Sandey - chapter 1

[silverwolf1]

Put the final, edited chapters in a separate post, in the "Prose" forum, as I've done with my story "Stormy" (which I have to move here btw, as IT needs editing, LOL!)  adding a finished chapter as it's completed. You can, and should, include a clickable link to each added chapter as well there.
silverwolf

[Resident Hyaena]

Thank you for the info.
How do I do the clickable links? Are they added here in another reply in this thread, to the finished chapters?
For all the time I have been online, some operations, including some of the most basic, still elude me.
 
Resident Hyaena ^..^

[silverwolf1]

I'd add 'em to the finished chapters.
sw

[Resident Hyaena]

How do I actually make the links?
I see buttons below for attaching files or images, but nothing for links.

[silverwolf1]

How do I actually make the links?
I see buttons below for attaching files or images, but nothing for links.

​In the toolbar at the top of the reply box, the fourth item (the one that looks like two chain links) is the "link" button. It brings up a new window to add the url into.
Alternatively, you can just upload your edited chapter as a document or text file for folks to download.
sw

[Resident Hyaena]

Here is the draft for the second chapter. I thought I had posted it just a couple of days before the forum went down, but I'm not sure.
The first "completed" part, chapter one, posted in the Prose section of the Stories & Poems forum, needs to be corrected also. I can't tell if I sent the corrected version, since we do not appear to have a Sent Messages folder in our mailbox.
Let me know what work this second chapter may need.
 
Resident Hyaena ^..^
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The  Disclaimer & Warning near the top of this thread STRONGLY applies to this chapter! So much so, I probably should reprint it here.
 
Disclaimer & Warning
This disclaimer, or an updated or "customized" version will precede all versions of this story, or any "separated" part thereof. It is NOT to be removed from the story, in full or in part.
If you are re-assembling the story from separate chapter or section posts, then only the "first chapter copy" of the Disclaimer & Warning is needed. If there are different versions, the latest version applies.
If redivided, each part of the story must carry a copy of it.
It is not to be modified, except as may be needed or required by changing or clarifying laws.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, goods, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or other real-world analogues is purely coincidental, if not miraculous.
This story deals with currently controversial issues, such as zoophily, sexuality, friendship, loyalty, charity, brotherhood, reasoning, trust and love.
It also questions and/or dissuades many currently popular "values", such as anger, fear, ignorance, authoritarianism, violence, sectarianism, intolerance, blind obedience, dogma and hate
As such, it may not be suitable for some audiences.
Because it deals with sexuality and depicts sexual activities, it is NOT for minors or those under-age as defined by the jurisdiction in which they reside, or by other legal authority which may apply.
Nor is it for anyone that may be offended by such material.

IMPORTANT, MUST READ!
If you are a minor, under-age, or otherwise disqualified or prohibited by ANY of the laws you are subject to, or if you are in ANY doubt, YOU MUST STOP READING BEFORE THE DOUBLE-DASHED LINE, and immediately return at least as far back as the last legally "safe" website you were at, or further back still.
You MUST NOT return, unless or until you are FULLY LEGALLY entitled to do so.
For all others with full legal right to view, the reader's discretion is strongly advised.
Disclaimer & Warning last edited 17 August 2017
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Sandey - chapter 2
by the
Resident Hyaena
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A lot of things began happening rather quickly. We got the shed cleared, and Sandey in that evening, well ahead of the midnight deadline. The Doc and Clive did follow up medical checks, with more detailed instructions on what to do, showed me how to prepare and weigh the meat, add the supplements, and log it in.
Various items were brought over in the following days, including some books, a list of more books, and a library card that I was supposed to use instead of my regular one. There was also a tackle box with all sorts of tools, grommets, snaps, swivel clips, and various pieces & rolls of leather. And I got a Cape Province Ornithological Society membership, the current issue of their journal, "The Siskin", and all of the back issues for the year.
My father got a few things as well, mainly lists of things to buy, such as building materials, and designs for perches, enclosures, racks, and storage units & the like. And always lots of paperwork. The lab tests came back negative, so Sandey was now secure in that regard, as was our tuberculin-free certification.
Sandey began her recovery almost immediately. The wounds quickly healed to where one could hardly tell that anything had been wrong  (I later learned that she was extraordinarily lucky; She was probably at the very limit of the shooter's range, resulting in wounds that were shallow, and all had missed the bones and more critical areas).
She regained her strength, and became very active, alert, and attentive.
Soon she was making short hops from perch to perch, and then short flights. I learned how to make leashes, jesses, and bracelets, and how to keep her properly tethered to her perches. It wasn't long before other kids got wind of it, and made their way over to gawk, squawk, and gab at the fence. They tired of it soon enough though, much to my relief.
The last of summer passed quickly, and school began. The Doc had taken my logs and project books to the school board, and came out with a two half-day per week classroom schedule, a home study program, and two full semesters credit for English and gym classes.
It was incredible, but also very strange; Class credits for dropped courses? A library card with no limits and NO due dates or fines? Or a grocer's voucher card with NO expiration? Nagging questions about these and other things. But such questions eventually fell by the wayside, and I soon settled into life as a part-time student, part-time ranch hand, and a nearly full-time Bird keeper.
With this change, and the reduction in available day-time for ranch duties, we had to hire-on extra help for field and barn work. Clive and Dr. Trede had a talk with the new ranch-hands, instructing them on how to behave, what to do & not to do, and also to report to the Doctor anything out-of-line with my father.
My father was absolutely livid at this, but he also knew that there was nothing he could do. He was on the shortest of probationary leashes; no breach of it would be tolerated, and the potential penalties and resulting fallout were unthinkable.
And from what I could see, he did indeed comply with all demands, and did all that he was supposed to do.
Sandey and I spent much of our waking time together, and we had become very close. She was gentle, and got along well with Doc, Clive, and the vet students & wildlife rehab apprentices they brought over. But she always looked to me as her "special" partner. Maybe it was because I was her rescuer & caretaker, and that I spent the most time with her, and did the most with her.
And yet there seemed to be something else, something I couldn't put my finger on.

A year came and went. My brother graduated from the Academy, and took a marine research assignment with the Natal Parks Board.
Though the class schedules changed, my remarkable situation continued. It felt great, but in some ways, it also felt odd. And soon, other things were getting even odder. My body was beginning to get hairy & lanky, and I soon had to learn how to shave.
And I was beginning to get strange feelings, especially in my chest, and in my "guts".
A few years earlier, my father sat Gerry down, and explained that he was becoming like "the Cows and the Chickens" and that he was "growing up" (He left it to Gerry to convey the info to me when I was older, when he was back on vacation from his assignment).
I had seen plenty of the Chickens and Cows mating, and then laying or giving birth, but I couldn't relate it to myself, or the strange feelings I was having. I was getting "ticklish" overall, and an especially strange tickling in my pants kept making my “thingy” get hard and my guts tighten.
One night in the shower, I was washing down that area, and it got ticklish and rock-hard. I was rubbing and lathering it, trying to relieve the "itch", but it only got worse. I went to rinse it off, but my hand swiped over it a couple more times. The itch suddenly soared to an unbelievable intensity, and it spread into my body, which began to shake.
I grasped the wash-towel  rack, and my hips thrust forward. I gasped and squeaked as my guts began contracting, and a thick, creamy liquid began spilling from my thing.
I slid down the shower stall, as all the stiffened muscles went limp. I was shivering, and felt like I had gone through the grape press. If not for the roar of the shower, the drone of the telly, and the clatter of the dishes being done, my sounds would have had mom and father wondering at the least.
I finally got up, finished my shower, made it back to my room, and got in my nightclothes. I sat there, wondering about what happened. Then I recalled what my brother told me, and the Animals & their breeding antics.
It all made sense now, I had just had a sexual experience!
You would have thought from the school chatter, the telly hoo-haa, the cinema. and from the Animals behaviour that it was supposed to be totally enjoyable. I didn't like it one bit. It felt as if I had injured something. But at least that dammed itch was gone.
Who knows, maybe that would be the end of it.
No such luck. Two days later, the "itch" was back, and it was worse. Two swipes, and I was "clutching the rack" again. A couple more times, and it began to get rather pleasant. In no time, I was "swiping" every day.
So this was sex, or rather the beginnings of it. Okay, fair enough.
Somehow though, it still wasn't right, something was surely missing.
Things continued with Sandey, but something strange was happening. When she was nuzzling and caressing me, I started getting those feelings and my thing, or dick was getting hard. I began to think of her during my swiping, or "wanking" as I learned it was called.
Soon, she was all I could think of and visualize while doing that.
And as time passed and as we grew, the feelings grew. I knew that men were only "supposed" to be thinking of girls that way, but for me, Sandey was the only "girl" in the world.
But it was even more than that. Beyond the physical feelings of build-up and "release", there were much deeper feelings: of kinship, of belonging...
...Of oneness!
We weren't just growing together, we were growing TOGETHER!
In many ways that I knew, and probably some that I didn't know, my life had become permanently interwoven and "bonded" with Sandey!
And soon I began to get ideas of the "next level" of bonding. But then something happened.
A couple of weeks later after supper, I was in the dipping room, filtering beeswax with mom, when we heard yelling, mooing, crates bins & buckets falling, more yelling, two gun blasts, and a wailing, trailing-off scream.
It was followed by a low din of flushed & flustered Birds, clucking Hens, a distant car door slam & peel-out, and the even more distant neighbours' barking dogs.
We rushed to the living room, just in time to hear the heavy tromp-tromp-tromp of boots on the porch walkway.
The door flung open, and in stormed my father, waving his arms, cursing like a sailor, and tossing his double-barrel shotgun on the sofa.
"Bastard!" he screamed, flinging his hat to the floor "sick fokken bastard! Caught some teenage skelm with his pants open, trying to stick it to one of the Cows!"
"Got away, but not before putting two loads of rock salt in his arse!"
"Mercy lord!" cried mom "I'll call the police right away".
"No you WON"T!" said father. "We don't need no fokken two-bob constable to leak this out, the Guild would be all over it, spreading filth about tainted cheese. Or worse!"
"No-siree!" he added, picking up and cradling the shotgun "I'll let "Madame Justeece" here do all the talking!". He then put it back on the rack over the mantle.
The next morning, I was taking two of the freshly cleaned surge pails to the milking stalls. I entered, set them on the counter next to two others, and turned around to find my father standing over me.
"You getting your work done?" he asked. "Yes" I said "I'm about to get the other four pails".
"Really?" he asked again in a sharper tone "you getting anything else done?".
"Well, I have the rest of the barn work until lunch, then feeding Sandey, and then relining the hive racks, and..."
"To hell with that Bird!" he yelled "did Gerry ever tell you about "the Cows and the Chickens", like I told him to?"
"Yes" I said, confused "just before he left after his vacation visit a couple of years ago".
"So what's with it?" demanded my father "You go to classes, workshops and the library, but never bring back a girl! I check, but you got no pictures, no magazines, nothing!"
"You never even talk about them!".
I would have expected it of him, and I had seen many clues. Yet it still shocked me to finally know for real that he had been routinely searching my room.
He then squinted and stepped forward "You going poof on me? faggots? Dogs? the Cows?..."
"No!" I said. But in that instant, my mind had jumped forward ...
...To Sandey!
"You lyin' to me boy?" he demanded. Again I said "No!", but thoughts and fears for Sandey now filled my head, and apparently coloured my reply.
He grabbed me with one hand, turned it under my collar, and lifted me clean off the ground.
"You listen to me boy and listen good! Unlike you, your brother Gerry will honour The Lord's Command, and continue the family legacy. You don't want no girls, YOUR disgrace and YOUR loss!"
"But if I hear of you doing any poofing, or if I find even the slightest hint that you been sticking your teat in those Cows or Chickens, so help me, I'll tan your hide so completely that no one'll be able to tell it from my boot-wipe!"
"Got that?"
"Y-Yes" I said, trying to force the word past the strangling collar.
He then swung me to one side, turned out his hand, and let go. I fell to the floor gasping, with a tray of mucked-out straw topped with fresh manure, breaking my fall.
"Get back to work!" he barked, as he turned back to the house.

So things continued. My father spent more time out at the old storage barns on the far edge of the vineyards, apparently making grapevine trellis posts, beehive racks, and other ranch woodwork. He still didn't want me, the hired hands, or mom anywhere near there.
I didn't care, so long as he wasn't near me or Sandey.
Another year. Again, I had the same unusual minimal class time, home courses, and of course, farm duties.
And best of all, my dear Sandey. With each year, she had grown closer to maturity, and her eyes went from dark, to brownish orange, and now deep orange.
And our relationship continued to grow. She would be ever more anxious upon any departure, and excited upon my return.
She would snuggle up to me, making funny little grunting and squeaking noises. And if I sat down, she would jump or climb into my lap, like a great feathered Dog, and lay down with her wings half-open, and her head and neck extended up toward my face.
Once we had fallen asleep like that, wrapped in each others embrace.
But along with that was a growing "heartache". I longed so much to take our relationship to the next level. Just one bit. Not even "entry". Just so much as to kiss her...
...To kiss her, "down there"!
But every time I thought of it, my father's dire warning echoed through my head. And my neck would cringe.
And my other "head & neck" would cringe even more.
Another deterrent was her age. She was still at least a year away from maturity, I knew it was wrong to try ANYTHING with her before her time.
Not because of law or morality, but biology. For all that our mutual thoughts and feelings might have said "Yes", her not-yet-mature body would still have to say "No".
And that was a far bigger deterrent than the law, the so-called gospel, and my father's bile combined!
But there was one other very big issue that would not disappear with maturity, and this could ultimately be the real deal-killer. Whether with her, or with another Bird, I knew that if I ever had the chance at anything, I would have to deal with something.
Something potentially dreadful.
In my studies, I had learned that unlike Mammals, Birds have a common chamber - a cloaca - which serves as the terminal for all the reproductive and excretory systems, with only one external opening to it, the anus-like vent.
Sure, I could "finger" her, but as wanking was now showing itself to be a rather "hollow" substitute for me, so I figured it must be for her.
If Sandey and I were ever to have a chance at engaging fully, there would be one thing we would have to do first. And with nearly every kind of Bird, it would be the ONLY thing we could do...
...Mouth to vent.
That would mean not just reproductive contact, but excretory contact. I would have to deal with the near-certainty of orally receiving the excretions.
I had tripped & fallen face-first into urine puddles in the Cow barn, and had both urine and Dog kak thrown in my face by bullies, so I knew just how disgusting that stuff could be, far, far worse then even its worst smell!
But there was no getting around it; since all sex with Birds is inherently anal, "real" intimacy with her would mean tasting her.
"that part" of her!
What could this do to me? Vultures were said to have antiseptic digestive systems and even excretions. But was it true? Would I get sick, would I get others sick?
There was more. I read that Bird urine is concentrated into a white uric acid  paste, maybe over fifty times more concentrated than the vile urea-based liquid I experienced with the bullies and the Cow barn.
Falconers and other Raptor handlers called it "slice".
Would this super-concentrated slice so disgust me as to damage the bond I had with Sandey? Would it bring our mutual development to a stop, and ultimately, to decay?
But there could be no putting it off, no way to avoid it, no circumvention. I had no choice. I HAD to know, I had to DO it.
I had to taste what she left behind!
One morning, I entered the enclosure and placed a whole lamb shank on her feeding platform, so as to maximize her feeding time. While she fed, I searched around for a "clean" sample, containing only her excretions and no extraneous debris.
I had done this many times the past few weeks & days, either not finding a good enough sample, or finding one but losing my nerve and running out of time. But today, there was a good one on her boulder perch which had been hosed clean yesterday, the two fractions separate and uniform.
There was no time to waste, I had to do it NOW!
I reached out with a washed hand, took a dab of the dark fraction and touched it to my tongue.
It tasted extremely bitter, like the black herbal muthi paste I was given for a mouth sore as a kid. But it was "only" bitter, no "septic" or other disturbing flavours, and no oily or other strange textures.
It was just "tolerable", for what it was. I spit it out and rinsed thoroughly with my water bottle.
But now came the "slice". For a Mammal, over a litre's worth of urine, concentrated into a small spread of white paste.
And unlike the previous material that had only "passed through", this had once been an integral part of her body!
I slowly reached out, took up a dab, and with my hand shaking. I took a deep breath.
I looked at it, and then looked at Sandey.
I immediately put it to my tongue.
There was a quick, brief tart acid sting. Then it suddenly melted and released its flavours.
It had a creamy, sweet & tart citrus-pineapple-vanilla taste. It went down, and left a warm "glow" in my throat, like extra strength cough syrup. And it was smoother than the smoothest crème or mousse you could imagine!
There were no words that could possibly express my astonishment, I was utterly stunned.
It was not nasty, revolting, terrible, repulsive, or disgusting in the least.
It tasted GREAT!
Then I did something I never once thought I would ever do; I scraped off and consumed all the slice I could get off of that rock.
And I began crying, with joy!
In the meantime, Sandey had finished, drank, and was settling into her post-meal "rest". I went over, and we did our scritches, preenings, and nuzzlings. But now there was a whole new dimension to it.
Sandey was in my heart, in my mind, and now, in a most unique way, she was in the very substance of my body!
And I would continue "adding her" to me!

As the year progressed. Sandey began moulting & growing still lighter plumage, and her deep orange eyes were now approaching the yellow of adulthood.
The changes should have been a time of great anticipation, but another change was afoot. I was approaching the end of my senior year, and instead of excited, I was getting worried. There was much discussion of college or the academy, but I was perfectly happy to continue on as a live-in worker, as was mom.
But father was clearly impatient for the day when he could legally give me the boot, and so get rid of Sandey by default.
As if to "expedite" it, he signed over to me the old Renault 5, which he had been talking openly about selling for the last two years, even though it still ran fairly well.
Through all this time, Dr Trede and Mr. Ostler were continuous visitors & mentors, always guiding, but leaving the “real” choices up to me.
That summer, he and Clive continued their usual visits, but with even more "guests", many looking and sounding very important, with notepads, tape recorders, cameras, Super 8 & 16mm cinematic cameras, and even portable videotape cameras.
One visit, after the usual routines, he took me aside, indeed, to the very spot where he had first presented me with that huge, unforgettable choice.
And from the look on his face, I could see something else huge was at hand.
“Almost six years ago” he said “I faced a troubled young boy, and presented him a crushing responsibility of his own making, and reluctantly gave him an immediate choice that few of any age should be expected to make”.
“The boy is no more. In his place stands a fine young man, who will soon be eighteen, and legally in charge of his destiny. And through it all, you have shown more talent, skill, professionalism, patience, care, and pure dedication than any other Animal caregiver I have ever had the privilege to work with”.
“And I have seen a relationship develop between you and Sandey that is unmatched by any other man and Bird relationship I have seen or heard of in my lifetime!”
“But times change, and so does one's life. Indeed it must, as that is the only way that one can grow. And life cannot continue without growth & change”.
“You now face new choices, some spelled out under law, some by one or both parents, and some by your own wants and needs. I know that you want to continue here, working for Springhaas Farms, and caring for Sandey”.
“Your mother is fine with that, but she would also like you to at least consider your options at higher education. For all your remarkable work with Sandey, that is still not enough to secure yourself a career in the biological fields”.
“A college degree in any of the biological sciences would open many doors. But to keep holding permits for Sandey, you would need the courses from Johannesburg or Cape Town to be able to justify the necessary new permits. The AgriSciences at Stellenbosch University would help you stay home and flourish as part of Springhaas Farms, but being a Matie at SU will not help you to keep Sandey”.
My heart sank. Deep down, or maybe not so deep down, I knew that to be true. I had hoped that somehow, I could continue my care for Sandey, to grow with her, to live with her.
To finally be completely and totally Hers!
But his words just reminded me of what I had been avoiding all this time; the day when I would have to say goodbye to her.
“Yet life also needs stability” he continued “especially in cases where major or very special and important things are present that would be disrupted or undone by uncontrolled or unmoderated change. And I can think of few things more special in this world than your incredible relationship with Sandey”.
“For some years now, I have been developing the idea of a dedicated facility or reserve, where people with very special and unique talents in the zoological fields, could live and work with Animals on-site. I have scouted out numerous sites for such a compound, and so far have narrowed it down to four possible locations”.
“Here is my idea: If you can convince your parents to allow you to stay on for at least two more years, I can arrange for college correspondence courses out of Johannesburg or Cape Town, under a special scholarship plan”.
“With those, I can get your soon-to-expire rehab permits replaced with four-year research permits, with no lapse, allowing you to keep unbroken custody and care of Sandey. In the meantime, the site will be selected and the facility built, probably with phase 1 completion in less than two years.
Then you and Sandey could both move there, along with others who have shown remarkable talent and potential, that would probably best flourish in an environment other than the more traditional institutions or venues”.
“And if all goes well, you and Sandey could continue to grow your relationship unimpeded, for as long as you may, even to the rest of your lives, safe and secure”.
My jaw dropped. How was such a thing possible? I knew by now that Dr Trede had enormous and far-reaching clout throughout business, government, tribal jurisdictions, and other circles of power, including international affairs!
But even with that, how could he get seeming carte blanche for all that he was able to do?
And where did the money come from that was needed to do all that he did and was going to do?
It was all too much to reckon with, l couldn't remember what I had said to him. Indeed, I wasn't sure if I had said anything at all.
But something got through, because he smiled and said "Yes William, we're going to make this happen!"
"Clive and I will be setting out next week, along with a geological expedition, to explore additional sites around the Drakensberg and the Eastern Cape. We will be gone for a bit over a month, but will be back in time to complete the deals well before your eighteenth birthday".
What could I say? What reply could I possibly give that would do justice for all that he had done and was continuing to do for me?
"Thank you Doctor Trede..." I started to say.
"Please" he said smiling "call me Bob!"
"Thank you Bob!" I replied "Thank you so very much, for everything!"
We did a handshake, which he then turned into a hug, the likes of which I had not known since the days of my dear grampa Philo.
And with that, it seemed that all the needed thanks were given!

A couple of days later, Clive and "Bob" Trede had another meeting with us to discuss the options. Mom was entirely on-board, but my father was balking and seething at the prospect of two more years of this, even though it meant two more years of having me as an "indentured" farmhand and labourer.
But he also could not ignore his ongoing and still subject-to-extension probation, and that after the two year agreement, he would finally be done with it, once and for all.
He reluctantly agreed to mull it over until their return, but I was confident mom would have the final say. Nothing could be decided until their return anyway.
Clive and the Doc left the next Monday. A week later, I returned home from the library, and found my father sitting in a chair facing the fireplace with a pale look on his face, and the sound of my mom crying in the next room. He then told me that Gerry, while surveying reefs for the Natal Parks Board, was found entangled in a derelict shark net, and had drowned.
Mom and I did a lot of crying and suffering, well past the funeral. But my father became even more cold and distant.
 He returned to spending long stretches of time in the old storage barns, sometimes with the sounds of hand or power tools, but mostly in silence. And still never letting the farm hands, mom or me near them.
Not that we even tried.
And he was all but demanding that we go out to town or elsewhere all day on weekends. I didn't worry much about Sandey's safety with him though, my father knew that if he made one wrong move, that Dr Trede would find out, and the Doctor would then see to it that he was trussed-up and skewered like a vark for an open-pit slow-braai!
Weeks passed, but the Doc and Clive had not yet returned. I was getting worried, my birthday was little more than a week away, and nothing was presented or signed yet.
One by one the days ticked by, as I became near-frantic with worry.
Two days before birthday. It was early evening, and I was driving back from getting the car serviced, when I saw the lights of police and fire units ahead. And to my utter horror, I saw that they were in front of and in our driveway.
I parked and began running up as an ambulance left, lights & siren going. But a uniformed arm & hand grabbed my shoulder and stopped me dead in my tracks. "Are you William Mauraack?" a gruff voice said.
"Yes, yes" I said frantically "where's my parents, what's happening?"
"Colonel" cried out another officer "we found the big one!". I looked over, and saw that the old storage barns were floodlit by police & fire units. One of the barns was smoking, with a big hole in the roof, and firemen in protective gear were hauling out big bundles of green plants, under the watchful eyes of the police.
Two firemen and three police officers began walking toward us. One fireman was holding a single plant. As it was carried into the nearer light, I suddenly saw what it was, and my heart sank as he handed it to the Colonel.
"Dagga!" said the Colonel in disgust, as he threw it to the ground. He then turned to a nearby squad car. My eyes followed, and there was my father sitting in the back, handcuffed.
"I think we found the ignition source!" said the second fireman, holding up a pair of tongs that held a blackened object.
It was the still smouldering, charred stump of one of my father's cigars.

Everything was a blur after that. As my head swam, I was barraged with questions, snuffled-over by a drug-Dog, and asked for my drivers license.
But I clearly remembered demanding repeatedly "Where's my mom, WHERE'S MY MOM?!". Soon, another officer came up and had a hushed talk with the Colonel. The Colonel soon went over to the main activity, and the new person came up, escorted me to the front lawn picnic table, and sat down with me.
"William Mauraack" he said "I'm Brigadier Nathaniel Watson".
"May I call you Will?" he asked in a kindly voice "Yes" I squeaked out. "Now I do need to confirm a couple of things" he said "the full names of your father and mother".
"Joseph W Mauraack and Freida P Mauraack" I replied.
"First of all, I want you to know how sorry I feel for all of this. Will, there was a fire in one of those barns over there. Following initial reports from the Fire Captain, your father was questioned and placed under arrest for cultivating marijuana. During this time, your mother experienced a medical emergency, and paramedics were called while one of the firemen rendered emergency aid".
"We believe she was sent to Stellenbosch provincial, but she could have also been sent to Mediclinic. We do not currently know anything about her condition".
"One of our officers is on it and will let us know immediately what he finds out".
I found myself reeling again, and lost track of what else he said. I did recall that Jan and Mark, now adults, and here as members of Fire Brigade number 2, would be staying with me for at least the next two days, since technically, I was still legally a minor, and could not be left at home alone.
They learned the correct hospital, and Brigadier Watson & the fireman that treated her, escorted me there. But mom was in a full coma, totally unaware of anything.
The next day, more news: My father was arraigned and bound over for trial on charges of marijuana production with intent to sell, drug trafficking, tax evasion, and a host of other charges.
The day after that, my birthday: The news reported that a major geographic expedition had come up missing in the Drakensberg, after seismic and visual evidence of a recent & massive cave-in and landslide of epic proportions, with earth displacement believed to be in multiple cubic kilometres.
Included in the list of missing members, Clive Ostler and Dr. Robert Trede.
Two days later, my mom was declared brain-dead.
Days? weeks? months? I couldn't tell any more. I was called into court several times to testify. Though I had nothing to say about the charges against my father, he never once looked at me. He was found guilty of all charges, with sentencing to follow. It was only then, as he was led away, that he finally looked at me, with a scowl.
So when I was informed the next day that he had attacked his cell-mate, and was in turn stabbed and killed, I had no feelings left for him but a dispassionate, empty numbness.
.
Probate investigation revealed three mortgages, two past due, and no will. The banks, courts, and other creditors had claims on it all.
I was now an adult orphan, with zero inheritance or property rights.
Except for the seed shed plot, which was technically still under my annual one Rand lease as a separate property. But without Dr Trede to perform whatever he did to secure it, that would end in weeks, and the plot would revert back to the Stellenbosch Local Municipality, the proper administrators before my father illegally annexed it.
The entire farm property, other than that plot, was seized for forfeiture under drug trafficking laws. I would be allowed to stay in the house without rent, until the completion of title transfer for the house, at which point, I must leave, with no option to rent or lease.
Audits & inventories were held, the "grow-barns" were demolished when investigations were complete, and everything was slated for auction. Caretakers, apiarists, and additional ranch hands were brought in to manage and maintain the vineyards, cattle, chickens, and beehives.
I was not allowed to participate.
My room was audited and all that I personally owned was listed, photographed, and/or tagged as either mine or estate property.

Then one cold day, not long after, a kombi showed up with two handlers from the Wildlife Department, to reclaim Sandey. I remembered one of them from one of Dr Trede's special tour groups a couple of years or so ago. Both confirmed that they were repeat visitors on previous tours,
And both were not happy with what they were about to do.
"At least we got it delayed until the last full day" one said, which gave no consolation.
They brought out the carrier, the nets, and the medkit, as per regulations. And the leash & Falconer's gauntlets.
But as they stopped at the enclosure door, they stood aside. "If you want to bring her out yourself, and say good-byes..." one said.
Which was definitely NOT as per regulations.
With a shaking hand, I opened the door and walked in. Sandey, attentive as usual, flew over and landed on my outstretched, bare arm. She brought her head to my face and nuzzled lovingly, like she had done every day these past years. and with even greater intensity this year.
But now, it elicited feelings not of joy, but of agony.
I exited and while one of the handlers went in with a big bag and gathered up all the feathers & gear, the other slowly led the way back to the kombi and the awaiting carrier. Sandey was calm, but looked puzzled.
So much I wanted to say, so often I had gone over farewell speeches in grim anticipation of this day.
But all I could choke out was "Goodbye Sandey, I love you so". And as I did, she nuzzled her head up to my cheek again, sending my jaw quivering and my tears to free-flow.
I then carefully set her in the carrier, and with a confused look on her face, I closed the carrier door.
Then the sliding kombi door.
I turned away, and the two handlers stood there, arms across each others backs, with their other arms extended towards me. We approached and I joined them in a three-man huddle. And all three of us began wetting the ground with our tears.
"You deserve a lot better than this" one said. "You and Sandey belong together forever" said the other.
I so wanted to join them, to be employed at the Department, and remain Sandey's caretaker. But university was no longer possible and Dr. Trede's dream died with him. And each of us knew that Jack Voorman, heading the new management at the Department, had no love for Trede & his influence, and would hire no one that came under the good Doctor's favour.
They opened up the end doors and loaded up the rest of the stuff and the bagged feathers & gear. "Don't give up" one said "keep trying for a chance to visit with her. And keep applying for a position. Old man Voorman can't stay there forever".
"They know your credentials, they MUST consider you sooner or later".
I so wanted to believe it, but Voorman was also allied with high-ranking members of the Vintners Guild, which itself had made it clear that none of the Mauraack name would ever be allowed to do any sort of business in Stellenbosch or any of The Winelands, ever again.
I would never be considered.
"She will be in a good place" the other said "and receiving the second-best care there is". I started at that statement, and a new feeling of dread came over me.
"Second-best is the way it must be" he continued "because yours is the very best care that any Bird has ever received!"
They then entered the kombi, buckled-in, started up, and began backing out. "Keep trying!" one repeated, "Don't give up!" said the other.
They cleared the driveway and proceeded down the road. I felt like I was being pulled, as if there was a giant elastic cord connecting me and Sandey. Then the kombi turned onto the main road, crested the rise and disappeared, snapping the figurative elastic, which back-lashed me painfully in the chest.
My parents, my brother, my work, my home, my future, Bob Trede & Mr Ostler. And most of all, my dear Sandey, all gone.
I fell to my knees crying. I was all alone.
The last and best part of the wonderful life I knew, was over.

Early the next morning, Sunday, eviction day. No one would be there until the afternoon. Out of consideration, the auditor, in full disregard of regular procedure, told me earlier that if I wanted to avoid the usual armed "escort", that I could just fill out the form and leave it & the keys in an envelope on the table, lock-up, and leave before one o'clock.
I had been loading the few things I owned outright into the car; my paperwork, documents, journals, books, clothing, multi-tool, backpack, mess-kit, duffel bag, and assorted keepsakes & sundries. On me was my wallet, watch, pen & notepad, and about thirty bucks.
And in my large inner vest pocket, a small framed portrait photo of Sandey, taken by Clive Ostler.
I was allowed to take all the fresh, tinned, and packaged food in the fridge & pantries, but no Springhaas or ranch products, except for two racks of comb honey, two jars of pressed honey, two cakes of beeswax, a couple each of Edam & Gouda rounds, two bottles of Spiced Apple-Grape Cider, whatever eggs the hired hands didn't take, and a tote-sack of apples from the trees.
And the last four loaves of my Mom's special Triple-Ginger Pound Cake, which she had just baked the morning of the day she was taken to hospital.
No fresh milk, no grapes, no wine allowed.
There was actually very little food left in the fridge & pantries to take, just a few tins, a couple packs of macaroni, a jar of peanut butter, the spice rack, a string of garlic, four ginger roots, a half-loaf of bread, and in the fridge, nothing remained but assorted vegetables, a frozen coil of boerewors, and a single bottle of Piri-piri sauce.
I grabbed it all, along with the allotted ranch items, boxed & bagged them, putting the fridge stuff in the picnic cooler with ice, and putting them all in the car.
And near the hearth, the very towel and fisherman's basket I originally used to rescue Sandey that fateful day, so long ago. My old bike was donated a few years ago to the local children's rehabilitation clinic, where it was still in use.
With the towel in the basket, and basket in hand, I then made another random, final walk-through of the house:
The den, where my brother and I used to play games, listen to stories, or watch the telly, the second-storey hall, where we would race cars, paper aeroplanes, or other fast & hazardous objects.
The kitchen proper, where we would anxiously await the freshly baked butterscones & cocoa biscuits, and where I would later help mom with the cooking.
Though the kitchen had been inventoried and the cutlery & silver flatware locked-up, the cooking utensils were simply lumped in open boxes as "miscellaneous gear", unnamed and uncounted. So I grabbed the garlic press and potato masher, which I put into the basket. No one would miss them.
I was allowed to take Mom's recipe binder, which was already in the car.
The work-spaces were locked and the auditor had the keys, I could not enter them. Same with the barns, sheds, and paddocks.
The main bathroom, where I had my first shave (and that "thing" that happened in the shower).
My brother's former room, now a sewing nook. In an un-itemized box of "sewing gear", I found my mom's prized gold thimble, passed down through at least three generations. Like the utensils, the contents of the box had not been individually inventoried. There was no note of the thimble.
Into the basket it went.
My parents room. Other than clothing and sundries, everything else had been locked-up in the big dresser and the upright cabinet. And through the cabinet windows, I could see my parent's jewellery and accessories, including, to both my relief and dismay, their wedding rings.
All tagged as inventory.
My own room, where so much of my life unfolded. Nothing I could have or needed remained.
The reading room, and my dear grandfather Philo's roll-top desk, which held among other treasures, his commendations, medals and his magnificent repeating pocket chronometer & chain. I tried rolling it open, but as expected, it was locked. And he had long ago fitted it himself with real double pin-tumbler locks and a special key, instead of the usual skeleton jobs.
It could not be tricked, picked, or jimmied.
And the main room, where I first took Sandey, with the now cold fireplace, and the great wooden carving above the mantle of our Springhaas Farms logo.
And the massive oaken dining table, where we had all our home-cooked meals, and where I made my life-changing decisions and paperwork signings those many years ago. On it now was very different paperwork for me to sign, including a large manila envelope into which I was to deposit the house keys and the signed paperwork before leaving.
I read and signed all the highlighted material, took out my keys, placed them and the paperwork in the envelope, signed & dated it, along with the time, sealed it, and placed it back on the table. But under that envelope was another smaller envelope, saying "for Will". And on the other side,  "Jan, Mark, and Friends".
They had been transferred and moved all the way to Port Elizabeth nearly two weeks ago. Had this been sitting here all that time?
I picked it up, walked out the front door, set the live-bolt, checked thrice again for what I had, and closed the door.
For the very last time.
Then I headed over to Sandey's empty and locked enclosure. The handler was required to gather up the moulted flight feathers and turn them over to the Department, as per the terms of my permit.
But there on the ground in front of the gate was a single tail feather, one of the two "decks". The Department persons could have either dropped or missed it, or she could have dropped it as she was being carried out...
...No, she had finished her tail moult last month.
Could they have REALLY missed it, or was there another reason for it being there?
I picked it up, looked at the enclosure, and for a brief moment, I could almost see her flying over to greet me. Only to dissolve and condense down to that single feather I held in my hand.
I preened it lovingly, sighed, and put it into the basket. The very last bit I would salvage from my former life.
I headed to the car, put the basket in the boot, got into the driver seat, then closed the door.
But what next?
I couldn't stay anywhere in The Winelands, and I knew nothing of Cape Town, outside of my old Table Mountain forays and a handful of family day-treks. Other than my farm & ranch experience, a bit of cooking, and my Bird skills, I had nothing to offer anyone but basic manual labour.
I had my things, I had the car, and I had all the roads ahead of me.
But I had nowhere to go.
And as I sat there, I found myself tapping the steering wheel with the edge of Jan & Mark's rather heavy envelope. We had gotten together and mulled over living & employment ideas weeks ago, but came up dry.
I carefully opened the envelope and found a birthday card. In the card was six hundred forty five Rand in cash, and a message under the printed birthday blurb. It said;
"Get to Kalk Bay Harbour, east of Fish Hoek. Go to the commercial fishing piers and look for a dull yellow fishing boat named "The Golden Dragon". On its gangway will be a bell with a striker rod. Ring out "shave-and-a-haircut", but without the "five bob". Someone should call out "Who goes there?" When they do, say "I'm William, Jan and Mark sent me". Come aboard if he says to, or he will meet you on the pier".
"We think he can help you".
"In the meantime, here is a little something we and the gang at the station collected to tide you over and help you get there. We will get in touch with you as the situation allows".
"Our best wishes for you and a better future. Take care now!"
Jan and Mark Van deKamp
8 May 1990
Those two! I had half a mind to take the long and difficult journey to Port Elizabeth, just to hunt them down and thank them. But that was certainly not their plan for the clandestine letter and the collection. They probably had one of their station friends sneak it in during Wednesday's fire-safety inspection, so that there would be no following after them.
In any case, I didn't have their new address, phone number, or station number.
I put the cash and the card back into the envelope, then into the glove box. I pulled out the road map, found Fish Hoek, spotted Kalk Bay, and traced out the most straightforward route there...
...With one detour.
I started up the car, headed down the driveway, and on to & down the access path.
And with the car, the letter, and the remaining shreds of my former life, I then turned west onto Polkadraai Road.
And on to whatever future awaited.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

[Resident Hyaena]

 




Here is the draft for the third chapter.




With William now in a more cosmopolitan or "worldly" part of The Cape, there are more of the local variants of the English language, plus maritime jargon, and the mixed speech "impediments" of a newly introduced character.




There are no sexual references or depictions in this chapter. But since someone reading this chapter can then read another one which does have such content, the Disclaimer & Warning still applies.




At this point also, if there are any South Africans reading this, their input regarding the depictions of the Cape Province would be greatly appreciated.




-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sandey, chapter 3

by the

Resident Hyaena

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




I struggled through the brush, the old trails now overgrown. The area had been closed-off a few years ago to shooters, but I still knew my way about, and my special access point was still unblocked. And from the lack of trash-piles, the bergies probably hadn't moved in yet.




I had not returned here since the day I found Sandey.




I got to the two towering boulders, and they at least had not changed. The "stash bush" at their base had grown thicker, and even more concealing. I worked my way in and found the stashed tub, still there, shrouded in deep shadow. But its one remaining towel had decayed and crumbled.




The tub and lid though had been covered in camo tape, and while it had also faded and crumbled, the plastic underneath had been protected by it, the towel, and the greatly deepened bush cover from the sun, and was still sound.




Still, I emptied it into another bucket I brought, since the handle was badly rusted, and then stashed it back into the bush, its rotted camo tape now an even better camouflage than when new and with the towel.




Six hundred forty five Rand was still a lot of money at that time, but I figured I might need every cent I could muster, plus, I was making good driving time. So I was going to stop here and try to retrieve & sell my last stash.




But that wasn't the main reason for coming here.




I went over to the west side of the towering boulders. And clutching her picture, I stood in front of the very spot where I found Sandey. That whole area was unchanged from that time many years ago, and I replayed the memory of that event like it had just happened.




And as I stood there, I noticed two Cape Vultures on the right, circling in a thermal. Her parents? siblings? one of each? As few as there were, one or both must surely be closely related to her.




I held up her picture to the sky. And for a minute or so, I was looking at what must be to some extent, a "family portrait". Then they broke away from the thermal and soon disappeared over the Back Table.




I wanted to stay longer, but the Birds' departure and my watch showed it was time to go. I looked again at that special patch of sandy ground, then slowly and sadly turned and walked away, probably for the last time ever. I picked up the bucket of old lead & brass, and trudged back to the car. I had trouble getting her picture back into the pocket, so I put it into the glove box.






I had made it back onto M3, and was approaching the M3-M41 interchange, when lights came on in the mirror, and a siren began wailing.




KAK!




I pulled over, and a police car came up to an abrupt stop behind me. The driver door popped open immediately, and a voice came over the horn.




"Hands up!" blared the voice. "One hand, open the door and undo your seatbelt, slowly. That's right, keep that other hand up!".




I did as he said.




"Both hands up, step out of the car, SLOWLY!".




"Hands on the bonnet, spread your legs, face down, DO IT!"




I was then patted down, though it felt more like probing and pushing than patting. He then pulled me up by the collar and turned me around to face him.




His name tag said "Dereck Kaufmann". He was a Sergeant, and the only one in the car.




He was rather ordinary looking, one of those unmemorable, easily forgettable generic faces that could readily go missing in a crowd of one.




Except for the eyes. They were the kind that seemed to hold a lot behind them, but hidden and secured with an emotionless lock and key.




And that cold gaze was going over me relentlessly.




"Licence and registration, take them out of the wallet!"




I handed them to him.




He looked at them and screwed his face up.




"WILLIAM Mauraack? You're not Joseph! you his boy?"




"Yes, Joseph Mauraack is my father".




"That's "Yes SIR" to you!" he barked.




"Yes, Sir, he's my father".




He then slowly walked a circle around me, eyeing every square centimetre, stopping back in front of me.




"Not good" he said "the name of Mauraack don't go down well in these parts. Where are you going and what's your business?"




"I'm going to Kalk Bay, Sir, for a job interview".




"Kalk Bay, the harbour? What kind of job do you hope to find there?"




"I don't know, Sir" I replied. "all I know is, its an interview".  He then looked me over again.




"All they know there is fish, Fish, FISH!" he said mockingly "And you don't look like no fisherman to me!"




He then walked the length of the car, looking over it intently. I knew he was looking for some sort of problem that he could use as an excuse to write up a ticket.




Or worse.




"Put some air in that tyre!" he growled, "and wipe down that headlamp, it needs to be clear and bright!"




"Yes, sir, I will" I replied, grabbing my window rag, and carefully wiping down the lamp, and then the other one.




"Good enough, for now" he said, handing back my licence. "Now get going, get that tyre filled, and don't make me have to stop you again!"




I put it back in the wallet, got in, buckled up, and reached for the key. And as I did, he pulled up and stopped, window down.




"Good luck with the interview, DREAMER!" he said, as he took off in a kick of dust.






It was early afternoon when I made it to Kalk Bay. We had visited beaches & harbours on the Western Cape before on rare family day-treks, but this east-facing harbour and the nearby Fish Hoek struck me as a bit odd. I parked in an open dirt lot, put on my pack, headed towards the harbour, and began the search.




It was a small harbour, one regular concrete pier, a slipway, and a larger concrete seawall pier, or quay. The mostly wooden boats were all-a-clutter, close-packed, and of all shapes, sizes, & condition, some looking like they could turn-turtle at any moment.




And all in a riot of bright colours, stripes & patterns, that gave an effect like the old dazzle camouflage of the British Royal Navy.




Against that, I figured a solid-colour boat should stand out fairly well.




But I could not see anything that looked like what Jan and Mark had described, and they did not include the captain's name. I asked the very few people around, but nobody could (or would) help me.




Could it be out to sea?




After checking the same boats two or three times, and the shadows getting longer, I was beginning to get real worried. Then, with the raking afternoon light exposing previously shaded areas, I spotted it at the far end of the line of larger boats on the seawall quay.




Unlike its mostly smaller wooden companions, this was a sixteen metre steel hull with a two-level superstructure, one of those old overseas-built multi-purpose fishing jobs from somewhere around the sixties.




Still very serviceable & solid-looking, but definitely long-in-the-tooth.




It seemed more like a “dirty dijon” than the dull yellow described in the letter, but then some direct sunlight revealed that it was indeed the yellow hull described, but with a white superstructure that was not noted.




And there was the name, "The Golden Dragon", showing with the better lighting.




And the gangway, with the bell mounted above the rail, and the striker rod hanging from a chain.




Slowly and nervously, I approached the bell, feeling almost as if it were going to bite me. I picked up the striker, paused, took a deep breath, and tried for the best shave-and-a-haircut that I could muster.




And it rang out, loud and clear. But there was no reply.




I waited a minute, then tried again. But as the last of "haircut" died away, there was still no reply.




I tried a third time, nothing.




With a sigh and sagging shoulders, I let go the striker, and began to turn away. But just then, an angry voice boomed out from somewhere within the ship...




"Who's dat, who goes there? I'm busy. State yer business now or be off!"




I was startled, and froze, unable to speak.




"Well?" bellowed the voice again "Speak now or go away!".




"Its William" I said in a quavering voice, remembering the letter "Jan and Mark sent me".




There was a long, heavy silence, and I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me.




"William?" said the voice "William Mauraack of Stellenbosch?  Good gracious, come aboard, I've been expectin' ya!"




I walked slowly and carefully up the gangway, partly in apprehension of who I would encounter, and partly from the worn, wet, and slippery planking. I stepped out onto the deck, and as I did, a door creaked open and a man stepped out from what appeared to be the galley.




He was stout, heavily built, dressed in working dungarees, a heavy turtle-neck pullover, a yellow oilskin with reflector bands and attached hood draped over the back, a bo'sun's pipe of different metals on a neck-chain, and a generic skipper's hat, slightly crushed or slumped on one side.




His face was ruddy and graven from decades of sun and labour, but seemed as if it could have belonged to a slightly younger, beardless Santa Claus.




He looked for all the world like "The Skipper" from the old Gilligan telly series from the USA. And sounded much like him too, but a bit coarser.




And he looked and sounded strangely familiar.




He came up to me and looked me in the eyes, squinting & moving his head, like one who had mislaid their reading glasses.




"Well bust my scupper!" he said "it IS you! I 'ent seen ya since ya were knee-high to a grasshopper! An' look at ya now, your mom 'n' pop must be so proud..."




Then his face changed, and became grave and sad. "I'm sorry" he said "I only just-soon found out, an' it still asn't sunk in yet. Could ya possibly forgive me?"




"That's okay" I said "it still hasn't completely sunk in with me, either".




He then put his hands on my shoulders, lifted them away, and brought them back down with two firm but friendly pats.




"Wec'n deal with dat later, but first, ya probably wonderin' who I am. My proper name is Bertram Atwater, but ya can call me Cap'n Bert or just Cap'n".




It did sound a bit familiar, in a very distant way. I scoured my memory, then it hit me. "Uncle Berty?" I asked "grampa Philo used to show us old pictures, and told many stories about you and him & father".




"That's right", he said, "ol' Uncle Berty! But as our dear Cap'n Philo prolly told ya, I'm not a true-blood uncle, just a friendship uncle, from our years together in th' Navy".




We sat down on a bench, and gabbed for another ten minutes or so, recalling the very brief time that both he and grampa Philo were around when I was just a toddler. But the shadows were creeping up, and soon we were in them.




"It's gonna get dark soon" he said "where're ya parked?"




"Over in that dirt lot" I said, pointing in that direction.




"That's fine 'nough in th' daylight" he said "but dangerous at night. Not because o' watchers, thieves or th' like, but a lotta heavy equipment moves through there at night, includ'n net cranes, which can swing their block & tackle around an' smash a car like a wrecking ball".




"Before anything else, let's get ya things an' move ya car to a safer 'n' more permanent place".




So he locked up the galley, closed and locked the two gangway gates, and we headed back along the quay and over to my car. He then bent down and looked at the wheels. "Hmmm..." he muttered "we'd best move ya things into ma bakkie to drive 'em to The Dragon, you've got th' wrong tyres for that quay. One good hit on th' brakes, an' you'd just skate right-off into th' drink".




We got in, and he directed me around back of a large warehouse, and to a very high, razor wire topped fence with an electric gate, a robot, and a sign that said "Service and Fleet Vehicles Only". He reached into a pocket, took out a new-looking plastic card, and stuck it in the slot in the robot's control box, which activated the gate. We drove in, easily found a free spot, and parked.




"Here we go" he said "right next to ma own bakkie!"




And as we got out, he handed me the card. "Keep this with ya, you'll need it to enter with ya car, or to enter th' pedestrian gate. It won't be needed for exit, just drive up & wait for th' gate & robot. Youc'n use th' one-way exit turnstile to leave on foot".




Then he reached into the same pocket as with the card, and took out an equally new-looking numbered oval vinyl sticker. He went to the driver's side of my car, wiped the lower corner of the windscreen, peeled the decal, and applied it to the lower driver's corner. "This makes it official, youc'n now park here any time, any day, free of charge, with no time limit, no watchers, no questions asked".




"We'll load-up an move ya things" he said "but first, I need to discuss a few more things with ya. Not here or at The Dragon though, but at a place with good lights, solid footin' an' lekker chow".




"The Snoek Shack is my favourite everyday graze off The Dragon, but way too open & crowded for us to talk. Let's go over to The Binnacle, best mix-braai this side o' Singapore. An' great steak, chicken, an' burgers, Whatever ya fancy, my shout!".




We took his bakkie, an old Toyota Hilux, and made the drive over. We got out and I looked towards the restaurant, but the Cap'n directed me over to the bin kraal.




"Before we go in, lift that lid, take a good deep sniff, an' tell me what ya think".




I thought it a strange request, and was apprehensive. But I did as he asked. "Ehhh..." I said "it reeks of fish muck, but I've smelled colicky heifer, which is far worse".




"Very good!" he said "belly barks'll be one less concern on The Dragon".




We turned back to the main walk, chose the original dining room, and got a window-side table. There was hardly anyone there, but most were in the upper dining room. And it was that typical second lull period, too late for lunch, too early for supper.




We checked the menus and placed our orders. Uncle, or Cap'n Bert kept his eyes physically towards the table, but he was clearly keeping tabs on the staff and the few patrons.




"As ya've prolly gathered by now, this isa fisherman's town" he said "we eat, breathe, an' bleed fish 24/7. Ya ordered a burger, where's most here order fish. But burgers 're th' second big thing for th' fleet, so dat's good too, 'specially since they take less space on board 'n' keep frozen better".




"There's still th' 24 hour sea-test, but ya stood th' bin, which tells me that y'ought to be good to go to sea also".




"Ya should do very well here".




He then side-glanced around, making sure that no one was listening.




"But 'ere's the thing, th' town's been a changin'. They've gone puttin' in gall'ries & boo-teeks, puttin' gingerbread 'n' broekie lace on th' buildings an foof on th' supper plates. Even The Binnacle 'as added a fancy new dinin' room, caterin' to th' tourists, but not th' locals".




"Seafood dock prices er down, 'specially fer salmon, hake, an' various whitefish which form th' greater value of our catch, an' th' greatest part of th' market right now. An' tourism's on th' rise, 'specially th' sportfishin' sector",




"An' they all expect billfish!".




"Only snoek 'n' crab er holdin' their market".




"So, many in th' fleet have switched from commercial to sportfishin' charters. An' with fewer charter boat crew-members as actual fishermen, most hands 're now landlubbers, berthing themselves ashore off-duty, rather than on th' boats".




"An' sadly, I'm lookin' to convert The Golden Dragon over myself".




He paused as the server approached and delivered our meals, mine, the Binnacle Burger with chips & onion rings, and the Cap'n's, the Seafood Braai.




" Mmmm..." he said, taking a nice chunk off his fork "Really lekker snoek, as fresh as yac'n ask for, maybe even fresh yesterday from The Dragon herself!". He then took my unused fork, cut-off a bite, and handed it to me "Tell me what ya think" he said.




I took it, gave it a cursory sniff, then popped it in. I had tried snoek before, salted and dried, but this fresh stuff was a completely different animal!




"Kinda strong and oily" I said. "Its fair enough, but it could use some Piri-piri sauce and ginger".




"Now dat's interesting!" the Cap'n said " "Fresh snoek's 'n acquired taste, one dat not many not born-to-th'-sea can develop in short time. Yet ya seem to 'ave no problem with it".




He glanced around again, as we kept eating.




"Goin' on" he said between bites "soon, it'll largely be about sportfishin', tourist traps an' cruises. Th' restaurants an' fish market'll remain in operation, an' even thrive. But I fear most o' th' fish'll be bought straight from th' sport-fishers, or even shuttled in from Hout Bay".




He then gazed at the piece on his fork. "An' quality'll surely suffer". he added, popping it in.




"Now a couple o' weeks or so ago, my last on-board crewman opted fer shore berth". he said. "An' just as e's walkin' away with his ditty 'n' duffel, who do I see coming up th' quay? The Van deKamp brothers!"




"Yep" he said, seeing my expression "None other than Jan an' Mark!"




"So I call 'em aboard an' we sit in th' now deserted galley & mess deck, an' catch-up on old times an' new developments. They told me 'bout all dat 'appened with ya, your family, an' Clive & th' good Doctor".




"Yep" he added again "Bob Trede, Clive an' I go way back, before Jan an' Mark were even born!"




"An' it was from Trede himself I first learned o' yer remarkable relationship with an equally remarkable Bird. Since then, I've 'erd much gab about it over th' years, at th' bars, dockside, in newspapers an' th' market”.




“An' on th' telly".




I started, and nearly dropped my onion ring. "Yes, William, you've a reputation dat goes far beyond The Winelands! An' it precedes ya, though few here've seen a current enough bioscope or photo to spot ya at a glance, or even a double-take".




"Dat's to be expected, flash-in-the-pan y'know. You've been outta th' news for some time now, an' yer appearance 'as changed enough dat few'ld connect ya now with a dodgy, years-old telly image. Here though, that could be a good thing".




"But back to matters. 'Ave ya been followin' th' issue of Shags vs fishermen?" he asked. "Yes, for a long time now" I replied sadly "and it isn't right!"




Suddenly I realized that there may be problems - here in a fishing town - with that last remark. But the Cap'n nodded in agreement. "I 'ear ya" he replied "I know they do no real harm, dat what they do take is mostly eels, which're near worthless in this market, even as bait. There's a few others 'ere dat know, but they're in th' minority".




"Guano's a problem, but dat's a matter o' rightly tending to yer own boat. Th' ones complainin' 'bout guano are off''n th' same ones dat never flip a cent to get their hull scraped, but 're always yammin' 'bout th' barnacles".




"Sport-fishers 're goin' after th' really big stuff, far too big fer Cormorants, or even Pelicans. But without smaller fish about, they sometimes go fer th' bait, an' get hooked in th' process. Persecution's less, but hookin' casualties look to be an equal blow".




"An asa matter o' changin' attitude, vs unchangin' practice, ere's actually less dat can be done 'bout th' sport-fisher's unmeanin' hookage".




He stopped and looked around again, as the room slowly took on more patrons. "Too many ears coming in" he said "We'll continue dat later".




"So" he said in a more casual tone "did yer drive go well?"




"Fair enough" I said "I got an early start, had easy traffic, and detoured to a special place I had to visit - the place where I first found Sandey. Then I headed here, but before the M3-M41 interchange, I got stopped by a cop, who apparently ran my number and thought I was my father".




"Oh my!" he said "hopefully it went without too much trouble".




"It was rather tense" I replied "He did lights, siren & bullhorn, and was in pre-takedown mode, until he saw my license, and knew I was not my father. His badge said "Darryl Hoffman", or something like that".




The Cap'n's fork dropped to his plate.




"Kaufmann?" he whispered "Dereck Kaufmann? Ya got hot-stopped by HIM?"




"Yes, that's the name, Dereck Kaufmann. You know him?




"An' yer still 'ere, alive an' unbeaten?"




"Well, yes" I said "He was very rude and seemed to be looking for trouble. but he let me go with the demand that I fill a tyre and clean my headlamp. He had his ticket book out, but didn't use it".




And the Cap'n's eyes opened wide.




"Sergeant-Dereck-Alvyn-Kaufmann" he said in a very low voice, with a pause at each word of the name "Ol' DAK, th' most bosbefok vark The Cape ever stuck a badge to!".




He paused, looked around, and his look of wonder turned to worry .




"Tell me everything!" he whispered "everything dat happened!"




So in a low voice, I recounted everything in full detail, from when the lights & siren came on, to when I was finally back on my way and his police car gone. He had me go over several parts again, particularly in regards to his eyes and other expressions.




And when finally done, his look of wonder returned.




"I donna know how ya did it, or if ya father did it, or someone else" said the Cap'n "but 'e saw, felt, read, or 'eard somethin' dat made em like ya!"




"Like me?" I said "like me? He treated me like kak!"




"Ya never seen kak from him!" replied the Cap'n "When 'e does one of his trademark one-man hot-stops on ya, you'll either get gassed, truncheoned, slammed, kidney-punched, shot, or some mix of 'em. Even bein' white is no protection. Everyone, EVERYONE hot-stopped by him gets burned".




"Everyone. Except you!"




"I've 'eard an' seen many amazin' things in ma life" he said "but th' 'count o' yer run-in with Sgt. Kaufmann? Dat's a whale of a tale iffen there ever was one! Ave ya told anyone else?"




"No one" I replied.




"Don't!" he whispered, scanning around "Don't tell anyone. Don't even mention his name! If word ever got to 'em that 'e'd "gone soft", it would send 'em on a totally bossie reign-of-terror!"




"DON'T TELL ANY-ONE!"




"I won't tell" I answered "not to ANYONE!"




He slumped back down into his seat, and heaved a sigh of relief. He did a final scan-around, and from his look & by my own reckoning, it was apparent no one had heard any of our talk. And so we settled down to our last bites.




"Looks about time ta head back" he said as he popped in his last bite of fish.  




"Thank you so much for supper" I replied, downing the last burger bite "This was most lekker!"




He settled the bill and we headed back to his bakkie. Evening was just in, and the lights were coming on. We got in and headed back, but instead of the parking lot, we headed for the quay and towards The Golden Dragon.




"Piri-piri & ginger..." he mused "You an' ya brother ever do any cookin'?"




"A fair amount" I replied "though Gerry never got the hang of it. I'd often help mom in the kitchen as a kid, then went on to regular cooking when I got older, for times when my mom had to join in with preparing baskets & making ribbon bows on Holiday Paks".




"An' pressin' grapes, bottlin', cowmilkin', cheesemakin', an' honey & beeswax processin', from what I 'ear" he said.




"AND Vulture-keeper. Quite a resume!"




"So, Will...may I call ya Will?" he asked. "Sure" I said "Jan and Mark called me that all the time".




"So, Will" he continued "'ere's a proposition. I'd like to take ya on as an apprentice, as a deck hand, maybe a cook, other duties, an' possibly as a fisherman as ya skills may prove".




"Work'd be tough, dirty, a bit o' danger, nay, a LOT o' danger, an' th' hours long, sometimes 'round th' clock. But prolly not much tougher than bein' a ranch-hand, 'specially in th' calving season".




"I won't lie, but dependin' on th' catch, pay'ld be spotty, an' with bad or no catch, prolly none at all. But with no one else takin' berth on-board in port, you'd 'ave th' entire crew berth here on The Dragon, all ta yourself in port after th' crew disembark, full shore leave at th' end o' work as ya may wish, an' catch or no catch, all th' food ya want an' can cook".




"An' with a doctor-nephew in town with his own clinic, free basic medical care, short o' what it takes a hospital to do".




With that, we made it to the boat and parked at the gangway, well-lit by the overhead floodlights. We got out and he headed for, then stopped at the foot of the gangway.




"An' somethin' else" he continued, extending his hand to The Golden Dragon "A home. Nutt'n could ever replace what was robbed from ya, but if ya can ride The Dragon & do her bidding, she'll be yer home for as long as ya do, unless th' market totally fails, or if King Neptune & Davy Jones claims her".




"So Will, whattya say?"




I had come here, thinking of a dry interview with some dispassionate stranger for some short-term grunt work and living out of my car. Instead, I found an old long-lost nearly forgotten family friend, who was offering the possibility of a long-term, possibly career position, and a welcoming home.




"I would be proud and honoured to serve you and The Golden Dragon!" I replied with a smile.




He then unlocked and opened the gates, motioning for me to stay at the bottom. Stepping on deck, he then motioned me up, and as he did, he took his bo'sun's pipe and piped out a low note, a higher one, the low one again, and then the higher again, but cut short.




"Sailor-apprentice William Mauraack" he said "Welcome aboard!"




I reached the top of the gangway, stepped aboard, and he gave me a great-big bear-hug with back pats, like my mom & grampa Philo used to do, and the one time with Bob Trede, but which my father never did.




He then gave me a brief tour of the ship, before we headed back to the parking lot to get my things.




We got everything aboard & stowed, secured the bakkie, then returned to The Dragon for initial orientation. We went over watches, basic safety, emergency procedures, and the schedule for the morning and next day. I would not have to stand watches until we were underway for the trial.




On finishing-up the initial orientation, we then did some more reminiscing, mainly of the last ten years or so at the ranch, with one of the two bottles of Springhaas Farms Spiced Apple-Grape Cider.




Eventually, the galley clock chimed & showed 9:00 PM. "It's 21:00" the Cap'n said "'bout time to hit th' rack. I see ya have yer own alarm clock. Ya can hang it on th' overhead hook between yer rack and th' locker. Don't set it down on th' stand or table, or a pitch 'r roll could send it to th' deck! An' be sure to set it no later than 04:45, you'll need to be dressed an' ready when th' first crew shows up at 05:00".




He then secured the area, and we went to my quarters, and confirmed that all was ship-shape. And as he left, he said "'Ave a good night's sleep Will. For all you've gone through, you've earned it, many times over".




And so I changed into my nightclothes, and settled-in for bed. And as I felt the beginnings of sleep, I was at peace, finally at peace, for the first time since before everything began crashing down.




-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




 

[Resident Hyaena]

 




Here is the draft for the fourth chapter.




There are just the "softest" sexual references in this chapter. But since someone reading this chapter can then read another one which has much "harder" content, the Disclaimer & Warning still applies.




And again, if there are any South Africans reading this, their input regarding the depictions of the Cape Province would be greatly appreciated.




-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Sandey, chapter 4

by the

Resident Hyaena




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It seemed like only a moment, but I was now awake to my alarm clock. I got out, stood up, and found a stack of heavy clothing on the bunk above mine, along with a vinyl oilskin with hood, a life jacket, utility belt, knit cap, and gumboots. My sea gear.




And but for the life jacket and reflector bits, not that much different from the muck-out gear for the Cow-barn.




I dressed-up, and found that everything, though rather bulky, fit well.




I headed to the galley, as per last night's instructions, and found the Cap'n and two others there at a table, all suited up the same, but for the Cap'n's headgear.




"Top o' th' mornin'!" said the Cap'n "Th' first o' th' crew 'ave just arrived. Grab a cuppa joe or tea an' join us!"




I went to the dispenser urns and the rack of mugs next to them. There were two dozen or so heavy, white porcelain mugs, some newer, some older, some with names, some plain, and some with different designs. But all had a gold dragon on one side, clutching a red & black trident.




Amid the various designs was one of a Great Cormorant, standing with the characteristic half-spread wings on a new-looking mug. I took that one, went to the bigger urn, and tapped a cup of exceptionally dark coffee, dressing it up with creamer and sugar.




"I reckon you'll be tweakin' th' mix or settlin' fer straight soon 'nuff" said the Cap'n "but ya definitely found th' perfect mug!"




"But ay, time to meet th' first two. This is Patrick Steyn an' Khaya Sibeko. Pat's our engineer & first bo'sun, an' Khaya's our radioman & sonarman. You'll be along with Pat here for most o' th' day, as well as with others, including Khaya, for their specialities".




"We'll 'ave ten more comin' 'board soon, a full crew for th' next twenty-four."




"Well" said Patrick "Brendon won't be with us today, he tripped on some stairs last night and hit them face-on, knocked-out a couple of teeth, and had to have emergency dental surgery".




"Fortunately, the teeth came out whole, and we got them to the clinic unspoiled & in time and they fixed them back in. But his face is all blue & swollen and his mouth is wired shut, and so he can't talk, and his brother will have to help him eat".




"He'll probably be down for two or three weeks".




"Hmmm..." mused the Cap'n "Well, we 'ave William 'ere, so we should be fine. Thanks for th' heads-up. I'll call Brendon's brother later when they're awake, an' let him know it'll be okay".




We sat and chatted for a few minutes, warmed-up some pre-made breakfast sandwiches, then got into the plans for the day. Being a training exercise and repair "shakedown", the start was much later than the 03:00 start that was typical for the fleet. "If we go over to tourist charter, this could be th' regular start". commented the Cap'n.




Soon, the rest of the crew began showing up, and we were preparing to get underway just before the crack of dawn. With that, I got my first lesson in line-handling.




But there was one more thing; before casting lines, the deck crane was lowered over the stern, and soon it lifted up and set a small deck-less outboard motor-boat sideways into padded mounts & brackets on the stern.




It was a six-man wooden "snoek boat" named "Lil' Dwaggon", with a cute cartoon version of the Dragon & trident above the name.




And it looked like little more than a double-length motor dinghy.




Once out past the beacons and into the open bay, the real lessons began. Over the day, there was full orientation, deck safety, line handling, basics of the various methods of fishing, target & non-target fish, measure-and-release, packing, icing & refrigeration, crayfish pots, live holds for crustacea & "specialties", sounding & security watch, engineering, navigation by day and night, in fog & without instruments, and much more.




All  was observational learning, but a good lot was also getting in there and doing the actual task.




It was a full-on "learnin' o' the ropes".




At around 09:00, Khaya, at the fish finder, called out "Snoek at 40 metres port bow, 22 metres depth. About a thousand easy!".




With that, the whole deck crew sprang into action, some grabbing and setting lines at the rail, and others preparing to launch the Lil' Dwaggon.




"Hey kiddo" said Patrick "wanna see some snoeking action up close and personal?"




"Sure" I said, more out of reflex than considered thought.




And before I knew it, I was aboard the Lil' Dwaggon, with Patrick & four other crewmen, and being lowered over the stern. The rest of the deck crew on The Golden Dragon had set and were casting their lines.




I was to watch while Patrick explained what was going on, to then try my hand at a line, and to help prepare lures. All had a large hook, a "spoon", spinner or both, some coloured strips, a lead sinker and some small split shots. But the other parts were all manner of colourful and shiny bits & bobs, including key fobs, parts from toys, reflector tape, old keys, beer tin tabs, bottle caps, and even old coins.




And three had brass bullet casings; one with a rifle case, flattened & curved-in, and two with pistol ones, split & splayed like an aeroplane propeller. All either painted or shined & lacquered.




"Not enough of those" lamented Patrick "the street vendors get them all to make souvenir trinkets for the tourists. Those brass shells make the very best spoons & spinners".




As he said that, the first snoek was hauled aboard, dispatched, de-hooked, and put into a deep tray next to that fisherman, and the line baited & cast back. Before that one even hit the tray, another fisherman was pulling one in.




And a couple of Seals showed-up, trying to steal the fish right off the lines!




In no time, it was an odd syncopated ballet of shuffling arms, flying fingers, whipping lines & dangerously flailing hooks, splashing Seals, and nearly-metre-long flopping fish.




And Gulls! Dozens of Kelp Gulls were swarming about us, looking for a chance at some dropped or unguarded bait, some even going for the hooks or braving a swoop & nip at the trays. Their swaying, their cries, their hovering - their tails - were having an almost hypnotic effect on me.




And I was feeling a stirring...




Then suddenly a far bigger shadow swept across the boat. I looked up, and there was a Great White Pelican passing hardly more than a metre overhead, dodging the hook & line action, and slowing down in front of us. It came to a stop and began hovering. Hearing seemed to fade, and things seemed to go to slow motion.




And then, with the sun to the rear, it dropped its legs, spread its great webbed feet, and pulled its backside vertical, fully exposing its under-tail...






...That incredible, gorgeous, glorious Under-Tail!






And I felt my jaw slacken, and the rest of me seeming to melt into my seat. Except for a certain part, which did exactly the opposite.




"You okay bru?" said a voice.




I started with a squeak, and was suddenly snapped back to "normal" time and senses. It was Patrick. "If you think you might bark, try to do it over the side" he said.




"Oh, sorry, not sick" I replied "I just saw this huge Pelican gliding over and - and..."




"Yeah" he said "They can give you quite a scare when you see 'em come in this close for the very first time. But they're harmless, the worst they can do is to drop a load on you".




"Yeah" I said, weakly. But his last comment struck me in a way he could never imagine!






The four trays were soon nearly full, and Patrick took his hand-held & called The Golden Dragon for a "switch-out".




Soon, we came close astern of The Dragon, and it was lowering a set of empty racks, with one holding a stack of empty trays. The loaded trays were tagged by their respective fisherman, and racked-up, with the empty ones taking their place in the Lil' Dwaggon. As the filled rack set was hauled-up, the Dwaggon moved away and the crew resumed fishing.




"Jako!" said Patrick "Hand William here your line for a few minutes". With instructions from Patrick and "Jakobo", I went through the procedures of traditional hand-lining for snoek. I did terribly, losing the first one immediately, and losing the rest before I could even reel them in halfway.




After the fifth one, Patrick had me return the rig, having failed to land a single snoek.




"Eich, another one!' cried a crewman in frustration, as he cut free and tossed a broken lure into the nearby tackle case. It was one of the "good" ones, with a brass casing spinner.




I looked at it, at the other lures & at the bits in the rack, and went for my pocket tool. But it was still in my locker. So I took the lure, a hook, a swivel & a couple of rings, and reassembled it, using a pair of hook pliers and my bare fingers.




"Wait a minute" said Patrick "let me see that!" I handed him the lure.




He looked it over, spun it tugged on it, took the hook in the pliers, pulled on it really hard, and spun it again.




"You can't catch a snoek, but you can rebuild a lure on the fly, with only hook pliers?"




"It's a lot like rigging Hawking leashes" I replied. "It often needs to be done while you have the Bird on your arm and out in the veld. So you gotta do a lot of it one-handed and often with no tools at all".




"Well this is something!" said Patrick "good rebuild & repair usually takes bench-work, and never gets done both this fast and this lekker, even with the right tools".




"This rebuild is the tops!"




With that lure back in service, the Dwaggon was back up to speed. After two hours or so, and several more switch-outs, I could see that the crew on The Dragon were slowing down and finishing up, while the crew on the Dwaggon were still bringing in one or two a minute. But another twenty minutes or so and another lure repaired, we were down to stragglers, and this school was essentially spent.




Another call on the hand-held, and we were soon brought back on board, our last racks joining the others, which were each covered with a burlap sack, then spread with chipped ice, tarped-over, and lashed down. The Cap'n joined us.




"Over a thousand, five-hundred!" said Patrick "plus nearly a hundred yellowtail. And not a one I've checked feels pappy".




"I can't remember the last time we made such a score in such a short time!"




"Indeed!" replied the Cap'n "This run alone'll make provision for everyone in town! But how'd our apprentice do?"




"He did rather well out there" said Patrick "Got startled by a Pelican, but he held his own. Probably not up to be a fisherman, but he stepped-in and took the initiative to repair a couple of broken lures!"




""Startled?" asked the Cap'n "by a Pelican?..."




It may have been just another question about just another event. But something about it seemed to be strangely "close"; disturbingly close...




Dangerously close!




"Check these out!" interrupted Patrick, handing the Cap'n the two lures "They broke while out on the Dwaggon. And he rebuilt each of them in about a minute, with only a pair of hook pliers".




He did THESE?" said the Cap'n, as he pulled and twisted them hard "These're bladdy better than new!"




"Which did a lot to add at least a half-dozen or so racks to the total" said Patrick, putting a hand to the tarped stack.




"Will these go into the hold?" I asked  "I thought they had to get in & chilled and rushed to port right away".




"Usu'lly we do" said the Cap'n "But not this run. We 'ave a co-op agreement with Cap'n Mike on th' Matador. When either of us 'as a technical issue, training exercise, or post-overhaul shakedown, th' other'll handle their catch an' get it fresh to market an' distribution".




"We should meet up in an hour or so for th' transfer, th' ice & bags'll hold 'em till then. In th' meantime, we should look into lunch!".




"About that" said Patrick "Brendon was scheduled to cook today, and we had nothing prepared in advance outside of the breakfast saamies and the cakes for Tea. On a cold start-up, without prep, an hour will be a tough call to do-up a proper lunch for a full crew, not counting actual graze-time".




"Maybe, or maybe not" said the Cap'n "P'r'aps William 'ere can come up with sump'n". He then turned back to Pat. "Find S'bu an' bring him to th' galley to assist" he said.






Soon it was the four of us in the galley. "No one on board 'as any food allergies, so do whatever ya 'ave to do" said the Cap'n "surprise us!"




I went right to the fridge and the pantries to see what we had to work with. Along with what I had brought with me, there were some rashers of bacon, boned snoek fillets, butter, more eggs, a block of cheddar, sliced ham, milk, a bakkie of chakalaka, a jar of mustard, a bottle of braai sous, more vegetables, tins of beans, boxes of mealie pap, a bottle of wine vinegar, some more spices, two loaves of rye bread, one of wheat, three of white, and four packs of boerie rolls.




The cook-top & range was a gimbal-mounted four-burner gas job with an additional flat grille plate and an oven. There was also a toaster and a microwave.




The snoek could wait for supper, and the ham, bacon & eggs would be good for next morning. But what to do with the rest for lunch?




And fast!




With less than half an idea of what to make, I had S'bu fire up all the burners, fitting the grille plate over two of them. I pulled out a rasher of bacon and the boerewors from the fridge, cut the wors into roll-length sections, and pulled out some pans, pots, and mixing bowls. With S'bu bringing asked-for ingredients, I mixed up some mustard & curry with some vinegar in a saucepan, added-in some Piri-piri, and put it on low heat for just a minute or so.




To the bakkie of chakalaka, I grated in some fresh ginger, stirred, and covered it. I had S'bu grate-up a bowl of the cheddar.




We peeled & sliced onions and put them into a large skillet with butter and a dash of wine vinegar to sauté. I put the boerewors on the now-hot grille and laid out an equal number of bacon strips on the cutting board. I pulled the curry and had S'bu prepare a pot of mealie pap, but added in some cinnamon, nutmeg, and a dash of vanilla.




As the boerewors browned, I put the bacon on to cook. With S'bu, we spread open the rolls, pulled the bacon, and put them open-side down on the bacon-greased grille to toast. Working fast, S'bu and I rolled a strip of bacon around each boerewors before it stiffened, and set them back on the grille.




Pulling the rolls and setting them in a tray, I spooned-in some curry, placed-in the bacon wrapped boerewors, and topped with more curry, some chakalaka, grated cheddar & sautéed onions.




We put it onto the steamer table, along with the bakkie of chakalaka, the bowl of extra cheddar, the pot of mealie pap, with an extra dusting of cinnamon on top, a loaf of my mom's Triple-Ginger Pound Cake, and butter & honey for the cake & pap. Plus a bowl of fresh apple slices, and lemonade in the juice dispenser.




It took us just short of a half-hour to do.




"Whatever it is, it's ready Cap'n" I said.




With a nod from the Cap'n, Patrick took the com from the bulkhead, piped an elaborate "tune", and said "Mess call, mess call, all off-watch to lunch!"




The com had only just been put back on the hook, when the crew began showing up. The Cap'n, Patrick, and S'bu took theirs first and sat at the smaller table, followed by the others at the larger one. I decided to wait until all present had gotten theirs before getting mine, and before the rest showed up. I then took my seat with the Cap'n, Pat, and S'bu.




"This is really lekker!" said one. "Like a boerie roll and bunny chow, all in one!" said another. "A one-man Gatsby!" said yet another.




"The curry is better than my mum's!" said S'bu. "Boerewors AND bacon, it's perfect!" said Pat. I thought it was simply fine, not as good as my mom's cooking, but good enough for working fare.




But the Cap'n said nothing, he just ate at a brisk but measured pace, showing no expression of like or dislike.




Eventually the last two left, taking trays & drinks to the engine & pilothouse watches. Pat volunteered to help S'bu with clean-up & scullery, leaving me and the Cap'n at the table.




"I don't like ta comment on new graze before th' others try it" said the Cap'n "don't wanna bias er tip their view one way er another. But son, this may be th' most lekker chow ta ever come outta dat galley!




"An' this was sump'n ya just tossed together without any real plan or recipe?"




"It was all I could think of at the moment" I said, his comments still not having sunk in.




"Well, I asked ya to surprise us" he said "an' ya gave us a surprise thrice-over!"




"Pilot to Captain" came a voice over the hand-held "The Matador is hailing & approaching, starboard bow, E.T.A., less than five minutes".




The Cap'n got up and grabbed the com "All hands to mooring stations, line-handlers to starboard, prepare to receive th' Matador". Patrick and S'bu stopped the scullery work and joined the Cap'n and I. "Will, stay with Pat" said the Cap'n  "he'll show ya th' rendezvous an' transfer procedures".




Soon, the Matador arrived and manoeuvred alongside us. It was also a steel hull, visibly newer, and similar in length to The Dragon, but a little broader abeam. It also had its own stern-carried motor boat, named "Picador".




There was a lot involved with the rendezvous & cargo transfer, but it went by very quickly, almost at a blur. The racks all made it over to the Matador safely. It was followed by a transfer over to The Dragon of several large plastic box containers




But while they were being secured, a short gangway from the Matador was craned and secured into place between the two boats, and a man, apparently the Matador's Captain, was being piped aboard The Dragon. He was followed by two crewmen, gingerly carrying another plastic box container.




"I'll call back about two hours before return" he said to his bo'sun "Jace, you have the helm".




"Aye-aye, Captain!" replied Jace.




After sending back the box carriers, he then called for the pulling of the gangway, and both crews prepared to cast-off lines. Cap'n Bert came up and they both shook hands & did shoulder pats.




"Mike, ya ol' sea-dog!" the Cap'n said "how long's it been since ya dropped-in fer a ride-along?"




"Five months at least" he said "when you got the Lil' Dwaggon overhauled. So, how's the new prop shaft and rudder post doing?"




"Both doin' lekker so far" replied the Cap'n "Tonight, we'll really put 'em through their paces!"




I turned my attention back to the bringing in, inspection, and stowing of the lines, but a minute or so later, I heard my name called. "William, c'mon over, I've someone who'd like ta meet ya!"




I headed on over. "Captain Michael O'Donnell, meet William Mauraack, my new apprentice.




"A pleasure and an honour to meet you, Sir" I said.




"Hmmm..." said Captain Mike "So this is the person that made me and my crew go out of our way and disrupt our schedule!"




I gulped and began to tense up.




"Naah!" he said with a smile "I've heard and seen nothing but good things about you. And when I heard that you were with Captain Bert, I just had to come over and check for myself".




"It'll also give both of us a chance ta give 'er crews some joint night-ops training tonight" added Cap'n Bert "An' before then, we can all join in an' show Will here th' Mending O' Th' Clothes an' th' Splicin' O' Th' Mainbrace".




"Splicing the mainbrace?" I asked, looking all around "But both the Matador and The Golden Dragon are entirely engine powered. I see no braces, yards, or rigging at all, and nothing broken".




"Your new man seems to know a bit about marine propulsion, but he still has a few things to learn" said the Captain. "But don't you worry son, once we've completed daylight operations, it will all become perfectly clear!"






"Okay, lower it in slowly, that's good. Feel gently for the pocket, but don't jiggle it".




"Got it" I said "it just slipped in".




"Now just before the bow peaks, quickly pull it up about 20cm, then back out the rest of the way slowly, as straight as you can".




Soon it was out, and the wet mark was clear.




"Very good reading, first try!" said Patrick "You're go for entry".




I took the clipboard & pen and found the space. "Foc'sle bilge, 22cm. time 16:42" I said, as I wrote it in.




"And how would you rate that figure?" he asked.




"It looks a little high, compared to these earlier readings" I said "but the sea seems a bit more active right now, a bit more pitching or rolling compared to the last half-hour. I would think that it is probably a normal reading for these conditions".




"Damm lekker!" he said "I've never seen a new man pick up on that from the start. And spotting that unsecured battery compartment, a very big observation".




"Are you SURE you've never done sea duty before?"




"Ehhh...something like it" I replied "I had to read the levels in the wine vats & barrels and the water tanks at our farm. But the only boat I remember was being on a ferryboat with my family as a kid".




"I'll bet those vats & tanks didn't move much" he said "yet with all the motion out here, all your readings have been crisp and clear, even the auxiliary diesel sump!




I think you have the sounding & security watch all sewn up, on the very first run!"




"We'll get to cables & winches soon" he said "But first, the tea and coffee urns probably need to be refilled by now. And the treats need to be brought out for Tea".




"So let's break for tea, coffee & cakes!"

 




We retired to the galley, where the "endless" tea & coffee urns awaited. I started a fresh pot of coffee, got ours from what was still in the dispenser urn, and then went to a pantry case, where two trays of various bakery purchased koesosters, koeksosters, ystervarkies, and biscuits awaited. We took them out and set them in the serving table.




Then of course, we needed to "inspect" them for quality!




I had just finished two ystervarkies & a koesoster and drawn a second cup, when Cap'n Bert and Captain Mike entered. "At ease!" the Cap'n said after we stood up 'just 'ere to grab a cup an' try th' cakes!"




"And right on time" said Patrick "We just ran-up a fresh pot".




Soon all four of us were seated at the table, all with cups, cakes, and biscuits in front of us. "So" asked Captain Mike, between bites from a koeksoster "Is the training still going well?"




"Going lekker" said Patrick, after a nod & smile from the Cap'n. "We just finished sounding & security watch, and he has it down solid. Next up is winches & cables, and if that's done soon enough before sundown, we might move on to glass and brass maintenance".




*Brass?* I thought...




"Brass!" I then cried out loud. "Hold on, I have something for you".




I went to the swab locker, and pulled out a big plastic tub. "I retrieved this yesterday before arriving here. I think Patrick and the rest of the crew may be able to use it".




They all gathered around as I worked-off the lid. "It's all yours" I said "I hope they are the usable kinds".




Patrick gazed at it with a puzzled look, which suddenly turned to amazement.




"Shells!" he cried "Brass shells! Hundreds, no, must be over a thousand of them! And lead, piles of lead! There must be enough brass & lead for nearly a thousand snoek & yellowfin lures!"




"Where on earth did you find it all?"




"I used to collect it and sell it for scrap as a kid" I said "at an old plinking site on the east side of Table Mountain. This was my last batch from six years ago, which I stashed under a bush when I found...




...when I found Sandey".




"Sandey?" asked Patrick, but he was stayed by a grasp of the hand and a worried look from the Cap'n.




"We used to buy shells and lead from a scrap dealer in Delft" said Captain Mike "But their regular supply dried-up, six years ago".




"We must have been using lead and brass that you yourself actually found!"




"An' ya can once more" said the Cap'n "we're sharin' this bounty with ya, 50-50. That is, if William doesn't mind".




"It's for everyone" I said " the best possible use I can think of".




"This is cause for celebration!' said Captain Mike "a jol which will make The Clothes and The Mainbrace tonight all the more special".




"Mainbrace" I said "there it is again! But I can't see anything like that anywhere on The Dragon. Could someone point out where it is?




"Y'll find out soon 'nough" said the Cap'n. "In fact, stay th' winches & cables for another day as to give us more time for dat an' th' "Mend an' Make Clothes!"




"Y'll need to be ready for it more sooner than later!"






It was late afternoon, nearing sundown. As per instructions, I had showered and it was now time to change into another set of gear. I had grabbed a book from the library shelf on modern maritime practice, and was going through it, desperately searching for splicing and tailoring info. I found some info on mooring line & cable splicing, but nothing on tailoring.




And nothing on mainbraces!




I unfolded the stack that awaited on the bunk. It was an old fashioned sailor suit, from before World War II.




I was afraid of that. Deep down, I had feared that "Clothes" and "Mainbrace" would turn out to  be jargon for some sort of initiation, like that nasty "Crossing The Line" ceremony I had heard of. That costume appeared to confirm it.




But an even greater fear had been developing. Up to now, it had been somewhat easy for me to conceal my "deeper" impulses; I would usually either be just with other people or just with Sandey. Even with the good Doctor and visitors, there would be ample time to get myself "in order" before they arrived at the enclosure.




And when I simply had to "take care of it", there were concealed areas like the retired equipment shed, the bathroom, or the dead-of-night.




As for images, I used what suggestive or explicit Bird pictures were printed in the books, or in the case of loose pictures, I used protected and hidden spaces behind a loosened wall slat behind the bed in my room that even my father couldn't find, and underneath a file drawer in the retired equipment shed to conceal them.




But now I was on a boat, constantly in the presence of others. I could probably get quick release in the bathroom, or "head" as it was called on vessels, but anything that needed "deep involvement",  "image supplement", or "audible release", would be nearly impossible with others aboard.




And with more loose images - gleaned from magazines, adverts, safari brochures & other sources - concealment would be an even greater problem. And unlike those with a legitimate place in books, the loose collection could not be explained away.




Nor could the "urgent" and excited sounds, which were getting harder and harder to suppress.




And as men do, I knew that the crew would be constantly talking about women and sex. And they would have questions and suspicions about my not joining-in.




I had hoped that it would become easier, that I could somehow manage, control, and conceal my Avian feelings and expressions around others.




But with that Pelican, I nearly lost it!




And I knew there would be more Gulls & Pelicans. And Cormorants, Geese & others.




And more than anything else, I knew there would be no more Sandey.






What had I gotten myself into?






I sighed and put on the suit and the cap. They fit well, exceptionally well. But they had a strange combination of scents; a mix of cedar-wood, spent gunpowder, spar varnish, mothballs...




...and something oddly familiar. But I couldn't put my finger on it.

 

Then I heard the piping of the general call. "All hands, all hands, report to the boat deck for the retiring of the colors. That's all hands to the boat deck for the retiring of the colors".




Just then there was a knock at the door, it was Khaya. "Checking that you are ready" he said. "Do you know the Sailor's Hymn?




"I remember the music" I replied "my grampa used to sing it as a lullaby. But I was very young and never properly learned the words".




"Just as well" he replied, handing me a folded paper "here is our version; same music, same cadence, but just the first verse, and a word or two changed. Just follow our lead, read as you go, and you'll be fine".






We headed astern to the boat deck, with Khaya keeping me in the lead. As we made it to the deck, the bell on the stowed gangway was rung twice, then twice again. Patrick was at the striker.




"I tally ten and four!" called Patrick.




The Lil' Dwaggon had been hoisted out of its mounts and was suspended & secured over two metres above, making much more room on the deck. All the Dragon's complement was lining the stern, except for the two Captains who stood in front of them, with Patrick at the bell. Khaya and I quickly joined the line-up.




Patrick piped, held out a clip-board and then said "Roll call, each answer to your name!".




Each of us was called in alphabetical order, including the Cap'n. As a visitor, Captain Mike was called first. All but Brendon were present. We were completely outside of False Bay and seaward of the Cape Peninsula, setting it up for the sun to set over the ocean, in just a few moments.




The sea was still and flat, without wave, swell or wind.




A pipe from Patrick "All to muster for the retiring of the colors!". Everyone then took formation, facing the flag and removing their headgear, but for the Captains at the "mast", who also removed their headgear. Patrick piped us to attention, started a tape machine which played the National Anthem, and the two Captains slowly lowered the flag, carefully folding it, and placing it in a watertight lock-box affixed to the mast, with everyone else with hand-over-heart. The anthem finished.




Patrick joined the two Captains, standing between them, and the three facing the formation. At his pipe and command, all hands, including the three, then turned to face the already setting sun. Khaya motioned his hand at my pocket, and I discreetly took out the paper.




Another pipe from Patrick.




"For all that have sailed before..." said Captain Mike, "...For all that do sail now..." continued Patrick, "...And for all that have yet to venture forth..." continued the Cap'n,




"We beseech thee, hear us now!" all three finished in unison.




A low hum arose from everyone there, setting the key. I held the paper low to view, and all our voices became one...




"Eternal Neptune, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep:

O hear us when we cry to thee

For those in peril on the sea".




And with that, the last of the sun disappeared.

 

Another pipe, and we all turned back to regular order.




"My fellow shipmates" said the Cap'n "we've gathered 'ere at this hour to present to you an' welcome our honoured guest, Captain Michael O'Donnell of th' good ship Matador!"




The Captain stepped forward and the crew applauded. "And a fine company indeed!" said the Captain "If ol' Bert hadn't picked you first, I'd have you on the Matador right now!"




More and louder applause.




"But fate has cast it's hand, and blessed The Golden Dragon with one of the finest Crews and Captains to ever ply these waters. And I would have it no other way!"




Even more & louder applause and hearty cheers! He then stepped back and the Cap'n stepped forward.




"In less than three hours, th' Matador an' The Golden Dragon will begin a series o' joint night manoeuvres an' other exercises, includin' shakedown o' th' new shaft an' rudder post an' practise of emergency response & ocean rescue drills, which'll run well into th' night".




"But first, ther're more matters to attend to. First, is th' status of Brendon Marshall. As y'all 'ave 'eard by now, Brent took a fall, knocked out some teeth, an' underwent dental surgery. I jus' got off th' horn an hour ago with his brother, who reports dat he's doing fine, but can't talk with th' swellin' an' a mouth full o' wire".




"He'll have all th' time an' financial help he needs to recover. In th' meantime, th' rest of us'll need to share his duties. Patrick will have th' new duty sheets by 12:00 tomorrow".




The crew gave nods, sighs, released breath-holds, and other signs of relief at the news.




"An' there's th' second matter" he continued "we all would not be gathered 'ere at this hour, if not for another person, one who stands with ya now".




Another pipe from Patrick. "Company, man the rail".




All then returned to the rail, including the Captains and Patrick. I started, but the Cap'n turned his hand up to a stop, and I remained there, alone.




"His grandfather began in th' Royal Australian Navy as a mere cook, but quickly advanced in th' ranks. His heroic actions in World War II earned him a field promotion, an' entry into th' ranks of commissioned officers".




"Then on to Korea, and to French Polynesia & Viet-Nam, where his special services helped to save countless lives".




"Ever serving with distinction, yet never seeking higher rank, he eventually retired with decoration, honour an' valor as Captain Philo Nelson of th' Royal Australian Navy."




"An' so his grandson now begins his own journey over th' seas, just as he did - as a humble cook. Indeed, ya see him here an' now in th' very uniform his grandfather wore when he first reported for duty..."




This uniform; the keen fit, that scent, it all made sense now. The strangely familiar scent was that of my grampa's odd mix of three different colognes!




I strained a look at the shoulder. And there was the blue six-point star with the "C" in the middle, the old badge for Cook.




"...But even before sunset o' this first day" continued the Cap'n, "he's excelled at all assigned duties but fishin'. Yet even there, his actions 'ave boosted th' numbers of today's catch by over a hundred. An' another action of his promises to boost future catches by th' thousands!"




"Already, he's done as would make his storied grandfather beam with pride. If only he could still be here to see it".




"An' so, it is my honour, my truly great honour, to present to ya our newest crew-member, Sailor-Apprentice William Mauraack of Stellenbosch!"




And the applause & cheers seemed like thunder.




I thought there might be some sort of polite introduction, but I was totally shaken, taken aback, and ashamed at this!. I thought I did well enough at my lessons, but not to the extent that I could ever be filling my dear grampa Philo's shoes.




And that was it, shoes!




One had fallen, with attention that I was totally unaccustomed to getting, even during the VIP & filming visits to Sandey's flight. Now, the other shoe was poised to drop, and there would follow the initiation.




And I felt myself begin to tremble.




"Normally, there'd be "The Crossing of The Styx", "The Voyage Through Hades & Back", an'  "The Inquisition of Davy Jones" said the Cap'n. "But William 'as just gone through th' worst Hell that one can imagine. Not once, not twice, but no less than SIX TIMES these past three months!"




"With those trials, The Styx, The Voyage, an' The Inquisition have each been held twice-over, and he has passed them all with flying colors! But The Dragon must still witness a trial..."




"...And a trial there shall be".




Then Patrick to starboard and S'bu to port, each produced, raised and sounded a great kuduzela. A few crewmen disappeared to starboard.




"Hear one an' hear all!" called out the Cap'n "For this celebration, th' Splicin' o' th' Mainbrace an' Mend an' Make Clothes, th' Sailor-Apprentice William Mauraack shall face one more trial...




...The Trial of Fire!




The Kudu horns sounded again.




Slowly, everyone there began a whispering, and forming a semi-circle in front of me. At first, it was a low, disorganized cacophony, but it soon built and coalesced into a coherent chant: "shisa nyama, shisa nyama, shisa nyama..."




There was a rumbling, as three large forms, draped in canvas were rolled-in from the starboard side. Handclaps joined the chant...




"...shisa nyama, shisa nyama, shisa nyama..."




And from the port side came Patrick, bearing his kuduzela and a roll of cloth, with handles peeking from one end, and Captain Mike, bearing a lit firebrand. Footfalls and drumbeats on various deck gear kicked-in...




"...Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama..."




I found myself backed-up to the stowed gangway, bumping and clanging the bell in the process. The covered carts were wheeled right in front of me and Patrick on my left & Captain Mike on my right, boxed me in. Nyanga pipes, water-whistle and flexatone added their creepy sounds...




"...Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama..."




All were gathered around me and the carts now, every one as stone-faced as high-stakes poker players. Except for their mouths and that relentless chant...




"...Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama, Shisa Nyama..."




"SHISA NYAMA!"




And the horns sounded again.






Silence.






Suddenly, and all at once, the cloth roll was unfurled and wrapped & tied around me, the contents thrust into my left hand, and the firebrand into my right. A breaker was thrown, and the entire deck was flooded with a brilliant light.




"Sailor-Apprentice William Mauraack..." said the Cap'n "Shisa Nyama!"




One more blast from the kuduzelas. The canvas covers were lifted away.




There were snoek fillets & crayfish, boerewors, chicken, cuts of pork & lamb, beef steaks, and even hamburger patties. There was chakalaka, mealie pap, cheddar, grilled onions, boerie & gatsby rolls, kaisers, bunny chow loaves & different sliced breads. There was mustard, curry, piri-piri, and braai sous, and so much more.




And there in the middle of it all was a square metre braai, all loaded with wood and ready to go.




In my left hand was a spatula, skewers, tongs, and a braai fork. In my right hand was the firebrand.  Around me was a cook's apron.




Fear and confusion had deafened me to the ridiculously obvious meaning of the chant:




Shisa Nyama! - Zulu - "Burn The Meat!"




The "Trial of Fire" was for me to serve as Braai-Master!




"Will Mauraack " said the Cap'n with a big smile "ya may "fire" when ready!"






They must have gotten some exceptionally lekker wood, as the coal bed was all set in just under half an hour. As the first of the wors hit the braai, the call was made for the second rendezvous with the Matador. Soon, most of their crew was on-board, greeting our own, and placing orders for themselves & the watches still over there.




Patrick, the two Captains, and Jace then gave me the history of the Splicing and Mending. In short, the "Splicing of The Mainbrace" was the old Royal Naval authorization for an extra ration of rum, and the "Mend and Make Clothes" was a similar authorization for a day off.




Summed up together, they meant a celebration, a feast, a jol, a party, a braai!






After everyone got their first round, S'bu and others from both boats took turns managing the braai, giving me a chance to grab some graze and join in. With night-ops pending, alcohol was limited to one small dop of choice per hand, while all the rest of the drinks were clever, non-alcoholic mixes, using seltzer, soda, cooldrinks, juices, flavourings, tonic, and "near-beer".




"Have you tried a "real" drink?" asked S'bu at length "I haven't seen you take a dop this whole time". "No, not yet" I replied, "I'm not sure about it. I did my share of wine tasting at Springhaas Farms, but never tried any "hard" stuff".




"I wouldn't know what to start with!"




"How about a Pina Colada?" he said "sweet, mellow & smooth. An easy one to begin with".




"Sounds lekker, I guess" I replied.




"I'll make you a small one" he said. So into a blender, S'bu put some rum, some pineapple juice, some crushed ice, some cream of coconut...




...and a seedless tangerine wedge & a similar size piece of banana.




"My own twist on the recipe" he said, as he blended it all up, poured it into two glasses, and topped each with a pineapple piece.




He handed one to me, and I looked it over. There you go" he said, holding his up "To Splice the Mainbrace!"




I  joined in the toast, gave it a cursory sniff, then took a sip.




I tasted it, held it, and then it went down.




"Well" asked S'bu "how ya like it?"




I couldn't answer him; that initial "bite", that flavour, that "warmth" as it went down...




I was too shocked, I just couldn't believe it...




...Pina Colada reminded me of Sandey!






Soon the jol proper got going, with folding chairs and tables for gaming & other activities. In another short ceremony, the box cover on a folding table was removed, revealing a decorated cake!




It was a tall, half-sheet layer cake, On the yellow-iced sides, there were Life-Savers candies, and anchors & portholes in dark chocolate. Along the edges were roping & knots, piped in pale chocolate icing. And the top was a blue-iced "sea", swimming with red Swedish Fish candies.




And in the middle of this sea was "Welcome Aboard William Mauraack!", and below that, The Golden Dragon and Lil' Dwaggon emblems, all in coloured icings. And standing above the welcome was a realistic toy figure of a Cormorant on a rock, with the characteristic half-spread wings, like on the coffee mug.




And of course, my "duty" was to cut the cake!




I cut out a piece for the Cap'n, and found it was a two-layer chocolate! That beautiful work quickly disappeared onto numerous plates, never to be seen again.




Except for the Cormorant figure. After I ate the piece it was on, it went into my pocket.




Various games got underway, including darts, dominoes, and a round of poker. There was also the telling of stories and tales, some quite engaging, some just befok.




But most of all, there was music. Many crewmembers of both boats had musical intruments.  Along with the "instruments of the trial", there was a recorder flute, a saxophone, at least three harmonicas, a cornet, a "fiddle", two mandolins, and two guitars. And  native drums & other native instruments.




Patrick could even get music of sorts out of his bo'sun pipe!




Though I had some original musical "ideas", I could not read or write music, or  play any instrument. And my Hyaena-like voice was worthless for any kind of singing.




Even whistling and humming were a challenge!




So I just resigned myself to some lame background drumming on an overturned bait bucket.




Eich! said someone with a guitar after the second song. "I just can't get this thing in tune!"




"May I see that?" I asked, "I might be able to help".




I couldn't read, write, play, or sing music, but there was something I could do. "You'll need my tuner for that" said another player.




But soon they all watched and listened in silence, as I loosened & tightened strings, and brought each one in tune. After barely a minute, I finally took a strum over all the strings, and they all chimed together in harmony.




"Yebo!" said the player "a perfect tuning, without a tuner!"




"How did you do that?"




"I just know what it should sound like" I said "and then adjust it until it sounds right and stays there. I used to do it for my brother's guitar".




"What about this?" asked another, handing me his mandolin. I repeated the procedure. The strings and the key were different, but the sounds followed naturally, and the final strum was different, but just as harmonious.




"Absolute pitch by ear, across all ranges, without audio cue" said Jace "a very rare gift!"




After I was given a turn with the other strings in the ensemble, the music resumed.




Some played traditional tunes from their homelands, while others went for the latest national & worldwide chartbreakers.




The singing was going in "turns" with each hand being called-on to either sing a song or play or accompany one on an instrument.




Most songs - at the beginning - were bright, cheery, fun, and some, like the drink songs and shantys, were more than just a little bawdy! Each got some applause, some more than others.




But as food, drink, and time worked their spell, there began some of the more "reflective" songs; of  growth, learning, nostalgia, age, hardships, broken dreams...




...and of loved ones lost.




With time getting short and most having already performed at least twice, there were calls for me to sing the next one. But aside from the tunings, I had nothing musical that I could do.




"I have one" said a voice. I looked up, and to mine and everyone else's surprise, Cap'n Bert had joined the circle, carrying a strange, hexagonal leather case with brass fittings. He sat down on a capstan, opened up the case, and carefully took out a vintage Wheatstone concertina, very old, but in very good condition. "Had it serviced three years ago" he said "Time ta see iffits still in ship-shape".




He unstrapped it and did a brief warm-up, blowing out & twiddling a couple of buttons. "This is a song I wrote, in memory of the love of my life; My Lady in White".




He held the concertina in front of him, and both he and the instrument took a deep breath. Then it began...






My Lady in white

As fair as can be

You are my life

come back to me.




O' Lady in white

With accents in black

Such beauty You hold

Such grace that I lack.




As white as a Dove

Her spirit so free

How could She love

Somebody like me?




As ugly I am

She gave not a damn

What did She see

That drew Her to me?




This Lady in white

She lit up my life

If only I could have

Made Her my wife.




Dear Lady in white

I beg You to stay!

But She took to flight

An' then sailed away.




You came in th' spring

My heart moved to sing

You left in th' fall

My heart in a pall.




Life was so grand

Bright an' with cheer

Now it is bland

Hoary an' drear.




Come back my dear Lady

Don't stay away

Please don't say "maybe"

We CAN find a way!




My Lady in white

As fair as can be

You are my life

Come back to me.




I love You, dear Lady

Come back to me!






I couldn't rightly remember the responses, just that it was rather quiet, with some sniffles amongst the company. As for me, all during the song, I was flooded by memories of my own "Lady", and reminded once more of the time she was taken from me, not even sixty hours ago!




And I now buried my head in my hands, with tears dripping through them.




"Eish no, Will, I forgot!" said the Cap'n. "Th' completely wrong choice for this time an' place! I'm so very sorry".




"No Ca..." I started "No, Bert, I've got to deal with it, with or without reminders. I can't see it getting better if it means others have to watch their every word".




"Its okay, I'll make it. Somehow, I'll make it through".




"Wow!" I heard someone whisper amongst the murmuring company. "You will!" said another.




"Yes, you will" said the Cap'n, with a hand on my shoulder "I know you will. An' we'll all be here for you, to stand by you, ev'ry step o' th' way..."




"...Aye indeed, to stand ya by!"




And with that, and a "reflective" smile, he stood up and faced the company.




"It'll be time soon to secure th' braai, an' prepare for joint op's" he said, "but first, one more song, one I think wec'n all sing or play along to..."

 

"...Great Heart by Johnny Clegg!"




Drums began, and set the rhythm. Chanting hums set the tone. Then a "one-two-three-four" on a drum cued the start.




"The world is full of strange behaviour

Every man has to be his own saviour

I know I can make it on my own if I try

But I'm searching for a great heart to stand me by..."




And as the song progressed, I could clearly feel the care and loyalty of everyone present. I saw and felt it then, and all through the day, with all that we did.




I could tell that they were - that WE were - all "great hearts", to stand each other by.




And I knew then that I would indeed make it.






All too soon, the song neared its end. But its studio "fade-out" style of ending was a problem for a sing-along. So it first went into extra verses & choruses, and soon developed into a series of instrumental jams & solos, with it somehow evolving into the Cap'n playing the "Sailor's Hornpipe" on his concertina, with the fiddler joining in, and everyone else on handclaps. It began in Great Heart's tempo, but rose in both tempo and complexity, to finally end in a grand crescendo on the eighth refrain.

 

An obvious labour for the Cap'n, as he was catching his breath after it was done. "Body grows old" he said, quoting from the Great Heart chorus.




"But heart remains behind!" I replied with the following line.






Then it was time; the games, tables, chairs, instruments and other items were taken down and stowed. The braai coals were emptied into a soak tub before going over the side, and the braai itself was then given a very fine spray, to gently cool it to a safe level before drying and securing. The food & drinks were packed-up, some for the Matador, and some for return to the Dragon's galley.




And the L'il Dwaggon was lowered back into its mounts and secured.




My role in the ops was mainly to observe and to shine lanterns & torches, but I would need to first move the designated food items to the galley, stow them, and change back to my regular sea gear. S'bu and others helped with the food, then I went to my bunk to change into my gear.




I placed the Cormorant figure from the cake into my locker, a treasured keepsake!




I got the stack of gear and began to undo my life vest. But then I heard a faint sound, strangely familiar. I moved to where it seemed to be coming from, and strained to listen.




It was coming through from the Cap'n's cabin.




And with a great sadness, I heard some now all-too-memorable words, sung in a broken voice, with one especially "broken" word added...




"My Lady in white

As fair as can be

You are my life

Come back to me.




I love You, dear Lady...




PLEASE




Come back to me!"




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