by Di Morrissey
She watched guests setting off on their morning activities – diving, fishing, a reef walk, kayaking around the island, sailing in small boats, carrying a hamper and beach towels to a secluded picnic, an underwater trip on the sightseeing submarine.
Others claimed their favourite reclining chair by the pool, setting out towels, sunlotion, books, magazines, sunglasses, a small table ready for snacks and drinks. Some would spend the day there playing cards, chatting, reading, drinking exotic drinks or chilled wine and icy beers in tall glasses, sleeping off their drinks till it was time to change for sunset cocktails.
There were no squealing children in the pool or running around the grounds. Under fourteens were not permitted at the resort, and there were few special events for teenagers. Most were there to share the experience of the island and reef with their parents.
She’d seen on the weekly calendar of events a lecture and video presentation by a marine biologist to acquaint, she presumed, overseas visitors with the ‘History, Science, Heritage and Mystery of the Great Barrier Reef’. Through the year visitors could go with a naturalist from National Parks on a bird-watching tour, turtle observation tour during egg-laying season and, later, a chance to observe the hatching of the eggs.
As she walked past the pool she stopped and caught her breath, her chest tightening. Standing with several young men in boardshorts and brief swimsuits, she saw Willsy the TV host. They were laughing and kidding around wearing dark glasses and holding breakfast beers.
He saw Jennifer across the pool and lowered his sunnies to give her the once-over with an appreciative flirty smile. Furious, she turned and walked quickly away as Willsy’s mates pushed him into the pool.
She nodded at the young woman on reception and walked to Blair’s office, hovering in the doorway. ‘Can I come in?’
‘What’s up?’ He was glued to the computer screen on his desk.
‘That awful man, Willsy, he’s goofing around at the pool. They’re all drinking, for God’s sake. He even looks pleased with himself.’
Blair jumped up and pulled her into his office, closing the door. ‘Listen, Jennifer, hush up. There’s nothing we can or should say. What’s got into you?’ He kept his voice low.
‘I think it’s despicable. Can’t we let him know that we know what went on last night?’
‘That won’t achieve a thing. You can’t accuse someone and, besides, we promised Rhonda we’d say nothing. Anyway, they’re leaving on the cat tomorrow. Just keep out of their way. What are you doing today?’
‘I was going to sit by the pool. I won’t now.’
‘Get a picnic hamper, go and explore, find a bit of beach. The tide will be full by lunchtime. Have a swim, it’s magic, you don’t have to go out far. It’s perfect at high tide, just wade in to your waist, it’ll be like crystal. At low tide you have to watch for rocks in the shallows.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I know you’re not a beach person but, for crying out loud, we’re surrounded by a lagoon. At least go and lie under a palm tree. Work on your tan.’
‘What about your lunch?’
‘I’m eating here at my desk. Trying to get through a bunch of stuff.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ She left his office feeling like a chastised child.
The mid-morning sun was hot. She ordered her lunch hamper and went into the boutique to buy thirty-plus sunblock, and passed Doyley on the way out.
‘Hey Jennifer, settling in okay? Bloody dreadful about Rhonda taking a spill. Not like her to get so pissed.’
‘It was dark, I guess. She’s sorry she didn’t have a proper goodbye party.’
‘Ah, we’ll try to catch her up on the mainland if she hasn’t left. So what do you think of our little paradise?’
‘It’s a great place for a holiday, that’s for sure. I’m taking a picnic and a book off to find a shady tree. I’m not into growing melanomas if I can help it.’
‘I’m with you. Stick to a whiter shade of pale. There’s a terrific little cove around from Coral Point. You can’t get there from the beach at high tide but you can if you take the track over the headland. Bit of a hike, not many people bother. But it’s worth it.’
‘Thanks, Doyley. See you.’
Jennifer put on her swimsuit and a large floppy hat, pushed a towel in her cotton shoulder bag with the sunblock, her book, radio, room key and a bottle of water. When the picnic hamper arrived she found it to be a huge basket with napkins, glasses, plates, cutlery, chilled fruit juice and food in little containers. She took out some fruit, the juice, a bread roll, and corned beef and salad, tied it in a plastic bag and added it to her carry-all. She slipped on canvas shoes in case she had to climb over rocks or a rough track, and set off.
At the point, she turned in from the beach and spotted the narrow track leading over the headland away from the main path that headed back towards the resort. This was new territory and she hesitated, then continued. At the top of the headland there was a clearing, an informal lookout. Someone had strung a hammock between two trees. While it wasn’t a great height the slight rise and cleared top of the point gave a vista straight out to sea. Sooty Isle sat at the edge of the horizon, a tiny blip in the flat blues of ocean and sky. The reef was covered by the tide, which sloshed around the base of the point. Apart from a fishing boat churning through the movie-set backdrop, it looked like a painting. Sooty Isle intrigued her, maybe she would go over and see it. Even stay overnight. It looked a calm enough trip, even for her. Jennifer turned away and as she moved down the scrubby slope of the small hill she saw on the path ahead the figure of a tall man. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, an old leather peaked hat squashed on greying hair. He wore patched cotton pants pulled in with a wide leather belt and a faded blue shirt. He was watching something in a tree.
She stopped, worried this might be the perving Patch. She waited. Then saw what he was studying. In the tree a massive twiggy nest was heaped into the topmost fork. Perched to one side was a large bird. Its underbelly was white and its head, back and wings were a mottled brown, though its wings had creamy tips. It seemed to have a ruff around its neck. The bird leaned forward into the nest, feeding its young. Jennifer took several slow steps forward.
Without looking at her the man said softly, ‘It’s a sea eagle. She’s got two young uns in the nest.’
‘What’s she feeding them?’
‘Fish. She’s a great diver. Grabs fish in her talons just below the surface. Marvellous to watch. They’ve been here for years.’
‘Oh. You’ve been coming here for a long time . . . ?’ Damn, it must be the dirty old repair man. They said be was harmless. Looks to be. ‘Are you the Mr Fix-it?’
He gave a brief chuckle, still not taking his eyes off the bird.
‘Lordy, don’t mix me up with that old reprobate Patch.’
The osprey spread its magnificent wings – the long feathers at the wingtips like elegant fingers, its tail a delicate fan – swooped from the tree and then soared over the sea.
‘How beautiful,’ said Jennifer.
The man turned to look at her for the first time. ‘Yes. While you’re here you should spend time observing our birds. It’s a good opportunity.’
‘Oh, I’ll have plenty of time to do that.’
‘Ah, you’re working at the resort then?’
‘No. My husband is. I’ve just arrived.’
‘Well, you’ll be able to explore at leisure. There’s much to see on the island. And in the sea.’
‘I’m not much of a seafarer. Apart from the birds and when the turtles come in, what else is there?’ Jennifer glanced around as if expecting suddenly to see obvious and entertaining things to do. The scrubby headland and empty sandy tracks leading nowhere in particular didn’t look very interesting.
He pushed his hat back, thrust his hands in his pockets and began walking at a leisurely pace along the path. ‘Well, now, it depends on what you’re interested in. Do you
work, have any special passions?’
She glanced at him and, seeing a slight smile on his face, Jennifer decided he was a nice old fellow. There was a calmness to him. A man who no longer hurried and had time to watch birds and, probably, chat at length. She was rather glad of the diversion. ‘I’m working as a research assistant to Professor Matt Dawn, organising his data and writing it up for his book.’
‘Why don’t you write your own book? What’s it about?’
Jennifer paused before answering, sensing this was not a general or polite enquiry she could dismiss with a bland remark. This man’s question required a thoughtful response. ‘Well . . . my interest is in biology and ecology. As a naturalist I’m interested in a general science degree. I grew up on a farm with few playmates,’ she felt yet again the stab of loss over her brother, ‘an only child, so the world around me, all the living things in the bush and how they related to each other, became important.’
‘It seems to me you’re in the right spot if you’re a naturalist. In between writing why not just wander about the island? See what question comes to you.’
‘That’s an interesting way of putting it,’ said Jennifer. She was warming to this old gentleman by the minute.
He tugged at his hat. ‘The way I see it research is about answering questions, but first you have to know which ones to ask. Often you can look for things and never see them. Other times, when you least expect it, there they are, fish, turtles, birds, insects . . . going about their business. Rather like life, when you stop seeking, stop charging after something, it drops in your lap.’
‘You’re a bit of a philosopher. Do you live on the island?’ asked Jennifer. He’d obviously thought a lot about research. His perspective seemed so fresh compared to her university teachers.
‘I’m just an old fisherman, a boatie. A beachcomber you might say. I washed up here over thirty years ago.’ He stopped and held out his hand. ‘My name is Gideon.’
‘I’m Jennifer.’ She paused, wondering why she didn’t want to use her married name. Or her unmarried name. This connection with the old beachcomber had nothing to do with Blair. Or her mother.
‘So, Miss Jennifer, where are you off to this morning? You look like you’re set with provisions –and a good book I hope.’
‘I was going down to the little beach around from Coral Point.’
‘Boomerang Cove. Yes, that is nice. Secluded. A favourite spot for the honeymooners. Now that we have made our acquaintance and we are both local residents, may I invite you to my side of the island? It’s something of a private club.’ He grinned.
‘Do you go to the resort at all? What was here when you . . . washed up?’ The path narrowed as it turned in from the cove through massive pisonias, some almost twenty metres tall with thick chunky branches blotting the sun, so they walked in single file, Jennifer following Gideon’s old canvas tennis shoes that had peepholes for his big toes and no laces.
‘I knew the old boy who first settled here. His yacht gave up the ghost so he camped here and then started bringing stuff over from the mainland, he liked it so much. Originally he was fishing but with no refrigeration that was too hard so when he discovered that thousands of turtles came here to lay their eggs he latched on to the idea of a turtle soup factory.’
‘No! That’s awful. They’re protected,’ exclaimed Jennifer in horror.
‘Not back then. He prospered for a while, then went bust so he set up a few cabins and a lot of sailors stopped in here, and spread the word. Then he started bringing a few visitors over for holidays. That was back in the sixties.’
‘It must have been very unspoiled then.’ Jennifer ducked under branches in the thicket of trees. She sensed they were in the centre of the island. It was still and hot, no smell of the ocean and no seabirds.
‘There were no amenities, if that’s what you mean. But we didn’t know much about conservation and protection of the reef and sea species then. People sailed off with as many fish as they could, pretty shells, lumps of coral, turtle shells, starfish. Can’t do that any more. Nor should we,’ he added as they threaded their way through she-oaks.
Jennifer could feel a sea breeze. ‘That’s cooler, are we nearly there?’ They’d been walking for about half an hour.
‘Ten more minutes. You can see why the tourists don’t bother me.’
‘Aren’t you lonely?’
‘Aw, I get regular visitors. Lloyd and Doyley bring the boat around to have a fish on their days off. A bit of a gang drop around some Friday nights. Come along, too, if you like. Any time. There are several different groups, communities, here on Branch. And they tend to keep to themselves mostly.’
‘Odd, when it’s such a small place,’ Jennifer was about to ask who they were when the she-oaks gave way to stately spiky pandanus trees balanced on their legs of strong upright roots. They fringed the sand and beyond them was the ruffled blue ocean. ‘How pretty.’
They walked out onto the sweep of deserted beach. It was windier, more exposed, than the resort side.
‘Does it get wild in storms here?’ asked Jennifer, remembering what Rosie had said about cyclones being few and far between.
‘You bet. That’s why the Shark Bar and my joint are nestled back in the she-oaks.’ He pointed along the beach to where a dinghy was pulled up on the sand and tied to a tree.
‘Shark Bar? Real bar? Real sharks?’ Jennifer was intrigued.
‘Of course. That’s the private club I mentioned. Very exclusive.’
‘Are ladies allowed?’
‘I might be old school but I’m very liberated about letting ladies in to share an ale. By invitation of course. Come and see.’
‘I’m honoured, Gideon.’ She followed him along the shore. ‘Is that dinghy what you go fishing in?’ It looked very small.
‘That’s the taxi that meets the yachts and cruisers to bring people ashore and back again. I have a half-cabin putt-putt moored up the inlet. There’s an inner lagoon with a channel out to the sea. Very convenient. That’s where my little house is.’
Jennifer couldn’t see anything resembling a house but in behind the pandanus, backed by a line of she-oaks, she could see a shack made of corrugated iron and timber with a lean-to out the front draped with fishing net to make a roof. The shack itself had a thatched roof. There were no floorboards, windows or doors. Merely three sides with the lean-to facing the ocean. Two tables and chairs were under the fishnet roof, which had mooring buoys, fishing rods and a couple of old circular life preservers on top to anchor it. A length of wood that looked like it had come off a boat had ‘Shark Bay’ painted on it.
Jennifer clapped her hands. ‘How gorgeous! Robinson Crusoe eat your heart out. Or is it Fantasy Island?’ She laughed.
‘More Gilligan’s Island. Come in, have a cold drink. No hard stuff till after three.’
There was an old refrigerator powered by a generator along with several hanging light globes. A cupboard, makeshift bar and chairs stood on a sandy floor. ‘Easy housekeeping, sweep everything out the door. But look at the view,’ said Gideon as he put two clean glasses on the bar and pulled a bottle of lemonade from the fridge.
Jennifer was looking at the inside of the unlined walls, which were covered with the names of boats and their skippers. ‘You have had a lot of visitors over the years.’ She wondered about his family but didn’t want to pry. There’d be time to discover more about the fascinating old beachcomber. Already she knew she’d visit again. She surprised herself. What would Blair think if she told him she’d trekked across the island to the remote and lonely side to spend time with some old recluse? Especially after last night. But she knew she wasn’t going to tell Blair. Just yet.
They finished the lemonade and Gideon led her through the trees to his cabin. It was a simple wooden building but around it he’d cleared a path edged in whitewashed stones, and to one side there was a table, chairs, a barbecue made from a gasoline drum, a clothes line and a faded beach umbrella. A hammock was strung be
tween trees with a mosquito net looped over it, and a goat was tethered nearby.
‘This was one of the original holiday huts from where the resort is now. I lived in a tent for the first few years, but my old bones appreciate a bed these days. That’s the siesta hammock,’ he said, following her gaze. ‘Now I’ll take you along the private track to the inlet. The best swimming, and right now the tide is perfect.’
The channel widened into a small lagoon before narrowing as it passed through the sand dune to the sea. It was almost like a swimming pool.
She spotted a shady tree at the edge of the sand. ‘I think I’ll set up under that tree. How far inland does the channel go?’
‘Ah, that’s quite interesting. It dribbles away to a bit of a marshy area and goes underground. It’s fresh until it meets the seawater. Drinkable in a pinch if you treat it. No sharks or nasties up there, don’t worry. I’ll leave you to it, Jennifer. You want anything, just holler.’
Jennifer stripped down to her swimsuit, applied sunblock, laid out her towel, made a pillow from her clothes and stretched out in the shade to read. But soon she dozed, the book falling from her hands. When she woke up she was hot. The sun had moved and she realised she must have slept for an hour or more. She walked to the edge of the small lagoon to splash cool water on herself. She waded in and her feet felt the smooth hard white sand. Then she squatted down, splashing herself. And before she knew it, she pushed off and dog paddled into the still water. She didn’t count this as the ocean. This was a very big spa tub. Not like the water she’d finally learned to swim in at school. This felt like her body was wrapped in silk that slithered around her and she rolled on her side and then onto her back. She felt wonderful. She hadn’t swum anywhere but in a private home or hotel pool when Blair had insisted. To reassure herself she stood up and found her feet touched the bottom and the water in the centre of the lagoon came up to her chin. She did a slow breast-stroke circuit of the main lagoon but decided against going along the channel in any direction.
She lay in the sun to dry, then ate her lunch and returned to her book. She napped again, finished her juice, dressed and thought she’d explore a little further. She walked around the bend in the channel as there seemed to be a wellworn narrow path. There she saw Gideon’s little boat moored beside a wooden landing. But beside it on the grass was a strange contraption. A kind of sophisticated large toy, big enough for two people, with a window in front like an eye, and rudder-like fins on either side. Was it some sort of strange fish trap? It wasn’t a boat. It looked more like a plane.
