Nine Summers Read online

  Seven days later, we started to make our way each weekday morning to the Marsden. For four weeks Monday to Friday, I waited outside the radiotherapy treatment room and watched frightened faces sip tea or stare vacantly into magazines. And when, now and again, eyes met, they resonated with compassion. Felix grew progressively more tired and looked increasingly gaunt, his face more lined.

  It was a comfort to be with David, Anne and the girls, especially as Felix could talk about his concerns with David, who at that time was a surgical registrar at King’s College Hospital.

  At the end of the treatment Dr Hunt did his best to reassure us.

  ‘As you know, Felix, it’s hard to give a prognosis, but I’m optimistic. There’ll be recurrences, but one can go on treating.’

  ****

  It was hard to say goodbye to David, Anne and the girls. I wiped my tears. ‘…It’ll be great to see you back in Sydney for good next year.’

  The plane took off at night. Felix ate and drank as usual, then we spread out the blankets and held hands. I shut my eyes. Felix had no problems going to sleep and keeping everything under control. But my heart was pounding, my brain buzzing. ‘How does he manage to be always in control, never lose his cool? Maybe that’s what surgery is about? He always knows what to do next. But how is he going to solve this one?’

  The cabin was dark. Through an open blind I watched a red port light blip on and off in a black–blue sky. The aroma of coffee swept past me as an attendant handed a passenger a tray. When we neared Bangkok, a pumpkin sky bathed the horizon and a bright arc climbed from the sea, heralding a cloudless day. I saw the beauty of the world as I’d never seen it before, and wondered how many more dawns we still had together.

  Suddenly, Felix sat up, wide awake, and turned towards me. ‘What would you think about retiring now, buying our dream boat and sailing the Med, like we always said we would?’

  Ever since we’d seen the Mediterranean together in 1953, we’d talked about how we’d ‘sail the Med’ when we retired. That was after an old fisherman at Portofino on the Italian Riviera lent us his stubby plank boat with an ochre sail for the afternoon, and we had our first view from the sea of the coastline, the promontory, the tiny pastel-coloured villages suspended on steep hillsides, sheltered bays, dark green pines and brightly coloured boats tied to the shore. When we returned that evening, Felix looked round the bay, then said, ‘One day we’ll sail the Med in our own boat!’

  ‘What a fabulous idea,’ I said. ‘Promise?’ And the way he said ‘Promise’ I knew he was serious.

  Felix knew how much I loved the Mediterranean, where I’d spent the first ten years of my life — the first seven in Israel, and the following three in Italy. During the many years that followed our encounter with the old fisherman, we often referred to our ‘mad dream’ to sail the Med when we retired.

  Now, as we held hands on our way back to Sydney, I looked at Felix in disbelief. ‘Oh, that crazy notion!’ I thought, and didn’t know what to say. Then, almost muttering to myself, I said, ‘How would we deal with medical problems?’

  ‘First we need to decide whether this is what we really want. As for the problems, we’ll deal with them one at a time.’

  The old fisherman’s face flashed before my eyes. His weathered hands, his crumpled hat, his loose trousers tied with string, his slow, deliberate gait as he walked away and left us to his boat — I saw it all again, and felt tears roll down my cheeks.

  ‘Of course the idea grabs me. You know it does. But my concern is still — what if we have medical problems on the way?’

  ‘We’d always be within a few hours’ flight to London, and we’d go back there for check-ups.’

  ‘OK. And what will we live on?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know yet. One option is to let the house.’

  ‘What’ll we do when we come back and neither of us has a job?’

  ‘We’ll worry about it then.’ Felix went on, ‘We can’t make five-year or three-year or two-year plans. We need to cope with each problem as it comes up.’

  ‘OK, if you solve the problems, I’ll go along.’

  ‘You realise you’ll need to do courses in navigation, radio, radar, survival at sea and all the rest,’ Felix said.

  ‘OK.’

  But I continued to think about problems that to me seemed insurmountable. Felix countered them with ‘It’s not quite like that…’ Finally, when we felt as if we’d been through all the problems and solved them, that unremitting sense of doom that had been weighing on us lifted. A ray of sun lit our faces. We looked at each other and beamed. A new life. We’d decided on a new life!

  ****

  I was alone at home when my cousin Nick and his wife Agnes walked in some days after our return. Their expressions registered a gale force wind.

  ‘Felix told me that you’re buying a bigger boat and that you’re going to retire in a few months and sail the Mediterranean. Is this serious?’ Nick blurted. ‘Are you happy to do that, or are you just doing it for Felix?’

  ‘Oh, no! I’m thrilled to do that,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re both a bit reckless?’

  ‘What’s life about? Especially when you know it’s likely to be cut short,’ I started, but Nick interrupted me. ‘Sure, one should make the best of it, enjoy as much as you can, but within sensible limits. What happens when you need medical treatment and you’re on a boat?’

  ‘We could do what most people would expect us to do — go on working as normal, interspersed with bouts of treatment until the end. The other choice is to do what we’d always hoped to do when we retired. Instead of waiting, we’ve decided to do it now. If we don’t do what we want to do now, there won’t be another chance.

  ‘It’s a choice between adventure and freedom or just waiting to die. Sure, there’ll be times when we have medical problems, fear, depression. I know I’ll be terrified when we’re caught in storms. But you could say we’ve chosen one last adventure, to live our dream.’

  There was a long silence. Agnes looked stunned, uncomprehending, but Nick was almost convinced.

  A week after our return from London, we walked into a shipbroker’s office. The broker was on the phone for a long time. When he’d finished, he spun his chair and said in an impatient tone, ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘What we’re looking for is as rare as hen’s teeth, I know,’ Felix started, ‘but we’re looking for a “Savage 42”.’

  The shipbroker’s eyes widened, and he sat up.

  ‘That’s very interesting. The bloke I was just talking to phoned from Brisbane. He’s selling one, the original one Jack Savage built for himself. If you’re really interested, we could fly up to Brisbane on the weekend and have a look at her.’

  We stared at each other, said nothing. Then Felix turned towards him and said, ‘OK. This weekend.’

  For the rest of the week, we talked of nothing else. I waved as Felix backed out of the garage to drive to the airport. ‘Good luck!’ I called out.

  ‘I’ll phone as soon as I know anything.’ To pass the time, I busied myself baking.

  At lunchtime, Felix phoned. ‘We’ve got her! She’s beautiful. Needs a few minor alterations and a name change. A crew can deliver her to Sydney next week.’

  It was a crystal morning the Sunday she slipped into Sydney Heads, a gleaming white hull with billowing sails, making a triumphal entry past a swarm of boats as we gazed through binoculars from the peak of South Head. Our last boat, I thought.

  ‘What shall we call her?’ Felix asked.

  As we’d always chosen names from Greek mythology, I said, ‘I’d like her to be Galatea after the sea nymph, and turn her into our dream boat.’

  We followed her with our binoculars, watched the crew take down her sails and motor into the Cruising Yacht Club in Rushcutters Bay.

  ‘I think I’m dreaming.’ I clutched Felix’s arm.

  The crew looked tired. ‘We sailed on one tack all the way from Brisbane. She’s a beauty
, sails like a dream. The only mishap was the television. It flew out of its locker and crashed onto the floor. It’ll need repairs. Sorry about that.’

  We cracked a bottle of champagne and toasted, ‘To Galatea. May God bless her and all who sail in her.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  The crew packed up and left, and our real excitement set in. We opened hatches, raised floorboards, looked into the bilge, tested the radio and opened the refrigerator, the deep freeze, the portholes.

  A ‘Savage 42’ had been our dream boat since we’d inspected one five years earlier. Some were sloops (with one mast), but ours was a ketch (two masts), which we thought ideal for the cruising we intended to do. The centre cockpit made me feel protected on all sides. I also liked the idea of an aft cabin, a ‘bedroom’, with its adjoining tiny shower, a sink and head (toilet). Apart from a comfortable central saloon, there was a forward cabin with two bunks and an additional large shower, sink and head.

  ‘We must make a list of what we need to make this a proper home,’ I said. Felix started, ‘…more shelves for books, for tapes, hanging space for clothes, a microwave, a spot for a computer, a printer, wine storage, locker for the photographic gear, sound system, clear wall space for pictures. New seat covers…’

  ‘And how about sailing up to Smith’s Creek next weekend and introducing Galatea to our favourite spot,’ I said.

  For almost 30 years, first with the children and later alone, we’d spent weekends and holidays on our various boats in the bays and inlets of Broken Bay, fjord-like cruising waters about 28 km north of Sydney.

  So, on the following weekend, we made for Smith’s Creek. We dropped an anchor near the aged ghost gum that had grown old with us. There, the scent of eucalyptus leaves, the sea breeze and tranquillity shrouded us.

  That first morning on Galatea was bright but cold. We rolled down the plastic sides of the cockpit cover and basked in the warmth. We breakfasted on porridge with brown sugar and coffee, and watched the mist curl and rise.

  ‘Do you remember how we used to row ashore to collect oysters with the kids, and how the family of ducks liked to come on board and demand crumbs?’

  ‘We’ve had such good times.’ Felix put his arm round me.

  In the evening we lit the paraffin lamps, and the saloon glowed with warmth in the amber light. We played quiet music, had dinner, drank wine and listened to the night sounds of the bush — frogs, crickets, jumping fish, the breeze in the trees.

  In the early morning, the water was as still and smooth as glass, mirroring the hills, the hull, the masts and the trees. It was hard to tell where image and reality merged. Two kookaburras perched on the crosstrees and laughed. We waved to them. They looked down with disdain.

  That weekend was our introduction to living on board our new Galatea. Yes, we could live like this, just the two of us, marooned from the real world.

  When we sailed back to Sydney at the end of that weekend I knew we’d never go to Smith’s Creek again.

  ****

  ‘Perhaps we should have a long trial run before we ship Galatea to the Mediterranean, maybe sail to the Barrier Reef. We could do the race to Mooloolaba with crew, that’d get us up north quickly. From there we’d be on our own. It’s an opportunity for you to practise navigation and use the radar and radio,’ Felix said.

  ‘But I hate big boat racing,’ I said. ‘Yes, I know you do, but the more time we spend on Galatea before we ship her overseas the better. Give it a think, honey!’

  The following morning I was in a good mood.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the race to Mooloolaba,’ I started. ‘It sounds OK, so long as the crew isn’t paranoid about winning.’

  ‘That’s good, you’ll enjoy it.’ Felix wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d expected.

  ‘We’ll talk about it tonight.’

  When he came home that evening, Felix looked distressed. ‘What’s wrong? I can tell, something’s wrong.’

  ‘Don’t get all upset. Let’s have coffee first.’

  ‘No. Tell me what’s wrong!’

  ‘Well, sit down.’ I fell into the nearest chair.

  ‘I had a lump in my neck removed a couple of days ago under local anaesthetic. I just got the pathology result — it’s a recurrence.’ I started to shake.

  ‘Honey, don’t! This is likely to happen more than once. We’ll have to cope.’

  ‘Does this mean that it’s back to London?’

  ‘No, I had a meeting with oncology and decided on chemotherapy for six months, six weekly.’ He tried to reassure me: ‘We won’t let it change anything.’

  I burst into tears. ‘How can you think of racing? You’ll be in the middle of chemotherapy, you’ll feel sick.’

  ‘Some chemotherapies make you more sick than others.’

  ‘In that case we shouldn’t sail to the Barrier Reef as we’d planned. The whole thing seems mad to me.’

  ‘We can still continue north after the race. David said he’d fly up and give me the intravenous chemotherapy. That’s easily organised.’ Felix looked relieved now that he’d told me. ‘How about we go out for dinner now?’ He came over and let me cry on his shoulder.

  ‘And don’t forget about the “Survival at Sea” test next week.’ This was the only course we were doing together. Felix had passed the Master Yachtsman Certificate several years earlier.

  ****

  ‘The test is at the Qantas pool,’ our TAFE lecturer announced. ‘You’ll have to wear full wetsuits, boots and life jackets when you jump off the wing of a 747, and swim several laps of the pool.’

  ‘I can’t swim 30 m!’

  I whispered. ‘I’ll stay near you,’ Felix assured me.

  ‘Felix and Rina, I’ve arranged for you to do the test on Tuesday with a dozen young blokes who are doing the exam for their professional diploma in coastal navigation.’

  As we neared the Qantas pool, I pretended to be cool, but my stomach started to churn as soon as I entered the chamber. The wing of a 747 was suspended over the water, in a badly lit cavity, enclosed by four walls and a towering roof. Flight crews trained here for emergencies at sea.

  Twelve young men and a bare-footed, beer-bellied examiner wearing shorts stood at the side of the pool. We joined them.

  The examiner’s voice boomed. ‘You’ll climb up to the platform, walk onto the wing of the 747, then jump into the water one at a time. As soon as you come up, you’ll swim the length of the pool four times. When you’ve all jumped, the lights will go off. There will be rain, lightning, wind and waves simulating a storm at sea.’

  We climbed the ladder. ‘Jesus, what am I doing here? I’m pushing 60, I’m the only woman, I’m crazy!’

  ‘OK, the first person jump!’ he bellowed.

  Like a zombie, I moved forward. Before I had time to think, I was the first to step to the edge of the wing and jump. My gumboots hit the water, filled and dragged me down. I touched the bottom. The life jacket floated me to the surface. I looked up and saw Felix jump.

  ‘And now swim up and down four times!’ the examiner shouted at us.

  I swallowed water. I gulped for air. My heart pounded. The waves rose higher and higher. I dog paddled, I thrashed about, and somehow I found myself at one end of the pool. I turned and floundered towards the other end. Lights went out. It was pitch black. Torrents of rain poured. The ‘sea’ became more and more agitated. Lightning flashed. I shut my eyes. My pulse raced.

  ‘And now I’m tossing an igloo life raft into the water. Get into it. When you’re all in, zip it up. I’ll turn it upside down, and switch on a gale,’ the microphone roared.

  Felix grabbed me, dragged me to the raft, climbed into it then pulled me in. The others followed. As they were about to zip the igloo shut, I panicked.

  ‘Can’t! Claustrophobic! Got to get out!’

  ‘Swim to the edge, get him to pull you out!’ Felix yelled as he pushed me out of the raft and into the water. I fell into thick blackness and tossing waves. I gasped fo
r air, thrashed towards the edge and caught the examiner’s foot.

  ‘Drowning!’ I panted.

  ‘Get back or I’ll fail you!’ he bawled, as he kicked me and pushed me back. In that split second, a flash of lightning lit the chamber. He saw me, realised that I was about to pass out, knelt and pulled me out.

  I never bothered to find out whether I failed that test.

  For several weeks before the race, we worked on the modifications we wanted done on Galatea. Dieter, the carpenter at the Cruising Yacht Club, was an artist. He fitted equipment in the saloon, built shelves, racks and additional lockers, and altered the galley. Ken Evans was a wizard with the diesel engine. By the time he’d finished, he knew it like the back of his hand, which was lucky. We would phone him more than once from the Mediterranean for advice.

  Although I’d finished all my courses, I was nervous. This was my first long offshore race and I’d agreed to co-navigate for practice. Felix was being gentle with me. We would take watches together so he could supervise me. After the race we intended to continue on our own to the Barrier Reef, and somewhere along the way, David would fly up to administer Felix’s chemo-therapy when it was due.

  It was a brilliant blue day, the harbour a blaze of colour and movement as boats jockeyed for position.

  Bang! The starting gun sent a frenzy of boats moving in one direction.

  ‘We’re on our way, sure looks good.’ Felix beamed. ‘Evening forecast is for light variable winds.’

  That evening I heated a chicken casserole and rice in the microwave, followed by a fruit pudding. It was so calm, I added a flambé brandy sauce that almost set the cabin alight. ‘That was ambitious. Every race should start with the smell of brandy sauce!’ Bob, a member of our crew, licked his lips.

  Trouble began the following morning when the radar packed up, but Felix assured us that as long as the weather lasted, and the visibility was good, it didn’t really matter. On the third day it started to rain. The wind and sea were building up, and a strong wind warning, 20 to 30 knots, came on the air. The boys furled the main and headsail to half size. When a renewed strong wind warning came on the radio some hours later, we headed out to sea. As we neared Cape Byron on the following day, a 24-hour gale warning was issued.