My mates were silent – which is a rare thing. Transfixed on this filthy vagrant who’d found us under the wharf and made the afternoon pass faster than any afternoon of our lives. Even the grog had worn off, and we were much higher than it could ever have made us. Then I realised I’d not even asked him a thing about his life. How did he survive? Had he worked? He was what my mother called ‘well-spoken’, if a bit ragged around the verbal edges. And he had a way of being in your head without being invasive, of hanging around without being intrusive. I could learn from this guy, and so could my mates.
I could see they were thinking the same thing. After all, we’d stayed in town, but the action was four hundred k’s down the coast, and maybe much further away than that. What kept me in town, really, what kept me – us – from flying? My mind was racing as I fixed on his silhouette, the sun now setting.
And then he was gone. He’d flown. I can’t tell you how it happened, or what happened. I barely remember, or don’t remember at all. I was lost in my thoughts, gazing, gazing, gazing, and then when I snapped to, he was gone.
Did he walk off? I asked my mates. I was annoyed.
What? Uh? Na … nup. No. They were as bemused as I was.
He was there. I was watching him. He didn’t walk anywhere. He just wasn’t there. Did he fly?
Flight is elevation. That’s a truism. Mostly, rather than soaring through the firmament, ranging the globe, I hover – I tread water in the sky, hang in the air. Strangely, I’ve never been much of a swimmer and am not fond of the water. Some of you might blame the shark and my sisters, but I don’t. I just don’t like the sensation of liquid on my skin. I like air. I try to avoid flying in rain, though I will if needs be. But then, clouds are a different thing. The water vapour clings rather than washes. And I want all my sins, all my positives, to stick to my skin. I carry them with me and would not like to think they’d spill down over those I fly above. It’s a gross thought. Each flight is a tattoo, speech written into my skin. The silence is a book of flesh. Sun, ‘look not so fierce on me’! It burns to fly. Though I cannot help myself.
She’s only eight years older than me. Her kid is five. We’re driving all the way to Sydney, the other side of the country. Four thousand kilometres from here. My mates have already left. One is in London working in a pub – his dream, he tells me – and the other is at TAFE in Perth. I’d like to tell you I am training to be a pilot, but I am not remotely interested. Flying in a plane is not flying at all.
When I saw her downtown one day, I had to ask. I said, You won’t remember me …
I do, she said.
You whispered something in his ear, before you insulted him. What was it?
I said to him, ‘Faustus is gone. Regard his hellish fall …’
What on earth does that mean? I asked. And she said, Fuck me and you’ll fly.
Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.
DUMPERS
On Long Beach, which ran down one side of the peninsula town, the waves were considered temperamental. Serious surfers rarely bothered, but beginners mingled with bodysurfers and boogie-boarders most days whether the surf was ‘pumping’ or not. It was a wind-driven shore break, without a spot of reef around, so the direction of the wind made all the difference to the shape of the waves. And when it wasn’t ‘working’, Long Beach was a washing machine, a grind of foam and sand and crushing dumpers. It was also notorious for savage rips that would cart swimmers way out into the bay and then on to deep ocean. You would never call it a family beach, but nonetheless families wandered down over the dunes and spent whole days there on weekends. During the week, other than a few kids wagging school and the odd neophyte surfer willing to take on anything, it was pretty well deserted.
But during the warmest weeks of the school year, the senior sports master, Mr Rush, would walk his upper-school students across the dunes to Long Beach for ‘beach activities’. This would include swimming if the water was considered ‘safe’ enough, as well as beach cricket and volleyball. For two hours on a Thursday afternoon, the Pacific gulls and seagulls would vie with Mr Rush’s whistle for attention.
It was difficult to get inside Mr Rush’s head. From outside, he seemed a brutal and brutalising man. A Korean War veteran who, though nearing retirement, was in perfect shape, with the body of a man twenty years younger, he unsurprisingly encouraged and protected his sports stars, and was harsh with the failures. He would turn a blind eye to hazing, and would laugh with his stars about the pathetic flailing of the ‘weaklings’. Yet there was more to him than this, and even the weaklings who suffered under his reign knew it, and feared him all the more for it.
Some of them suspected he despised the stars even more than he despised them. They couldn’t say how or why. It was something to do with the way he stared at them, looked at them when the stars weren’t around; the occasional impatient gesture of hand lifting from hip to indicate something was almost right.
Andy Bright was one of the ‘weaklings’. Because he was mediocre at his studies, but capable of being top of the class if motivated enough, he was nicknamed Brighty. Maybe they would have called him Brighty anyway. It seems the default setting. Though not a total failure at sports, he wasn’t well built and was a late developer, that greatest sin among boys. But if he liked a sport he could do well enough to avoid a pummelling from the ‘stars’, who might still grab his balls in the changing rooms where he tried to change under a towel close to the door (escape hatch) as quickly as possible.
On one occasion Dag and Mutt, the two star full-forwards of the school, had dragged him out of the change rooms semi-naked and dumped him in front of the girls’ change rooms, watching as he writhed in humiliation. The girls didn’t actually laugh much, though Mr Rush grabbed him by the ear and dragged him back. That was justice Mr Rush–style.
However, Brighty didn’t mind sports on beach days, finding he could run around a bit, splash a bit, and generally muck around under the radar with the other weaklings. Mr Rush wasn’t such a hardnut on beach days, though you wouldn’t think this if you walked past. He still blew his whistle insanely and yelled abuse at boys who were faltering. You’d also notice his crew cut, the zinc cream on his face like war paint, the shorts so tight it was clear he’d carefully arranged his prominent ‘bits’. On the beach he took his shorts off like all the boys, and across his back was a tattoo that said Mum. Years earlier, when one of the sporty boys had joked with Mr Rush about this, the consequences had been so extreme that the legend kept in check whatever people even half thought about it. It was never mentioned.
Hey, Brighty, catch this!
Brighty turned round and caught a sand-ball right in the face. Mutt laughed, calling to Dag to come and look at Brighty trying to get the sand out of his eyes.
Some of the other boys laughed. Brighty laughed as well – best method of defence – and plunged into the surf to get the sand out of his hair. Since it was grinding hard that day, he got more sand in than out. Because it was rough, the boys had been told to stay within five metres of the shore. On a perfect day, the waves would break right and occasionally form crystalline green tubes, but today they were tumbling head over heels and breaking at irregular points along their crests. It was a mess. The wind was switching directions and the sand on the beach occasionally flew into hair and eyes anyway. Brighty wasn’t worried.
He heard Dag calling to Mutt, Go out and give the scrawny little bastard a dunking.
Even that didn’t worry Brighty. Though he was small, he was a good swimmer. Not a certificate-good swimmer, but an untrained sort of swimmer, very familiar with the ocean and with Long Beach in particular. He knew its moods. His older brother Ben was a shit-hot surfer. A school drop-out, jobless and into pot, he was another reason Brighty copped it from the sports stars. His brother was a well-known ‘lost-cause’. But he could surf, really surf. Sometimes he took Brighty out with him when Long Beach was working. Brighty had a long plank of a board, and could only just stand up, but
he always enjoyed himself.
Go on Mutt, get out after him! Dag was getting frantic.
Brighty moved a little further out, just in case. He kept one eye on Mr Rush, who would eat him alive for going out that far, but Mr Rush had combined whistling and playing and joined in the volleyball. Brighty thought Mr Rush looked like he was having heaps of fun.
Then Mutt was running into the surf and lurching straight for him.
Brighty watched him approach. He could study Mutt closely because time had slowed down. Mutt was a handsome beast. A good six-four, sculpted muscles, already a few curls of black hair on his broad chest. And Mutt wasn’t stupid, though he pretended to be. He was a top maths student, although a bottom English student. Mutt wore pink boardshorts because he could get away with wearing pink boardshorts. No-one was going to call him a poof.
The afternoon sun cast a halo in the spray around his hair as Mutt splashed and furrowed his way through the surf to where Brighty was treading water, bobbing among the dumpers. Brighty was ducking down as each dumper closed over, and managing to stay out of the washing machine. That was years of practice.
Mutt was close to Brighty now, but a dumper closed over him and sent arms and limbs flailing. Mutt emerged coughing and spluttering and angry. He staggered back to shore to find Dag laughing at him.
Get the little bastard, Mutt, get out there! And Mutt went back for more and got dumped again.
Brighty hung out just beyond the break. He kept an eye on Mr Rush, who was still too absorbed in spiking the volleyball into one of the student’s legs to notice anything. Mr Rush was in a state of bliss.
Then suddenly Mutt was out near Brighty again. He’d snagged a break in the dumpers and got through, and was flailing at Brighty, who swam deftly out a few more strokes. Brighty felt the cold, then the pull of the rip, instantly. He was just on the edge of it and drew away just in time. But Mutt went straight into its throat. Within seconds he was being dragged out to deep water. He was tired from struggling with the dumpers, and Brighty could see that Mutt wasn’t a strong swimmer. Muscle, but no savvy. Mutt was drowning.
Brighty didn’t hesitate: he swam into the mouth of the rip. I am Jonah, he told himself. He was afraid but hyped, and swam with the rip until he reached Mutt. Next to Mutt he felt tiny. He felt his cock and balls shrivel even smaller as he collided with the school giant.
Grab my arm, Mutt. Brighty was going to sidestroke his way across the rip. Mutt was gurgling and flailing, and his wheeling arms struck Brighty so hard that they momentarily stunned him. They went out further with the rip, and Brighty himself started to swallow water and choke. Mutt was big and heavy and dragging him down. He was trying to climb on Brighty and use him as a liferaft. Brighty pushed him off and ducked under to grab Mutt around the neck and shoulders. Just lie on your back and kick your feet, Mutt!
Then Mutt gave way and his body relaxed, and he went with Brighty.
Exhausted, Brighty lifted his head out of the water as they broke the edge of the rip and saw all the kids standing at the edge of the surf. Mr Rush was there, blowing his whistle and pointing out to sea. By the time Brighty had dragged Mutt to the dumpers, Mr Rush was in there too. The dumpers broke around Mr Rush as if he were ancient granite that had been bashed and battered by waves for thousands of years. He wrested Mutt from Brighty and said, You’ll make it back in from here, son. With that, he took Mutt the rest of the way to shore, where he gave him mouth-to-mouth.
Mutt was okay. Just sheepish. Not even Dag risked a joke. The class trudged back over the dunes to the school with Brighty dragging behind. No-one had said a word to him. They steered clear. He repelled them.
Back at school, Brighty walked carefully into the changeroom. He passed Dag, who had flung Brighty’s bag across the floor.
Don’t say anything about Mutt to anyone, you little bitch!
Brighty grabbed his bag and went to his place near the door, where he changed under his towel. He flinched, waiting for one of the stars to rip it away. Mr Rush had taken Mutt to the nurse’s room, but everyone knew Mutt was fine. That was just the rules.
And then, when Brighty was walking away from the changeroom and from the day, he heard Mr Rush’s whistle.
Hey Bright, I want a word with you.
He stood and waited because Mr Rush was coming to him. Mr Rush said, You learn in your life that some things never happen, son. No-one will thank you. No-one will say jack shit if you keep your mouth shut. And that’s the best way, son. The best way. That’s the pain – the pain of bottling it up – that’ll keep you going. Get you up day after day ready to start again. You’ll never shine on the field – never. Matt will, because he’s a star.
Brighty watched Mr Rush walk crisply back towards his fiefdom. There was a heap of homework due in the next day, and he thought about heading over to the library. But then he kicked at the ground and thought, Nah … think I’ll go hang out with my brother. He’s always good for a laugh when he’s stoned. And he won’t be doing much else today – the surf’s shit.
DIVE
The stretch of beach in front of the pioneer stone church bore the church’s name, or the name of a saint. The old name was still known, but wasn’t on the maps you find in service stations, nor on the lips of most parishioners.
The girl hiding behind a great Norfolk pine planted in the late nineteenth century, on a grassy knoll before the gentle sandhills that led down to the beach, was also named after a saint. She was the minister’s daughter, and both boys wanted her.
The boys were down on the beach, and she could only just see their heads over the gentle undulations. At least, she thought it was them. They were there most afternoons. That was their ‘dive spot’. They’d leave their towels and bags there. She’d known them both for ages but only this term, since she’d found they were in the same form class at school, had she started speaking with them. They smirked at her for being the minister’s daughter. Bet you’re a virgin, the nastier one had said straight out. Tight as! She thought he was likely a virgin too. Boys! They weren’t even worth being interested in. She knew heaps of boys from her church.
She was the lady of the church, her father would joke. Her mother was long gone. One older lady had clashed with her father, and called across the car park, You’re as snooty as that little bitch of a princess you’ve raised. It was rare to hear such talk anywhere near the church, and especially from one of her father’s flock! She knew that one of the dive boys had never been to church, and the other had left church because of her father. She’d always ignored him. And he was too shy to say boo to a goose. Though he was brave enough to say, indignantly, Your dad doesn’t know the difference between God and a cash register.
The ocean was choppy black-blue, and kelp had banked on the glaringly white sand, with subtle crescents of pink and grey. It’d been picked over by beachcombers that morning after the storm, and only the odd shell spiralled towards the sun. The water was still stirred up and murky. But the boys dived anyway.
Before they waded in – duck-walking in their flippers, swivelling at the hips to counter the lead on their weight-belts, masks on their heads like sunnies, gidgies with trident heads unstoppered and poised – one said to the other, I bet by the time we’re back on the beach she’ll be sitting by our stuff, reading a book.
Nah, not today, said the other, suddenly awkward with his gidgie, trying to pull his mask off, spit on the glass, and rinse in the ocean all at once.
Why not? asked his mate mockingly, as was his manner.
Because you said that stuff to her yesterday at school. Girls don’t like hearing that sort of stuff. If I said that to my sister, she’d clout me one.
The other boy, only slightly larger, burst out laughing. If you said that to your sister, it’d be called incest, you weird little prick!
They were best friends. Always had been. But it was also a default setting: familiarity brought them together, and the fact that their parents were friends and let the boys be more ‘inde
pendent’ if they were independent as a pair … The theory being that one would keep an eye out for the other; that it would give them mutual checks and balances. That was the way the families talked. Both sets of parents were teachers. Social studies, social studies, maths and English. In a coastal town a long way from the big city down south, they made an effort to keep up the quality of conversation.
Yeah, right!
It was so murky they didn’t stay out long. One of them had speared a blowfish, and gingerly waved it above the surface as a reminder of great trophy claims made on previous dives, but the murk beneath and the fact that when they were on the surface peering down, the chop drowned their snorkels and they swallowed buckets of seawater, decided them: no great victories or discoveries would be made that day. It was getting rougher and dangerous, and the girl would probably be there by now.
’Ow ya goin? they asked, as she sat with her knees to her chest and her dress tucked between her legs. They tried to peek but nothing was showing.
Oh, okay, she said. Find any shipwrecks?
Nah, too rough. It’s a bugger out there. Can’t see a thing.
She looked at them peeling off their half wetsuits and smiled. She thought, If I pull a face, it’ll make them do something. Something show-offy or silly. Boys aren’t very complex. She toyed with the idea but let it go for the time being. The sand was getting in her eyes.
What about Mr R telling us to take a night or two off our homework every week and get a life? she said.
Our parents reckon he’s in for it, saying that. They work with him, and they say he was ‘speaking out of turn’. But good on him!
Yeah, we said, ‘If you make a fuss for him we’ll tell all the family secrets to the other kids at school!’
You have family secrets? she asked, pulling her long, sun-bleached hair out of her eyes and mouth, trying to steady it and still pin her clothes in a non-provocative way as the wind churned the sand.
Tide Page 3
