Boy, Mum will have it in for him when he gets home.
In the dinghy, wearing a tee-shirt, shorts, and jandals, Matai hugs his knees. The southerly is straight off the ice; rain pounding.
The peanut butter sandwich he’d stuffed in his pocket is soggy and the bottle of squash washed overboard. And the oars.
That morning, out of the blue, Mum had said, “Fish for dinner. Wouldn’t that be neat?”
Matai had wanted to show Mum she could rely on him, since Dad had left.
At night Matai hears a helicopter and prays they will spot him.
“Stay strong, heh.”