They Walk Amongst Us

Summer was just around the corner, and this late spring Sunday started off magnificently. Warm, sunny, and a gentle easterly breeze wafting out over the calm, Indian ocean. However, to a trained eye, a closer look at the red sky foretold of bad weather on the way. There was an old saying, "red sky in the morning, sailors warning, red sky at night, sailors delight."

Back in the 1970s I did some moonlighting as a deckhand on a crayfishing boat. I had a standing invitation and would go out as often as I could, weekends, public holidays, and rostered days off. I didn't get paid, I just loved being out on the ocean. When I say I didn't get paid, I always came home with at least 40 or more crayfish that had a black- market value of about eight dollars each. Two large freezers at my place plus three others at family and friends' houses amounted to many thousands of dollars.

The "Sandra Jane" was not the prettiest of boats, but with a length of just over twenty metres and powerful twin diesel engines she was a strong dependable cray boat that was anchored at the Ocean Reef breakwater located on a northern beach in Perth, Western Australia. I met the crew in the parking lot that was close by. The skipper, Bob, had a full white beard on a weathered, leathery face that made him look thirty years older. The other two deckies, Josh and Simmo, were in their twenties, and I would describe them as strong and scruffy. I was probably only two minutes late, but that didn't stop the ribald comments, "hey Robbo, get the leg over this morning?" They were great guys, and we all worked well as a team.

The heavy, wooden craypots were already set about eight kilometres offshore close to a small, natural reef. The work, although physically demanding, was a little monotonous with the occasional bit of excitement. The skipper would sometimes place a large, baited hook, usually with a live octopus, on one of the ropes that were used to haul in the craypots and nine times out of ten we would find a very unhappy shark had taken the bait. Bob would sell the sharks to local restaurants and, for the bigger sharks, sell the jaws to Japanese tourists. Today was no exception. We all knew something big was on the line when the winch we used to pull the pots up started slipping. Eventually, a three and a half metre grey surfaced, and it took us nearly twenty minutes to get it on board. These fish are very strong and dangerous; there was a lot of turmoil on the boat, and Josh managed a deep gash to his leg from a runaway craypot.

We had almost finished when the skipper announced that a change in the weather was on the way, and we needed to hurry up. To me, the conditions hadn't changed much. Maybe the wind was stronger, but Bob had sea water running in his veins. Maybe the light had changed, or perhaps the color of the sky, but whatever it was, he knew the weather was turning bad.

Just as we pulled the last pot and headed for home, heavy pelting rain hit us. The wind changed direction and significantly increased in strength. The sky turned black, and together with loud cracks of thunder and dazzling lightning flashes a very eerie, almost surreal scenario unfolded before our eyes. I wasn't that worried. We had a big boat, an experienced captain, and I had weathered much larger storms than this.

As we approached the breakwater, we could see many people standing on the rocks and frantically pointing to the windward side. It was obvious that some of them were shouting at us. Although we were perhaps only fifty metres away from them, the noise of the storm and the deafening crashing of the waves on the rocks made it impossible to hear them.

Bob turned the boat away from the lee side and headed around the breakwater to the other side. It didn't take long to see what was going on. A small aluminium boat, maybe four or five metres in length, was in dire trouble. It was just metres away from the rocks, and it looked like a lot of water had flooded the back end. Standing at the steering wheel of the boat was a large, middle-aged man. Just behind him was an equally large woman and three young kids. The look of fear on the woman's face said it all. With the waves crashing onto the boat and the howling wind both doing their best to smash the boat onto the jagged rocks, disaster was only minutes away. Bob, with his many years of experience, maneuvered our boat as close as he could to the stricken vessel. This was extremely dangerous as it put us in imminent peril of also being tossed onto the rocks. We motioned to the man that we were going to throw him a rope; he didn't look at us, and his face was frozen in fear. I threw the rope perfectly, and it hit the guy in the middle of his chest. He didn't flinch, and the rope fell forlornly to the bottom of the boat. The eldest of the kids, an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy, got the idea. He grabbed the rope and scrambled to the front of the boat. He sat on the bow of the boat, clutching the rope in his hands. Unfortunately, no amount of gesturing could convince the young boy to tie the rope onto the conveniently located bollard. If we tried to tow the boat with him holding the rope, he would have been pulled into the ocean, probably to his death. The boat was almost on the rocks by now. Time had run out. Simmo didn't hesitate. He jumped into the maelstrom and swum to the little boat that was being tossed around like a cork. He scrambled on board, secured the rope, and took control of the wheel while Bob used maximum power to pull the hapless family to safety.

When we finally got to secure our boat and made our way to the shore, we were greeted by a large crowd. They were cheering and calling us heroes; we were a little embarrassed with all the attention and managed to sneak into the nearby sporting club bar for a well-deserved beer.

The beers arrived just in time for us to see the rescued family get in their car and take off at a rapid rate. The boat trailer had been left in the carpark, and the boat was still on the ramp where we had left it. We had a bit of a laugh and guessed that boating was now off the agenda for them.

Later that night, sitting in my cozy, safe house, with a crackling fire and a large whisky, I could hear the still raging storm outside and I realized that today I had witnessed Simmo do the bravest thing I had ever seen. He was the real unsung hero today.