plates. Only last year a German freighter, experienced in Southern Ocean transport, was crushed in the pack, all lives lost.
âItâs no bloody wonder a couple of pirate boats go missing every season.â Harry shakes his head.
Dave thinks of the crew aboard the Pescador, no doubt hired as little more than slave labour by some foreign owner with his feet up in a comfy pad somewhere nice and warm, maybe Spain; all the owners seem to come from there. He imagines the crewâs fatigue, their hunger, their smell. âItâll be on my head if we push the poor buggers to their deaths.â
âAnd what about us?â Cactus pipes up. âThe suits up there in Canberra-land wouldnât âave a clue what an iceberg was if they had one stuck up their proverbials! And if the rotten illegals do reappear, dâyou reckon Canberraâll call the naval frigate back from Timor for the boarding?â
Dave remains silent as Cactusâs derisive snort hangs in the air like a sick joke. Finally, he responds. âLike I said before, weâll see what back-upâs on offer, but for now we pursue the boat for as long as we can.â Dave hopes he has managed to conceal his own cynicism. âTheyâll have to head north at some point, and weâll be here when they decide to reappear.â
âA wild goose chase! Our lucky day,â Cactus sneers. âItâs not as though itâs the first bloody boat to take somethinâ for nothinâ down âere. Thereâll be another ten pirate boats rippinâ the guts out of whatâs left of the fishery while weâve got ourbacks turned playinâ politics. Itâs just notâ¦substainable what theyâre doing.â
Dave, quietly amused by Cactusâs attempt at âsustainableâ, maintains his focus. For now heâs just relieved the wind has dropped, its monstrous howl having paused to catch its unholy breath.
âRighto, Cactus. Pull your prickles in and grab the helm, mate. Iâm going down for a kip while things are relatively calm.â Dave pats Cactus on the back a little too hard and notices the acrid smell of nervous sweat. âHarry, you right to stay here for a bit?â
The first mate agrees.
âYouâre worth your weight in hot cocky poo,â Dave jests before climbing down the stairs from the wheelhouse. He passes the officersâ deck where his cabin is located, and descends another flight of stairs to the crewâs accommodation. There are twenty-one men on board, but only half are in their bunks. The others are out on deck removing polar ice from the rails. Itâs a constant job, but critical. Boats can capsize under the weight of frozen water.
Dave steps into Williamâs shared cabin, which welcomes him with the stench of stale wet-weather gear and a recently used toilet. William emerges from the adjoining bathroom and makes his way warily to his bunk, not a mermaidâs tit in sight. The smell in the room suggests he has probably just had a bout of diarrhoea, the kind that strikes when raw nervesturn bowels to water. William shivers as he lifts the bed clothes up over his face.
âItâll all have blown over by morning, kiddo,â Dave says.
âI hope so,â Williamâs voice groans. âI donât think my stomach can take much more of this. Thereâs nothing left to vomit up or shit out.â He sticks out his head and Dave sees how pale he has turned.
âWell, I wasnât going to say anything, but Iâm not sure how much more we can take of your stomach, either!â Dave laughs, trying to lighten the mood. âNobody light a match.â
Williamâs roommates chuckle quietly to themselves. âI thought weâd sprung a gas leak,â one of them guffaws.
âThatâs enough now,â Dave says before continuing quietly to William. âActually, when I said itâd all blow over, I meant that