the car, playing the stereo louder and louder as he got more frustrated. Pissing the neighbours off, for sure. He was a kid with no respect.
Either side of the sandy track sloping down to the beach, a thick screen of vegetation threw shadows across the path. A southerly breeze was picking up, producing a strobe effect of shadow and light on the sand as melaleuca and wattle worked against each other. A red-eared firetail made itself known; his senses were overloading almost to the point of shutdown. He kicked at the sand, which was an annoying greyish colour at this point on the climb. Why am I trying to start over again now? A ânew lifeâ â what a joke! he said out aloud, scaring a couple of young girls traipsing up to the car park, with their parents hand-in-hand a few metres behind. The kids were still wearing ski-diving masks with snorkels dangling at the sides of their heads. Their parents looked painfully happy, leaning against each other, walking a three-legged race with poise and equanimity.
She really is too young for me, he suddenly thought. I mean, sheâs over twenty-five, but Iâve still got fifteen years on her. Fifteen long bloody years.
And then he thought he saw a silver glimmer. The key catching the sunlight. He fell to his knees and sifted the almost dirty sand. Shit, only a bottle top. Makes you sick, people rubbishing such a beautiful place. Should be some serious punishment for littering a national park. Not just the pat on the wrist they give out, when they even bother at all. He was feeling vindictive. He wasnât usually that way; it wasnât how he saw himself. He continued to crawl on his hands and knees, wanting to bite the ankles of curious passers-by who had been churning up the sand ahead of him.
Pulling himself to his feet, he scanned the bay, as much out of habit as anything else. He was at the point where the beach joined the track, his favourite spot. He loved coming here in the early mornings and looking out at the sun sparking the ocean. In all weathers â even winter, when great breakers lifted from the deep and sucked the sand away, replacing it with another cycle of sand laundered on the most heavy-duty wash. It would be good to have someone sharing the running of the house. She wasnât doing much yet, but she was still settling in, making friends with the boy as he lazed around, slouching. He said, Dad, sheâs too hot for you!
Where the greyish sand of the track mingled and blurred with the pristine white of the beach. A nexus. A decision had to be made. He needed to be systematic. Heâd always been that. Meticulous in his habits.
He shaded his eyes with one hand and surveyed the sand. Iâve never noticed how messy people make the sand. He thought of the long jump back in his school days, his delight in raking the pit flat, ironing out the impressions of the previous jumper. The satisfaction. How indecisive people are on beaches. Back and forth, wandering around, pushing it one way, then the next.
The sand scratched his toes as he slowly moved forward. He would never delight in bare feet on a sandy beach again. The great granite boulder beckoned. Already, small waves frothed around its sea edge. The light blue shallows with their moody patches of weed were changing. The tide was ever so slowly returning. The dark blue of what quickly became very deep sea was lapping and gurgling forward. The southerly would bring the chop and waves that would help propel conical shells up with the swell, surging onto the beach to glint pointedly in the sun. Sometimes it brought weed, but mostly that was sucked back as it left the clear shallows where King George whiting darted around, camouflaged by light and rippled sand.
He gently parted the sand with his feet, half forming letters and numbers, then rubbing them out. He yelled at a teenage boy, who ran past laughing, to have some respect and stop churning the beach up like a trail-bike. The kid
Either side of the sandy track sloping down to the beach, a thick screen of vegetation threw shadows across the path. A southerly breeze was picking up, producing a strobe effect of shadow and light on the sand as melaleuca and wattle worked against each other. A red-eared firetail made itself known; his senses were overloading almost to the point of shutdown. He kicked at the sand, which was an annoying greyish colour at this point on the climb. Why am I trying to start over again now? A ânew lifeâ â what a joke! he said out aloud, scaring a couple of young girls traipsing up to the car park, with their parents hand-in-hand a few metres behind. The kids were still wearing ski-diving masks with snorkels dangling at the sides of their heads. Their parents looked painfully happy, leaning against each other, walking a three-legged race with poise and equanimity.
She really is too young for me, he suddenly thought. I mean, sheâs over twenty-five, but Iâve still got fifteen years on her. Fifteen long bloody years.
And then he thought he saw a silver glimmer. The key catching the sunlight. He fell to his knees and sifted the almost dirty sand. Shit, only a bottle top. Makes you sick, people rubbishing such a beautiful place. Should be some serious punishment for littering a national park. Not just the pat on the wrist they give out, when they even bother at all. He was feeling vindictive. He wasnât usually that way; it wasnât how he saw himself. He continued to crawl on his hands and knees, wanting to bite the ankles of curious passers-by who had been churning up the sand ahead of him.
Pulling himself to his feet, he scanned the bay, as much out of habit as anything else. He was at the point where the beach joined the track, his favourite spot. He loved coming here in the early mornings and looking out at the sun sparking the ocean. In all weathers â even winter, when great breakers lifted from the deep and sucked the sand away, replacing it with another cycle of sand laundered on the most heavy-duty wash. It would be good to have someone sharing the running of the house. She wasnât doing much yet, but she was still settling in, making friends with the boy as he lazed around, slouching. He said, Dad, sheâs too hot for you!
Where the greyish sand of the track mingled and blurred with the pristine white of the beach. A nexus. A decision had to be made. He needed to be systematic. Heâd always been that. Meticulous in his habits.
He shaded his eyes with one hand and surveyed the sand. Iâve never noticed how messy people make the sand. He thought of the long jump back in his school days, his delight in raking the pit flat, ironing out the impressions of the previous jumper. The satisfaction. How indecisive people are on beaches. Back and forth, wandering around, pushing it one way, then the next.
The sand scratched his toes as he slowly moved forward. He would never delight in bare feet on a sandy beach again. The great granite boulder beckoned. Already, small waves frothed around its sea edge. The light blue shallows with their moody patches of weed were changing. The tide was ever so slowly returning. The dark blue of what quickly became very deep sea was lapping and gurgling forward. The southerly would bring the chop and waves that would help propel conical shells up with the swell, surging onto the beach to glint pointedly in the sun. Sometimes it brought weed, but mostly that was sucked back as it left the clear shallows where King George whiting darted around, camouflaged by light and rippled sand.
He gently parted the sand with his feet, half forming letters and numbers, then rubbing them out. He yelled at a teenage boy, who ran past laughing, to have some respect and stop churning the beach up like a trail-bike. The kid
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