Pirate Cove

That Summer was as long and hot as anyone could ever wish for.

On the white sand beach of a small shallow inlet, eleven year old Tom Graham licked the tip of his right index-finger and held it skyward, feeling for the chill of an offshore breeze. He turned and grinned at the three other boys who were watching him. “Make ready!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n!”

Peter and Simon, the two oldest at twelve, dug their bare feet into the soft shifting sand and pushed, giving it everything they had, until the incoming tide helped to lift the SPARTA.

She rocked on the gentle swell. Sixteen feet of weathered oak with polished brass fittings and twin (furled) red-canvas sails. She was Tom’s pride and joy.

Throwing a leg over the stern, Tom climbed aboard and used the tiller to hold the drifting boat steady so Peter could scramble in over the side. Simon waded through the waist-deep water, carrying his younger brother, and all but dumped Pip into the narrow prow.

It was only the second time Pip (short for Philip, but no-one ever called him that) had been allowed to go sailing with the bigger boys. Helping his little brother into a bright orange life-vest, and playfully tugging the peak of Pip’s cap down over his eyes, Simon hauled himself onboard and nodded at Tom: “All set, Cap’n.”

Peter and Simon took an oar each and rowed the skiff deeper into the channel, where ‘Captain’ Tom hoisted the sails. The blood-red canvas with its black silhouette of an ancient greek horsehair-plumed helmet caught and filled, and the SPARTA skipped swiftly over the water.

It was the last week of the school holidays, and all four boys had their parents’ permission to camp out for the whole weekend.

“Hooray!” They cheered. “Pirate Cove, here we come!”

Pirate Cove was secluded, but not so far from civilisation that the boys couldn’t find help if something unexpected happened. They worked together to pitch the tent they’d be sharing and laid out a fire-pit; ready for the fish they hoped to catch for their supper.

“Somebody still has to dig the latrine,” said Tom. “Any volunteers?”

After a long minute of total (though not unexpected) silence, he shrugged and picked up the folding camping-shovel.

“Tom gets all the shitty jobs,” laughed Peter.

Feeling guilty, Simon followed Tom into the bush to help him dig the trench that would be their toilet. Tom had stopped to relieve himself beside a tree. Simon tried hard not to look.

As if he’d read Simon’s thoughts, Tom said: “Go ask Peter. It’s all he ever thinks about.”

“I know,” said Simon. “But I don’t like Peter. I like you.”

Tom only shrugged.

He was already walking away before Simon could find his voice again.

“Hey, wait up!” He called. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No,” lied Tom.

It was almost dark before Simon finally returned to the campsite: It was obvious he’d been crying.

Peter looked from Tom to Simon and back to Tom. “Lovers’ tiff?”

Tom told him to, “Fuck off.”

Simon sat on a fallen log and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his t-shirt. Tom walked over and sat next to him.

All Tom said was: “Sorry.”

“You hate me,” said Simon, sniffling.

“No,” said Tom, putting an arm around his friend’s slumped shoulders. “That’s not true.”

When Tom woke up the next morning, Simon’s sleeping-bag was empty.

He shook Pip awake. “Where’s Simon?”

Pip shook his head. He didn’t know.

They looked everywhere. Calling his name.

“Maybe he went home,” said Peter.

“How?” Asked Tom. He’d checked - the SPARTA was still anchored in the cove.

They climbed a high bluff from where they could see for hundreds of miles all around. And there, at the bottom of the sheer cliff, they saw Simon’s broken body.

Two weeks after Simon’s funeral, Tom Graham deliberately beached the SPARTA. He licked the tip of his right index-finger and raised it skyward. Turning around, he looked at the two boys who were watching him. He didn’t smile. He emptied a can of petrol over the sixteen feet of weathered oak with its polished brass fittings and furled red-canvas sails. Lit a match. And watched her burn.

It was twenty years, a failed marriage, and two boys of his own, before my father sailed back to Pirate Cove again.