Commended - Senior section
Elizabeth College
Grass rippled like waves in the breeze, the unusually warm summer across Tasmania making the Eucalypt branches sway and crackle in the heat, as the shrill cries of a fairy-wren sounded from beneath the blackberry wall. I stepped out of the little house, looking across the garden, scanning for the small hunched figure, who would undoubtedly be rustling around in the bushes, picking out the last of the summer’s weeds.
“Grandma?” I called, stepping between the small ornamental pots of African violets, maiden hair ferns, and blueberry bushes arranged neatly on the deck. A small coloured blob leapt up, seeming to bloom from the ground itself, bustling between the prickly holly shrubs with surprising agility. Her cropped, grey hair bounced as she hobbled, the oversized button-up shirt flapping behind her. In a split second she enveloped me in a tight hug and gave me a gentle pat on the back, before bending down to weed out a bindi eye which she spotted by my shoe.
“Bloody-bloody,” she muttered, her smile faltering as she tugged the recalcitrant weed from the dirt. “Those things pop everywhere if you let even one of them slip.” She stood up, knees cracking, brushing the dirt off her gnarled, arthritic hands before taking my arm in hers to lead me around her kingdom.
The sun hammered on our backs, but this didn’t bother Robyn, Her skin was now a coppery olive from the years at sea and in the garden. As she led me around her kingdom, she pointed to her latest tweaks and accomplishments. Her stormy grey eyes were glinting with a keen interest as she described the recent growth of the raspberry bush. Eventually her gaze was averted from the once-dying African violet and she turned to focus on the glittering water of the Huon River down the hill.
“You know Munchkin, one day, just once, I’d like to set foot on the old catamaran again,” she mused. Her sharp eyes focussed on a faraway memory. “To feel the pull of the wind and surge of the Chimera. It truly was an adventure!”
Day 3
The waves surged, hurling saltwater and foam across the hulls of the catamaran, Chimera. The winds were hitting sixty knots as Robyn and Grant scrambled across the deck, hauling down the soaked flapping sails.
“We’re going have to turn back and head downwind!” Grant bellowed over the shrieking winds. “I’ll set the auto helm. Go put out the drogue!” He strode into the cabin, preparing the tossing catamaran for its final run.
Robyn darted across the deck, setting the weight, prepping the life jackets and flotation boards. The waves heaved and rolled like a bull trying to toss off its rider, the white caps barely visible against the black sky. The wall of darkness was almost a blessing, some would say, preventing a weary sailor from seeing the cresting waves taller than the mast itself, the hammering rains blinding them from the flashing forks of lightning and boiling sea.
The wind swirled and screeched as it tore through the rigging, as if a hurricane of banshees had been unleashed across the sea. Robyn looked out at the surging darkness before clambering down into the cabin, clutching the walls, like a bedraggled blossom weighed down by the relentless water. Grant sat hunched by the radio, listening in for any updates on the cyclone. Michael scurried to and fro, attempting to mop up the water which had surged in with a particularly violent wave.
“We need to change course between New Caledonia and the Loyalty Islands,” growled Grant, pushing sopping hair out of his eyes.
Robyn nodded. “The last update means south is the best option., The headwind will only slow us, especially now the sails are down. Chimera can surf across the waves and its safer to continue downwind. There’s no way we can outrun the storm now.”
A moment’s pause. “Bloody, bloody,” she muttered.
. . .
“That cyclone had been chasing us for three days, straight from the coast of Fiji,”
Grandma mused. Her brooding eyes flashed like the cyclone in her memories, “A misguided weather update prompted us to start the last leg of our voyage, despite the locals warning against it. They said that the birds had brought their nests down from the trees, which is a sure sign that a cyclone was building. But of course, it was the forecast we trusted.”
Grandma continued to lead me around the garden, as if we were taking a turn around the ballroom of her marvellous palace. Her flowery citizens seemed to perk up as she walked past, craning to hear the rest of her story.
“It was a game of tag, as you might call it, the radio updates coming in only twice daily reporting the latest whereabouts of the building cyclone. The strangest thing was that no matter where we went, by the time the next report came the Chimera always ended up sailing right towards it.”
She chuckled to herself, stopping to weed out some dying dandelions from beneath the grape vines.
“Of course, the wind was screeching outside, there’s no other way to describe it. It was bizarre though, the cabin was so peaceful. This was because, of course, the cabin is lower in the water, so the sound just softens once you go inside. I remember thinking to myself it’s going to be fine. Not once did I feel any terror at the thought of capsizing, just a sure, steady, calm, that what would happen, would happen.” Grandma smiled, “And of course it was fine. We made it to New Caledonia and the folks there were very sweet, even helping us repair the fridge.”
She stopped again, lost in the tales and adventures of her past. I grinned. The tale of the cyclone Garnia, although one I had heard many times, was one that could never become bland in its retelling. Her anecdotes, the travels across the sea, the experiences of being a nurse, all of these were stories that were just as thrilling each time they were told.
The Queen of these stories stood surveying her kingdom - a blossom, slight yet strong, full of knowledge and adventures, surrounded by her adoring garden subjects, all of whom had been given the utmost care and attention.
A blanket of steely grey clouds drifted across the sun, bringing with them a bite to the gentle breeze. The sure figure of grandma sagged slightly. As the aches and pains of arthritis set in, her hobble becoming more pronounced as the cold and dark seeped through her bones. The blossom, so strong and lively and full of so many tales and knowledge, seemed to wilt with the disappearance of the light and warmth, the age and peril of her adventures catching up with her young and intrepid heart.
“Just one more adventure,” she muttered. We turned back towards the house, leaving behind her green, weed-ridden kingdom.
