drenched. Chook hadn't been dry for over a week. He clung to the doorway. Shane was at the radio.

"No I don't know the global positioning code," he was saying, "That's right, Bella Rosa III." There was a pause, then static.

He turned to Chook: "What did you leave the wheel for?"

"What's the fuckin' difference? We haven't got any power. We're in angel gear. Who're you talkin' to?"

"Coast guard."

"Have you given us up?"

Shane had to gather his words: "They say that when we sink to give off a final mayday, then get in the life boat and fire off a flare every fifteen minutes."

"When we sink?"

"Yeah."

"Where is the fuckin' life boat?"

"Down the stern ... I haven't got a watch."

"Me neither."

The yacht rolled and bucked. Empty cans skittered about the floor. The cabin lights went out.

"Which coast guard was it?"

"Dargaville. New Zealand. They heard about us."

"No shit. New Zealand?"

Water was spitting into the cabin. It had the greyness of daylight about it.

"Yeah ... Chook, I don't reckon we planned this too well."

"No. They're gunna laugh at us in six-wing."

Neither of them laughed. A wave tipped the boat almost to right angles, Shane held up in the air by the fixed table. It took a long time to right itself. They clung to the sides of the table, as the solid world about them plummeted and rolled, not avoiding, but not catching each other's eye.

MARK O'FLYNN'S most recent collection of poems is The Good Oil, published by Five Islands Press (2000). He lives in the Blue Mountains where he writes fiction, plays and poetry. His play Eleanor & Eve will be produced at Railway Street Theatre later in the year.