The Peco Incident (2 page)

While the house might be tiny, the section is big. Just as well, because Mum likes gardening and Dad likes fixing things. That’s what he does for a living. He works at the council landfill repairing items which are then sold to cover costs. Bikes, lawnmowers, tools, appliances — if anybody can get them to work again, Dad can. The bigger, long-term jobs are brought home so that he can work on them in his spare time. Hence our section has lots of stuff that people
might call junk. Not that you would see that from the road, because it’s all stacked around the back of the house or in Dad’s workshop, which is almost bigger than the house.

Having a father who can repair things is great in many ways, but a drag in others. I don’t remember ever getting anything new, other than clothes, and sometimes even they’re recycled. Oh, I have lots of belongings — it’s just that all of them have been pre-owned by someone else.

On the upside, there’s no shortage of vehicles around our place. Apart from Dad’s ute and Mum’s car, there’s a trail bike, a tractor, and at least seven different pedal-powered bikes. Although the motorized vehicles were locked away while Nick was with us, there were still plenty of ways for us to explore the peninsula, and that’s what we did the morning after Nick’s arrival. It was still cool for summer, but the wind from the day before had dropped to give a lovely sunny day. Mum made us some scones and little mince pies, telling us to disappear for the day.

I chose Allans Beach as our destination. To get there we had to cross over to the ocean side of the peninsula, about eight kilometres away. I warned Nick that it was a decent distance and it would be best to have a bike with gears, but he wouldn’t listen and chose a small BMX that Dad had modified as a stunt bike. He looked real stupid with his long legs pedalling madly and yet hardly going anywhere. The only time he had an advantage was when we had to climb over the main ridge. But then as he went down the other side he discovered that the thing had no brakes, and ended up having to scrape his
feet along the gravel to control the speed.

At the bottom of the hill is Papanui Inlet. With the tide in, it looks just like a lake; when the tide is out, the water is replaced by birds, thousands of them feeding on the mudflats. It’s birds that make the Otago Peninsula so special. Apart from the usual birds found all over New Zealand, there are two that are truly unique: the yellow-eyed penguin and the royal albatross. The yellow-eyed is the world’s rarest penguin, and the albatrosses are special because they normally breed on small, remote islands, except here on the tip of the peninsula where they nest within sight of a city.

Although those two are the famous peninsula birds, there are lots of other interesting natives, and it was a group of these that caused our first stop of the day. Seven dead grey teal were spread across the road.

Nick skidded to a halt. ‘Aha!’ he cried. ‘See — I was right! There
is
a killer disease, and it has struck again.’

I got off my bike to walk amongst the dead birds. I turned one over with my foot, unwilling to touch it, just in case Nick was right. There was blood underneath, with more blood beneath the next one.

‘No, Nick,’ I said, ‘there’s blood. They’ve been run over.’

‘Blood doesn’t mean anything,’ he replied. ‘Maybe the disease causes them to bleed.’

I turned over a couple more. Both had squashed bodies and broken wings. ‘They must have been sleeping on the road,’ I said. ‘Guys come out from Dunedin to drift race on the gravel. Bet it was one of them.’

‘But why were the birds on the road?’ he asked.

‘Because it was warm,’ I suggested.

‘Nah! It’s because they were sick from the killer disease.’

I looked at him, shaking my head slowly: nothing I could say would change his mind. So I climbed on my bike and took off.

The road led us away from Papanui Inlet over a small rise to Hoopers Inlet. It, too, was covered with feeding birds. There were also a few maimais left over from the shooting season, a reminder that each year hundreds of swans and ducks were killed to stop them destroying the place for the other birds.

A sign welcoming us to Allans Beach also informed us that the area was a wildlife refuge and that dogs should be under control at all times. It said nothing about humans called Nicholas, which I thought could be a major oversight.

We hid our bikes behind the wide trunk of one of the pine trees that surrounded the car park. They wouldn’t be entirely safe, but the parked vehicles looked innocent enough: two big rental campers and a multi-coloured van covered in dust. From the rubbish bag dumped by a tree, I figured that at least one of them had camped illegally overnight.

The track to the beach goes through the paddocks of a farm until you get to the lupins and gorse that grow along the sandy shore. In summer the lupins are tall, with heavy bunches of yellow flowers. They are home to many creatures. The ones most often seen are the rabbits which leave their droppings and scrape marks on the surrounding grass. Less obvious are the penguins that roost deep in the bushes. There were several signs urging us to keep well clear of them.

Nick read one of the signs and starting shouting, ‘Yeah! Yeah!’ Then he started running towards the lupins. ‘Let’s go find them!’ he yelled. ‘C’mon, Danny — it’s Mission Penguin time!’

‘No!’ I screamed, but it was too late — he was off. I was beginning to realize that, somehow, his senses got modified whenever he moved into the hyperactive state: he seemed to see or hear nothing apart from his immediate target.

I followed using one of the animal tracks that wind through the lupins. Some are made by Hooker sea lions. These are one of the most ferocious native animals found in New Zealand, and if Nick stumbled on one of them he would soon know about it. They enjoy sandy shores like Allans Beach, often getting up into the sand dunes where they can rest without being disturbed — that is until Nicholas Clarke comes to town.

‘Nick!’ I yelled. ‘Where are you?’ But my voice was lost against the roar from the sea. My only hope was to get up high and try to see him.

I climbed to the top of a small sand hill which gave a view down to the sea. There were several couples walking along the beach, but nothing obvious amongst the lupins. Then some bushes about a hundred metres away began moving. I got a glimpse of Nick’s head and shoulders before he disappeared again. I yelled as loud as I could. The people on the beach looked around, but nothing from Nick.

For a minute or so I could trace his path by the movement of the bushes. He was now close to the beach, which, unfortunately, was the most likely place to come across a sea
lion. All I could do was watch and hope that he made it out the other side.

He was right at the edge of the lupins when the attack happened. I heard a roar, followed closely by a cry from Nick. The tops of the lupins moved violently for a moment before Nick burst out onto the beach right in front of some startled tourists. Behind him was the roaring sea lion, moving faster than you would expect of a large, lumbering beast.

Then Nick slipped on some kelp and sprawled onto the sand. His screaming got louder as the beast came straight at him. One of the tourists moved forward to help, yelling and waving his arms furiously.

It had no effect. The sea lion kept coming. I felt like turning away, not wanting to see my cousin savaged by a half-tonne raging carnivore.

But it didn’t happen like that. When the sea lion got to where Nick was scrabbling in the sand, it just kept going, heading towards the sea. Apart from a flipper accidentally touching his foot, Nick was ignored as the animal rushed on. Then three other sea lions appeared, all seeking the safety of the water. Tourists ran everywhere, trying to get out of the way of the frightened animals. For a while people and animals were going all over the place, like in a scene from an old comedy movie. One woman was screaming her head off as she ran around in a panic.

I laughed, partly from relief, but mostly at the mayhem I was witnessing below. No one except Nicholas Clarke could make dramatic entrances quite like that.

B
y the time I arrived on the sand, Nick was on his feet talking excitedly.

‘Did you see its teeth?’ he asked of no one in particular. ‘They were huge.’

He was surrounded by three tourist couples, all of whom were almost as excited as Nick.

The woman who had panicked had now calmed. She didn’t look like the usual tourist. Her outfit was retro-sixties, as if she was some hippie time-traveller. The only modern thing about her was an expensive digital SLR camera hanging from her neck.

‘What were they?’ she asked.

‘Freaking big seals,’ answered the guy alongside her. He also wore retro hippie clothes, so I gathered they were a couple.

‘They weren’t seals,’ I said, always willing to show off my knowledge. ‘They were sea lions.’

All eyes turned to me. ‘How do you know the difference?’ asked one of the older men.

‘Because the seals don’t come up on an open beach. Sea lions do. Seals always come out of the water near rocks.’ I looked at the waves washing into the shore. ‘If you want to see seals, then you’ll find them past those rocks there. You should be able to get around.’

‘Can you show us?’ asked one of the women. So, for the rest of the morning I became their tour guide.

The two older couples were touring New Zealand together, in separate campers. They’d already done the North Island and most of the South. The younger lot, the hippies, had arrived only a week before. They had come straight to Dunedin, as they’d been told that the bottom of the South Island had the most interesting places. So far, they’d spent all their time on the peninsula and were enjoying it.

We found three seals basking in amongst some rocks. They saw us almost at the same time and took off for the water, which was a relief because the hippie woman was beginning to freak out again.

After that I took the tour group to see penguin tracks: those of the little blue penguins leading up into the cliffs, and the yellow-eyed penguin ones coming from the lupins. By then it was lunchtime and the older couples went back to their vans.

The hippies had no food with them, but we had enough
for four, so we sat down and had a shared lunch. They liked Mum’s scones, but wouldn’t touch the mince pies because they contained meat — they claimed to be vegetarians. We also learnt that they were from Scotland, which I’d sort of worked out from their accents. Brio and Roost were their names, although I got the feeling that these were nicknames rather than proper ones. Brio, the woman, said she was an artist who had come to New Zealand for inspiration. Roost was a plumber, who, it seemed, came only because Brio did.

Even though they were both very skinny, they ate much more than I ever did. Brio had quick movements like some birds that can turn their heads so fast that you don’t see it happening. Roost also had funny movements; his limbs moved in a jerky way as if they were connected to strings. I figured that all this continuous movement must require more food than normal — something I’d noticed with Nick as well.

The meal was friendly enough until right at the end. As I was repacking my backpack, Brio took a packet of gum out of her pocket, unwrapped a piece and put it into her mouth.

‘Can I have some?’ asked Nick, putting out his hand.

‘No!’ said Brio, stuffing the packet and wrapper back into her pocket. ‘They’re mine!’

Nick’s jaw dropped. He was about to make a comment when Brio stood and started walking down the beach.

‘Come on!’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘Show me those birds you were telling me about. I want to photograph them.’

I’d earlier mentioned that birds sometimes congregated where the inlet met the sea. Now she wanted the guided tour.
Despite her rudeness — or more likely because of it — the rest of us followed like lambs.

Nick walked to one side of us, his head down as if deep in thought. Maybe he was thinking of Brio’s rebuff, or perhaps the sea-lion episode. I had the feeling that he’d been more frightened by the animal attack than he’d let on. If so, then maybe that was good. Perhaps he’d learnt his lesson and would stop doing stupid things.

That hope lasted only as long as it took to walk halfway along the beach. There, he found a piece of kelp that was like a stock whip. Of course he had to try it out. To begin with, he was happy just to get a cracking sound. Then he had to whip things such as driftwood and other bits of washed-up rubbish. It was only when he turned it onto people that things got ugly.

He started with a few gentle flicks at my bottom, before giving me a real painful crack. When I turned around to yell at him, he danced away, laughing as if it was a great joke. Next he did the same to Roost, who tried to make out it was good fun, even though his body language said otherwise. Then Nick gave Brio a flick.

She whirled around at him, her face twisted with anger. He hardly had a chance to react before she’d ripped the whip from his hand and started lashing out at him. The first few strokes were around his legs and lower body — blows that were intended to hurt. Then she took aim at his head. Nick covered his face with his arms, backing away. She swung the whip from side to side, grunting as she applied each blow.

Nick fell to his knees. ‘Sorry!’ he cried. ‘Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!’

Just when I was about to move to help him, she stopped. For a moment she stood with her legs apart glaring down at him, chomping furiously on her chewing gum. Then she leaned over until her head was alongside his. ‘Don’t ever mess with me again,’ she snarled. ‘Next time, saying sorry won’t be enough. Do you understand?’

Nick nodded.

‘Say it!’ she demanded.

‘Yes! I understand.’

Instantly, she changed. ‘Goody good,’ she said in a little-girl’s voice. ‘Now let’s go find the birdies.’ With that, she dropped the whip and resumed walking along the beach as if nothing had happened.

I was ready to toss it in; however, Nick and Roost trailed after her, so I did as well.

The incoming tide had forced many of the birds off the mudflats to congregate on the shore. By far the biggest group were the godwits, probably more than a hundred of them. Again I gave the guided tour, telling them how the godwits migrated to Alaska so that they could breed in the Northern Hemisphere summer.