I think of a piece of graffiti I read on a wall in the Northern Territory that brought a sudden chill of recognition – ‘I was born in a taxi. I’m never going home.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Temperatures in the sea vary far less than air temperatures, due to the buffering effect of the huge ocean-water mass. Sea temperature changes characteristically lag behind changes in air temperature. The sea is at its warmest one to two months after air temperatures are highest, and the same principle applies in reverse.
Atkinson’s Guide
FIELD DIARY – Friday 20 April
* * *
I woke to the alarm at 5 a.m. and then waited until the first light began to show through the cave roof. I’d had plenty of time to mull over and modify my daring survival plan and now the hour had come to implement it. I have only two days’ worth of food rations left, and once that runs out it will be too late to take action. Ignoring the muddy debris left after the floods, I gathered my scattered clothes and searched out what I needed. No time for a clean-up. I’d leave that for when I came back. If I came back.
Emerging into the half-light is so much easier than in the full glare of the sun that I think I’ll follow this procedure from now on, though perhaps setting the alarm a little bit later, for half past five. My plan was this: to climb down the stone stairway to the beach, swim around the point to where the rocks dipped into the sandy beach on the other side, and leave Kathryn’s red rain slicker and my backpack tangled in the rocks and cut by what I hoped would look like toothmarks. As if I had tried to swim for it and been taken by a shark. Simple really.
This plan, however, had a few minor drawbacks. I could see by the colour and the way the rocks sheered into it that the water around this end of the island was extremely deep. I am a reasonable swimmer, but I was not fully convinced that I had the stamina to make the distance, knowing there would be little possibility of touching land en route, and even less possibility of touching bottom. In addition, I had no real idea of how far it was and I knew that the basis of my plan was not so very farfetched. The area was probably infested by sharks, and I might well be inviting the fate I was trying to fabricate. I had to will myself to not think about the ferry. Or those other sharks. Or my parents.
I listened carefully at the door of the cave for several minutes and heard nothing. So I set off. I couldn’t swim in shoes, nor could I leave them neatly waiting for me on the shore, so I started off barefoot down the rough sandy path, dragging my disguise branch behind me, and dumping it in a scraggly leptospermum bush for use on my return journey. If I made it back again. I had decided to wear the dirty light blue T-shirt I’d used to mop up the floor last night. I hoped that it would blend in with the colour of the water and not make me seem in any way like a prey animal, and also that it might get cleaned in the process. I don’t know much about sharks, but I remembered vague stories of surfers being popular targets because their black wetsuits made them look like seals. I also seemed to remember that sharks didn’t see very well. Hard to know if that was a good thing or a bad thing in the circumstances. My backpack was also blue, with yellow piping, and I hoped in a way this would make me resemble a sea snake, an unlikely creature to be a shark’s food of choice.
When I got to the rockiest part of the path I put on the pair of thick socks I had been saving for this purpose. I would have to leave them buried in the sand, which was perhaps risky, but the last thing I wanted before going into possibly shark-infested waters was scratched and bleeding feet.
The climb was not difficult. I did not need rope, although I proceeded very cautiously just to be sure. Festina lente, as my father would say. Hasten slowly. Always the showman, he loved to pepper his Sabbath readings with impressive Latin phrases. When I got to the beach I could see lots of fruits still clinging to the karkalla stems. These would be my reward if I came back. When I come back. Think positive, Alix. You’ve survived this far.
But when it came time to actually get into that blue-black water, when I had buried my socks in among the karkalla (along with my knife), shrugged my backpack over my shoulders, tied my hair back with two rubber bands, when there was no more excuse for delay, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. I seemed to see black shadows moving ominously in the depths, and though I knew they were probably clumps of kelp, swimming through clumps of kelp suddenly did not seem a particularly appealing idea, even forgetting the sharks, and the cramps, and the lonely drowning. But I was here now and I could not come up with a better plan so I clambered with difficulty until I reached the jutting rock, said a quick prayer to my parents’ God, Lord, please don’t let me die, dived in, and swam as strongly as I could out beyond the breaking waves.
I had expected the water to be cold. Not freezing, Arctic, dead-in-two-minutes cold, but miserable, clutch-at-your-heart, numb fingers cold. It was not warm, but it was surprisingly comfortable, the aquatic equivalent of room temperature. I swam out further to get clear of the rocks, then struck out towards the point. From the moment I first ventured outside I had known I had to do this today because there was no wind and the sea was as flat as an ice-rink. If it hadn’t been, I’d never have made it. As it was, I’m very lucky to be alive. If it had been even a little further, or a little colder, I don’t think I’d have been able to go the distance, and the steep cliffs of the point offered no possible landing place. I would have drowned, alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea. One thing that had defeated both Moe and me was a set of the works of the best English poets, most of which we could only read with great difficulty, finding the language beyond anything our English lessons had prepared us for. The one poem we had both loved was The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, both the language and the rhythm, and now I found the poet’s words droning round and round in my head, all the time I was swimming, almost driving me crazy, although I took comfort in remembering that whatever happened to the Ancient Mariner, he didn’t drown.
I swam and swam, in a kind of dogged delirium, until I was far round the point and the rocks began to fragment and lower and form inlets and rock pools and, finally, a sandy beach, the same beach that I had swum on only days ago, that terminated in front of the cabin.
I didn’t go up onto the sand at first. I was too afraid of being seen. I pulled myself into the last inlet, hidden from the beach by a pile of seaweed-covered rocks, and coughed and gasped and shook for what seemed like a very long time. Time was what I did not have. With great difficulty, because it was wet and salty and firmly stuck to my T-shirt by now, I eventually managed to get the backpack off. It was time to get to work. I needed to leave it somewhere where it would not float away, but somewhere where it would be seen. I needed not to be seen doing the leaving. Nervously, I peered over the rocks. It was quite a long beach. And totally empty. I couldn’t see the cabin and I didn’t think anyone walking along the beach would be able to see me – at least not before I saw them. Clutching my backpack firmly, I climbed over to where the beach proper began.
And here I had a stroke of luck. Instead of an abrupt division between rock and sand, there were several little inlets with remnant rocky walls reaching like fingers onto the beach, where the rocks had been weathered into holes and crevices filled with brackish pools and broken rocks. I was able to move under cover of the rocks until I came to the last one and, still remaining hidden, I worked on my sacrificial offerings.
Although I had prepared as much as possible, there were some things that couldn’t be done in advance. I had counted on finding a sharp rock to help in my task, but found in this little cove something even better, a scattering of shells of all shapes and sizes. It didn’t take long to find a broken one with a sharp edge, and I used this to completely sever the left strap of my backpack, which I had partially severed with my knife before leaving the cave. In the pack was Kathryn’s slicker, which I had calculated I would not need, and which had the major advantage of being red like the anorak I had worn on leaving the cabin. I was hoping Dave would remember a red
jacket, but not notice that this was a different one.
Now that I had everything ready, I had to risk a brief exposure to anchor them on the other side of the rocks, high enough so they wouldn’t be likely to wash away, and visible enough for the jacket to act like a beacon. Taking a deep breath, I peered over the edge of the rocks. Nothing. Heart thumping, I climbed over, trying not to hurry too much. I didn’t want to risk cutting myself. Just beyond the tideline there was a dried-out rock pool and beyond that a scatter of rocks varying in size from tennis ball to basketball. I snagged the backpack around a jutting rock overhanging the rock pool, and then spent precious minutes finding a method of anchoring the slicker with stones so that it looked natural but was secure enough not to fly or float away. Glancing nervously at the other end of the beach and scuffing out any stray footprints slowed me down a little, but eventually I decided that it was as good as it was going to get, and that I should be out of there before any more time passed.
Without giving myself time to think, I climbed back to my landing place. I knew I was rested as much as I was going to be, and at least this was almost like a beach, and not quite so daunting as my original launching place. I wasn’t going to think about how I’d get back onto the rocks. I had enough to worry about.
The swim back was worse than the swim out because I was tired and worried about the time. What if someone came while I was in the water? I’d be a perfect, visible target. It was still early, but the sun was already climbing in the sky. The swim had taken longer than I’d expected, and I had to stop myself from looking at my watch every few minutes, and force myself to keep on swimming. On the one hand, the lack of wind and smooth glassy surface of the water was a lifesaver, but on the other hand it made anything in the water much more visible. However, there was nothing I could do but keep going.
Just as I had rounded the last of the point and could see my goal in the distance, my leg hit something and my heart was gripped by icy terror. Shark. In defiance of all common sense, I immediately panicked and began losing my rhythm, splashing and flailing around. If there had been a shark, I was turning myself into a shark magnet. I was so desperate to know what was in the water that I took a deep breath and looked at the underwater world, something I had deliberately avoided doing for the entire journey up until now. There was no sign of a shark or fish of any description. I had swum into an area of submerged rocks and my leg had brushed against one. It was bleeding, not profusely, but steadily. Now I was doubly attractive to sharks, and my panic swelled. I think I was almost ready to give up and let myself drown or be taken. But then that streak of stubbornness came through, and I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down, closed my mind to all these possibilities and swam steadily to the rocks. I don’t know how I got up onto the beach. I think fear drove me. I tried to keep hidden and looked all around and as far as I could see up the rocky pathway. No sign of movement or anything untoward.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was lie on the sand and eat the karkalla fruits I could see gleaming temptingly among the dark leaves. In fact I had a vague memory that the leaves were used by Aboriginal people as an antiseptic. I began to make my way over to the plant when I saw something that made my heart contract for the second time. Footprints. Boot prints. They were definitely not there before. If Dave was up there somewhere I was hopelessly trapped. There was no shelter down here. The only possibility was to climb up to the cave and hope he wouldn’t see me. Quickly, I unearthed my socks and put them on, dug out my knife, and cut two karkalla stalks, winding them around my waist. The salt water had stemmed the bleeding temporarily, but blood was now beginning to ooze from the shallow wound on my leg. I didn’t want to leave a trail, so even though every part of me wanted to get away from there and hide, I took the time to break off one of the karkalla leaves and apply it to the area. It hurt. Boy, it hurt. But it was sticky and looked as though it might be effective in stopping the drips.
If I had come down the steps carefully, I fairly flew up them. As if the Devil was at my heels. Except that the Devil was somewhere above me. When I got to the top the boot prints were right there. They turned left and followed the path, past my cave and into the boobialla scrub. Was Dave standing in that scrub now, watching my every move? Somehow I didn’t think so. He would be more likely to be up there taunting me, knowing I had nowhere to run. Unless. What if he had found my cave? He could be waiting in there, ready to pounce. The thought of being caught in that claustrophobic space was more terrifying than being caught out here. At least in the open I’d have some chance to fight, and he probably wouldn’t expect me to have a weapon.
I stood for a minute, undecided. Then I followed the boot prints all the way to where the path dips towards the cabin side of the island. I kept to the right of the prints, so that when I returned I could scuff out my own prints, leaving the other ones there. And when I got back to the cave, I could see the tree hadn’t been moved, so I just pulled it aside, went in, pulled it back behind me, and crawled into the cave. No-one jumped me. No-one had even been there. I almost fell into a sitting position, ignoring my wet clothes and bleeding leg, and found myself, to my great surprise, sobbing with relief. I cried for a good half hour. If Dave had come back, he probably would have heard me. But somehow I knew he wouldn’t come back. He’d come early, trying to catch me out, and with any luck he’d find my jacket and decide he could finally stop looking. Would he be pleased or disappointed? Pleased that I was out of his hair, or disappointed that he didn’t get the opportunity for his revenge?
When I’d finished crying, I poured out my water ration for the morning and, using a clean handkerchief, wiped first my eyes, and then my leg. I didn’t have any bandages with me, but I’d removed all the spare straps from the backpack before I set off this morning, so I wound one of those around the handkerchief and buckled it. Then I peeled off the almost-dry blue T-shirt, now clean of gunge but encrusted with salt, and my knickers (likewise), and hung them on protruding fingers of rock. Despite the salt, I felt much cleaner, except for my hair, which was itchy, and felt dirtier than when it actually was dirty. Dressed in the familiar Amnesty T-shirt and reasonably clean socks, I was ready to start my day.
8.00 a.m.: Housekeeping.
After giving the cave as much of a clean-up as was possible with my limited resources, I spent some time planning how to manage both stores and sleeping arrangements without my backpack. I also needed to dispose of the sheoak branches, which were clogged with mud, and replace them with new ones, not to mention collect more water, pick some fruit to supplement my almost-exhausted food supply, and find a cure for cancer. Since Dave had been here this morning, I hoped that he’d check the rest of the island just as thoroughly, and would come upon my backpack and slicker before they could be washed away by the tide. I figured he would not be back on this side until at least tomorrow, so I should be safe going out tonight. Not that I had much choice.
I decided to take inventory of what I had left besides the food. I didn’t need to take inventory of that. I knew exactly what was left, to the last nut and sultana.
Without my backpack, however, I needed to work out ways of carrying everything I needed and, eventually, if Dave left on Monday as I so fervently hoped, a way of transferring all my belongings to the cabin.
I had already moved the food into one of the kitchen tidy bags and hung the bag from the cave roof. My hammer has now become my second weapon, to be kept by my side, along with the knife, but I began sorting out the things I don’t currently need but can’t leave behind and putting them in a kitchen tidy bag on the low rock shelf, so that if I need to move out in a hurry I can just grab the bag and run. Into this bag I placed my torch, compass, matches and pencils. In another bag I gathered the things I’ll need when I go out – specimen bags, rubber bands, pen and diary, half-full water bottle. Later I can store all this in my anorak, but until I collect more sheoak branches I’ll need the anorak to sit on. Many of my dirty clothes are hung from various protuberances ar
ound the cave, but the remainder I gathered into the last remaining kitchen tidy bag, which I left open to at least let in some air.
That’s everything. I have folded my anorak into a seat and now I’ll sit and dream of the smell of freshly laundered clothes as I wait until it’s time for breakfast.
Sunset: Prepare for sleep. Finish diary.
Most of the rest of today proceeded just as planned. I ate my morning rations and took a tiny sip of water at the right time, did my exercises diligently, and ate the few remaining boobialla fruits at midday. As predicted, I heard nothing from Dave and, knowing I had no choice, I pulled on my jeans and boots, filled my anorak with necessities and went out.
I had gathered the soiled sheoak branches into a tight bundle, which made it difficult to wipe out my footprints but I managed as best I could, while keeping my eyes and ears open for any sign or sound of human presence. It was a relief to reach the little grove of sheoaks and be able to dispose of them as naturally as possible, and then to select a new pile of branchlets. I sucked on a coast banksia flower, and got a taste of honey, but no liquid at all. I’ll have to come out at dawn tomorrow. I did find some more boobialla trees a little further on, however, and managed to pick half a bagful. Heartened by this, I returned to the cave with my spoils, dropped them inside and then stood outside to take off my jeans and boots. The jeans are now almost falling off me by themselves and I’ll have to devise some kind of belt to keep them up.
Again, I didn’t need to make a toilet visit, and so here I am, safe in my cave. I have been on this island for eight days now, living to write another day. The time is 5.50 p.m. on Friday the 20th of April.
* * *
But as soon as darkness falls this strange sense of security vanishes and I am visited by a succession of horrific dreams. Each time I wake up bathed in sweat.
Beware of Dogs Page 10
