Turtle Reef

by Jennifer Scoullar

  It was hard yakka, though. First thing in the mornings she sorted, rinsed and weighed out fish that had been thawing overnight. She added vitamins to the portions and helped Karen clean the equipment and preparation areas. Afterwards she assisted with the morning feeds and filled out food and behaviour records for the dolphins and each patient in the recovery unit.

  At noon came the big event for the day: the Dancing Dolphins show. Visitors had to pay extra for this, but there was always a good crowd seated along the small portable grandstand set up above the sandy cove. Bridget would emerge from the seaquarium with a bucket of fish and saunter – that was the only word for it – towards the little lagoon. She wore short shorts and a gold bikini top that showed off her bronzed body in spectacular fashion, like some sort of surfer version of Cleopatra. For many male members of the audience, this was show enough. Bridget remained composed and took no notice of the odd wolf-whistle and catcall. She turned to wave at people when she reached the water, and was met with a flurry of applause before a single dolphin had even slapped a tail fluke.

  And amazingly, Josh was there with her for the show, right in the thick of it, every single time. He didn’t do much – fed out fish on cue, blew his whistle and clicked his clicker, motioned occasionally to the dolphins. Half the time he seemed to just be in the way, but Bridget treated him with unfailing sweetness. Her patience and kindness impressed Zoe. How lovely of Bridget to indulge Quinn’s kid brother like that. Although Josh was a genuine help where Mirrhi was concerned. The young bottlenose was skittish and shy, unsure of her tricks and reluctant to perform them. She kept a close eye on Josh, whose presence seemed to calm her down and give her confidence.

  Bridget had a thing for Tchaikovsky apparently, because each show began with the theme from Swan Lake echoing through the centre’s tinny public address system. Two resident pelicans often puffed out their chests at this point, as if in clumsy imitation of swans. The three little spinner dolphins started things off by launching into the sort of behaviour for which they were renowned and named – leaping into the air and twirling like tops before losing momentum and crashing back with a splash. Meanwhile Kane and Mirrhi, the much larger bottlenoses, balanced on their tails halfway out of the water and scooted backwards. When the animals performed these actions in rough unison, it resembled a dolphin ballet.

  Karen narrated the performance, providing an informative spiel. ‘In the two hundred thousand years humans have been around, we’ve done some pretty stupid things, caused a lot of damage to the planet. By contrast, dolphins have existed for twenty-five million years, living in total harmony with nature for all of that time. It makes sense. Their brains are 40 per cent larger than ours.’ The audience listened politely. Some people were surprised to discover that dolphins were mammals, not fish.

  Kane was the star of the act. For a reward of sardines, he balanced on the edge of the pool so the visitors could get a good look. He opened his mouth to show his teeth. He slapped his powerful tail, a tail that had once propelled him at speeds of forty kilometres an hour in the open ocean. Bridget pointed out his blowhole, and Karen’s booming voiceover explained that during millions of years of evolution, dolphin nostrils had migrated to the tops of their head. Kane did a few leaps through a hoop, a few backflips. He played a half-hearted game of pool soccer with Mirrhi and the show was over.

  After lunch Zoe squeezed into a wetsuit and did her own show, diving into the seaquarium. At least she didn’t have to wear a bikini, and it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. Quite fun really, once she’d gritted her teeth and forced herself to get over her self-consciousness. Inhibitions came rushing back however, when she looked out one day to see Quinn standing in the audience. He wore a wide smile, and gave a wave while she tried to hide behind Chopper. Since then Zoe had kept an eye out, but he hadn’t returned. When she went to the main homestead for dinner that evening, neither of them mentioned his visit to the shark show.

  Zoe was learning the names and personalities of the aquarium residents: Shrek, the massive but gentle Maori wrasse, dazzling in electric blue scales, who liked for some reason to kiss the back of Zoe’s neck when she wasn’t looking; Snap, the shy moray eel with his oddly human face and bright eyes; Sarli, the graceful green sea turtle that took leaves of lettuce and spinach from between Zoe’s teeth to the delight of the crowd. Then there were the sharks, all of them as friendly and well-behaved as Karen had promised. She liked trying to read the lips of her audience, imagining their oohs and aahs of alarm as Chopper and his wicked-looking teeth nudged her hand.

  Zoe spent the rest of the day helping out with demonstrations, like the turtle and ray feedings in the shallow touch pools, and watching dolphin training sessions. She wrote more reports. She helped unload fresh fish delivered by Archie, a local fisherman. One afternoon she made a start on washing all the seaquarium windows. They were grimy from fingerprints, and streaked with green mould in the corners. Zoe was surprised to find the centre was a little rundown. The water in some tanks was cloudy, and they could use a good clean out. And the artificial underwater habitats looked sad and tired. Rocks slimy with algae. Sickly aquatic plants. Zoe had resolved to tackle Bridget about it in the coming weeks, perhaps help her plan a tank renovation program.

  By the end of each day Zoe was physically exhausted. Since she didn’t have a car yet, she had to wait for a lift home each night with Karen or Bridget. Or Quinn’s gardener came and drove her the few kilometres to Swallowdale. Zoe didn’t much like living at the guesthouse. It may have been bright and spacious, but the modern décor lacked character and warmth, jarring with the gracious charm of the old homestead. Too much chrome. Too many angular lines. Too many lonely nights. It was like living at a hotel.

  Back in Sydney, if Zoe was tired after work, she spent her evenings vegged out on the couch, watching TV. However the guesthouse had no television, so she read books, or took Captain for long walks in the fragrant twilight garden instead. Sometimes she headed out again after dark as a Turtle Watch volunteer, to patrol local beaches and protect nests and hatchlings. Back in Sydney, McDonald’s or something like it was often on the menu, but that was impossible here – Kiawa wasn’t exactly the fast-food capital of Queensland. So Zoe was forced to cook. Simple cooking, but it was still quite a culture shock. Last night she’d grilled a chicken breast and made salad from ingredients in the well-stocked fridge. She’d picked at the bowl of tropical fruit that was miraculously refreshed each day, and had been asleep by nine-thirty.

  Zoe yawned, and poured more milk in her coffee so she could gulp it down fast. She’d been looking forward to a sleep-in, and now this. There was a time, when she was in her teens, that an early call to go riding would have been a dream come true. That was before she lost her nerve. Her cousin Michael had been given a skinny off-the-track thoroughbred, an anxious ex-racehorse with terrible stomach ulcers and a ruined mouth. He’d bolted with her on their first ride. She sometimes still had nightmares about that day. The terror of racing out of control, the seemingly slow-motion fall onto the post and rail fence, the weeks of pain as her shattered collarbone mended. Zoe had never ridden again. Well, time to face her fears. Zoe thought back to when she’d climbed the lookout tower. To the first time she’d lowered herself into the shark tank. There seemed to be a lot of facing her fears going on in Kiawa.

  She finished her coffee, and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and runners. Then she remembered the dog. It took all her strength to drag him off her bed and out the door. He scratched hopefully at it a few times, then gave up. Zoe followed him through the bright morning, taking the fork in the path that led to the stables.

  The building was draped in flowering jasmine and bush honeysuckle. It must have been the sweetest-smelling stable in the world. Bridget was already mounted on an elegant, dapple-grey mare. Quinn stood by the gate, between a tall chestnut and a stout bay. In his Akubra and moleskins, framed by the two horses, he made a handsome picture – the epitome of old-fashioned Aussie b
ush charm. Zoe’s imagination took flight. Quinn was her bushranger lover, come to whisk her away to his remote hide-out. And she would go with him, though it meant forever living the life of a fugitive. Captain barked, chasing away her daydream.

  ‘Hey, boy.’ Captain trotted up to Quinn. ‘I was looking for you last night. Where were you?’ He leaned down to give the collie a pat. ‘Not shacked up with that bitch next door, I hope.’ Zoe stopped dead in her tracks. For an awful moment she thought he was talking about her.

  ‘Is that where you got to, Captain?’ said Bridget with a laugh. ‘It’s not his fault if the neighbours won’t get their dog spayed. And anyway, how cute would his puppies be?’

  Captain jumped up on Quinn. ‘Cute enough, I suppose.’ He ruffled the dog’s handsome black-and-white coat.

  Zoe looked round, expecting to see Josh somewhere. At the Reef Centre, wherever Bridget was, the boy wasn’t far away. Today, however, he was nowhere to be seen. ‘What beautiful horses,’ said Zoe. ‘What are their names?’

  Quinn slapped his chestnut on the neck and it tossed its proud head. ‘This is Yarraman and Bridget’s riding Duchess. Have you done much riding? No? Well, Cobber here will look after you.’ He rubbed the bay gelding’s face with a work-roughened hand.

  A crashing sound came from behind the stables. Cobber shied and Zoe’s heart beat faster. ‘What was that?’ More crashing, followed by a series of piercing neighs.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Bridget. ‘Come on, up you get.’

  Quinn indicated where Zoe should stand. ‘Bend your knee . . . no, your left one.’

  His strong hand grasped her leg, sending a little shock through her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Giving you a bunk up.’ Before she knew it, he’d rocketed her into the saddle. He handed her a helmet. She fiddled with its strap. Now his hand pressed against her thigh and she almost dropped the hat. ‘Move your leg back.’ He adjusted her stirrups and showed her how to hold the reins, while Bridget looked on. Then he mounted Yarraman and they were off.

  Nervous as Zoe was, it didn’t spoil the thrill of being on a horse again after all these years. Cobber was a docile and steady mount, just as Quinn had promised. Zoe stroked his shining black mane, then leaned forwards in the saddle to catch a whiff of his warm, horsey smell. It was one of those perfect spring mornings, and she was suddenly delighted to be out so early in the day. It would have been a crime to have missed this. ‘Where did you say we’re going?’

  ‘Up the Hump.’ Bridget pointed to the dome-shaped hill dominating the skyline. ‘An extinct volcano. Matthew Flinders named it when he sailed past in the Norfolk way back in 1799. The local people had a name for it long before that of course. Gilibulga. Sleeping giant. It last erupted a million years ago, and must have been a doozy. They’ve found lava rock five kilometres out to sea.’

  ‘The Hump is why Kiawa’s fields are so fertile,’ said Quinn. ‘All that rich, red volcanic soil.’ He pointed to the peak. ‘There’s a great view from the top.’

  They rode in single file through the green cane under a bright blue sky, until they reached the river. A path beside the water meandered through remnant pockets of rainforest, where towering, twisted figs and glossy-leaved ironbarks provided welcome shade. The sun was already beginning to bite.

  The track opened up until it was broad enough to ride two abreast. On their left, a tumbledown stone fence stretched into the distance. ‘That’s so quaint,’ said Zoe. ‘Is it as old as it looks?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quinn, who was riding beside her. ‘Built in 1870.’

  ‘It must have been backbreaking work.’ Zoe imagined pioneers collecting rocks to clear their fields, piling them up in the blazing sun to make the wall. It added a powerful sense of history to the place.

  Captain dashed on ahead. Bridget’s mare moved up beside Cobber. She arched her neck and jig-jogged sideways, causing Bridget to rein her in tight. ‘How are you liking the job so far?’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Zoe. ‘Perfect, but I’m dying to get out on the reef and get stuck into some proper research.’

  ‘Karen hasn’t taken you yet?’ asked Bridget. ‘How about we head out after lunch today?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Zoe smiled and stroked her horse’s neck. At last her real work would begin.

  The path narrowed once more and veered south through a gate and away from the river. They were moving steadily uphill now. Bridget dropped back and they rode again in single file. Native frangipanis crowded close on either side of the track. The horses brushed against their lower branches, releasing fragrance into the air from perfumed clusters of yellow flowers. Tiny twittering birds flitted through the blossoming wonga wonga vines, and crowds of colourful butterflies swirled down from the canopy, vanishing as quickly as they came.

  Cobber’s nose touched the copper-coloured tail of the chestnut horse in front, and Quinn’s broad back blocked Zoe’s view of the path ahead. He looked around. ‘How are you going back there?’ The tone of his voice was warm and encouraging.

  ‘I’m doing just fine.’ The sunshine combined with the clip-clop of hooves to lull Zoe into another daydream . . . she was a tough, uncompromising pioneer woman, newly wed, heading out with her man into the unchartered wilderness to claim a selection. Up ahead rode the square-shouldered figure of her husband, Quinn, hips swinging in rhythm with his horse, noble dog trotting at his heels. The love of her life, strong and silent, devoted to his new bride, determined to forge a future for them in the unforgiving heat and isolation of the Queensland bush.

  It was an intriguing pretence. Quinn was completely different from anybody she’d ever dated back in Sydney. Better-built and better looking for a start. Down-to-earth, serious, utterly unaware of his own charm. In other circumstances Zoe could easily have fallen for him. If she hadn’t sworn off men. If he didn’t already belong to Bridget.

  Quinn glanced back again. Zoe sighed and gave him the thumbs up. Time to stop these silly fantasies. She didn’t really know him. Quinn might be nothing like she imagined. What about that charged moment of anger at the top of the lookout tower? A man with a temper perhaps.

  The trail grew rocky and winding. A cooling breeze hit them as they emerged from the forest onto an open grassy slope. Quinn turned in his saddle. ‘Are you up for a canter?’

  A canter? Zoe didn’t even know how to trot. But she was caught up in the moment and keen to impress, so pride trumped caution. ‘Sounds good.’ Quinn’s rangy chestnut swished his tail and took off at a cracking pace up the hill. Placid Cobber suddenly sprang to life and followed suit. Zoe fell forward and grabbed his mane in fright. She was just getting used to the rhythm, when a flurry of windblown leaves spooked him. Cobber leaped sideways and a flashback to her last, disastrous ride made Zoe freeze. She lost her balance as well as her stirrups, and could feel herself slipping sideways. Clutching at the reins only served to make Cobber poke his nose and gallop faster. She screamed, but Quinn was too far ahead. The wind and the drumming of the horses’ hooves drowned out her cries. She tried to pull again on the leather reins. Cobber ducked his head and snatched them from her hands. The reins slid down his neck out of reach. Now she had no control at all. Blood throbbed in her ears. She couldn’t breathe, and her chest grew tighter still in anticipation of the coming fall.

  A voice sounded through the fog of her fear. ‘Hang onto the neck strap.’ It was Bridget, steering her mare alongside Cobber, grabbing hold of his dangling reins. Zoe hadn’t noticed the narrow leather belt at her horse’s wither. She grabbed it and managed to haul herself upright. By the time the horses had come to a snorting halt, she’d found her stirrups and, despite the humiliating rescue, was feeling pretty proud of herself for staying on.

  Quinn had reached the top of the rise. He’d missed the whole thing. ‘I’ll go have a word with him,’ said Bridget. ‘He shouldn’t have taken off like that.’

  ‘No, no.’ It mattered what Quinn thought. Zoe wiped the beads of swe
at from her brow. ‘Don’t tell him. He might feel bad, and anyway, I’m getting the hang of this.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bridget. ‘Stick with me, and remember, next time grab hold of that neck strap if you lose your balance, not the reins.’ Zoe stroked Cobber’s sleek bay neck. ‘Push your heels down, and sit back deeper into the saddle. That’s the way. Ready?’

  Zoe nodded, grateful for Bridget’s rescue and feeling guilty about the silly fantasy she’d dreamed up about Quinn. As she glanced up at him, he wheeled Yarraman around in a half rear. A dramatic sight, man and horse on the hilltop outlined against the vibrant blue sky. Her heart beat faster. The shock of Cobber bolting . . . or something more? A familiar shiver ran down her spine. Oh no, there could be none of that. Zoe shook her head to clear it, and followed Bridget up the hill at a sedate jog, trying to recall what she’d read all those years ago about rising to the trot.

  At the top of the hill Zoe pushed her heels down, sat deep in the saddle and asked Cobber to stop with a gentle feel of his mouth. This time he was happy to oblige. He lazed on a loose rein, resting a back foot, while Zoe stood in her stirrups for a better look. The summit of the Hump offered a breathtaking three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama, extending to the Pacific Ocean and coral coast on one side, and the Great Dividing Range on the other. All around lay a brown-and-green patchwork of cane fields. The Kiawa River curled around the Hump’s lower slopes. It had carved out a valley along the edge of the ancient lava flow, a place too steep and narrow for settlers to clear for cane. Remnant stands of rainforest followed its shining course until the river widened into a wide wetland delta and joined the ocean.

  ‘Turtle Reef National Park is really a collection of three main reefs and a lot of smaller ones.’ Bridget pointed out to sea. ‘See that semicircle of dark blue past the white yacht? That’s Macalister Bar. An artificial reef, brainchild of my grandfather. He was a mad-keen diver, and fifty years ago he decided it would be fun to sink stuff offshore to make for more interesting local dive sites. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he dumped. Old boats. A three-hundred-tonne gravel dredge. A couple of old seaplanes. There’s even an entire cane train, carriages and all, towed out on barges and tipped overboard.’