Authors: Scot Gardner
‘Are
you
sure
you’ve
got
eve
r
ything?’
Gracie
asked
and
shook
me
by
the
shoulders.
I
nodded.
W
e
spent
that
night
playing
‘silly
Scrabble’
where
you
make
up
words
on
a
Scrabble
board
using
as
many
letters as
you
can.
The
rules
were a
bit
tricky
for
me
to
begin with.
It
’
s
not
allowed
to
be
a
real
word.
The
word
has
got to
follow
the
rules
of
English,
like
a
‘u’
after
a
‘q’,
no
triple
letters
and
that
sort
of
stuff.
The
hardest
bit
for
me
was
that
you
have
to
explain
what
the
word
means,
convincingl
y
,
to
the
other
players.
They
didn
’
t keep
score
but
I
reckon
I
would
have
won
the
third game
with
words
like
‘barstola—an
umbrella
that
covers
a
seat
in
a
Spanish
bar’ and
‘dircult—a
small
Iranian
sword
worn
behind
the
ear’.
Once
I
got
the
hang
of
it,
it
was
sensational.
De
n
an
d
I
wen
t
t
o
be
d
earl
y
tha
t
nigh
t
bu
t
w
e
didn
’
t
get t
o
slee
p
unti
l
afte
r
midnight
.
W
e
kep
t
ourselve
s
awake talkin
g
abou
t
th
e
girl
s
a
t
school
.
Givin
g
the
m
a
mar
k
ou
t
of te
n
a
t
firs
t
unti
l
tha
t
deteriorate
d
int
o
discussin
g
wha
t
we
like
d
abou
t
them
.
I
thin
k
De
n
mus
t
hav
e
go
t
a
bi
t
hot becaus
e
h
e
starte
d
talkin
g
abou
t
th
e
girls
’
boobs
,
bum
s
and hai
r
.
H
e
doesn
’
t
usuall
y
tal
k
abou
t
stuf
f
lik
e
that
.
I
like
d
it.
W
e
crammed
in
the
car
after
a
tomato
and
eggs
breakfast that
filled
me
to
bursting,
dropped
Jesus
off
at
the
catte
r
y
and
then
we
were
on
our
wa
y
.
Kez
stared
out
the
windo
w
.
Heavy
blue—
grey
clouds
chased
us
along
the
highway
into
the
sun.
They
eventually
overtook
us,
putting on
a
sho
w
o
f
lightning
,
rai
n
an
d
thunde
r
tha
t
ha
d
Baz
hunched
over
the
wheel.
I
watched the
count
r
yside
change
and
I
realised
how
long
it
had
been
since
I’d
been
into
the
mountains.
I’d
forgotten
how
green
the
hills
were and
how
soft
they
were
on
my
eyes.
Eve
r
y
so
often
we’d
move
through a
stretch
of
road
where
I
could
scan
the
horizon
and see
no
living
being
except
a
few
birds,
a
cow and
maybe
a
sheep.
‘Did
you
see
that?’
Den
asked.
I
craned
my
head
to
look
out
the
back
windo
w
.
‘That
sheep
back
there
..
.
it
had
exploded.’
Y
eah. A
few
ribs
and
vertebrae
scattered
in
the
centre
of a
circle
of
wool.
Kaboom.
W
e
had
lunch
in
Bairnsdale.
The
storm
had
overtaken
us and
left
a
bright,
steamy
day
in
its
wake.
The
ai
r
,
heavy
and
smelling
like
metal, made
me
hung
r
y
.
Baz
explained
that the
name
of
the
town
came
from
two
old
English
words
‘bairns’ meaning
kids
and
‘dale’ meaning
valle
y
.
Kids valle
y
.
He
was
a
good
tour
guide
and
he
knew
where
the bake
r
y
was.
Gracie
bought
vegetarian
pasties
for
eve
r
yone except
me—she
asked
me
what
I
wanted
and
in
a
fit
of madness
I
ordered a
kangaroo-meat
pie.
Ker
r
y
nearly
chucked
and
Den
started
talking
like
he
was
Aboriginal.
‘Good
tucke
r
,
that
one.
Old
Skipp
y
.
Good
tucker
after
you
burn
all
the
hairs
off
in
the
fire,’
he
said.
It
was
good.
W
e
sat
on
the
side
of
the
highway
near
the
shadow
of
an enormous
church.
Spooky-looking
joint of
smooth
red brick.
W
e
had
a
look
inside
and
a
funny
little
man
told
me
off
for
bringing
in
my
can
of Coke.
There
was
a
whole
wall you
couldn
’
t see
from the
highway
panelled
in
stained
glass
like
a
smashed-up
rainbo
w
.
It
was
pretty
but
I
kept thinking about
all
the
dead
people
that had
probably been
carted
up
and
down
the
aisles
and
I
got
a
bit
freaked.
Den
loved
it.
T
en
minutes
back
into
the drive,
Ker
r
y
and
Den
started fighting
over
a
water
bottle.
I
was
in
between
them.
Gracie
pleaded
with
them
to
sort
it
out
and
they
both
huffed
and
crossed
their
arms
like
two-yea
r
-olds.
‘When
will
we
get
there?’
Den
moaned.
‘
Y
eah,
I’m
hung
r
y
.’
‘I’ve
got
to
go
to
the
toilet.’
Ker
r
y
said,
‘I
think
I’ve
just
pooped
my
pants
.
.
.’ A
few
seconds
later
I
remembered
it.
‘Can
we
go
back?’
I
asked.
‘What
for?’
‘I
forgot
my
fishing
rod
.
.
.’
They
groaned and
Bar
r
y
pulled
over
like
he
was
going to
turn
around.
‘Nah,
nah.
It
’
s
all
right.
I’ll
get
a
live
goat
and
we
can
hang
it
on
your
hook,
W
ayne,
and
you
can
dangle
your
arm
out
of
the
side
of
the
boat,’
Den
scoffed.
‘
Y
ou’re
sick,’
Ker
r
y
said.
Soon
the
farmland
disappeared
and we
were
travelling through
heavy
forests
of
huge
fur
r
y-barked
trees.
W
e
saw
wildlife
eve
r
ywhere:
three
dead
wombats,
one
of
them
on
its
back
in
the
gutter
with
his
chunky
little
legs
pointing
to the
sky
like
an
upturned
coffee
table;
a
dead
wallaby
lying in
a
pool
of
blackened
blood;
and
the
carcass
of
a
big
old
kangaroo
that
filled
the
car
with
the
heavy
smell
of
rotting flesh
as
we
zoomed
past.
I
thought
I
was
going
to
bring
up
my
pie.
W
e
left
the
highway
for
a
rough
dirt track,
pot-holed
and
dust
y
,
with
green
wooden
signs
that
told
us
we were only
a
kilometre from
Mars
Cove
National
Park.
I wanted
to
get
out
and
run. I
started
jiggling.
W
e
were
fighting
in
the
back
seat
and
I
elbowed
Ker
r
y
in
the
boob. I
felt
my
face
get
hot
and
I
apologised
quietl
y
.
‘Muuuum.
W
ayne
just
elbowed
me
in
the
breast
and
it
really
hurt,’
she
moaned
with
a
smile
on
her
face.
I
apologised
a
bit
loude
r
.
‘Now
kiss
it
bette
r
,
W
ayne,’
Den
ordered.
‘Come
on.’
Ker
r
y
pulled
her
knees
up
to
her
chest
and buried
her
head.
‘Get
stuffed,’
she
said
and
I
laughed
it
off.
Around
the
next
corner
we
burst
into
another
world. The
wall
of
trees
on
the
right
side
of
the
car
abruptly
fell away
to
reveal
a
steep
slope
of
blue–green
bushes
studded with
massive
granite boulders that had
been blasted smooth
by
winds
straight
off the sea.
The winds
had groomed
the
bushes
neatly
till they
blended
with
one
another
like
Uncle
Don
’
s
greasy
slicked-back
hai
r
.
And the ocean.
Brittle,
dark
and
inviting,
it
stretched
to
eternity where
it
had
been
sliced
cleanly
with
a
good
sharp
knife so
it would
fit neatly
with the
cloudless
sk
y
. My
brain
ached,
from
the
vastness,
beauty
and
the
brightness
of
it. All
I
wanted to
do
was
dive
into
it
and
swim
out
so
far
that I
couldn
’
t
touch
the
bottom.
T
en
minutes
later
that
’
s
what
we
did.
Gracie
and
Baz insisted
we
go
and
swim
while
they
set
up
camp
in
an alcove
with
a
sign
out
the
front
that
read
‘167b’.
A
short stone
’
s
throw
from
the
toilet
and
shower
block
and
a
five-minute
sprint
along
a
sandy
track
to
the
edge
of
the
wate
r
.
Brilliant.
God
and
his
team
of
beach
designers
went
all
out
with Mars
Cove.
The
pe
r
fect
quarte
r
-moon
of
pale
sand
was
hemmed
on both ends
by
tumbled
granite walls
that stretched
out until they
faded
into the
ocean.
Su
r
fers bobbed
on
the crestless
waves
and
the sand
was
home
to
a
fair throng of
people.
Little ones
painted
in zinc
with buckets
and
hats
made
out
of
material
that
reminded
m
e
o
f
m
y
mum
’
s
dressin
g
gown
.
Bi
g
peopl
e
with
sunglasses
and
beach
umbrellas.
Bulging
muscles
and beer
bellies
here
and
boobs
barely
contained
by
bikinis there.
And
there.
And
there.
I
wear
footy
shorts
when
I’m swimming—my
brown Hawks
ones
I’ve
been
wearing
since
I
was
thirteen—and
jocks
underneath
because
they
have
a
tendency
to
fall
off when
I
dive
in.
My
body
goes
really
brown
in
the
summe
r
, I
reckon
it
’
s
my Aboriginal
blood,
but
I
felt
as
white
as
a
snowflake
when
I
stripped
off.
Maybe
it
was
that
feeling
I’ve
always had
when
I
get
undressed
in full sight
of
people.
Y
eah,
that
was
the
feeling,
only
much
stronge
r
.
One
whole
stumpy
arm
stronge
r
.
No
matter
how
hot
or cold
I
have
my
showe
r
,
my
stump
complains
for a
few seconds,
throbbing and
tingling
like
pins
and
needles. I’ve
got
to
say that I
was feeling a
bit ne
r
vous
about plunging
into
the
sea.
Den
is
a
sight
at
the
beach—bony
white
body
and
black
Speedos.
I
felt
like
a
blackfella
when we
dived
into
the
wet
sea
togethe
r
.
My
stump
was
fine;
I was
wor
r
ying
about
nothing,
though
I
did
tend
to
veer
to the
left
like
a
wonky
shopping
trolley
when
I
swam.
Then I
was
a
dolphin: arms
by
my
side, kicking
both
legs togethe
r
,
going
way
out,
opening
my
fuzzy
unde
r
water
eyes
and
peering
at
the
headless
bodies
floating
around me.
Still
holding
my
breath,
I
saw
past
the
bodies
to where the
water
looks
like
the
edge
of
a
thick
pane
of
glass
with the
gently
sloping,
rippled sand
bordering the
bottom
and
the
sky
at
the
top.
I
could
hear
the
muffled
whoosh
of the
waves
as
they
broke
near
the
shore.
Looking
into
the edge
of
that
glass
made
me
feel
small.
I
know
what
lives out
there.
I
frantically
kicked
and
flapped
my arms—not quite
swimming
but
it
won
me
a
green
ribbon
in
the
grade three
dog
paddle
relay
at
Fairleigh
Prima
r
y—until
I touched
the
bottom.
Then
I
was
cool
again,
walking
from the
fizzing
su
r
f
like
an
iron
man.
When
I
was
waist
deep, Ker
r
y grabbed
me
roughly
around
the
neck
and
dragged me
down.
I
fought
to
stay
upright
until
I
had
snatched
a breath
then
I
buckled
until my
face
was touching the loose,
wet
sand.
In
a
few
seconds,
she
let
go
of
my
neck
and
I
struggled
up
for
ai
r
.
W
orks
eve
r
y
time.