Jackbird’s face softened, his eyes sliding upwards. Ned knew what was happening. Soon Jackbird was telling him how they would steal a rudder from the boatyard in Beaconsfield. How they’d take his father’s truck and go there at night, how they’d slice through the fence with bolt cutters, how they’d remove a rudder from one of those fancy French boats with screwdrivers and wrenches, how they’d muffle the sound of it all with feed sacks.

Ned let him finish. Let him get carried away. Then said that he’d probably just make one. They argued for a while, without much bite—they were both too taken with the boat’s shine to concentrate on anything else—before agreeing that they’d at least go inspect the rudders up close.

They took their bikes, rushing up the road. At the boatyard Ned made for the coloured dinghies while Jackbird went to distract the owner.

Ned walked down the rows of boats, thinking of how he’d felt the last time he’d done this, of the despair he’d felt at the prices. He kept going until he found a dinghy close in size and design to his own. He bent over its stern, staring closely at the rudder. Studied its shape, the heft of its stock, the swoop of its blade. The way it was attached to the hull and tiller. He took out a notebook and pencil and began to sketch, noting the dimensions, the way each piece related to the others in size and connection.

A whistle brought him away from the page. Jackbird was coming towards him. The owner of the boatyard hung in the background, arms crossed. Jackbird stopped at Ned’s side.

‘Time to go, mate. He’s had enough of me.’

Ned took a last long look at the rudder, then followed Jackbird’s quick steps out of the yard. The owner watched them go through the gate and out into the street, until they were on their bikes, zipping down the road.

Jackbird was buoyed. ‘I told that fella about your boat. He said it sounds like it’s made of Huon pine.’ He grinned. ‘He also said I was full of it. Said there’s no way you found a Huon pine dinghy in a junkyard.’

Ned didn’t know what to make of this. He thought of the sketch in his pocket. Let Jackbird worry about talk and speculation.

~