One Way Bridge Pamella Laird   © Copyright 2026 by Pamella Laird

Photo by Eric A. Hegg Photographs at Wikimedia Commons.

A fierce draught, swirling and moaning from the mast and stays, like a blast from a polar ice cap, added to his misery. He struggled to pull a padded jacket around his shoulders. As awkward as an old man, he searched for the sleeve-holes. Not in his wildest nightmares had it ever crossed his mind, that living this unconventional life of freedom, might one day be his downfall.

For the first time, with shivers wracking his body; he accepted—this time—he was in real trouble. There’s no one around so early, still dark; this could be the finish of me. Holy hell! How did I get myself into this? One minute I’m freezing, next I’m a bonfire. Gotta fight! Get help! Hazy thoughts on what he should do to raise an alarm, flitted like fireflies through his faltering mind.

A couple of weeks before, while scavenging in a pile of dumped planks in St Mary’s Bay, a boat-builder’s six-inch nail on an upturned plank had gone through his boot. His skewered foot, hadn’t bled much, no blood, no problem.

In his delirium, his mind drifted back to the day he’d walked out. Who was to blame? Nancy his wife, his boys, Robbie and Stuart, daughter Heather, that O’Meara kid next door? Or, was it the grog? Everyone knew I like a wee dram. I’ve worked like a dog on those building sites—and the biggest job of my life—wiring the electrics on the Harbour Bridge. Haven’t I flaming well earned a few drinks? Abandoning Nancy and the three kids and whatever my decision has led to today, I hold nothing against her. She’s done a bonny job bringing them up and seeing to their future. Or so it seems from the lean pickings I’ve found in the newspapers I’ve read from day to day, usually from the local library.

Previous memories of envy returned when staring at a self-assured gull squatting on one of the mast spreaders, as if he were the proprietor. Envy of those jokers who seemed to have the best of homes, cars, golf clubs, you name it. No bloke should have to live the way I have, through those years. Everything a burden—mortgage, school fees, lawyers, dentists, endless demands on his time and money. Still swaying in a stiff breeze, the beady-eyed bird, totally free of care, peered down at the wharf activity.

His life, bleak to the point of depression. Jock really didn’t care how or what he did; it was the freedom, as long as he had the freedom to run his own bloody life, drink or not. That was all that mattered. He remembered reasoning that sooner or later they’d find out who flogged those pay packets. But they never did. Wasn’t only once, either. As far as he knew, there’d never been mention of it in the papers. Probably the company had put it down to ‘an unexplained discrepancy’ and said nothing to save face. He’d hoped the extra dosh would fix the spot he was in. It didn’t, but he kept on drinking. Maybe there’d been another way?

Then there was the getaway—the brilliant idea he’d been brooding on for years. His fixation on the Bridge escape route never left him. Now, more than ever, that idea seemed the perfect way out. It worked. It worked. His master-plan had worked! He hadn’t thought twice about it—just took off. Wonder if my kids remember me? Probably not: after so many years away.

The slap of the halyard against the mast roused him from his stupor, reminding him he was in big trouble, time was running out, and it was over to him alone, to take some action and fast. Sweat dripped into his eyes and ran down the sides of his face, pooling in the hollows of his collar-bones. From his bunk, he glimpsed a scene of crazily swirling masts through a murky cabin window. He shook his head to clear the wooziness, but the sudden action resulted in overwhelming nausea. Right then, his jaw suddenly cramped—he could barely move it; he lay back in his sweat-damp jacket waiting for daylight.

At the first flash of dawn, he fumbled above his bunk for the boat hook lying in the spring clamps he’d fixed when he first bought Unicorn. With arms almost useless, a weakness close to complete exhaustion, overcame him. He lay still for several minutes, then—with all the force he could manage, he lurched forward and upward using the hook to bash open the hatch. Somehow, he had to get an obvious kind of ‘Distress’ signal out to a yachtie or maybe one of his ‘wharfie’ mates, who might be around for an early shift.

His efforts released the sickly smell of infected flesh. He gagged with the stench given off from the bed-coverings. Resting on an elbow, he retched again and again. The strain left him shivering and sweating inside the chill of his wringing wet jacket. He grabbed an oil rag and mopped his face, conscious of the messy bristles on his chin.

Shattered, falling back on the bunk, he considered his present ordeal. He’d lived long enough on the boat to make his own way, do his own thing and the shore blokes who’d got to know him, accepted the boat was his retreat. No one intruded on his privacy; no one asked where, why, or even when? He liked it that way. He did what he pleased, when he pleased and to hell with all those leeches ripping people off and the bastards who don’t give a toss.

Jock gripped the wooden sides of his bunk and pulled himself upright again, but the cabin spun like a wind-speed meter. He grabbed at the locker for a steadying focus, the action only bringing on another wave of nausea. His jaw clenched, the muscles of his back cramped in the same agonising spasms that had tortured him most of the night. ‘God help me. I can’t take much more of this,’ he moaned. Sweat dribbled through the matted grey, bristles.

Through inflamed and crusted eyes, he peered about the cabin for a ‘Help’ Flag—preferably something red or white. Anything! Something out of the ordinary that looked out of place, as long as it gave a warning sign. His blurred gaze fell on his yellow, sea-going parka lying on the other bunk. He snagged it with the wavering hook. Bracing his knee against the locker, he pivoted his bony shoulder under a shelf beside his bunk. At last, he’d manoeuvered, and jammed the boat hook against the hatch. Using every ounce of remaining strength, he forced it upwards. A flash of sunlight almost blinded him, but the opening was wide enough for the long-handled hook, spiked with his distress flag, to slide through and that would have to be enough.

The hatch crashed down against the shaft of the hook, jarring his arm. He twisted his torso to wedge the handle into the bunk between the bulkhead and the squab. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Abruptly, it changed to a single ringing note. Jock slumped backward. Lying on the floor, fighting to maintain his senses, his spine cramped into a second excruciating arc. Hallucination swamped his thinking. Was that his son kneeling over him? An oxygen mask clamping over his nose didn’t rouse him; neither did the siren nor the nothingness of the speeding vehicle.

*****

The last day at Leinster Street in Avondale slid into his fevered thoughts. What a hell of a memory that is! That was the day some stupid idiot at work dropped a window frame on his leg, stripping the flesh from knee to ankle. Earlier in the morning, the boss told them they were moving the electricians to a job on the far side of town. Close to Papatoetoe he thought it would be. Fine, bloody fine! And for how long would the old jalopy get him to work ‘way to hell out there’? Bandaged, bad-tempered and hurting, Jock drove home early, his sun-bleached hair sweaty and clinging.

No one in the house but the first damn thing he saw was the sun glinting on the splintered glass of the sunroom window! Terry O’Meara, the next-door kid, with his flaming new bat! Jock guessed there’d be trouble right from the moment he’d heard them singing Happy Birthday. It was only a couple of days ago and he knew only too well where his youngest, Robbie, would be after school. Jock stormed into the kitchen and snatched a beer from the fridge.

The kitchen was hot and empty, the tabby strolled over to wrap around his legs. Nancy must be shopping. God knows what women do at the shops all day—apart from spend money. He slumped onto the couch and watched the bubbles rise in his glass like helium balloons in a sunset. Lying back, the first serious plan—devious, yes, but a humdinger—began to form in his mind. The yacht! Change his appearance! Just get away from this whole broken life.

He still had Unicorn, his one extravagance, moored off Herald Island. Unicorn was his ‘bloke’s shed.’ A bilge keeler, six berths, she’d always been the smart way out of the domestic scene. Say ‘fishing and beer’ to his work-mates and all was sweet–took care of the whole day—some-times several.

Apart from that, back at the Island, he’d hung on to the old holiday home, the bach, inherited from his parents. Admittedly, he’d once tried to sell it—no buyers because it was ‘a handyman’s dream.’ Jock knew in his case that was real estate code for doubtful septic tank, rusted roof, unpainted weatherboards and a lawn knee-high in paspalum. Despite all that, it was still his and the best thing he’d done with it, was install a drinks fridge.

And the Bridge! That bugger of a coat hanger arching between Herne Bay and Northcote! He’d worked six months on that heap of metal, knew it inch by inch. Scrambling as they had like chimpanzees up and down, in and out of the girders they’d strung miles of spaghetti-like cable through its innards. Thinking even then, when his life was beginning to crash around his ears, the Bridge might be the exit route he needed. True, the pay packets were good for those 1956/59 times but, with the risks of working at that height, they bloody needed to be. Looking back, physically, the Bridge had just about finished him.

Few understood that a fall meant certain death and that in high winds the whole structure swayed and juddered with stomach-churning force. Then there was his old friend, Bob. Jock flinched at the thought of Bob locked in, trying to work in that hellhole of a caisson and the poor bugger dying for a failure in the oxygen supply. He reckoned the Bridge, at least, owed him for the loss of his good mate. He’d been a solid bloke, a real good bloke.

Even while he was working, he’d seen the potential in the structure of the box girders as someone’s road to freedom. One thing was certain: anyone with that in mind would never be heard of again. Their disappearance would be a complete mystery; lookers on would assume when they hit the water, that one more workmate was a goner. It was one hell of a drop.

At that time, he hadn’t considered the idea for himself, but now, 23 years later, he’d been back to take a shufti at the extensions, the ‘Nippon clip-ons’ and the drop between the centre lanes. He was right: anyone could do it if they knew how to get inside the girders. He put some beef into his plan, and saw that it’d be better than taking the high jump. Perfect solution. No death, no damage. Furthermore, Nancy could claim insurance and because she was used to him not coming home when he should, he’d have time on his side.

I’ve damn well got to get outta here. The rumbling of the fridge, above his own voice in the hollow Leinster Road house, was like listening to a mate alongside, coaching him, leading him on to make the move. Just get on with it and stop farting about! Jock paced up and down, swigging one can after another, and tossing them from where he stood, straight into the kitchen bin. Everyone’ll be better off with me out of the way. Mind racing and leg throbbing, he turned and flopped back onto the sofa. He found another cool can in his hand with no memory of how it got there.

I’ll pig it in the bach while I work out my next move. There’s got to be a way of clearing out, so they’ll think I’m dead and gone. Yeah, great thinking Jock! Dead and gone. He stared out the lounge window, considering his chances. After all, those living on the Island were too wrapped up in their own problems to worry about anyone else, let alone where Jock Duncan might be.

Yep! It was a goer. Saint Mary’s Bay. Now or never. He stuffed clothing into a rucksack and threw it on the back seat of the old Merc. Swinging out of his driveway he revved her up, hitting over sixty on the high road from Avondale through Henderson where he stopped to collect meths, spare batteries and matches at a store—out of the way enough for him to be anonymous. From there on to Hobsonville, and over the causeway on to the Island. It was pure luck, the tide was on its way out and low enough to cross.

Shingle spattered the gatepost as he swerved onto the rough drive of theold bach. Stomach muscles taut, he sped along the beaten clay track to the old holiday home. But the plans bubbling in his mind seemed too impulsive; he should stop this hot-headed rush, sit down and work out exactly what to do, how and when? Too wild to actually work? Nah! It’s got to be simple.

He jammed on the brakes and legged it to the tank stand to find the key. At the front door, he brushed away thick, white cobwebs from the lock. The door groaned as he put his shoulder to it and the hot, airless smell of dried manuka logs hit him as it had each holiday since he’d been a kid. But this was different. His hands shook with an urgency that was far removed from his usual holiday unwinding. The only sound or movement was a bluebottle droning in endless circles.

He tossed his rucksack onto a broken-spring armchair and went to the fridge for a can. Collections of spider webs, dead moths and mason bee casings lay in window corners, his mind elsewhere, he saw only the fridge. Finish this beer, then get rid of the car’s number plates. In the unaired room, the demented blowfly bumbled back and forth from one window to another. Jock returned to the living room, flicked the tab on a DB, sprawled his lanky body onto a sagging sea-grass chair and drank like a dying man in a desert.

As he lay absently thinking, the almost silence was disturbed by the cadence of a tui in one of the Pohutukawa trees, plus the insistent buzz of a mason bee. In the crevices of the exposed rafters, he saw the revealing putty-coloured tunnels wedged into the wood angles. Then it hit him. Hell, why didn’t I think of it for myself? To use, right now? The Bridge! Inside the boxes! Tunnels to freedom!

Paint the Unicorn a different colour, move her, change her name, and tie her up where they’d never think of looking, right under their noses. Tonight’s the night, before all hell breaks loose. That way I’ll be clear of the lot of them. Herald Island and the bach would be the first place they’d look.

He gulped the last of the can and stumped out to the cubbyhole under the tank stand where he kept tins of paint, brushes, linseed oil and turps—all he needed for the name and change of colour. Piling a heap of likely bottles, tins and brushes into a sugar bag, he loaded the car. Back in the kitchen, leaning against the door-frame, he pondered his needs on the boat. Food, water, meths, clothes, maybe the trannie. An old canvas daypack hung behind the back door: he stuffed in a few clothes and tins of food from the cupboards.

He had a go at dressing and rebandaging his gashed leg hoping it wasn’t going to cock-up a scheme that would be the answer to all his troubles. Adding tools to a sugar-bag, he pitched it on to the back seat of the Merc, locked the front door and replaced the key in its hiding place. One of the pleasures of living on the Island had been the three-minute drive to the wharf. Time still, to load the dinghy and row out to the boat. Jock gave orders to himself on the drive to the lockers.

The padlock neatly clicked open. With practiced hands, Jock lowered the dinghy from its housing, tossed the oars in and pulled it to the bottom of the ramp where he loaded his few possessions. He snibbed the car doors before padlocking the locker, then set off in the dinghy with one hand on the tiller, for Unicorn’s mooring off Greenhithe. It took Jock only fifteen minutes of strong alternate side, one-armed strokes between the Island and the mooring, and he was alongside Unicorn.

She rose and fell on the lapping tide, making his laden climb up the ladder more hazardous than usual. Tying the dinghy to a stern tranchion, he worked determinedly, transferring his gear to the yacht. He’d need the smaller boat only one more time. A lone mollymawk heading up the inner harbour swooped towards Riverhead, skimmed the water, calling its lonely cry over his head.

He soon had his gear and tools on board and started the motor that as always, sputtered obediently to life. That’s one thing to be thankful for, her Briggs & Stratton had never once let him down. Jock released Unicorn’s mooring lines, scrambled along the deck and returned to the cockpit. He leaned on the transom and smiled. Swinging her about, he headed down harbour towards the leviathan bulk of the Bridge.

Jock savoured the fall of the long, rolling waves as Unicorn rose rhythmically on the outgoing tide. He wondered briefly what they’d make of the disappearance of the yacht. Nearing the Meccano-like structure, gradually the harbour’s tranquility and peace were replaced by the roar of over-head traffic.

He rocked back to stare up at the black girders; their metal braces stressed and overburdened, echoed his feelings. He swung Unicorn towards St Mary’s Bay. It took care and time to manoeuvre the twelve-foot yacht in and around the old jetties until he found one, more dilapidated than the rest. Its sagging piles and cross-members seemed to be held above water by two old ferries and their hawsers. At last, among the flotsam of the harbour, he found a docking likely to be out of the way of local bums or the waterfront curious. Tossed the spliced loop of his mooring line over a bollard, he secured her fore and aft.

Back on board, he looked around the area more closely; a couple of old-timers deep in conversation were smoking at the far end of the adjacent wharf. Beyond them, among the detritus of perished netting and broken boxes, on the next neglected dock, two boys of ten or twelve sat on fish boxes of faded orange plastic. The bucket between them twitched from time to time as their eyes remained fixed on their fishing rods. Despite the last rays of a sinking sun, they seemed in no hurry to get themselves home. Jock ignored the idlers and unobtrusively stepped back into his cabin.

Head in hands, he sat on one of the bunks with its blue-striped canvas covering. A new name for the yacht, but what…? He picked up a brush and tin and peered again around the jetties. The boys had gone. Aha! Climbing from the cabin, he leaned on a bollard and brushed white paint over the name—deciding to paint only on one side, good job too, thought Jock; he was not into acrobatics over the far side of the prow. He worked quickly with deft strokes and, as darkness enveloped the Bay, stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘Crashpad.’ It rang a bell with his future life, whichever way he looked at it. Tomorrow I’ll repaint the cabin, teal—maybe dark blue—nothing too obvious.

He heated baked beans on the gimbal stove and swilled down a cup of black coffee. Around 10.30 pm, when he was pretty sure the wharves would be deserted, he pulled on his yellow parka, loosed the dinghy, and began the marathon trip back to Herald Island. The tide had changed and was with him once again, but there was an offshore breeze that made the going as tough as he’d want it. Jock’s sinewy back bent and flexed again and again as the oars clunked rhythmically in the rowlocks. Beneath the Bridge, he pulled off the parka that had him sweating like an Olympic rower.

It was clear—the stars had never looked brighter—the Southern Cross and its pointers could be turning things his way. All was quiet on his return to the island wharf—a glance at his watch told him it was late, nearly 1am. He climbed out onto the slippery steps and dragged the dinghy up the wooden planks. It was tricky in the dark, but after 20 minutes he’d replaced dinghy and oars in the locker and clipped the lock. In a few days the police would jemmy the lock and stand scratching their heads. He picked his parka off the still-warm stones, climbed into the car and drove back to the bach.

The remainder of the night was rough. Sleeping on a bare mattress with a fusty pillow was not a bad price he had to pay for the freedom he saw ahead. Added to that, his mind, mulling over the logistic pitfalls for his long-planned escape next day, worked as if he were wading through waist-deep seaweed. The innards of the Bridge had to be tackled, especially the maintenance ports. He remembered, those ports weren’t huge, good enough for a lean man; his wiry frame would be perfect—the rucksack would slip through more easily than he. Eventually, he slept well from sheer exhaustion.

On waking, his thoughts darted from disaster to success and back as he pushed old clothes, a waterproof torch, and a small radio into an overnight bag. At 7.23am he opened one eye, dragged himself off the grimy mattress and caught sight of unmistakable mouse shit beside the pillow. Bugger it, who cares? For the rest of the day, he lay low, it would cause a bit of a ruckus later, if the neighbours, though not close, noticed him there. A yellowing Wilbur Smith was the best he could do to take the edge off the remaining hours and distract his pounding heart and rising nervous tension.

Almost 2am. He pulled on rubber-soled trainers with the best grip, grabbed his packed kit and locked the cottage. Hiding the key for the last time, he dumped the carrier-bag on the passenger seat and started the motor. Wind-blown scent from countless pine trees filled the car as he drove over the causeway and on through the night towards the Bridge. Cutting through the details of what had to be done and the timing of the plan so far, he couldn’t fault it. He was pretty sure it would be a pushover, nevertheless, he was only too aware of his sweaty hands.

He tried to recall the gap separating the two main lanes in the centre of the Bridge. His breathing quickened at the sheer nerve of his proposal. Bloody brilliant. ‘Specially when they find the car near the top, they’ll think, as they had in the past, gone over the side. More relevantly, there’d be no more demands on him again—ever

Jock peered at the sky—black as pitch, just the night for a bit of trickery.

Going by Riverhead and Coatesville, with vitually no traffic, it would be around half an hour to the Bridge. He whistled ‘Wish me Luck’ as his lights lit the winding road down the hill and through Albany village. He drove past the Greenhithe turnoff, on towards the Bridge approaches by way of Northcote’s Onewa Road.

. It was quiet enough when he got to the tollgates and handed 20 cents to the officer. The man could have been asleep—he barely glanced up from his Man mag. Ahead on the Bridge’s top-most rise were two cars, their rear lights dancing like fireflies heading for the flame of city nightlife. The wind near the highest point shook the car, but he hung on to the steering as he felt the clumsy body of the Merc swerve in response to a gust. On the west side, heading for the Shore, several headlights approached, but there were none coming up behind. Couldn’t be better. The clock said two thirty-nine.

Jock unclenched his fingers from the steering wheel, noticing for the first time, his white knuckles and the rigidity of his neck. Come on, you can’t pike out now. Switching off the ignition, he ran the car alongside the outside railings and braked. Was he close to the manhole position he’d marked in his mind? With the motor silent and no car in his lane, Jock opened the door. He left the key in the ignition but shivered at the menacing wind wailing in the girders. With sugar-bag tackle in one hand, he slammed the door and crossed the road where he could vault the near lane railing.

A few yards ahead, near the top of the box section he spotted the inspection port he remembered. He shoved the bag of clothes, torch etc. through the black hole. Howling winds muffled the crash as they landed. Jock grabbed the metal handholds on either side of the port, swung his legs up and lowered himself feet first through the opening. In a surge of triumph, he let go of the grips and, arms above his head, twisted his agile shoulders, allowing his body to slide then fall inside the box girder. He landed cat-like, 10 feet down onto the gangway.

Bloody hell! Black as a coal cellar, it reeked of sea-damp and oil. His arm and leg muscles quivered, and his shirt clung wetly to his back. Sagging to his knees, he shivered in a mixture of relief and cold. Inside the girder, the banshee-like wind howled in concert with the roar and vibrations of the occasional motor above.

Where’s that bloody torch? He knelt in the darkness feeling about with ears alert for a warning siren, but the only sound was the whining wind in the superstructure and a sporadic car. Above, he guessed the Bridge officers would soon be tudying the abandoned car and its missing driver on their TV lanes, security screen.

Jock cautiously hauled himself up against the inside wall, no bones broken but he couldn’t help grinning at the thought of the guys leaning over the rail, gaping at the mind-numbing drop into the black. He. imagined the despondent bunch staring down at the waves churning phosphorescent eddies back and forth around the piers. He groped under the access hole, found his bag and pulled out the torch.

With gear slung over one shoulder, he began the surprisingly steep trek until he reached the highest point. He tried to recall the number of intersecting bulkheads to crawl through. Jock reckoned it would take him around forty minutes to get to the St Mary’s Bay end. After that, he figured there’d maybe half a mile of rough walking to somewhere near the chandlers at Westhaven. Jock knew when he came close to the crest, he’d be well over halfway to Unicorn/Crashpad. By the meagre light of the torch, he stumbled on in the semi-dark, knowing there were still many obstructions ahead.

Every few yards, there was a climb over metre-high, steel cross-sections plus, the shin hazards he’d forgotten. Shins are a bugger. Adding to his frustration, the access holes were at stooping height and lethal to any unwary head that forgot to duck. But the torch’s beam, gave enough light to grope his way up the steep slope. At last, he felt the incline change; from now on the going would be a hell of a lot easier.

Infrequent cars thundered above—interspersed with occasional muttered curses as Jock scrambled over the regular barriers. Diesel and petrol fumes began to filter into his heavy-breathing lungs, forcing unexpected coughing fits. The walk seemed interminable—he’d forgotten how long it was, an endless tunnel with no apparent light at the end. He trudged on, grateful for his previous months of work on the wiring. Without this earlier knowledge, he would never have known of this route… his stealthy track to freedom. ‘Freedom.’ The word kept beating in his mind.

It took time, but at last, with throbbing legs, he stumbled towards the barrier at the flyover end: a rugged metal door that he knew was easily unlatched, but only from the inside. Jock wrenched back the heavy handle and stepped into the cool relief and freshness of a pale, apricot dawn. The air teased his nostrils like champagne. He leaned back against the rigid door until the secure metal lock clanged solidly into place. There remained the doorway’s protective metal cage with its tubular supports; he climbed these like the proverbial monkey and dropped to freedom.

As his breathing returned to normal, he chuckled at his hankering to give a triumphant yell? Bending, he massaged aching calf muscles. It was only then that he noticed the blood saturating one of his trainers. Must have knocked his shin when he climbed one of those bloody cross barriers. Laughing, he hitched his bag back to a shoulder and set off among the half-abandoned boatsheds and other outbuildings offering sea-going chandlery supplies.

A car rumbled above on the Ponsonby off-ramp. In the night air of a sleeping bay, the ping of halyards against metal masts was as compelling as The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves. Stopping to change the straps of his bag over to the other sweat-soaked shoulder, he set off around the marina foreshore towards Crashpad. It was 4am and barely light. The drowsy peace enveloped him like a dream as he strolled beside the yachts tied up in St Mary’s Bay.

At last, back on board Crashpad, he poured a neat whiskey and sat in the cockpit watching the dawn sky change from apricot to blood red. When the first of the sun’s rays lit the ruffled water like a billion stars, he felt the tension drain from his body. He rolled onto his bunk, pulled a couple of blankets around himself and slept.

Wharf life was well underway when Jock turned out late that morning to have a recce at the weather and the local inhabitants. Fishing launches chugged out beneath the raised viaduct bridge to the open harbour. Gulls wheeled and screeched in the filmy blue of a cloudless sky. The pungent smell of tar from old ropes and hawsers forewarned of a scorching day. Coffee in hand, he leaned pensively against the door frame. Through the dancing masts, a yacht club’s ensign rippled in the soft sea breeze. He smiled at the shouts from a sailing instructor as her boatload of aspiring female yachties riding the waves, emerged from the massed yachts. Good luck to them. Endless Summer danced on the waves like Odette, the Swan Queen.

For the first time, reality hit him hard. How would Nancy cope? Would she ever forgive him? Despite the finality of what he’d done, in the end, she’d get the old bach, as well as the house. With any luck, the insurance and probably the car, after the police had done it over. When a week or two had passed, the publicity would die away and they’d assume he’d gone to the bottom, probably eaten by a shark. What a way to go!

As for the disappearance of Unicorn, Jock hoped they’d take for granted she’d been stolen—his plan’s only flaw, but there was nothing he could do about that—he had to have somewhere he could lay his head. He pushed the unwelcome idea from his mind and thought again of Nancy and the kids. Hard to admit, although they’d never understand what made him do it, they’d all be better off without him and his grumpy moods.

As day followed day, he quietly stocked up with tinned and fresh food from the local market. Buying a sleeping bag and fuel for the boat’s gimbal-mounted stove, he reassured himself he was now pretty well equipped for the life he planned for ahead. Now he was on his own—with a dizzying return of life for himself, the days were easy. He no longer shaved and took to hacking at his beard and hair with scissors to keep his looks something less than shaggy.

Apart from buying the occasional newspaper, initially to read the drama about himself and the conclusions drawn by all and sundry—all satisfyingly wide of the mark—there was little to interest him in local activities. A bit of a laugh that only his family and mates called him Jock, while the newspapers had him as Jonathon Duncan. He’d lie low for a few weeks until the ruckus died down, meanwhile, get the yacht wireless going and grab a newspaper from time to time to keep an eye out for a job on the wharves.

While the weather held, he sailed around the Gulf just for the hell of it. Even had a crack at fishing, mainly to keep his hand in and stock up for his meals. This kept him away from the curiosity of the blokes working the fishing boats or the onshore men. Jobless fellas like himself, who loitered around the wharves with apparent intentions of passing the time, seemed content to yacker among themselves.

Eventually, with a growing familiarity of who was who among the regulars, and his keenness for sailing, he became relaxed enough to slot into the fishing scene, available any time the guys asked. The joshing and yarning was never personal—it was evident they didn’t allow or seek confidences. Not these characters, anyway. They accepted him for his strength and usefulness on the Gulf or for untangling and mending nets onshore. In a few weeks, he felt unguarded enough to work among the old hands. Crashpad soon blurred into the regular cast-offs at the neglected jetty.

As the weeks went by, Jock came to believe that this way of life was how it had always been, or maybe, should have been. On one of those balmy days, with a flurry of wind wrenching at the sail-wrapped boom, Jock motored out from the old, skewed wharf. Steering clear of a half-sunken ferry reclining in the water as if on one elbow, he cupped a hand to shout across the basin where several fishermen were stacking fish boxes on their trawlers.

“Come on, ya’ lazy bastards; beat you out to Bean Rock.” His jocular threat caused the usual laugh, for the regular thud of their diesels always left him slopping in their wake. Often, he took a wharf habitué on board for company. This morning Jock and Ted, the other bloke, stuffed a six-pack inside the rope locker. They tossed for sails or tiller. Jock’s sailor eyes crinkled against the early sun, skimmed the water for signs of surface ruffling—a school of mullet, herded by a pod of dolphin or, with any luck, a kingfish. It could also be a wind change, calling for a ‘ready about’ or an alert for a hasty gybe. Depending on the weather, a speedy return to shelter might change their plans altogether.

“Hey! Ted, haul in the sheet. You’ll bloody have us over.” Adjustments to the main sheet with his ‘crew’ working the winch, and all would be well. With Jock’s ear tuned to the tranquil rush of water along the keel and the wind lifting his sun-faded hair, he and his mate would settle back, can in hand and a trusting eye on the marker buoys. A worry was the antics of cowboy sailors of whom there were enough to cause any seasoned sea-farer a torrent of ocean lingo. After all, he’d been one himself, so he knew exactly what they were up to once they were out on the waves with a few mates and a fridge full of beer.

So the weeks and months passed, often good catches to take ashore, gut and share or stow in his small freezer. Over time, Jock became ‘odd-job’ man around, ever-ready to join a gang manoeuvring keelers and smaller yachts onto the hard for scraping, painting or renewal of anti-fouling. He shifted crates, occasionally did electrical repairs on fishing boats or launches. Harbour old-timers learned to call on Jock if they wanted a reliable jack-of-all-trades. His earnings, more than covered his needs.

Sometimes the tantalising smell of fresh tarakihi frying in butter drifted over

from the Basin. He’d hear the familiar yell, “Come on over, Jock, and bring a dozen.” Ahead lay an evening of yarns and laughter. These mates vaguely knew his story, of which he revealed only as much as he felt they needed to know, but he was still Jock: no one ever asked his surname.

Above all, he was free. Free of the obligations that wear a bloke down. He leaned back on the transom, beer in hand, one eye on the frying pan and the other watching the last of the workers leave the wharves for home. He chased a couple of cans down with a neat dram, made himself a fried fish sandwich then relaxed over a smoke. He watched the sky darken and the stars, clear and sparkling, materialise like glow worms in a cave. Motionless, he’d sit quietly thinking over the likely weather for the next day.

*****

Now and then he bought a newspaper and occasionally clipped an article or photograph from a page and pasted it into a scrapbook. By watching the lists of school prizes, graduations, sports trophies and the occasional photograph, Jock gathered snippets of news about his kids. Robbie winning the Speech Trophy, even news of a few of their mates such as Terry O’Meara. How could he forget Terry and his cricket bat and ball? A few years later, Terry, to Jock’s surprise, appeared old enough to graduate from Police College, tallest one in the photograph.

Each of these cameos brought his family closer and, by regular leafing through the cuttings, Jock felt they were never that far away. Tonight, listening to a Request Session, his radio thumping out an old Bill Haley, he was abruptly hit by a throb of pain in his foot. He eased his boot off the swollen flesh, half-filled a bucket with cold water and poured in a slosh of Dettol disinfectant. The cold, milky water instantly eased his burning skin. ‘Must be over a week since I stood on that blasted spike.’

His worst symptom was a gradual stiffening of his jaw and neck, then he found it difficult to turn his head. To take his mind off the pain, he studied his old cuttings. He’d almost forgotten Heather had married. Stuart had a BCom. Bright kids. Wonder if Nancy married again? Jock placed the album on the cabin table and massaged his rigid neck tendons. The pain eased and he propped himself on the bunk to soak his foot again. Hours later, the spasms moved to his shoulders and down his arms. What the hell’s happening now?

Eventually, when the contractions started in his torso and stomach, it dawned on Jock he was in big trouble. Then came the shiver over his whole body and his jaw tightened to an unrelenting cramp. When his neck muscles became excruciating spasms, hallucination swamped his thinking. Was that his son kneeling over him?

It was just after eight one night when the doorbell rang at 21 Leinster Road. Robbie opened the door and peering into the darkness, recognised the policeman’s face by the hall light. “Good God! It’s you, Terry. Anything wrong?” He motioned the officer into the hallway. “Must be all of ten years since I last saw you. Come on in.” Robbie led the way into the family room and turned off the TV. “Have a seat, Terry. Good to see you.”

“Thanks. I hoped it would be you, Robbie, still here in the same house.”

Terry placed his police hat and attaché case on the sofa but remained standing, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but the Commissioner thought I should be the one to speak to you, so I came straight round. It could be a bit of a shock. We—we’ve—found your father.”

Robbie’s felt his legs loosen and he dropped onto a chair arm. “What the hell are you playing at, Terry? You couldn’t. He’s been dead for … maybe thirty years.” He struggled to his feet, meeting Terry at eye level. “Don’t you remember? He went over the side of the Bridge.”

“Yeah! Well, we all thought he did. Remember? The car was left at the top of the bridge.” Sergeant Terry O’Meara bent to open his case. “Have a look at these.” He handed Robbie two bulging, dog-eared scrapbooks of newspaper cuttings and photos. The covers were creased, ripped and about to fall off.

Robbie turned the pages in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Where the hell did you get these? They’re full of old cuttings of the family. Sports stuff, prize givings….” While staring uncomprehendingly at his childhood friend, he slowly lowered himself into the welcoming seat of the upholstered chair.

“Robbie, an old man was admitted to the main hospital two days ago. They told me it was tetanus—you know, lockjaw. Well, he looked old. Nobody knew who he was. No ID. Long beard, shaggy hair. He’d been taken by ambulance from a small boat in St Mary’s Bay.”

“But… but… but, how could he hole up there?”

“It’s in an area where no-one ever goes… full of garbage both on land and floating. The boat had Crashpad on one side of the bow and Unicorn on the other. By the look of it, must have been lying there for years. I went down to have a look; these books were in the cabin. There were others—deeds, certificates, driver’s license. I brought them all back for you.” Terry bent to haul two handsful of paper from his small case.

“But how could he be there all that time and nobody know?”

“You should go down and take a look. He once worked on the Bridge, didn’t he? He’d have known that whole area, that it was a bit of a dump and no one ever went there. He’d tied up in what you might describe as a maritime junkyard among an indescribable mess of old wrecks, bicycles of all things—just a complete tip.”

“No wonder he got tetanus.”

“Believe it or not, I knew who it was immediately; I remembered what happened, ‘way back then. How he disappeared—when we all thought he had… he had….”

Robbie stared unseeingly at his old mate. “Bloody hell! All that time…?”

“Yes! For lack of any identification, the Hospital notified us, the Police. I and several other officers were sent to where he was found by some of the workers. A few of them knew him well, as Jock, but had no idea of his real past.” Terry shuffled his handful of pages. “Mean-time, you need to come with us up to the Hospital to identify him so his admittance papers can be confirmed and everything is ‘ship-shape and Bristol fashion’.”

Robbie sat bolt upright in his chair, “You mean he’s still alive?” His eyes looked up in disbelief. ‘What you’re telling me about my dad… is mind-boggling. Thanks Terry, but I’ll let the other two know. I’ll tell Stu & Heather… they won’t believe it either.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I certainly think I should have Stu with me—not sure about Heather at this stage…. It might be all too much.”

“That’s okay, Robbie. Just get up there asap. I’ll meet you both at his bedside—he’s in Ward 65. I’ll tell the Sister you’re on your way.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure Stu is with me and I’ll meet you there. Thank God Mum’s not around to hear this.” He stood to walk his old friend to the door.

Terry held out a hand. “I’m sorry it wasn’t better news.” He hesitated, “Robbie—I should warn you; he’s not in good shape, so—so, be prepared.”

“Thanks again, Terry. You know, I’ve no idea at this stage whether this news is good or bad, but I’m bloody grateful it was you who came today. And yes! We’ll see you up there within the hour.”

*****

They were met at the Ward door by a nurse who queried, “You here to see Mister Duncan?”

“Yes. How’s he doing?”

“I’m sorry! You’d better come into the office.” She led the way, “Please sit down. I’m the Ward Sister,” She waited until they were settled. “I’m so sorry, there was nothing we could do—it was all too late.”