Chapter 27

Several weeks later, after Cyn, JW and the CAT had moored in front of the Hotel waiting a berth at the Yacht Club, I got a strange request in the mail. The address was:

Miss Surprise Flintkote
The 48 foot Farr Cutter
The Anchorage Carey’s Bay Hotel
Port Chalmers, Otago
New Zealand

The letterhead:

Bank Of New Zealand
Wellington Office
Wellington

Miss Flintkote:

The Bank has received a request. An anonymous party has made an appeal. The party wishes to make a deposit in your account. We request conformation. At your convenience, would you present your person, accompanied by proper identification, at our branch in Port Chalmers verifying that you wish to allow said deposit. We reiterate: This is a request, not a demand.

Thank you for your attention.
William Arthur Boyle
Bank Of New Zealand

So ... Since I was living on the Farr while JW and Cyn were partying on the CAT and the Bank had the address correct ... I probably should go.

The Apex Aluminum RIB dinghy has been living off the stern ever since I got the Farr. It tows neatly and the 10 horse Yamaha has never given me a lick of trouble. The air tubes are in excellent condition. A high-quality PU-made tube lasts over 20 years.

I pulled the Apex to the stern, checked the Yamaha four stroke ‘s oil, loaded a couple of empty diesel jerry cans and the spare Yamaha gas can and motored to the BSP dock.

I have my fuel card, swiped it and filled all four tanks, gas and diesel. There is a designated dinghy tie-up area at the dock. I tied up, semi checked my exterior and footed it to the bank.

The teller must have buzzed the manager because he was ready for me when I walked in the doors.

“Miss Flintkote.”

“Mr. Murray. I have this letter from your office in Wellington.”

I turned the letter over to him. He read, handed it back, excused himself and called from his office.

Returning, he asked to see the letter again.

“Do you wish to allow the deposit?”

“Can you tell me anything about it?”

“An anonymous party ... all I can tell you. I, myself, have no idea who it might be.”

“Any idea how much?”

“No, Ma’am. A wire transfer.”

“Well ... Hell. I accept.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Murray gave me a sly smile. “I imagine your next accounting will tell you how much.”

“That’s not due for six months ... can’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

AAARRRGGGHHH!

“That’s not right ... it’s ‘ARRR!’” Mr. Murray then said, “You should always end with ‘ME HEARTIES!’”

“ARRR ME HEARTIES? Like that?”

“Perfectly done, Miss Flintkote.

“Now, I’d like to talk to you about school. I’m on the Board and we were wondering...”

“We, the three us, are up for our doctorates. We were supposed to start a couple of months ago ... but, my sister.”

“Ah yes, your sister.”

“Not my fault. I more or less gave her my Catamaran because I don’t like being around her.

“It’s sad ... we were such friends when Mom was alive. We’ve drifted.”

“It’s life,” said Mr. Murray. “So ... you’ll be in school at the half?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll say nothing more about it.”

I started back to the dock. Deep water about South is prime fishing and I have an urge for lobster. New Zealand lobster is minus the huge claws of the Maine variety, but the tail is excellent. Time to go chat with the lobster boats. Lobstering depends on traps, called pots.

There’s been a few problems with foreign ... licensed but there seems to be more of them than us. It’s a fairly solitary life, lobstering. Small boats, of course ... there’s no use for heavy gear. Wire traps and a little bait ... fish-heads and tails. The smell draws them.