Chapter Two

The HMAS Langford rocked gently against the docks. In the calm, lapping waves, the crew boarded this majestic ship.

In the late ‘70s, an amateur maritime entrepreneur decided to purchase a Handysize cargo ship. This was the birth of the Langford, or as it was formerly called, the Leviathan. Either the owner was heavily influenced by the Bible or Herman Melville. Quite behind the times, the entrepreneur, ironically, could not keep his business afloat.
The ship was then given to a friend of the businessman. The friend kept the ship for a decade before deciding to sell it to a scrap yard. Surely, it would have been the end of the barge, had it not been for the uneventful death of the friend. He was killed in a bingle.
The Leviathan then ended up in the hands of the navy during wartime. The name was then changed to its more royal title: the HMAS Langford.
Sold in an auction after its use, the Langford ended up in the hands of an aging merchant. The merchant used the ship for deliveries to New Zealand and Tasmania. Nothing outside of Australia’s reaches.
One day, the merchant's nephew was visiting after being discharged from the Royal Australian Navy. The nephew found love within the Langford. The merchant's nephew was none other than Captain Whetham.
That was seven years ago.

David Whetham had joined in the naval services when he turned eighteen, right after finishing school. As a bright young lad with a promising future, it didn't take long for David to move up the chain of command aboard the HMAS Labuan. He had a certain knack for taking the initiative and leading men in to rough waters. And that was exactly what the service was looking for. By the age of twenty-two, David had already been promoted to Lieutenant Commander.
Whetham spent fifteen years sailing the seas, reaching from the Orient to South America. He said that in his last year aboard the Labuan, he found one of the ocean's greatest navigators he had ever met. The twenty-one year-old navigator, fresh from dropping out of the Australian National University, served under the Captain for only half a year before getting transferred to Sydney.
Although being transferred, I kept in contact with the Captain.
It wasn't until late winter that year, when Captain Whetham was briefly stationed in Papua New Guinea, that he caught a severe intestinal disease. The disease took a toll on the Captain. Not only was the disease eating away at his innards, it was the catalyst to the formal discharge of him from his duties.
He received a corrective surgery, which helped stopped the disease from deteriorating his body, but took a toll on him. Suffering from chronic washroom calls, occasional seasickness, and blinding cramps, the Captain has never been the same. The government did not wish to spend the time on the Captain for compensation and so they have given him a stipend pay every month. After leaving the service, this was when the Captain laid eyes on the Langford.
Saving up his money he bought the barge from his uncle, and began his own delivery service. It took three months for Whetham to gather a crew. It only took one day to recruit me as his navigator.

“G’day,” called Captain Whetham, high above the desk from his tower.
The Captain rarely left the ship, mainly because of his recent case of panthophobia. Or, in the off chance, there was a possibility he may run in to an old acquaintance.
Back in his youth, the Captain was known for being quite the ladies’ man. He had left many sheilas behind, and for it, has been cautious of wherever we may be stationed. And Brisbane was at the top of his watch list.
“Pritchett,” he called.
“Aye, sir?”
“I would like a full debriefing in the tower in ten minutes.”
What he meant asking for was our route for the trip. During his many years with the navy, somehow the Captain had never once picked up on how to read a nautical chart. I’ve gotten use to translating the maps for him in these seven years.
I spotted Merrifield climbing up the crane for the second cargo hold.
“Bear,” I called.
“Mate?” he looked down, spotting me.
“The Cap’n would like to have his usual meeting up in ten.”
“Just let me finish,” he said, climbing higher.
“You could always get Oswald to do it,” I suggested.
That stopped Merrifield. He turned to look at me. “Chuck is a bludger,” he said. Merrifield didn’t have anything against Oswald, but it would sometimes become necessary to use his seniority as chief mate over him.
“Chuck has let things slip before,” said Bear. “And I don’t want that. If that happens, then the customers aren’t happy. Then the Captain ain’t happy.”
Captain Whetham had one main principle: take care of the cargo.
The shipments were sacred to the Captain, as was any one of his men’s lives. And it was doubly important on this voyage, especially since one of our stops was China.
Whetham established a partnership with some Chinese businessmen many years ago. Although our cargo is mainly dry goods, the Chinese businessmen’s dealings have always been shady, so we felt obliged not to ask about it.
Richard Ehlers, the second mate aboard the Langford, approached the crane. Ehlers sucked on his ivory pipe, looking up at Bear controlling the crane.
“Lachlan, what’s wrong?” he asked. He stared at me with his gleaming, pristine glass eye.
“Captain wants to have a word with us, but Bear doesn’t want to leave Oswald in charge,” I said.
“Like usual,” he scoffed. Ehlers puffed on his pipe. He turned towards the crane. “Merrifield, erhalten deinen esel unten hier diesen augenblick. Den Kapitän nicht warten lassen.”
Merrifield poked his head out of the crane tower, looking down at Ehlers.
“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself. He slowly got out of the crane and began his descent.
Ehlers and Merrifield are practically brothers, having known each for nearly thirty years now. Ever since he was a small child, Ehlers has been moving across Europe and Asia. He eventually became fluent in five languages, but has only retained memory of three. When he was twenty-five, Ehlers met Merrifield while in Berlin. It’s not unusual to hear Ehlers curse at Bear in German, nor at the deckhands in Mandarin.
Merrifield finally made it to the deck. He butted heads with Ehlers.
“Y’know, Dick, you’re a prat,” he said.
“I know,” said Ehlers.

High above the deck in the Captain’s tower, Merrifield could see Charles taking charge. Ehlers slapped Bear on the back, “Don’t you worry, you’ll be back out there in a moment’s time.”
Kensaku Kogo, the Chief Engineer, tapped his wooden sword against the floor, counting the Captain’s paces.
Captain Whetham ambled about the tower.
Hunched over my charts, I traced our route. “First we’ll depart for Fiji. It shouldn’t take us very long to get there, if the weather holds steady.”
“Good,” gaited Whetham. “Lachlan, let me pause you for a moment.” David rubbed at his stomach, “I just got off the horn with the harbour master. He said that the weather reports are filing in, and says we should let the storm pass before we depart. I, for one, take his pieces of advice as a lick of dirt. So, as you all know, we’re heading in for rough weather. Michael is out there, tearing up the seas, and I don’t give a damn. We’ve seen worse, and have been through worse. This is nothing new. We have a cargo to deliver, and by God, I am going to see that through.”
“When do we push off, sir?” I asked.
Whetham clawed at his gut. “Make it in fifteen. I want to be out of here before I finish taking a shit.”

--Lachlan Pritchett

Chapter One

From the journal of Lachlan Pritchett

Dark clouds danced overhead Brisbane. A storm was practicing up the Tango out in the pacific waters and it was heading our way for a local show. The Eastern Shore slept, but we were still awake inside the warmth of Tiny Abbot's.

Inside Abbot's, we, the crew of the HMAS Langford drank heartily, shrugging off the reports on the television about some squall raging in the Pacific waters. In an hour we had to depart for another delivery off in those strathspeying seas. But that was in an hour, and at the moment we were trying to breathe in the remnants of our long awaited vacation.

"Oi' Lachlan," called Dalton, Abbot's barkeep.

Dalton, a friend of the crew ever since we broke ground in the bar, raised an empty glass to me. He filled the glass flush with my favourite hazel-coloured lager, and slid it down the counter in my direction.

I extended my hand to snatch the careening mug, when the crimson tattooed arm of Elyk "Bear" Merrifield, the Langford's fatherly first mate, halted its course. In one fell swoop he drained my beverage. The foam contoured to his grey handlebar moustache. Merrifield swiped the froth from his face.

"That's a damn fine brew there, Dalton," he exclaimed.

Dalton nodded to Merrifield, then mouthed sorry at me. I waved it off. I could never hold my liquor all that well anyway.

By now Merrifield had drunken twelve pints of ale, four stouts, half a dozen shots of Gorilla Fart's, and my lager. Only God knows how he could continue standing. Of course, he was twice my size. Give him two hours and he would sober up faster than Leaping Plum at the Grasmick Handicap.

Between drinking and reliving nights with beautiful blondes, Bear would lift his head to the ceiling and roar with laughter. We were never really sure why or what he was laughing at, and we never really bothered to ask. His laugh was hoarse, from years of cursing the seas and barking orders to the deckhands holding the ropes to keep the shipments from plunging overboard. Merrifield raised his bear paws and grappled my shoulders.

"Aye, Lachlan, I challenge ya!"

"Challenge me to what?" I inquired.

"A good ole match of arm wrestlin'."

There was no doubt that I would lose to Merrifield. It was believed that Merrifield was arrested five times during the 1971 Springbok tour. It was also said that he had severely injured a man with a pool stick and 8-ball because the man refused to pay a bet after losing a round of billiards. Merrifield never declined the rumours.

"That's okay, Bear. I need to use this arm later on in life."

"Oh," Merrifield understood. "It's your wanker then?"

"No," I laughed. "Go try Biggles, he might be good for a bruisin'."

Merrifield seemed keen to the idea. "Aye, Biggles! Biggles!" he bellowed. "Where the bloody hell are ya'?"

"O'er here, Bear," said Biggles.

Audric "Biggles" Jackson, a tall, reedy black fella, shook Merrifield's hand, accepting the duel.
Biggles served in the Royal Australian Air Force as a test pilot. He was relieved of his duties when he was found passed out inside the cockpit of a F/A-18 Hornet. Biggles had been seen passing over Katherine at Mach 1. When Biggles came to, he claimed that he had not the slightest clue how he got there.

Biggles came back to Brisbane, only to find us. It was in the crew's second season when Biggles stumbled into Tiny Abbot's. Captain Whetham took an instant liking to Biggles and offered him a position onboard.

Merrifield and Biggles struggled with each other for a good half-hour before they both retired. They joined a table full of deckhands, downing more Amber fluid as if they had not seen a drop of ale in ages.

"So Lachlan, where are you guys headin' to this around?" asked Dalton, cleaning a shot glass.

"Well, first we're off for Fiji. Then China, and Russia after that. We'll cross over to Alaska, and then head back this way. We'll be the Back of Bourke," I sighed.

It wasn't as if I disliked sailing. In reality, I love it. But sometimes, I get a really bad case of the rainbow yawns, and it only seems to act up on the voyages that last longer than three months. And then I can't sleep at times. I routinely suffer through the vomiting and insomnia.

"When do you plan on returning?" Dalton asked.

"Possibly six months. We'll arrive in Sydney before coming back."

"Lovely city."

"I hate it."



Now let me pause for a moment. I say that I hate Sydney as any bloke would. Sydney is vastly overrated. Populated with tourists throughout the year, it is a dormant trap that sandgropers are warned about.

Y'see, I grew up across the country. Broome, to be exact. I moved to Canberra when I was eighteen, to attend Uni. Since Canberra is just a little south along the Blue Mountains, Sydney was always the weekend destination with my mates.

Sure Sydney may have Port Jackson and that fancy opera house, but that's really it. It's just like any other port. There's nothing really captivating about it.

Brisbane, on the other hand, now here's a city. It lurks in the shadows of Sydney and Melbourne. Up here us banana benders know how to keep local colour alive without having to wade yourself through a sea of Seppas.

Oh, sorry. I've seen to have caught myself yabbering on.



The tavern doors swung open, third mate Charles Olszowka entered. It took him a second to adjust to the dim lights. He spotted me at the counter.

"Sir, Cap'n Whetham beseeches for the crew to join him onboard," he said.

"Aye then, Charlie. Tell the Captain that I shall round the crew, gather our belongings, and we shall be on the deck in twenty."

"Yes, sir." Olszowka marched off.

"Hooroo," I said, waving goodbye to Dalton.

I turned from the counter and approached Merrifield sitting with the deck hands.

"Bear?"

"Yea'?"

"Captain wants us to get back to the ship. It's time we take our leave."

Merrifield nodded. He stood, raised his final pint and cleared his throat. He spoke calmly, gaining the crew's attention.

"Drink up, blokes. We've got a long trip ahead."

And with that being said, we all downed our last drinks for the night.

--Lachlan Pritchett