Almost a year after my post about meandering among Motu Manawa’s mangroves with Ms Meduna, I was in the vicinity again, not in a kayak but a dinghy. I was there to search for an escapee named Earl. Earl is a clinker-style dinghy that belongs to my son Jeremy. The name comes from a poem by Louis Jenkins that we had both been enjoying at around the time he bought the dinghy.
In Sitka, because they are fond of them,
People have named the seals. Every seal
is named Earl because they are killed one
after another by the orca, the killer
whale; seal bodies tossed left and right
into the air. “At least he didn’t get
Earl,” someone says. And sure enough,
after a time, that same friendly,
bewhiskered face bobs to the surface.
It’s Earl again. Well, how else are you
to live except by denial, by some
palatable fiction, some little song to
sing while the inevitable, the black and
white blindsiding fact, comes hurtling
toward you out of the deep?
One night in March, Jeremy was aboard his yacht, Peer Gynt, on a mooring off Northcote Point, near the Auckland Harbour Bridge. Just before he went to sleep he checked the dinghy, only to find his knot had come undone and the dinghy was nowhere to be seen.
He called me: “Earl’s gone.”