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couple of handles to carry it with. You’re not the only ones with clever ideas.’
    Matt and I put on our snorkelling gear and went to look for the keel. It was going to be a huge task, but we figured that the reef running out from the northern end of the river mouth was a good place to start. We theorised that if the yacht had been sailing up the coast when it struck the rocks, the keel would be on the south side of any reef and in water no deeper than fifteen feet at low tide. Matt and I spent an hour in the water swimming along the reef, and even checked on the northern side on our way back. There wasn’t a hint of anything manmade, but the sea life was incredible. We came ashore to find Mum and Dad curled up under a lazy pohutukawa enjoying the absolute solitude.
    As Matt and I walked up the rocks to meet them, we decided we were wasting our time—the keel was probably lying on its side under the kelp forest, and we might have swum right over it and still not seen it. It would have to be scuba gear next time. We sat down under the tree and let the warmth of the afternoon sun warm our chilled bodies. I lay back in the peace, enjoying the moment. The waves lapped the shore, fantails flitted in the tree overhead, and cicadas chirped incessantly. Perfect harmony. I nodded off.
    ‘Come on, you useless lot!’ Dad had lazed around for long enough, and dinner was just starting to show its head abovethe receding tide. A large clump of mussels was jutting out through the shore break. We looked around for something to carry the soon-to-be-gathered harvest in. Mum’s wrap got the vote, and before she had time to protest it was fashioned into a sack. We tossed in handfuls of large black mussels and were soon heading off in the direction of the camp.
    I left Matt and Dad to carry the haul and chased after Mum, who was striding off ahead.
    ‘I’ve never seen you so relaxed,’ I said, as we scrambled over the rocks.
    ‘I’ve never been so relaxed, Ben,’ she replied.
    ‘Hey, Jen,’ I continued, to test how relaxed she really was, ‘this girl who caught the cray—she sounds like the one I saw by Erewhon last year.’
    ‘She’s absolutely beautiful. At a guess, I’d say she worked as an aerobics instructor or something physical—you don’t get a figure like that sitting in an office.’
    ‘Did she have long dark hair and wear a black bikini?’
    ‘Yes, but she only wore her bikini bottom.’
    ‘Sounds like we’re talking about the same person.’
    As we sat around the fire that night, with the sun sinking behind the hills and the crickets tuning up, I handed Dad another can and asked him to tell us about Erewhon again. The mussels hissed and steamed on the embers, and as they popped open we plucked them from the billy and downed them straight from the shell.

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    D ad never needed much prompting to tell the story. Mum and Matt drew their chairs closer, and we put the billy on top of a convenient stump and settled back as the logs hissed on the fire. I was amazed at the change in Mum. Her only concession to the cooler night air was to throw on one of Dad’s old T-shirts. With a glass of white wine in her hand, she was the picture of perfect calm.
    ‘Once upon a time,’ Dad chuckled, as we sat back in our seats, ‘there was a man by the name of Murdoch McAlister, a dapper Scotsman who made a fortune as a tea-planter, with estates throughout India and Ceylon…’
    When retirement loomed, Murdoch had no desire to return to the chill of his native Scotland. He had strong ties to New Zealand, where, on a South Seas escapade, he had met and married his Maori wife, Aroha. After leaving India, where tragically Aroha had died while giving birth to their only child, Mercedes, he decided to return to New Zealand to allow Mercedes to find her roots.
    Murdoch built a lavish mansion on the lower reaches of Auckland’s Parnell ridge, overlooking the bustling city.
    It was the late 1920s, and Mac had been following newspaper