Atauro Island fishermen, heading home from Dili on the mainland, don’t usually leave the harbour at night, preferring to leave just before dawn when the eastern sky is turning pink and the sea is calm and glassy.

     But on this night Pedro and his crew decided to chance the night crossing so that they would be in their village early to help prepare for the wedding taking place there the next day. A wedding is a big event on the island and requires lots of preparation: chickens, goats and a pig to kill, butcher and cook; tarpaulins to erect, trestle tables to assemble, plastic chairs to arrange, decorations to hang; sound system to check. Some of the crew, fishermen all, were relatives of the bride, others relatives of the groom.

     It was windy when they left the harbour but the sea wasn’t rough. There was no moon but once away from the city the stars would light their way.

     Lorenco found a space on deck and, with his young son, Jeremiah, settled there. The boat, an old wooden vessel, was solid; its ancient inboard diesel engine puttered rhythmically as they moved over the waves. Jeremiah, kneeling beside his father, gazed into the sea.

     ‘If see a big fish,’ he asked. ‘Can we catch it, Papa?’

     ‘We can try,’ replied Lorenco, stretching out on the boards, rolling up his cloth bag to serve as a pillow. ‘We sold all our fish today so it’d be good to take one home.’

     The little boy, leaning over the low rail, searched the waters until he grew tired then lay down beside his father, nestling up under the man’s arm, pulling their faded sarong over them both.

     As the boat moved along the crew sang: songs of the sea, the island, its people. Lorenco joined in for awhile before he slept. Occasionally sea spray splashed over them and, woken by it, he stared into the sky as the songs and the boat drifted into the night. Half-listening to the singing, the motor, and the slap of the sea around them he soon slept again.

     Sudden silence woke him. The boat was rocking but not moving forward. The men were not singing; their voices were loud and anxious. Folding the sarong back over Jeremiah he climbed down into the hold where the crew had gathered.

     ‘The motor’s died,’ someone said.

     ‘The third time,’ another added. ‘And now it’s dead for good.’

     They made way for Lorenco, a self-taught mechanic, to examine it. He tried everything he knew without success. The five crewmen stared at it, their sun and sea-weathered faces grim. Now and again someone had an idea, tightened or loosened screws, checked wires, pulled off covers to recheck. Pedro, their most skilled mechanic, shook his head as they tried to bring the old motor to life.

     Preoccupied with the motor it was a while before anyone noticed that their feet were in water. Too much water. Old wooden boats always took it in so they carried buckets for bailing . . . but tonight water was seeping in faster than usual. Pedro and Joao started bailing; the others went back on deck to give them space.

     ‘Not good,’ said Guido. ‘What’re we going to do?’

     ‘We’re a long way from the island,’ Fernandes muttered. ‘With that amount of water coming in . . . how long can we keep afloat?’

     Lorenco went below again. Part of a plank in the keel had come loose and, softened by years of sea journeys, was crumbling. The oily rags and t-shirts he stuffed into the gap slowed the water but wouldn’t hold it for long.

     On deck the men sat blaming themselves and each other for the lack of maintenance of their engine and their boat. Each forehead was wrinkled, each worn face grim.

     Pedro and Joao passed the bailing buckets to Guido and Domingos; bailing was exhausting and they’d have to take turns at it.

     ‘We’ve got to get help,’ said Fernandes, the fishing co-operative leader. ‘But how?’ Fernandes was a grandfather, a man of standing in the village, but just now he had no answers.

     The dark lizard shape of the island was barely visible on the horizon.

     ‘How far, do you reckon?’

     Each man estimated the distance in both space and time; all acknowledging they were both a long way from the mainland and a long way from their home.

     Then Domingos said it -

     ‘Someone will have to swim . . .’ And all eyes turned to Lorenco.

     Lorenco was the strongest swimmer and the only one that might be capable of swimming that distance. He took a deep breath. He knew that, with the water coming in at the rate it was, the bailers might not be fast enough to stop the boat sinking before morning. The strait between the island and the mainland was deep and wide, its swells hiding boats from view, so that even if one passed - unlikely during the night - they wouldn’t be seen. If the boat sank Pedro, Joao, Guido, Fernandes, Domingos, Lorenco and Jeremiah would drown. There were no lifejackets on board, no safety equipment, not much that would even float. The men looked at Lorenco, all aware of the enormity of the suggestion, the risk.

     Lorenco was the strongest swimmer. They all knew that. It would have to be him, perhaps swimming for three or four hours to reach the island. He sat silent for a moment, then

     ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to swim and get help.’

     He looked at Jeremiah still sleeping under the sarong, his youngest child and only son. Lorenco was willing to try and swim for help but he would not leave his boy on a sinking boat. He breathed deeply as he turned to the others.

     ‘I’ll swim but I’ll take my boy.’ Looking into the shocked faces of the men, all of them fathers, he repeated. ‘I’ll swim but I’ll take Jeremiah with me.’

     In silence they contemplated Lorenzo’s words as Guido and Domingos threw buckets of water across the deck.

     Then

     ‘How will you do that?’ asked Fernandes. ‘How will you swim with the boy? It’ll slow you down.’

     It would.

     Lorenco reached for a styrofoam box, the box that held ropes and tools, a container of fuel, some rags . . . he lifted out its contents and examined it. It was rust and oil stained but intact - not a hole or a crack in it. ‘This will take my boy,’ he said.

     Jeremiah was warm from sleep and confused when his father lifted him up.

     ‘Tamba sa, Apa? Why, Papa?’ he asked.

     ‘The motor has stopped so we have to swim home, alin,’ said his father and Jeremiah, half-asleep, whimpered. ‘I don’t want to swim, Papa . . . Can’t I stay here? Can’t I stay with Tiu Joao?’

     ‘You don’t need to swim, Jerry. I have a boat for you,’ Lorenco attempted a smile. ‘This box will be your boat.’

     He didn’t know if he could swim faster than the water would seep into the fishing vessel but, with his little boy, he would take the chance. He fastened a length of fraying rope around Jeremiah’s waist and tied it around his own wrist. Jeremiah whimpered and the others sat in silence, understanding the father’s motive but doubtful of his plan.

     ‘Okay,’ Lorenco muttered. ‘We’ll get going . . . I’ll try to be quick. Let’s hope the currents take us to the beach. Keep the lamp alight so we can find you later.’

     Each man cried, out of fear and hope they cried as they embraced Lorenco before he jumped into the sea. Then each of them hugged little Jeremiah as Domingos lifted him down into his father’s arms. Fernandes handed the box down and they watched it float on the waves as Lorenco helped the boy into it . . . his weight hardly made any difference . . . yes, the box would take him as far as it could.

     Swells splashed over Lorenco and Jeremiah as they turned towards the island and Lorenco began to swim, one hand on the box, one arm pulling them through the water. He had strong legs and frog-kicked hard as the wailing of the men followed them and little Jeremiah, holding the sides of the box, was silent. The crew watched as the man swam and the tiny boy floated out on the dark sea in a plastic box.

Lorenco pushed the box and his boy through the swells and before long, when he turned back, he couldn’t see the boat. He rested, treading water and adjusting the rope that tied him and his son together.

     ‘This is a good boat,’ said Jeremiah, fully awake now, dragging one hand through the water.

     ‘And you’re a good boy, Jerry. A brave boy.’ Lorenco ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. Jeremiah pulled the wet sarong around himself and did not complain.

     The strait was deep, the sea black. Lorenco pushed the box with one hand, kicked hard, then swapped sides and pushed it with the other. He frog-kicked for as long as he could then straightened his legs to kick that way. Needing to convince himself that with each kick they were moving towards it he tried to imagine that the distant shape on the horizon - the island – was getting closer.

     Jeremiah, sitting upright in the box began to sing - songs his sisters had taught him, kindergarten songs about stars and flowers, skinks and fish. His voice was small and tuneless against the roar of the sea but Lorenco heard it and it cheered him, strengthened his determination, gave him the impetus to keep going. No longer able to see the sinking boat they were on their own now; the sea black but the night sky lit by a trillion stars, and little Jeremiah singing to them and to the fishes in the sea.

     ‘They’ll show us the way home,’ he told his father. ‘The stars will help us get home. And the fish will help us too. They know the way, Papa, they do.’

     Playing in the sand at the feet of old men - their grandfathers - as they mended their nets Jeremiah and his friends had heard their stories. They’d heard tales of boats, of weather, stars, marine creatures, the moods of the sea, its dangers, its joys – it was all preparation for their future lives as fishermen. Lorenco knew the stories too but, a religious man, he also prayed to his God, mouthing prayers while the little boy sang to the stars and called to the fish.

     Lorenco swam hard, pushing the box through the swells was tough work and the boy, watching him, sang and tried to feel brave in his father’s hands. He knew his father was a good swimmer, everybody in the village said so, but the sea was dark, the island distant. Lorenco knew that if they kept going in a direct line they should reach the beach at Makili Village to the south of theirs and in Makili there’d be outriggers with motors and men who knew the sea and would be prepared to go and search for a sinking boat.

     When he was too tired to swim Lorenco floated on his back with his hand on the side of the box. Jeremiah put his small, soft hand over his father’s rough and callused one and stroked it.

     ‘Are you sleeping Papa?’ he asked.

     ‘Just a little sleep, alin. To make me strong again for swimming.’

     ‘Then I’ll sleep too.’

     Jeremiah wriggled down and, with his legs hanging over the box into the cold water, slept as Lorenco floated beside him, marvelling that his son’s trust in him was strong enough to let him sleep as they pushed through the swells.

     Lorenco’s muscles ached and his legs cramped; floating on his back he diverted himself from despair by thinking of the marine creatures that lived or passed through the strait: sharks, stingrays, pods of dolphins, whales on their way north or south, dugongs in the seagrasses, turtles, myriads of pelagic and reef fish. His son might be right, perhaps those creatures were down in the deep sea around and under them right now, pushing them forward, pushing them home. Their clan totem was the stingray and now he pictured those beautiful, winged creatures just below them, creating a current to carry them along. Other clans on the island honoured the turtle, the shark, the dolphin, but the stingray was Lorenco’s totem and now it comforted him to imagine those creatures moving under him. He whispered a plea for them to guide him and his son to shore.

     Slowly they moved, slowly they made progress. Jeremiah woke. He had a question -

     ‘Do you think I’ll ever get to go to kindergarten, Papa?’ he asked and Lorenco wondered what was on the little boy’s mind to prompt such a query.

     ‘Of course. Just like your sisters, you’ll go to kindergarten and then to school. You’ll learn things, just like them.’

     A wave crashed over them and filled the box. Lorenco took the boy on his shoulder while he emptied it, examined it for damage then helped Jeremiah back in. And the little boy sang again as he watched the sea moving around him and his father pushing through it.

     Lorenco knew the strait well so he knew that, after they had passed through the wild currents that now splashed water over them, filled the box and made swimming hard, they would reach the calmer waters where a gentler current might carry them into shore. He forced his exhausted body on towards the cliffs he could just see now, the coastline features he could distinguish.

     He wondered about the boy’s future and if he would survive to go to kindergarten. Jeremiah, a clever boy, could go to school and learn to read. Unlike himself the boy might become a literate fisherman . . . or maybe not a fisherman at all. He might understand arithmetic, go to high school and get a job on the mainland. He might be a teacher or work in a government office in the town. Lorenco pushed on against the heavy water.

     Jeremiah began to cry. Momentarily he had had enough of being cold, wet and cramped in a box, his thin shoulders heaved silent sobs. Lorenco saw his son was crying but said nothing; he stroked the small hand that gripped the side of the box and wiped the boy’s cheek with his own cold, wet hand. They moved slowly towards the island.

     Three flying fish suddenly darted out of the water making Jeremiah laugh through his tears. ‘They’re showing us the way,’ he shouted as the three sleek creatures skimmed across the waves. The fish excited him; he peered into the depths looking for more.

     ‘Apa, agora hau haree fitun barak monu ba tasi. Haree Apa,’ he called. ‘Papa, I can see hundreds of stars that have fallen into the sea. Look Papa.’

     They were passing over a patch of phosphorescence and the sparkling lights dancing in the dark water cheered the little boy.

     ‘Are the fish and the stars helping you Papa? Are they helping you see the way?’

     Then Lorenco cried a little. Like his son he cried silently. His body ached and he didn’t know how much further he could go. He thought of the wedding in the village that would be ruined by a tragedy, of his wife and daughters waiting at home for them. He thought of Jeremiah never growing up, never going to kindergarten. He cried from exhaustion and grief, from thinking of the sinking boat with five men clinging to it. Overwhelmed by his responsibility to make it to the island he cried for his little boy sitting bravely in a plastic box that had bounced for hours over the waves.

     ‘Follow the stars, Papa.’

     And Lorenco did, following the morning stars he let the waves take them towards the island as it became more visible in the faint dawn light.

     They’d been in the water for nearly four hours when they finally passed over the reef into the calm lagoon and Lorenco found enough strength to push on slowly to the shore. Further down the beach they saw men with lamps and spears preparing for the morning fishing but Lorenco didn’t shout out immediately – falling onto the hard slippery rocks, he sat there for just a moment as Jeremiah leapt out of his box and into his arms. Father and son held each other tight, pressed against each other’s cold, wet skin, felt each other’s beating hearts, tasted the salt from the sea and from their tears - then they shouted out and the men further down the beach heard them.

     Lorenco, though exhausted, guided three motored outriggers back out to search for the sinking vessel. And the pale light from the kerosene lantern swaying from its highest point led them to the almost submerged boat with the five men clinging to it, calling them, laughing, crying, shouting their thanks. ‘Alleluiah! Alleluiah!’

     Back in the village the little boy, Jeremiah, warm and dry now, was given a mug of sweet black tea and put to sleep on a bamboo platform, where he dreamt, perhaps, of his box-boat, of the fish and stars, his father swimming through the waves, and of soon being old enough to go to the village kindergarten.

     The styrofoam box, wedged between rocks and a little tattered now would, before long, be claimed by a passerby. A fisherman on his way to the wedding next day would spot it and see it was something that might be handy on a boat. Hiding the box among the rocks to collect on his way back, he’d smile, considering himself a lucky man to have found such a useful thing.

Gabrielle, a writer of fiction and memoir, has won national prizes for short stories, has co-written a radio play produced by the ABC and published articles in The Age, Gita Abdi (Satya Wacana University Journal) and Inside Indonesia. She has worked in education and community development in Australia, Indonesia, PNG, Vanuatu, and Timor Leste. Gabrielle now lives on a community nature refuge in southern Queensland where she writes, reads, gardens, listens to music and attempts playing it. Gabrielle teaches Indonesian language locally and facilitates a U3A writers group in Warwick, Queensland. Gabrielle’s memoir ‘Dancers On The Sea: Stories from Ataúro Island Timor Leste (1994 – 2002)’ was published in October, 2023.

Her website is: gabrielle-samson.com