Gwennie's Girl Read online

  For most of the three weeks, they glided or drifted in blue and gold beauty. They all turned brown, and their eyes seemed bluer, greener or darker. They worked together well and knew each other well enough to recognise moods and avoid clashes or cabin fever. There were occasional spats between the Germans but nothing serious. Moods passed, and people come out smiling again. The routine was easy. Breakfast made by Kris. Sailing for the day. Most of the time they skipped lunch, just snacking on fruits or biscuits. Sometimes they swam. Some evenings they berthed at small marinas. Most evenings they went ashore.

  Marmaris was the biggest place they visited. It had extensive marinas where Aquarius looked very slight and elegant against massive motor “yachts” that screamed of testosterone and money. Kris took them in for one night only to stock up on provisions, water and fuel. Marmaris also had a great tourist market with narrow crowded alleys between stalls of jumbled smells and colours. Spice sellers wafted around their open bags of curry and pepper and cumin and turmeric and saffron. Leather bags and cases cluttered between racks of leather jackets and skirts and trousers. From some came the unmistakable smell of camel mingling with the more refined hides. Clean jewel colours of blouses and floaty dresses gleamed in piles beside T-shirts with a medley of slogans and prints. Interspersed were fruit stalls with round yellow peaches, smooth nectarines and clustered grapes all green or purple. Onions, garlic, cucumbers and piles and piles of tomatoes. Everywhere the smell of lamb slowly scorching while warm bread and piquant sauce lined up to wait for the outside slices.

  The crew didn’t ever buy very much but gathered at a waterside cafe and watched the ferries and their crews and salesmen as they lured customers to take trips across to Greece. It was always a lively performance as the men flirted with young western girls wearing shorts and skimpy tops. Brown eyes flashed and white smiles dazzled while compliments littered the exchanges. Young male tourists were urged to enjoy a day of drinking beer in the sun and, ‘Look at these girls who come on my boat…’ Older couples were promised a gentle sailing, ‘No rough moves, all very calm, very quiet.’ All this often offered on the same outing. Marmaris was fun, noisy and crowded. They were all always pleased to leave.

  There were a couple of other bays that they always visited. One was a particular favourite. They were usually the only yacht in the bay, but at most, there would be three others. They anchored in deep water off a rocky shoreline where they had to tie up. This was always a drama. Two people went in the dinghy with ropes and had to loop and make fast the heavy ropes while Kris kept the Aquarius steady. They never did it quickly enough or in the right spot. This time Sam was a competent help, but Lizzie had to swim with him, each pulling a rope to a pile of rocks. Kris made a big loop and handed it to Lizzie. She was never sure she could do it, but Kris and Sam just looked at her and expected that she would. So she did.

  When they were finally secure, everyone went overboard for a swim. It was a clear bay, and Lizzie pulled on flippers and a mask with her snorkel. There was no coral like the coral she had seen in the Red Sea or like the coral she had seen in the Pacific, but there were fish and there was the clean light-filled, under-sea world. Now that she could snorkel without filling her nose and mouth with water and spluttering constantly, she loved it.

  It was different from that first time exactly one year after she had found a lump in her breast. That had been her forty-fourth birthday. Her hair was short and curly as it had grown back. She had a new “lump under her jumper” which was what the surgeon who did the reconstruction had promised her. She was satisfied. It meant she didn’t have to wear a prosthesis or look lopsided which had been her only options before he took the flesh of her “spare-tire” around her lower abdomen and made the lump that now replaced her right breast.

  That had been a shitty year. Fear, surgery, a death-sentence, a death-sentence commuted to life, baldness, chemotherapy, wild mood swings, despair and anger. So much anger.

  Then came the invitation to attend a world congress in Arizona, to do a speaking tour of women’s groups in the USA. She bought a round-the-world ticket and stopped over in Egypt on her way home. Why not?

  She had joined up with a group of seven others (all much younger than she was but very tolerant of the oldie in their midst) and floated down the Nile, had a few mild adventures and, finally, boarded a fishing boat to go snorkelling in the Red Sea. It had sounded so romantic. It was when they were about an hour out to sea that Lizzie thought to mention that she had never been snorkelling and…Is this relevant?…couldn’t swim very well. They thought she was joking. Oops! She didn’t like to add that she didn’t even like putting her head under water.

  One of the crew, a stunningly beautiful young man, called, of course, Mohammed, had been very attentive. He smiled at Lizzie with the most melting deep brown eyes she had ever seen and reassured her, ‘It is very easy, Miss Lizzie. Very easy. You will see.’

  That’s all very well, young man, but I am seriously not good at this sort of stuff. And how much further is this boat going? We’ll be at the other side soon. I’ve seen the maps and this Red Sea is not all that wide, surely?

  Shi-it! We’re stopping. Everyone is bustling about. Are these my flippers? They look enormous. But I can’t get them on. My foot is sticking to the rubber and the strap is too tight. Wet my foot? That sounds like a good idea but, my dear, the bloody water is bloody miles away over the bloody side. Are there any steps down? You think I’m being funny don’t you? I’m not trying to be funny. The only other way to wet my foot is becoming a distinct possibility as I’m getting more and more nervous. But think of the smell and the embarrassment. Thank you. Thank you for tipping a bucket of water over me. Yes, I know I’m smiling, and you all think I’m clowning deliberately. Well, at least the bloody things are on my bloody feet. Now, what? Jump over the side. You have to be kidding. Are there really no steps I can go down? Climb onto the rail. Swing my legs over. Yes. The flippers are getting in the way. Drop into the sea. Drop into the sea? I’ll go under. What if I don’t ever come up again? That is not a joke although I’m glad to see that I’m amusing you all. Hold the mask and the snorkel and let go of the rail. Unclench my fingers. Drop. Oh! Shi-i-it! I’m dropping. I’m drowning. There’s a terrible noise. I can’t see anything. I wouldn’t see anything, I’m sure, even if I opened my eyes. Which I won’t. OK. OK. So you were right, I did come back up to the surface. Now I have this rope in my hand I just might stay here for the rest of the day. Put on the mask. Spit on it. Spit on you too, Sir. Oh, I see…the spit stops it fogging up. So, I’ll spit. Now the mask is on. What about the snorkel? Of course, I know I have to put it in my mouth and breathe. This, I can do. See. It is in my mouth and I’m breathing. Put my head in the water? Really? I have to put my head in the water? Well, here goes nothing. It’s in the water. I’m taking a breath. Bloody hell! I’m drowning. I’ve swallowed half this ocean and the other half is up my nose. What is so funny? The end of the snorkel was pointed the wrong way—now you tell me. I don’t think I can do this. I need help. Mohammed, where are you? Mohammed, can you see me simpering at you through this mask covered in spit and can you see me trying to smile with this piece of rubber tube stuck in my mouth? Mohammed please can you help me?

  It was a clear case of Mohammed to the rescue. In a trice, he was in the water holding her up so she didn’t keep spluttering and flapping wildly. He fixed the snorkel, fixed the mask, stroked her cheek, put his arm around her and smiled fondly. Lizzie did her best not to drown him in return. It would not seem fair. He held her while she practised breathing through the bloody rubber tube. Then he took her hand and, together, they glided away into the blueness. Well, Mohammed glided. Lizzie flapped along beside him.

  Then the wonder of it took over. Never had she experienced such liquid light. Oh, good one, Lizzie. “Liquid Light” under water. How original. Shut-up and enjoy. She did, and it was beautiful.

  There was just the occasional problem. Sometimes, despite all her care, water d
id get into the snorkel. ‘You must blow it out, Miss Lizzie. Like this…’ Mohammed demonstrated while holding Lizzie so she could tread water without feeling she had to flap her feet at fifty miles an hour.

  Lizzie put her head down and tried to blow out. But she forgot—no, she didn’t forget—she just didn’t realise how it worked—she forgot to keep her lips clamped around the snorkel. She took in a huge mouthful, and there was more spluttering. Mohammed held her again, and this time he held her very close. Very close. Lizzie kept spluttering, torn between the need to breathe and the feeling that she should get out of Mohammed’s arms without being dropped to the bottom of the Red Sea.

  ‘How old are you, Miss Lizzie?’ that question always asked.

  Old enough to be your mother, sonny.

  ‘I am very old, Mohammed.’

  Why don’t you tell him you are in your forties? That would do the trick instantly.

  ‘How old, Miss Lizzie?’

  ‘I’m older than you, Mohammed dear. I think I’m OK now. Let’s go.’

  Vanity, Lizzie, vanity.

  No matter how much she tried, there were still times when she couldn’t blow out properly and she broke the idyll of deep rich coral, brilliant fish, wavering sunlight and this beautiful young man holding her hand. Each time, he smiled and held her close while she recovered. ‘Miss Lizzie, I think you like it like this,’ he grinned after about the tenth time. Lizzie concentrated on blowing out. But he was very beautiful.

  That had been magical snorkelling. This bay was not like that, but it was fresh and clean, and Lizzie could do it on her own in the silent blueness. And this time, Sam was with her and she had no objections at all when he held her hand and they glided together or when he stopped and held her close under water.

  When they came back on board, the others had showered and were into the evening drinks. There was a small hose at the back of the Aquarius on the steps down to the water. This was the main shower they used on board. There were two others inside but they were cramped and had to be pumped out when the shower was finished. It was easier to soap all over and then spray away on the deck.

  Everyone had their own style of dodging bathing suits or of stripping when they not in view of other boats. It was still difficult for Lizzie to strip off in front of other people because she knew her scars were apparent and the “bump under the jumper” was not exactly sexy. Yet Sam had not minded when he saw her naked in Rwanda so now there were very few times she even remembered her shape but she could not bring herself back to those lovely times when nakedness was natural on Australian beaches or in a swimming pool. Sam tickled her, and it was all funny. So she just turned her back and the people who were friends and the man who was her lover took no notice.

  Lizzie dressed, brushed her hair and stroked cool, creamy moisturiser into her skin. She loved that tingling, outside cool, inside-hot feeling that came after being in the sun all day. She sipped her drink on deck as the light faded from the Turkish sky and for a moment wondered how Gwennie would feel if she knew her girl were here, now, in this place, at this time. Gwennie would have loved this setting. Nanna would just love to know her Lizzie was making the most of whatever was offering.

  As the sky darkened, small lights showed from the house at the curve of the bay. There was one family here that cooked and served meals for the occasional yachts that visited. It was expected that visitors would arrive in time to allow chickens to be killed and meals prepared. In the warmth that still rose from the hills around the bay, they took turns to clamber into the dinghy and ferry to the beach. The challenge, always, in the dinghy was to hold sandals, avoid sitting in the puddles and not capsize. It was another superb evening with a full moon and just enough breeze to offset the heat. They ate and drank well, toasting their host and his family, toasting Aquarius and the moon, toasting each other, toasting the good life. They toasted in Turkish, English, French and German. They toasted the beach, the stars, the dinghy.

  When the first four finally headed off in the dinghy, they made it safely for about a metre. Then someone—no one ever did admit to it—someone stood or wriggled or something and they turned turtle in the shallow water where those who were drunk sobered up. Lizzie, Sam and one of the Germans watching from the beach were still laughing when they came to breakfast next morning and of course later that evening, they were repaid in kind, but it was worth it.

  The days passed. Lizzie thought about Sam. She was quite happy with things as they had been, as they were now. She didn’t want any change and to be fair he did not seem anxious for anything different between them. Lizzie’s life now was good and the nightmare times seldom intruded. The violence. The terror. The humiliation and the shame. All gone. Almost gone. The desperation and urgent need to live. The despair and almost giving herself up to death. The almost letting go, almost letting the softness seduce her into the calm of nothingness. Once she had resisted being brought back. Then she had resisted being taken. Could she have really let go? In the war-zones or when just travelling she held on, she kept going. Was that just cowardice calling the tune? No, she rather thought she did want to live. They would have to take her kicking and screaming into whatever it was one went into. She would not go quietly.

  Towards the end of the week, they met some heavy weather as the sky and the sea turned from wedding-day blue to funeral grey. The breeze became a biting wind. There was some rain. Mostly, there were waves. Big waves. A big swell. Lots of wind. Lots of waves. The Aquarius ploughed and rose and her mast angled close to the water. Lizzie wasn’t really frightened, but, ‘Can she tip over?’ she asked. Four German scientists, one German computer expert and one smiling Sam assured her the Aquarius would not capsize. Something about the keel, the weight, the height and her centre of gravity.

  ‘But lots of yachts do capsize,’ Lizzie felt stirred to mention.

  ‘Aquarius won’t.’

  Lizzie decided to keep them to their word. So she relaxed and enjoyed the exhilaration, the pull of the waves, the energy of it all. Three of the others were nauseous and looked far from well as they clung to the sides and struggled to throw up where the wind whipped away their misery. The youngest woman became badly frightened and began to cry.

  ‘Take the wheel,’ Kris called to Lizzie because Sam was doing something to the sails and mast. Kris clipped the young German woman’s life jacket to the strong metal uprights, gave her a quick cuddle and tried to reassure her. Lizzie had never had the wheel in conditions like these. It pulled and tugged to get away from her. She preferred to steer by a landmark but visibility was so poor that that was impossible so Kris called the compass points and left her to it, just telling her to keep on course but, ‘Watch the waves—play them, Lizzie, and you will be OK.’

  ‘You can do it girl,’ called Sam

  Her hair was whipping across her face and into her eyes. Her cap was long ago stuffed into her pocket. She could taste the salt that was crusting her skin. Aquarius leaned. Shit, how she leaned. Lizzie had one foot on the deck and one foot up on the box seat just to keep herself nearly vertical. The wheel fought her, and her arms began to ache as she asserted her will (Kris’ will. Sam’s will) on this elegant lady craft turned hostile by the threat all round her. They rose and dived. Sometimes, they thwacked down. Always it was a rough ride. This was why writers liken boats to runaway horses. Aquarius wanted to bolt. Lizzie would not let her. The young woman called something to Kris and Sam who smiled and nodded in response.

  ‘She says you look as though you like this, Lizzie,’ Kris yelled in Lizzie’s ear. Sam gave her a thumb’s up and a grin. ‘That’s my girl,’ he called. Your girl? Watch your mouth matey!

  But Lizzie was enjoying every minute. It became longer than minutes. After an hour, Sam took over when Lizzie was exhausted but feeling great. She quickly realised, however, that it was all much less exciting when she was not at the wheel. She had confidence in the rest of the crew, of course, but, somehow, when her fate was in someone else’s hands it was not
quite so much fun. Does that say something about your personality, girl?

  Still the greyness was all around them. She remembered Gwennie and the terrible greyness of Mum’s pain as she called for the ease of medication. Lizzie remembered too the greyness of her own fear. She remembered the greyness of easy death in the softness of water. She had rejected that greyness. Now, she felt the sharp whipping of the wind, heard the silver rattle of cables against the mast, felt herself sliding as Aquarius tossed to ride the waves. But she held on. She held on and together, wet, tired, cold and exhilarated, they rounded a point and were safely in harbour.

  It was a small bay, rocky like all the others. In the storm that continued, they battled to secure Aquarius having to go in the dinghy to set the ropes and, even in this sheltered spot, fight the water that was flicking up and challenging them. There was no laughter or teasing as they all worked together, jumping to obey Kris’s orders and straining to do what he expected of them all. The rubber of the dinghy was slippery with rain. The ropes were heavier. Aquarius was still recalcitrant. They were all tired and a little scared. If they didn’t do their job properly, Aquarius could be dashed on the rocks or taken out of their control in the sea which no longer hid its dislike. Its friendliness of the day before had changed to sullen, no, to active aggression.

  Instinctively, they all relied on Kris. No one questioned his orders or made suggestions, even when they had two lines in place, and it was clear that the yacht was not yet safe. He ordered one rope changed to what seemed an impossible position and they did it. Then he sent a third line when they all felt so exhausted that they would have said, ‘That’ll do.’ This was tough. Sam took the lead acting on Kris’ directions.